This Scepter'd Isle (50 page)

"Then with Oberon's mark on him, you can keep him Underhill," the mage observed, clinically.

He sighed. Life would be so much easier, if only that were true! "I wish I could. Poor Harry wishes so too, but he is too near the seat of power in England. If he went missing, so ferocious an investigation would be carried out that the very secret of Underhill would be in danger and his father, who is king, might launch an attack to regain him."

"Then he must be returned," Treowth said. He pulled on his lower lip, and muttered something under his breath. "Well, it will not always be the case that we must go in fear of mortal discovery. Some day I will have the secret of how to resist mortal weapons."

Denoriel looked at him in surprise, and for the first time, the irascible mage smiled. "That is why I am here, where stranger things than those of the mortal world are available. There are certain weapons . . . but they need a power we do not have."

"Weapons?" Denoriel asked unhappily.

The mage gestured vaguely. "To use as a shield, something that will turn their cold iron red hot and make it impossible to hold, or to change it into some other metal that cannot harm the Sidhe."

Denoriel shook his head. "But if they are defenseless, will not they be abused?"

The magus looked at him and sighed. "As many of them as there are, they could overwhelm us by sheer numbers. We must have
some
protection. Gilfaethwy is working on the same problem, but he thinks he can find a way to make the Sidhe resistant to cold iron. He thinks it is something in the blood."

"In the blood of mortals?" Denoriel was pleasantly surprised. That explained Gilfaethwy's desire for mortal blood in a most innocent manner.

"No matter." Treowth waved a hand. "You need passage to the mortal world to return the child. I will add a pattern to your Gate to take you the same distance as but in a direction opposite to where the destroyed Gate was anchored."

"But I think my half-brother will be able—"

"He will be able to do nothing, nor will his master, no matter how powerful. No one will meddle with
my
Gate." He smiled, ferally. "At least, anyone who does meddle will get a very rude surprise."

As if time had been somewhat suspended while he and Treowth spoke, when the Magus Major finished, Harry pulled a new strand of the golden wire and the whole mass unfolded and reformed itself into a narrow shape, rather like a small whale but with enormous outstretched flippers. The boy crowed with delight and the door opened showing the kitsune carrying a large tray with many bowls and covered containers on it.

"Eat," Treowth said, and promptly disappeared.

They were just finishing their meal, having put aside a portion of each dish for the magus, when Treowth walked in the door. He came to the table and smiled at FitzRoy, who touched the golden creation and said it was beautiful.

"Unfortunately it will not work in the mortal world so I cannot let you take it with you," Treowth said. It appeared that not even Treowth was proof against Harry's charm.

"Oh, no, sir, I couldn't take it anyway," Harry demurred. "It's too big to hide and . . . how would I ever explain it? I'm supposed to be lost in the woods."

"A most sensible child." Treowth patted FitzRoy on the head and the boy grimaced, but the magus did not seem to notice. To Denoriel he said, "If you are ready?"

Denoriel stood up and Harry did so too. Denoriel took the boy's hand.

"I will send you to the Gate at Logres," Treowth said.

"If you please, magus, we need to leave the Bazaar afoot," he demurred. "Our elvensteeds are waiting at the entrance to the Bazaar. We cannot abandon them."

Treowth shook his head, and chuckled. "Fool. They know. They will meet you at the Gate."

"Thank you," FitzRoy and Denoriel said in chorus, but found they were talking to the chalcedony pillars of the Gate.

FitzRoy bounced off the white marble dais and ran to Lady Aeron who was, as Treowth had promised, waiting. Denoriel gave the boy a leg up into the saddle Lady Aeron produced for him and then mounted Miralys. They were back at the palace of Llachar Lle in moments. Denoriel was very happy to see that the great gates were closed and the wide corridor was empty.

In Denoriel's apartment, FitzRoy changed back into the soiled clothing he had been wearing when he had first arrived. The sleeves and pockets were not as capacious, but the gun, pouch, and pump were tucked away. Denoriel then dirtied the boy's face and hands and finally stood with his head cocked to the side.

"How about a few tears, Harry?"

"I'm too big to cry," the boy replied indignantly.

"Even if you were lost in the woods?"

