This Scepter'd Isle (42 page)

"Yes, yes." The mage waved dismissively. "You said that already. Very well, when you have arrived at the Hall of the Mountain King,
do not
leave the Gate. Find the power point and chose an Unformed domain as your next stop. There are only one or two in that Gate and both of them are safe enough if you do not look for trouble."

"An idiot, but not that much of one," he said, quietly.

"The Gate in the Unformed domain, either one, will have a terminus in Furhold. Go there."

Denoriel smiled involuntarily as he thought about Harry in Furhold. What a shame they could not linger.

"Furhold is the only real complication. You must cross nearly the entire domain to find the second Gate. It is at the back of the Badger's Hole. That Gate goes direct to the Bazaar."

"Thank you, magus," Denoriel said. Gilfaethwy raised a hand, but Denoriel did too, and said, "Wait. What will it cost me to have you keep a watch on the Gates, the one from Logres to Sheriff Hutton. I know the one in the wood is gone, but there is another in the palace itself—"

"I know. I placed it there." Gilfaethwy's voice was dry.

"Yes, of course. Sorry. But I would like to know . . . and about the two Gates one in, the other near, Pontefract."

Gilfaethwy was silent for a moment and then his lips pursed outward, folded in, and he said, "I would like to know, too. I will keep watch. As to the price . . . I will not make it too onerous. Another book, perhaps."

"Thank you."

Denoriel did not know whether the magus heard him since he was outside beside Miralys before the words were out of his mouth. He mounted slowly, rethinking his reaction to Gilfaethwy's mention of Furhold. Harry would enjoy it, but was it safe to take him through so many Gates, several of which Pasgen could have reached? And even the neutral, Seleighe-leaning, domain of Furhold had its dangers.

But how could Pasgen know he would go to the Bazaar? And could there be a greater danger than to leave the boy alone without anyone to explain why he was there in Llachar Lle? With Oberon and Titania and their taste for mortal playthings so close?

Miralys's response to Denoriel's sudden anguished sense of urgency was to return to the Gate in what seemed like a single leap and virtually levitate to the center of the eight-pointed star under the interwoven boughs of the silver trees. Denoriel caught barely the slightest touch of the recognition spell and the faintest shiver of disorientation before they reappeared under the dome of opal lace of the Gate at Logres. The steed was not quite so quick about reaching the steps up to the portico of Llachar Lle.

Denoriel felt Miralys's reluctance, and when they reached the steps to the palace portico, he slid down and hugged the elvensteed, thinking it would be safer to take Harry with him. Then his arms froze around the steed's neck as the Thought touched him and what he had been about to say to Miralys caught in his throat. Under his hand, the elvensteed shivered. And again the touch was gone.

"I'm going to wake the boy and take him with us," Denoriel said to his steed. "I can't leave him here."

To his intense surprise Miralys broke from under his hand and disappeared into the sort-of wilderness beyond the pool. Fear rose in him. Had Miralys felt something in that Thought he had missed? Would he be unable to wake Harry? To leave with the boy? Heart pounding in his throat, Denoriel hurried up the steps and to his apartment.

He expected disaster, but found nothing amiss. However, it seemed that time for a mortal passed even more swiftly Underhill than he had believed. While he was with Magus Gilfaethwy, Harry had slept himself out and wakened. He was in his seat at the table, happy, if slightly anxious over Denoriel's absence, eating a typically English breakfast.

"Did you sleep well?" Denoriel asked, thinking that Harry would probably retain the experience as a bad dream if Oberon had snatched him to examine him and then replaced him. Replaced him . . . "Harry, take out your cross, just for a moment."

The malaise of being in the vicinity of cold iron hit Denoriel at once. A servant coming into the dining room not only dropped a plate but disintegrated. The cross was real. Harry was real.

"Right. Put it away, please."

"Why did you wish to see my cross?" Harry asked around a mouthful of porridge.

"I just wanted to be sure the cross was working." He rubbed his hand across his forehead surreptitiously, wondering if
he
was going to have a chance to rest any time soon. "We're going to have a busy day out and around Underhill."

The boy dropped his spoon and clapped his hands. "Oh, good! You
are
going to let me see more."

