This Scepter'd Isle (72 page)

He had had no choice but to draw in the white lightning magic of the mortal world, but he had been careful at first, taking only enough to keep his shields high. He knew he could not fight Vidal with spells and did not try. He had hoped to distract him and defeat him by the sword.

He had not feared for Elizabeth. Vidal wanted her alive and well to twist and corrupt. Moreover, she was well shielded, which should protect her against any casual or deflected spell, and even keep any Sidhe brave enough to try to lift her while she was wearing the cross from touching her. However, when Vidal had been thrice wounded and realized his spells would never penetrate Denoriel's shields, he began to throw those spells at Elizabeth.

The shields Denoriel had devised to protect the child were not meant for that. One, two more castings and Elizabeth, all her brightness, all her sweetness, all her intelligent ferocity, would be gone. Denoriel reached out and drank lightning, drawing the terrible power through his body to cast out again as bolts of raw power at Vidal Dhu.

The first blast had staggered the prince of the Unseleighe Court, the second had beaten him to his knees, the third would have maimed or killed him—but then Denoriel had heard FitzRoy scream a warning. The bolt he had fashioned had lashed back . . . 

"Denno. Denno."

Slowly, painfully, Denoriel opened his eyes. "It's all right, Harry," he whispered. "Elizabeth will be safe for a long time."

"Denno, don't die. Don't."

Tears dripped down on the hand FitzRoy was clutching and he coughed wetly as he bent his head to kiss Denno's hand.

"No," Denoriel lied, trying to smile. "I won't die, but I'll be a long, long time healing, my brave lad. Take care of yourself. Take care of Elizabeth."

FitzRoy's hand tightened on his so hard that Denoriel could feel it through all his other pain. He blinked, made an effort that nearly wrung a whimper from him, and saw more clearly. He did not like what he saw. Harry was white, his face slicked with sweat as well as tears, and there was panic in his eyes, the kind of panic a person feels when he knows it is impossible for him to complete a desperately important task.

"He mustn't die. He mustn't," FitzRoy gasped. "Lady Aleneil, he told me that if he were ever badly hurt and not near any Gate, that I must put him on Miralys. He said Miralys could take him to a healer."

Aleneil leaned forward and kissed FitzRoy's cheek. "Thank you. Thank you for keeping your head. I had forgotten all about Miralys."

"Ladbroke. Dunstan," FitzRoy called, coughing again. "Let's carry Lord Denno down to the back door."

"Miralys will be there," Aleneil promised.

The first thing Mwynwen did was to strip the power-drinking spell from Denoriel. Then, for a month, she kept him under a healing sleep spell, which allowed him to eat and drink and perform other natural functions without really being conscious. After the second week, she had sent messages to the Magi Gilfaethwy and Treowth. Both grumbled, but both came, and separately examined Denoriel. Both agreed that Denoriel might be healed, but that he must not touch any power. "Not for so much as lighting a candle or passing through a gate," Treowth said.

By the middle of the fourth week, however, Mwynwen felt that Denoriel was resisting, fighting to come awake, fighting the pain it cost him to fight. At first he had been soothed by his sister's visits, but for the last few days his struggle seemed to increase in Aleneil's presence. This time even Aleneil noticed, and when her soft urgings to rest only brought new struggles, she left the room.

Mwynwen drew her aside into her private apartment and when Aleneil asked anxiously what was wrong Mwynwen admitted that she did not dare make the sleep deep enough to truly blank Denoriel's mind. Then she asked whether Aleneil knew what could be troubling her brother.

Aleneil bit her lip. "I hope it is his concern for Lady Elizabeth. If so you could bring him to consciousness and I could reassure him in a few moments. I hope after that he will rest easy again."

"You hope. But?"

"But I fear he is worried about young FitzRoy," Aleneil sighed. "And if he is . . . I do not know what to tell him." She lowered her gaze to her hands, wringing together. "I fear FitzRoy is dying," she whispered.

"Dying?" Mwynwen's voice rose in shock. Then her voice, too, dropped to a whisper. "Could their lives be linked, my Richey and his mortal original? Richey . . ." she tried without success to hold back a sob. "Richey is failing."

"I am so sorry," Aleneil said.

