It took hours to reassemble the cortege, which dragged itself into Maidenhead after the sun had set. Long before that, Denoriel and Mistress Bethany had settled FitzRoy in the very best chamber of the best and largest inn of the town. Without argument, Denoriel took possession of a tiny servant's room that opened into FitzRoy's bedchamber, the nurse having elected to sleep in a trundle bed right beside her nurseling. All with approval of Sir Christopher.
Even while most of the cortege was fighting goblins and the disorder was spreading, Sir Christopher and his guard had forced their way to Denoriel. Both were bleeding, as were their horses. However, Sir Christopher's relief at seeing FitzRoy no worse for the event, not even badly frightened, was enormous, and ensured Denoriel's continued supervision of his precious charge. And Denoriel's suggestion that he go ahead with FitzRoy's four guards and another four of the guardsmen who had regained control of their horses and returned, also obtained instant approval. In fact, Sir Christopher nearly groaned with pleasure at having one burden removed so he could attend to reordering the cortege.
Denoriel sent Nyle and Shaylor to collect Mistress Bethany—if she were in condition to ride pillion behind one of the men. She too was bitten and bleeding but came, perched determinedly behind Nyle, utterly furious, and the white kitten's basket was fastened behind Shaylor.
"What were they, Lord Denno?" she asked as soon as she was close enough to speak without shouting. "Those weren't no rats I've ever seen before. And they were after my kitten. Ten of them I squashed, I swear, trying to get into her basket. And the others in the char must have took out near fifty. We all nearly fainted from the smell."
"I have no idea," Denoriel answered mendaciously. "I never saw one close enough. Miralys here didn't like them one bit and he's got a mighty jump. He just sailed right over them, and then they went down the road so we didn't see any more."
"And you're all right, Your Grace?" she asked looking at FitzRoy. "You weren't bitten or scratched?"
"No, Mistress Bethany. Lord Denno took good care of me."
"He always does," the nurse said, with a warmly approving glance. "Still, the sooner we're under a tight roof the better I'll like it. And better still if we can get a priest to come bless us! Those weren't no natural rats, that I'll swear!"
That was true enough. She obviously relaxed when they arrived at the inn and were welcomed with every honor and grace the innkeeper could devise. Even so, when Denoriel said he would like the servant's chamber, she was clearly glad. The kitten was released. It had recovered from its panic and investigated every inch of the chamber, even darting out the door when an inn servant came bringing warm water for washing. It soon returned, calming the nurse's anxiety, and settled in her lap.
Fortunately for Denoriel, reaction from the excitement soon overtook everyone. Someone managed to find a priest, a little mendicant friar of one of the begging orders, who looked greatly perplexed at what he heard, but obediently went around signing the cross, muttering Latin, and splashing holy water over everything. That settled the nurse further. FitzRoy ate well, but with half-closed eyes and he barely managed to finish his sweet before the eyes closed completely. Mistress Bethany was little better off. Denoriel urged her to go to her bed also, promising that he would keep watch.
She accepted his assurance with heartfelt thanks, but when both were asleep, he swathed one hand in layers of silk and pulled the boy's cross from its pouch, arranging it to lie naked on FitzRoy's chest. Then he gathered the last remnants of his strength and cast a shield over FitzRoy and most of the bed. Afterward, he clung to the bedpost, eyes dim, shaking, drained nearly to his core.
For a while he simply breathed, eyeing the glittering white lines of power that alone were clearly visible to him and seemed to waver toward him seductively. Not yet, he thought. Some day I may be desperate enough to take the chance of burning out my magic completely, but now I have Harry to guard.
As some purely physical strength slowly came back to his muscles, the temptation receded; however, he knew that keeping watch in his present condition would be useless. He must go Underhill. Perhaps Mwynwen could do something to restore him or teach him how to absorb power a little faster.
He left the room, saying to Gerrit and Dickson, who were on guard by the door in the corridor, that he needed to catch a breath of air. He knew they were tired, he added, but he begged them to be extra alert, at least until he returned. And then he walked around the side of the inn.
Miralys was there, which was just as well because his shaking knees might not have carried him much further. How he got into the saddle—not the mortal-world leather and wood construction, but something Miralys himself created to hold him—he never knew. He had barely enough consciousness to tell the elvensteed to take him to Mwynwen. Freed of the restraints of looking or acting like a mortal horse, the elvensteed sped across the distance from Maidenhead to the nearest Gate in less than an hour.
She greeted him with reservation, even with guarded hostility, blocking the doorway.
"And what is it you want now?" she asked coldly.
Tears stung Denoriel's eyes at the icy rejection. He would have retreated, but his need was too great; also he doubted his ability to leave with dignity. "My lady—" he faltered, in a voice like a croak. "—I fear I need your help—"
Then she seemed to recognize his debilitated state and softened, reaching out to help him into the house.