"Well . . ." FitzRoy hesitated. "You know, I don't think I can say I was lost in the woods. They'll have had the whole castle guard combing the area and they'll have found my horse. I'll have to find a place to hide. There's charcoal burners' huts in the wood. If I was locked into one of those and maybe tied and gagged—"

"That's very clever, Harry, but you can't be tied and gagged. It wouldn't be comfortable for you, and they'll expect to see marks on your wrists and face after all these hours. Just say whoever dragged you in there held your nose and poured something down your throat. If you were drugged, you'd have been asleep and unable to call for help. Then when you woke up and started calling for help . . . I'll see that Ladbroke or Dunstan is there to hear you."

The boy grinned with delight at the idea of being the hero of such an adventure, but Denoriel shook his head. "Don't be so pleased," he said. "I doubt there'll be any hunting for you this autumn. In fact, I will give odds that that's the last time you go out riding for a long time."

The grin disappeared and FitzRoy sighed. "I know, and they'll probably watch me in the keep nearly as carefully as outside if I say I was snatched off my horse. It can't be helped, and I'll have my gun to practice with and . . . and a lot to think about." He hesitated and then said, "You'll come to see me, won't you, Lord Denno?"

"Of course I'll come," he assured the boy, "although God only knows what excuse I can conjure up in order to come up here in the autumn. Don't worry, I shall manage."

They went out then, and remounted the waiting elvensteeds. When Denoriel thought about a destination, a glowing oval appeared with four dark spots. One, Denoriel knew was the Gate under the stair in Sheriff Hutton; mentally he rejected it and it disappeared. A second was his house in London; that, too, vanished, as did the mark that represented the copse near Windsor. The one remaining spot became blacker and then larger and larger. When it would accept her, Lady Aeron stepped through; Miralys followed.

The blackness did not lift, and Denoriel was momentarily panicked. Then he realized that the darkness was simply full night in a moonless wood. His eyes soon adjusted and he saw they were in a thicket that had grown up around the stump of a huge tree that lay on its side so that the enormous roots formed almost a small cave. Lady Aeron's pale hide gleamed a few feet ahead. She was already walking toward a rather overgrown opening that had long ago been cut through the thicket so the charcoal burners could harvest the tree branches.

A very short, also badly overgrown path, led to a much more used trail. This showed not only ruts made by the wheels of a cart, but footprints too. Fortunately the marks were not fresh. It looked as if the charcoal cutters had passed through a week or so earlier. Perhaps they had been checking on their ovens, making ready for the busiest burning season, just before winter.

Denoriel looked back and gestured. Hoofprints and tiny signs of the elvensteeds' passage, like broken twigs and torn leaves, disappeared. The opening from which they had come was now more overgrown. Denoriel nodded and followed the direction of the footprints on the trail, listening intently, but there were no sounds beyond those of a normal night.

When they reached the woodcutter's hut and FitzRoy had to part with Lady Aeron, Denoriel got the tears he had wanted. They weren't for fear of being locked up in the dark but for parting with his elvensteed.

"I might never see you again," the boy sobbed into her mane.

The steed nuzzled him with her soft muzzle and lipped at his hair. Miralys came near also, and nudged FitzRoy's shoulder. Denoriel hugged him too.

"I can't promise," the Sidhe said, "but if there's an opportunity—if there's a time when your absence won't be noticed—I'll come for you. There are places to hunt where we were, we could . . . but don't think about that now. You need to look scared." He hugged the boy again. "Don't be. Not really. I won't be far and no one is really hunting you."

Denoriel was as good as his word. It took him less than half an hour to find Ladbroke, whom he led to the charcoal burners' hut. He looked meaningfully into Ladbroke's eyes for a moment, then turned Miralys and rode away.

Ladbroke shouted FitzRoy's name and inside the shed, the boy heard him with relief, shouted back and ran to pound on the door.

Pausing only to summon Reeve Tolliver and Dunstan by the use of a shrill whistle, he pushed up the crude wooden bar that kept the door closed and FitzRoy tumbled out into his arms. Ladbroke held the boy tight, weeping with relief and FitzRoy patted him comfortingly on the back, also shedding a few tears, partly for the lost Lady Aeron and partly in relief, because a half hour is a long time for a boy to be alone in the dark.