She had thought when Mwynwen took the changeling into her care that it was a sad mistake, that Mwynwen was simply borrowing grief. On the other hand, the poor little thing was living, had a sweet personality and a bright mind. Not to help it would have been near to murder. No one had expected it to live more than a few months, possibly a year or two. But Mwynwen had loved it desperately, and driven by desperation had devised a spell to feed it power constantly.

"How long has FitzRoy been ill?" Mwynwen asked.

"He wasn't ill at all. In the battle that nearly killed Denoriel, FitzRoy was touched by elf-shot. He wasn't pierced by it, but somehow damaged. His lungs are full of liquid and he cannot breathe."

"Elf-shot? FitzRoy was harmed by elf-shot?" Hope lit Mwynwyn's eyes. "If we could bring him here, perhaps I could heal him. Perhaps when he grows strong, Richey will grow strong also."

"I am not sure how we can steal FitzRoy away. He is a person of some importance. Also, King Henry had him moved to St. James's palace where his own physicians could care for him. King Oberon would be
furious
if anything about FitzRoy's disappearance hinted at otherworld influence." Aleneil shook her head sharply, annoyed with herself. "Never mind that. I will think about that later. For now, wake Denoriel and I will tell him that all is well with FitzRoy."

"No," Mwynwen said. "He will never believe you and it will make him fight his healing even more fiercely. You must tell him the truth. Tell him about the elf-shot and that we plan to bring FitzRoy here so I can cure him. Promise to have him waked when FitzRoy arrives." She bit her lip. "We will think of something. Surely, two such clever women as we can think of something!"

In that, at least, Mwynwen and Aleneil were successful. Denoriel sank back to rest and his healing proceeded apace. In another two weeks, his pain was so much diminished that Mwynwen allowed him to be fully awake for a few hours each day, and then a few hours longer. By the next week, he was awake at his own will, and on the second day of that week, as he was about to take a nap, he nearly fell out of bed when a young man with sandy hair and slightly muddy brown eyes peeped around his door.

"Harry!" Denoriel exclaimed, trying to struggle upright. "You are here already! Aleneil said they were having trouble reaching you." The door opened fully, showing the young man clinging to the doorframe, trembling. "Oh, my dear boy, come in and sit down. You are shaking. You should be in bed. I will come to you, I promise. Call for an attendant to take you—"

"No, please," the young man whispered, falling into a chair by the bed. "I am Richey, not your Harry."

"Richey . . ." Denoriel's voice faded as disappointment overcame him, and he allowed himself to fall back on his pillows. "I am sorry to see that you are not well . . ."

"I am dying," the young man said, his brow creased with such pain that he looked old before his time. "Inch by painful inch, and I cannot convince Mother to let me go. She feeds me power . . ." his eyes filled with tears, "and it hurts. I am so tired, so tired . . . I am too tired to sleep and I want to sleep, to rest . . . to rest . . ."

Denoriel forced himself upright again. "If I can help you . . . But how can I help?"

"I understand that much of the trouble in bringing your Harry here is that if he disappears without explanation the king will seek him and turn everything upside down to find him and that might breach the secrecy needed to protect Underhill. But if I took Harry's place, no one would wonder or look for him."

For a moment, Denoriel stared at him in utter disbelief. Surely the changeling—no, it was not a mere construct any more, and had not been for a very long time—the young creature knew that this would be a death sentence! "You would die, Richey!" Denoriel exclaimed. "There is power in the mortal world, as I know to my sorrow, but it would not keep you alive."

"Yes, I know." He smiled faintly. "And I would rest at last, really rest. Can you devise a way to exchange me for your Harry?"

"Mwynwen would kill me! No, of course she would not, but she would hate me forever. I would not dare mention such a thing to her." He stretched to touch Richey's thin hand. "Don't worry about Harry. Aleneil is clever and Harry's servants were once mortals Underhill. They will find a way."

"To save Harry? Yes, I don't doubt it. But will they be in time? I fear not." He lowered his head and a tear streaked his cheek. "And what of me? How much longer must I suffer?"

"Oh, Richey, Richey!" The door flung open and Mwynwen ran in and dropped to her knees beside the young man's chair. "My dearling, dearling. Why didn't you tell me you were in pain? I could—"

"Lull me asleep, Mother?" The tears were now flowing more freely down Richey's cheeks. "How many days, weeks, months have I lain in a near stupor, too tired to sit, too tired to read, too tired play a game or watch my creatures at play? I could not be ungrateful to you. I love you too much. I could not tell you and hurt you, but I am glad you were listening in case Denoriel called and overheard." He sighed. "I am glad you know. I am tired . . . tired. And . . . and I do not want to rot, to dissolve, while I am still living and aware. Look!"

