This Scepter'd Isle (4 page)

The lady in modern court dress answered him. "Imprimus, because the visions came to your sister, not to us. That suggests that, despite her youth and lesser experience, she is to have some part to play in this. Secundus, when my fellows and I attempted to scry further clues, we could see only you—you, and the red-haired child, together—in the visions of a golden future. So it seems that you, Sir Denoriel, are the key to all of this."

This did something more than merely take Denoriel aback; it shocked him to the core. He stood with eyes wide and mouth inelegantly agape, his gaze flicking from one to the other. However, it was Aleneil who came to him, and put her hand gently on his arm. He met her eyes eagerly, but she offered no escape.

"Brother, I am sure they are right. In every way, they are right. You are the key to all of this; the red-haired child of Great Harry of England must live, and thrive, and grow up to rule. You must go to it in the mortal world, and become its protector." Her emerald eyes held his.

"But I am a warrior, not a nursemaid—" he said, feebly.

"And perhaps it is a warrior that will be needed," the eldest of the ladies said, impatience and a touch of scorn on her lovely features. "In any case, you have no choice, Sir Knight. We are sworn to work for the good of High King Oberon and Elfhame Logres. We, his FarSeers, can and will order you to this task, if we must."

"That will hardly be necessary," he said coldly, drawing himself up and gathering his dignity. "I, too, am sworn to protect and defend my king and this realm. I will do what I must."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left, but he burned within. And not even Aleneil followed him.

"I am a warrior, not a nursemaid." 
 

The words rang heavy with irony in his memory as Denoriel regarded the child before him. It was very easy to see who the boy's parents were; the sweetness of the mother's temper was mingled with the mulishness of the father's. Even without Great Harry's red hair, it would be obvious to whom the boy owed that temper, too. But what the boy had to say rather surprised him.

"The very last thing I want is to be king," the boy said.

"King!" Denoriel echoed, gazing down at the child, who gazed fearlessly back at him.

That could have been a taught response, but the liosalfar did not think so. Truth was in the large eyes and the earnest expression. But surely this was not the red-haired infant of his sister's vision. Then a chill slowed his heart. Could this boy be the other ruler, the ruler who would bring the Inquisition to England? No. Impossible.

He was already very fond of this child, and had been drawn strongly to him from their first meeting. He had made some slight excuse to accompany one of the mortal friends he had cultivated on a ride to Windsor Palace. Sir George Boleyn had business with the duke of Norfolk, whom Denoriel knew had Henry FitzRoy, the natural son of the king, in his care. Boleyn was glad of the company, for it was a long ride from London to Windsor, and had not bothered to question Denoriel's reasons. Denoriel was fulfilling his duty to meet and measure all of King Henry's children.

This boy, Denoriel was sure had never been that red-haired babe. He was not even overflowing with those human characteristics that fascinated the Fair Folk. Henry FitzRoy had no wit, no brilliance, no great inventiveness, none of the things that marked the infant prodigy. He was one thing only, an innocent, and his goodness shone through him like a candle through a horn lantern. That would be the mother's contribution, Bessy Blount, who seemingly had not an enemy in the world. No small feat, in Great Harry's court.

Good and innocent. Denoriel's lips almost curled into a sneer. For good or ill, he was a warrior, not a nursemaid. He should be mounted behind Koronos, driving suitable victims to their well-deserved deaths, reminding the humans that the Fair Folk
were
. For a moment he burned with the desire for the Hunt—then, he sighed. No matter how much he thrilled to the Hunt, never, ever, would he take pleasure in the sacrifice of victims like Henry FitzRoy. The Wild Hunt of the Seleighe Court took down those who would not be missed; those who—although their own families and neighbors might mouth horror—were a relief to be rid of. So two purposes were accomplished: Underhill continued to waken fear and respect but no one was ever angry enough to seek an open confrontation.

"Because your father is king, does it follow that you should wish to be?" Denoriel said, and suddenly found himself squatting down so that he would be on more equal terms with the child, not looming over him; he suspected that far too many loomed over Henry FitzRoy threatening or demanding.

"Yes, but luckily I am not the son of the queen," FitzRoy said.