When Reeve Tolliver arrived, gasping more with terror than with effort, and saw his master, he did more than weep; he knelt on the ground and kissed FitzRoy's feet. Only a few years separated Reeve from the starving boy Ladbroke had found abandoned in a church yard; no one wanted the stable ostler's son when his father died. Tolliver knew that FitzRoy was the source of his food, his shelter, all the stability in his life.

Dunstan also embraced his charge, but he immediately proffered a flask of water and a roll, which he had been prudently carrying. FitzRoy drank the water eagerly and then began to pick at the roll—he had eaten very well at Treowth's table but he would not speak of that. Instead he reminded himself of Lord Denno's story about the drugged drink and complained of a foul taste in his mouth.

Finally Ladbroke ran down the charcoal burners' track, shouting for FitzRoy's personal guardsmen. They were the only ones still searching; the others had given up when the light failed. Sir Edward had then sent out summons to the other councilors with appeals for more men, for a veritable army of men, intending at dawn to search outward from the road foot by foot.

Ladbroke shouted "Found! Found safe!" as he ran down the road, and soon roars of joy drifted back.

Meanwhile Dunstan and Tolliver had offered to carry FitzRoy, which he refused, saying he was eager to walk after having slept for so long. He asked if his horse had escaped, and was assured that it had, although it had been found in a completely different part of the wood. Two of the guardsmen soon met them on the track. The other two had gone running back to Sheriff Hutton.

There, even Sir Edward enfolded FitzRoy in his arms and wept with relief and joy as he stuttered questions about what had happened, where the boy had been.

Mistress Bethany cried out in protest at the questions. She wanted FitzRoy to have a meal in bed and then sleep. The boy patted her but shook his head.

"Been asleep," he said. "Don't want to go to bed. And my mouth tastes foul so I'm not very hungry."

"What happened, Your Grace?" Sir Edward asked. "Where have you been all this time? We searched. God knows we searched and called for you."

"Happened? Well, those things—monsters? demons?—scared my horse—" He shuddered, then looked defiantly at Sir Edward. "Scared me, too, but I didn't fall off. Only I couldn't stop the horse from running away. And then I realized two men were chasing me. My poor horse was so tired, and they caught up. One of them grabbed the horse, the other grabbed me and dragged me out of the saddle. Threw a cloak or a blanket over me. I couldn't squirm free and . . . and I could feel the horse was moving pretty fast. I didn't think it would be smart to try to jump."

"No! God's grace, no. You could have been hurt . . . killed. But did you see them? I've got men hiding near the charcoal burner's hut. Surely they intended to come back for you as soon as the search died down. Thank God your guards and servants wouldn't give up. If we catch anyone, would you be able to say they were the ones that captured you?"

FitzRoy shook his head. "I don't know. They were behind me most of the time and when we were in the hut and they made me drink that stuff that put me to sleep, it was too dark to see much. They were dark-haired and dark-eyed, I think, and one had a neat beard. And I didn't understand the language they spoke. It sounded a bit like French, but it wasn't French. I can speak French."

FitzRoy described the men who had attacked him years ago in Windsor; their appearances were burned into his memory. He knew they were dead. Lord Denno had told him that they were dead not long after the attack, when he had expressed a fear of being attacked again. It was safe to use their faces and the way they spoke, so he wouldn't by accident describe someone he had seen around the castle or village and get an innocent person into trouble.

By the time Sir Edward had asked all his questions at least three times, FitzRoy was drooping. He claimed to have been in a drugged sleep all day, but actually he had been wide awake and having some very exciting adventures—singing in Furhold and passing through the Bazaar of the Bizarre. Eventually Mistress Bethany got her way and he was escorted back to his apartment by his own people and another ten guardsmen.

He ate a little of the meal Bethy brought and then dismissed her. He thought about sending Dunstan away too, but then decided he needed at least one ally, and without speaking brought out the gun, the pouch, and the pump. Dunstan stared at them, open-mouthed.

"We need to hide them," FitzRoy said.

"Where
have
you been, Your Grace?" Dunstan breathed, but he didn't wait for an answer, gathering up the gun and its accoutrements.