He pinched his flesh and a piece came off, leaving a sore that oozed for only a moment but did not heal. Mwynwen watched, horror marking her face.

"Richey," she breathed. "My dearling. Richey." Tears began to pour down her face. "Oh my dear—what have I done to you?"

The fifteenth of July was a particularly pleasant day, clear and bright and not too warm. Shandy Dunstan lifted his master, gritting his teeth to repress his alarm. "Those stupid Sidhe have left it too long," he muttered under his breath, probably thinking FitzRoy couldn't hear him.

But there was nothing wrong with Harry's hearing, though the rest of him was failing. They looked down at a body weighing nearly nothing, and the movement was enough to set off a new spasm of coughing. Dunstan looked around in alarm. He had sent Mistress Bethany to procure fresh kerchiefs, but if she heard FitzRoy coughing she might come back too soon and make Dunstan leave him alone.

Which, at the moment, was what Harry would rather have had.

A nearly transparent hand wearily raised an already stained kerchief to FitzRoy's mouth. He wiped his lips and whispered, "Let me lie, Dunstan. You say the sun will do me good, but you know and I know that nothing will do me good. I only wish I knew how Denno was."

To FitzRoy's intense surprise, Dunstan grinned. He had not really smiled in over a month. "Just don't order me not to take you out, Your Grace, and you're likely to find out."

"What?" FitzRoy mumbled, not sure he had heard aright.

"Yes, and there's a nice visitor wanting to see you, only she can't come in the palace."

"I don't . . ." There was a pause while FitzRoy coughed again. This time Dunstan took the bloody kerchief from his hand and put a clean cloth into it. "I don't think I really want to see even Mary," he added when he could speak again.

"Not your wife. It's a Lady Aeron that's looking for you, but she's a little too big to get entrance into St. James's through a door, so we have to bring you out."

"What?" His mind struggled to grasp what Dunstan had just said, but his body seemed to have figured it out already; his eyes were wide open, and he began feebly trying to help Dunstan pull a heavy dressing gown over his body. "Did you say Lady Aeron?"

"Yes, Your Grace. And here's Master Ladbroke to help carry you out into the garden. Just let me slide you to the edge of the bed and help you stand . . . just for a moment. Now an arm around Ladbroke's neck and another around mine. That's all you've to do, Your Grace, is hang on."

Shaylor was waiting just outside the door. He bit his lips when he saw FitzRoy seated on Dunstan and Ladbroke's arms, trying gamely to keep his head up. But he had done what he was told to do, made sure the corridor was clear. If any of the nurses or doctors saw them carrying FitzRoy out, they might prevent taking him out into the sun and Dunstan said that might help.

However, they made it outside and then through the elaborate gardens near the house, each one guarded by one of his men—Nyle, who gently touched his hand as he bowed, Gerrit, with tears streaking his cheeks, who murmured, "Wish you well, Your Grace," and Dickson, who swallowed and swallowed and could not speak at all. Then they came out through a tall hedge to a less ordered garden with clumps of tall rose bushes. There was a well-cushioned chair almost hidden by the roses, into which FitzRoy was lowered.

For a while he must have lost consciousness, because the next thing of which he was aware was the blowing of a horse and a velvet muzzle touching his cheek. He tried to say, "Lady Aeron," but the coughing took him again . . . only this time the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—well, he had seen Queen Titania, and she was more beautiful of course, but this woman was dark and vivid and her eyes were kinder—put her hand on his chest, and the coughing stopped.

"Quick, off with that robe," she said

To FitzRoy's amazement he had strength enough to stand up and undo his robe, but he hesitated to remove it because he wasn't even wearing small-clothes underneath. It had been too much effort to get them on. And then he saw Dunstan and Ladbroke helping an equally naked man from Lady Aeron's saddle, while a second elvensteed waited.

"Off. Off," the woman said impatiently, pulling at the robe, and when she had it off him, turning to the wilting young man, who—FitzRoy's breath caught—who had
his
face . . .  She wrapped her arms around his—twin?—but he had no twin—and sobbed, "Richey. Richey." And tears ran down her face. But then she helped Richey into FitzRoy's robe and set him in FitzRoy's chair.