He spoke very softly, flicking a glance over his shoulder to be sure that no one was close enough to overhear, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. Denoriel could not help but grin in response. For the first time since he had met the child he felt there was something more in him than simplicity and goodness. Then he reproached himself. What did he expect from a six-year-old?

"What do you mean 'luckily'?" he asked, still grinning.

The boy giggled. "If I were the son of the queen, I would
have
to be king." Suddenly the smile disappeared. He sighed, his expression too adult for the rounded baby face. "I still hope to be spared that."

Denoriel became aware that the guards who were waiting at the gate of this secluded part of the gardens of Windsor Castle had begun to stir uneasily. He realized that, squatting as he was, the guards could see neither FitzRoy or him. The boy had not yet noticed the guards' uneasiness, but Denoriel's hearing was particularly keen. He stood up.

"I think we had better stroll about or throw your ball or something," he said. "Your guards must be wondering why we are so still."

"Guards," the boy repeated, and sighed again. "Before I suddenly became a Knight of the Garter, and Duke of Richmond and Somerset, and Earl of Nottingham I could play in the garden any way I liked. Oh, my nurse or the tutor came with me. But usually they just sat on a bench. He read; she did her needlework. Now I have guards telling me not to go too far, not to lean over the pond, not to climb a tree . . ."

"They are concerned for your safety," Denoriel said, as he reached down and took FitzRoy's hand. "You cannot blame them. It is their duty to protect you."

"I know." The child allowed his hand to lie in Denoriel's and then curled it confidingly around one of the Sidhe's long fingers. "Still, it is irksome to have them always stepping on my shadow. The only time I am free of them is when . . ."

Denoriel made suitable sounds of sympathy and encouragement but he only half heard what the boy was saying. He was wondering again what he was doing here. FitzRoy seemed over- rather than under-protected. He wished the FarSeers could have been more specific about FitzRoy's role in the future. Why did he need to be involved with this child . . . although now he liked the boy so well he would miss visits with him.

Denoriel recalled how furious he had been when he was first told of his role as nursemaid. Swallowing anger as best he could—one did not vent a private frustration on a FarSeer—he had returned to where he had left his elvensteed when he arrived in Elfhame Avalon.

Miralys had been waiting near the Gate giving passage to Elfhame Logres, where Denoriel had a lavish apartment in the palace. Their majesties, King Oberon and Queen Titania, only occasionally graced Llachar Lle with their presence; they stayed when they wished to join the Hunt or settle some dispute that pertained particularly to Logres, but they lived mostly in Elfhame Avalon.

Denoriel did not need to speak or guide the elvensteed. Miralys stepped delicately up on the mosaic under the silver trees and was at the heart of the eight-pointed star when he was barely in the saddle. With his mind on his distasteful duty, Denoriel hardly felt the disorientation of passing through the gate and was only minimally aware of the steed trotting through Logres. When Miralys stopped, Denoriel dismounted. He did not look to see where he was; all he did was rub his face gratefully against the cheek of his elvensteed, who lipped his hair fondly and moved away.

Sighing, Denoriel turned to climb the broad marble steps to the wide portico. He did not try to enter by the huge brazen doors that were opened only to admit the king and queen. Beside them, deep inset into the thick wall of the palace, was a man-sized door, always open. As he passed he felt the slippery, icy feel of the recognition spell. Had he not been approved, an invisible wall would have formed before him, and if he had not retreated swiftly enough, that cold welcome would have changed to one hot enough to broil the flesh off his bones.

The corridor he faced when he entered, though short, was broad enough to permit passage to anything the great doors could admit. There had been times when that space was necessary, as when the Cern Abbas giant had come to complain that his worshipers were not being given free passage through the Gates of Underhill. Mythical beings were not common even Underhill but it was the expression on Oberon's face that made the visit memorable. Denoriel's own taut features relaxed a trifle as he recalled the sight of the enormous naked being, club in hand, with, even for his size, exaggerated private parts.

At the end of that broad corridor was another pair of closed doors, these of marvelously worked silver depicting scenes of the founding of Elfhame Logres; the doors opened onto the throne room of the king and queen. Denoriel did not even glance at them but turned right into a cross-corridor that looked narrow. That, however, was only in comparison with the grand scale of the center passage.