"It is not an excursion for pleasure. You remember those bad faeries that were chasing you?" The boy nodded over a piece of bread slathered with jam. "It was partly their fault that the Gate was destroyed. So now I can't use the other Gate because I'm afraid it's been changed. We have to find Magus Treowth and find out if he can fix the Gates or build a new one."

"And if he can't? Will I have to stay here with you?" There was no mistaking the eagerness in Harry's face.

Denoriel laughed, ruefully. "Don't look so happy about it. No, I'm sorry to say there are other ways to reach the mortal world, but those will take much longer and we would have to explain where you've been all this time . . . and lots of other things. If Magus Treowth will deal with the Gates, that will be easiest. And don't pout. You're going to see the Bazaar of the Bizarre."

"Is it
really
bizarre?" FitzRoy swallowed two spoonsful of porridge in a hurry, crammed the remainder of his jam-covered bread in his mouth, and washed the whole down with milk. "I'm ready," he said.

Denoriel laughed again. "Not in those clothes. You look like trade goods in those clothes."

Harry shivered slightly. "They'll think I'm a slave? But I don't have any other clothes."

"Don't worry about that. Just take off what you're wearing—"

He gave a mental order to the servants
not
to clean the clothes. Then when Harry stood before him in undershirt and small clothes, he gestured. Harry gasped.

On his feet were square-toed, open-work shoes of polished leather. Through the cut-outs and then up to mid-thigh one could see long, bright blue tights and over them in successive layers, a brilliantly white linen shirt with a smooth, round collar; a square-necked doublet of darker blue than the tights, lavishly embroidered in bands with a twining vine pattern in gold; a sleeveless jacquette of gold satin striped in the dark blue of the doublet, which showed through the widely open front of the jacquette.

The jacquette came together to a tight-fitted waist and extended down in a full skirt to mid-thigh, concealing the bottom of the doublet, but the sleeves of that garment were visible past the short, puffed sleeves of the magnificent gown. This was enormously full and completely lined with ermine so that the deep turned-back collar and lapels showed the shining white fur in contrast to the gown's rich gold-on-blue brocade.

"Oh, my," Harry said. "This is full court dress, isn't it? Won't I be hot?"

"No," Denoriel said, smiling. "The weather Underhill seems to adjust to one's clothing—except, of course, for those domains like the arctic tundras or the deserts where the temperature is part of the making."

In another moment he was attired much as FitzRoy was, except that he was wearing black and gold with red embroidery and sable fur instead of ermine. Another gesture created two hats, one of blue velvet, one of black, each decorated with a single ostrich plume. Both put on their hats, nodded at one another to indicate they were on straight, and stepped out into the antechamber.

"Not the cloak too," Harry protested.

Denoriel looked down at the small figure so enveloped in clothing that it looked tubby, which Harry was not. "No, I suppose not," he sighed. "Just take the cross out where you can slip it out of the pouch easily if you need to or I tell you to."

The boy sighed with relief. Denoriel smiled at him and picked up the mortal-world saddle. Perhaps it would be enough to trade for information about Treowth's lodging. He went to the door, looked out, saw no one in the corridor, and gestured for FitzRoy to step out.

The boy checked so suddenly, right in front of the door, that Denoriel almost leapt after him, fearing that Harry had seen some danger previously concealed. The corridor was empty, but the loud thrum of voices coming from the wide, main corridor was a shock, and Denoriel could see a crowd of Sidhe where his corridor entered the main corridor.

Denoriel hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should retreat to his apartment. In the next moment he had decided that the large crowd would be the best concealment for him and the boy, and he took Harry's hand and tried to turn sharply left to make his way to the front door. That proved impossible; there were simply too many Sidhe moving toward the throne room. Harry, small and light, was swept up immediately. Denoriel, unwilling either to release his hand or pull his arm out of its socket, perforce followed inexorably toward the wide open doors.

Once inside the throne room, however, it was possible for Denoriel to move sideways along the wall. Most of the crowd was eager to go forward to be as close as possible to the dais on which were the thrones of the High King and Queen. He did not move far, hoping when the crowd diminished to be able to slide out before the doors were shut.

He did not succeed in that either. Indeed, he was just congratulating himself on his cleverness, guiding Harry toward the door with a hand on his shoulder, when he was accosted by a very High Lord Sidhe, a Sidhe he knew—Lord Ffrancon—standing directly in his path.