When she had told him to lie down on the bed in a small room well away from the chamber to which he had carried the changeling, she asked what he had been doing to so deplete his reserves. He told her of the goblin attack, watching her eyes widen in dismay.
"If I had not had the lad with me—it would have been desperate. As it was, nothing came of it. But when we came to shelter, I had to shield Harry," he finished wearily. "I still have to. But I am—spent."
She nodded vigorously to that but then bit her lip and stood staring down at him as if she wished to sieve out his soul.
After a while she sighed and began to pass her hands over him repeatedly, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, murmuring softly all the while. Denoriel knew it was a spell, but he could not make out the words no matter how closely he listened. And then she bound the spell to him so that it sank into flesh and bone, becoming part of him.
Denoriel gasped in surprise at the flood of warmth and power that seemed to ooze from everywhere into him. He sat up, restored, and stared at her.
"What? What did you do? I am filling with power like a well that has reached an underground river!"
She smiled, but her eyes were sad. "It is indeed an ill wind that blows no one any good. That is a mortal saying—the child is full of mortal sayings. What I have given you is a spell I devised to feed power to poor Richey."
"The child!" Denoriel exclaimed. "Oh, wonderful. Can it save him?"
There was a little silence and then, her voice grown harsh in a way Denoriel had never heard, she said, "You cannot have him."
Denoriel drew a sharp breath. So that was why she had nearly refused him entrance. She thought he had come for the child.
"No," he said. "My lady, I have no wish for him. I have Harry. And I know Richey must stay with you. I fear even with the spell you have devised that he will never be strong—but I was saddened by the thought that he was made to be more fragile than even a mortal child, and that this would bring you sorrow."
"No," she sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. "Even with the spell, I do not know how long . . ." Then she smiled. "But he is happy. He is like a bright-feathered bird, always chirping merrily, filled with one clever notion after another. The toys he loves best are those from which he can build other toys, and what he creates is wonderful."
That gave Denoriel an idea for a present for Harry when it would be time to leave him . . . if he dared leave him. He stood up.
"Would you like to see him?" Mwynwen asked. Her voice was uncertain as if she desperately wanted to show off her prize but was afraid seeing it would make Denoriel wish to seize it.
"I do, but I daren't take the time," Denoriel said. "Later, perhaps. And it will be better when he is more settled with you, anyway. Let him know he is cherished by you first, and become secure in the knowledge. Then I will see him."
Mwynwen nodded, but she did not move away from the door. "I hope you will not misuse what I have given you," she said. "An unlimited and quickly renewing source of power . . . That will give you a great advantage over most other Sidhe."
"I am not a quarrelsome sort," Denoriel said, smiling, knowing that he had said exactly the right thing about the poor little changeling. "And most of my time is now spent in the mortal world where even this spell cannot gather power very well." He shook his head. "I must go back at once. Can you tell Aleneil about the goblin attack for me? If the Unseleighe are so desperate to seize poor Harry, I had better be there to defend him."
"Yes, go," she urged, now looking anxious. "I cannot bear the thought of your Harry, so much like my Richey, in the hands of Vidal Dhu. And don't worry. I don't forget that they might be seeking Richey too. He is guarded by the strongest protections I can devise."
They parted better friends, but Denoriel knew the special bond they had had no longer existed. He wondered, feeling his ears grow warm as he mounted Miralys, whether Mwynwen had wanted his loving or his youth? He was very young for a Sidhe. Had he been desired as a lover or as a substitute for a child? It was an embarrassing question, and Denoriel pushed it aside. He had not felt this well and strong since he had started visiting the mortal world. He should be grateful for what he had, not whining over what he had lost. There were elven women enough who would look on him with favor—and anyway, he had always known that one day she would lose interest in him. Few elven passions lasted forever—nor, in truth, would most Sidhe wish them to.
He and Miralys took the Gate from Logres to Windsor, set to arrive just at the time he had left the inn. The elvensteed covered the distance from Windsor to Maidenhead in less than a quarter hour, so when Denoriel came round the corner of the inn, just enough time for a leisurely walk had passed.
Even so, the guards were glad to see him. No one had tried to enter His Grace's chamber, they reported, but one man they did not recognize had passed down the corridor. He had not paused, only glancing once at them.
Denoriel's teeth set for a moment. What had seemed to them a man passing without pausing could have meant they were blocked by a spell—but there was no lingering remnant of magic around either man. Although he was impatient, Denoriel thanked them for their alertness and urged them to let him know at once if the man passed by again. Then he hurried inside, but the shield he had set over FitzRoy showed no sign of tampering and the sleeping nurse was simply sleeping, not bespelled. He took the most comfortable chair in the room, gave it some extra padding with a pillow Harry had knocked to the floor, and sat down to watch out the night.