Once in, the cross-corridor was a comfortable size, the walls glowing softly in opalescent mother-of-pearl colors broken regularly by doors. These were as fanciful in color, design, and composition as the maker of the private domain behind them wished . . . or could manage.

Denoriel's door was an amusing trap. It looked like an open way into the outdoors, showing a flower-starred meadow with an elegant manor and some trees in the distance. Many an uninvited guest had ended with a sore nose and forehead from trying to walk through. To any not sealed to it, the doorway was as solid as a painting on stone.

Denoriel passed through and stopped dead. The small antechamber opened left into a spacious dining area with a huge window that looked out onto the same meadow scene, except that the manor and the woods, dark and tangled, were much closer. To the right a broad arch showed a comfortable living space. The floor was covered with glowing rugs, thick and soft. Chairs covered in spider-silk formed two groups around small marble tables; other chairs flanked a beautifully carved lounge, also upholstered in dark red spider-silk, which faced a handsome white marble fireplace.

The witch-lights in the chamber were all glowing, but they would have lit as soon as Denoriel passed the door. The give-away that his apartment was not empty was the small but brilliant fire leaping behind a silver screen in the hearth.

For one heart-stopping moment Denoriel could not remember whether he had forgotten to seal his doorway against one of his past mistresses, and then he saw the little, lithe orange-red creature cavorting and dancing in the flames. His breath whooshed out.

"Mwynwen," he said, walking forward as a tall, slender woman rose from the lounge that faced the fireplace.

He was pleased, flattered even. Mwynwen was no easy-come, easy-go light of love. She favored few males. He had been honored when she asked him into her apartment, delighted that she seemed to find his conversation engaging, and so surprised—and awed—when she invited him into her bed that he had been almost unable to perform.

Only almost. He suspected Mwynwen could, if she desired, stimulate a corpse. He had staggered home in the dawn and eagerly given her image to his door, the scent of her, the look of her, the essence of her magic, although he had never expected that she would come. And she never had come to him before, although they continued to be lovers.

"You were so angry," she said, holding out a hand.

He took her hand, his feelings split in two. He was thrilled that Mwynwen was so attuned to him that she had felt his anger across the Elfhame, for Mwynwen, a Healer, unlike most of the inhabitants of Llachar Lle, lived in a separate manor in the silver woods beyond the palace. At the same time her mention of his anger renewed it. Irritation, pique over the task set him, but more than that, a smoldering rage that he should be accounted of so little worth as to be set to be a puling infant's nursery-guard leapt up in him again, but he could not bear to be petty in Mwynwen's eyes and held his tongue.

"You are angry again," she said, great eyes growing greater with anxiety, "with me?"

"No! Not with you. Not ever with you," Denoriel said.

She folded her hand around his and drew him closer. "Then at whom?"

"Not whom either," he replied, beginning to smile a little. "One cannot be angry at a FarSeer. What they See is no blame to them. They do not make the future, only say what it might be."

"Ah!" Mwynwen seated herself again, tugging lightly on Denoriel's hand so that he sat down beside her. "You did not like the future a FarSeer predicted for you? But who had ordered such a Seeing?"

"Not for me . . . well, yes, of course for me, but it was not my future that was foretold. It was Aleneil—"

Mwynwen frowned. "I do not believe Aleneil would ever See what was not good for you."

"Oh, good . . . bad . . ." He wrinkled his nose. "It was cursed
undignified
, that's what it was."

"Undignified?" Mwynwen echoed, her perfectly arched brows rising until they nearly touched her gleaming black hair. She tightened her grip on his hand. "You are very young, my Denoriel, to grow so angry over your dignity."

"I am a warrior," Denoriel said, lifting his head proudly. "I am one of Koronos's best, and when they were brought to bay, I have fought men with steel blades and steel poniards without weakening. Yet my sister and her teachers tell me I am fated to be a—" he hesitated, then confessed it, flushing "—a nursemaid."
Not even a proper Guardian to one of our own. . . .