The elf was a half a hand taller than Denoriel, straight as a pine and supple as a willow. His hair was pure silver and cascaded down his back like the foam of a waterfall. The points of his ears stood proud, a hand span above the crown of his head, but his green eyes were light, silvered over, betraying his age. He wore a leaf-green tunic with a high collar that fanned out behind his head over silver tights and an undertunic of darker green, which showed at his neck and in the tight sleeves that were exposed below the full, dagged sleeves of the tunic. A wide silver band holding one single emerald as large as a pigeon's egg confined his hair and the long arm-guard of an archer, chased elaborately in solid silver, on his right forearm were his only ornaments.

"Denoriel Siencyn Macreth Silverhair?"

Denoriel swallowed. "Yes, my lord?"

"Come forward with me. A place is prepared for you and the mortal boy."

Denoriel swallowed again. The High Lord Sidhe began to walk forward, the crowd parting before him. Denoriel gave Harry a tiny shove to follow and himself walked almost on the boy's heels. It was just as well that he maintained his grip on Harry's shoulder, because the boy was staring around in such wide-eyed amazement that he twice tripped over his own feet.

At first Denoriel was not certain whether it was the chamber itself or the folk in it on which Harry's attention was most centered. Then he realized it was the room for now; Harry was tripping because he was trying to walk forward while his head was tilted back looking at the ceiling and the walls. The roof was high, but Denoriel thought no higher than an English cathedral. Only this roof was midnight blue and filled with brilliant stars, which shone between the vaulting beams of silver.

From the beams hung banners, and more banners were displayed from poles along the walls. Each pennon was brilliantly woven of silk and each commemorated one of Oberon's or Titania's victories. Dragons reared in challenge against the High King; huge serpents coiled, trying to envelop him; a herd of lamia twisted their snakelike bodies and lifted their viciously toothed female human heads against Titania's lightnings; and again and again images of fallen dark Sidhe appeared, fruitlessly confronting the High King and Queen, celebrating the defeat of those who wished to tear rule of Underhill from Oberon's and Titania's hands.

The beams were supported by two rows of pillars slender enough not to obscure the view of the dais and so set that one's eyes were almost forced to center there. The pillars were of pale marble through which ran bright glitters and brilliant streams of light. Harry almost bumped into one and Denoriel pulled him closer. He could see the direction of the boy's attention; it was no longer fixed on the chamber but upon the dais.

Harry's fascination was no surprise. The High King and his Queen were a wonder even to those they ruled. Titania was pure High Court elf, except that she was taller than most male Sidhe. Her body was, of course, absolute perfection. Her hair was a rich gold, elaborately dressed in a high confection of tiny braids and curls, which showed off her ears; those reached high above her head, delicately shell pink, almost transparent—but the tip of one ear was bent, which tiny imperfection made her somehow more perfect.

Titania's eyes glowed a bright, pure emerald. Denoriel knew she was older even than Lord Ffrancon, but there was no silvering of
her
eyes and they looked deep enough to fall into and drown. Her lips were pale rose and through the ethereal pale blue and white silk robes she wore, she looked . . . translucent, as if she were lit from within.

The High King. Denoriel only glanced and looked away. He did not want to draw Oberon's attention and, besides, one needed only one glance to remember. The High King was a dark contrast to his glowing wife. He could appear pure liosalfar—Denoriel had seen him in that guise—golden-haired, green-eyed, dressed all in white silk and cloth of gold and strewn with diamonds, but when he came to Logres, most often, as now, Oberon seemed more dark Sidhe than bright.

His hair grew from a deep peak on his forehead and swept back in gleaming black waves, the points of his ears showing through, well above the crown of his head. His brows were equally black and high-arched over dark, dark eyes—black, bottomless pools. In contrast his skin was white, not pallid and sickly, but with the hard, high gloss of polished marble. He towered over all other Sidhe—and not by enchantment—and formidable muscles in shoulders and thighs strained the black velvet tunic and black silk tights he wore. He was all in black only lightened by silver piping on every seam and the silver bosses on his belt and on the baldric that usually supported the long sword which now leaned against his throne.