No further disturbance troubled Denoriel that first night, but over the weeks it took them to reach Sheriff Hutton, he had cause again and again to thank Mwynwen and the spell she had bound to his being. The tiny-goblin attack was only the first of many dangers that struck their cortege.
They found the students in Oxford rioting when they arrived in the town and had to fight their way to the castle. It was pure accident that Harry had been on Miralys with Denoriel when they entered Oxford. The road had been dull, but much less rutted than the stretch between Windsor and Maidenhead, so Harry had been riding in the carriage, playing games with his nurse. It happened that a game ended just as the town came in view, and Harry begged to be taken up on Miralys so he could see better.
Mistress Bethany was nearly injured when a group of students surged over the coach. Had FitzRoy been riding in it, worse might have befallen. As it was, she boxed the ears of one so soundly that he shrieked and let go of the white kitten's basket. She kicked a second where he was most sensitive and shoved him over the coach's low side as he howled and curled over on himself. Then FitzRoy's guards converged on the vehicle and drove the students off with the flats of their blades while the air spirit shrieked into Denoriel's mind, :Possessed. Some are possessed:
It was not afraid of mortals, however, and was merely amused by their attempts to seize it. That was just as well because it was willing to roam ahead of the cortege and a few days later warned Denoriel of caltrops scattered on the road. Denoriel promptly told Nyle a sad tale of a wool trader going north with a full purse who had lost it and several members of his party to outlaws who played that kind of trick. Nyle rode forward to warn the guardsmen. If he looked a little strangely at Denoriel when the caltrops were discovered, that was a lesser problem than having half the horses disabled.
North of Leicester they were attacked by outlaws, but that might have been a normal hazard of traveling because the air spirit gave no warning. Even with Harry on his saddle, Denoriel managed to disable three. Other guards did as well. All those captured had their hands tied behind them and a rope around their necks by which they were dragged back to Leicester by four of the guardsmen.
Two more attempts were aimed at the air spirit. One was foiled by the stubborn determination of the nurse not to part with her pet for any threat or blandishment and a second by Denoriel's untrained but genuine mage sight, which disclosed some near-invisible thing's stealthy approach. Denoriel's silver sword made quick work of the formless construct, which could whip out tentacles or extend itself to envelop and draw the not-quite insubstantial air spirit into its maw.
To FitzRoy's guards, who were the only ones close enough to notice him stabbing and slashing at nothing with his sword he said he was doing some esoteric exercises. They all exchanged glances and then nodded, but they were particularly jumpy all the rest of the day and Gerrit twice asked the nurse if she felt cold or a breeze when the leaves were not moving.
As they entered Nottingham, they lost two guards from the tail of the cortege. Without explanation, the chain holding the portcullis slipped off its hook and the heavy iron gate crashed down. It killed both horses and one man and took the arm from another. Denoriel was furious. Such an attack could not result in seizing Harry. The cruelty and wastefulness was typical of the Unseleighe, but he could only clutch Harry tighter and use his strength more lavishly to create shields. After Nottingham, one man was assigned to gallop through the gates of any town or castle where they were scheduled to stay and stand guard on the portcullis winch.
No one was bored—that was for sure. The guardsmen were keenly alert, watching the road underfoot, the sides of the road, the branches of the trees overhead—from which, in a heavily wooded section past Doncaster a troop of rag-clad wild-men had dropped. FitzRoy's guards and Denoriel had borne the brunt of that attack, which was clearly aimed at the boy, but Nyle, Gerrit, Dickson, and Shaylor had given a good account of themselves and put six beyond doing any harm. Denoriel's knife put paid to another two, and Harry valiantly used his little knife to stab the hands of the one who tried to seize him.
All the attacks ceased when they reached York. Possibly that was because by then, although they were all very tired, every man and woman was prepared to fight. Sir Christopher had grown more and more wary and now rode up and down along the cortege, watching for any oddity and urging even the servants to be prepared to defend themselves. And they were prepared. Denoriel thought gratefully that it would take a full-scale army to accomplish anything against them.
Sir Christopher was not swift of wit, but once he got an idea he used it to the uttermost. At first, he had told Denoriel, as they sat over their wine one evening, he had accounted the attempts on the cortege as the natural result of riding through the overpopulated south with what was obviously a rich caravan; later, he said, he had come to realize that the attacks were aimed at the little duke of Richmond.
With that fixed in his mind, he began to wonder whether his charge would be safe in Sheriff Hutton. It had been known for months that that was where Richmond was going; what if the servants and guards of the castle had been bribed to allow the child to come to harm? Sir Christopher felt he could trust no one except the members of the cortege, who had proved themselves faithful. But the members of the cortege could not garrison a whole castle. So, from York Sir Christopher sent a message to his brother, Lord Dacre, desiring him to change the entire garrison of Sheriff Hutton.
Whether that precaution had foiled any further attempts on the boy or the Unseleighe had decided for reasons of their own to desist, Denoriel did not know. Of course when they first arrived, Harry was strictly confined to the castle itself and its immediate grounds. That was no hardship because the castle was very large.
Very, very large; even Denoriel was impressed as they rode up to it, with Harry in the coach with Sir Christopher, in order to present the proper dignified approach.
"It's big!" Harry exclaimed in surprise.
"It was built," Sir Christopher told Harry, "in 1379 by Lord Neville of Raby on the site of a twelfth-century keep built by Bertram of Bulmer. And now it is yours, and it is my opinion that a lord ought to learn every inch of the properties in his possession."
Possibly because he had learned something about FitzRoy or possibly by accident, Sir Christopher had said just the right thing to intrigue a child. Denoriel could see that Harry would be happy for weeks exploring. Not only would he have the four great towers, each four stories high, and the interconnecting buildings full of galleries, passageways, and chambers, some of which held ancient furniture; in addition he could look for the remains of the earlier keep, including the base of its donjon, which was said still to exist.
The southwest tower was given over to the boy. The top level housed his guards so that no one could come through the roof to attack him. FitzRoy's own apartment was on the third level, which was high enough for the windows to give a fine view of the countryside. They were true windows rather than arrowslits, but firmly barred with elaborate wrought iron grates. Denoriel sighed faintly as his bones began to ache and his stomach churned. However, no Sidhe was going to come in through those windows. There were two rooms to the apartment, a bedchamber and a small parlor in which the boy could eat.
Servants quarters were on the ground level, which had no entrance and no windows. The servants and everyone else had to go through the gatehouse of the main building into the garden where an outer wooden stair rose to the second level. Normally that level would not have been living quarters at all, but assigned to guards on duty, who would examine anyone who entered. However, after some negotiation with the other members of the council—who were finally convinced that a Hungarian lord could have no interest and no influence on the Scottish border—Sir Christopher had arranged that Lord Denno and his personal servants, who had shown themselves as good as any guardsmen in the many attacks during the journey, should occupy those rooms.
Within the four towers was an inner bailey that held the small garden. In any attack that won through the gatehouse, the guards would destroy the four flimsy wooden stairways and leave any intruder faced with unscaleable walls from which arrows and other lethal materials could be rained down.
Outside the castle was a large outer bailey within a formidable stone wall and beyond the wall, a substantial moat. The outer bailey held the stables, the pens for animals being fattened for the table, the coops for chickens, the dovecot, the kennels, a smithy, the laundry, the kitchens, many sheds for storage, and many small cottages for the army of servants needed to support the establishment. Swans and geese floated in the moat, available for dinner and a first warning and early defense against any invasion.
For the time being, FitzRoy was confined to the castle itself and the small inner garden. That suited Denoriel perfectly. He spent two weeks examining every chamber and corridor from the top of each tower to each cellar below. He took Harry and whichever two guards were on duty through all the public places in the castle; the private rooms he checked with even greater care at night. Nowhere was there a hint or a smell of magic. The air spirit also flitted through the castle and agreed—Sheriff Hutton was not tainted with magic.
After two weeks, Denoriel felt his excuse of lingering until FitzRoy was settled into his new residence was growing a trifle thin. He told Sir Christopher, who was still in charge of the castle and FitzRoy while the other commissioners attended to legal and political affairs, that he must be about the business that brought him to Yorkshire and left Sheriff Hutton, ostensibly to purchase wool. He rode with his men as far as Aldborough and then bid Miralys to look for a Gate.
The senses of an elvensteed were much keener than those of a Sidhe when it came to finding Gates. As he had suspected, there was one, long abandoned, in a Node-grove a quarter-hour further on by elvensteed's swift pace. Marked by druidical signs, he knew immediately it would take him through the wall between the worlds to Avalon, as most Gates that had been used by druids did. It would not do if he was to travel regularly from Sheriff Hutton, but it would serve for now.
Aleneil was very glad to see him. She had been worried about him because she had been scrying their journey and was aware of how often the cortege had been under attack. She was amazed that he was not worn to a thread as he had been while guarding FitzRoy in Windsor. Unwilling to give even Aleneil Mwynwen's secret without her permission, Denoriel bypassed discussing his unusual reservoir of power by asking urgently whether his sister knew the whereabouts of Magus Major Treowth or any other Magus Major who would be willing to build a Gate for him.
"Treowth is gone," Aleneil said. "No one knows for certain where or why but a persistent rumor has it that he has moved to the Bazaar of the Bizarre." She closed her eyes a moment in thought, then brightened. "Gilfaethwy is at the school, however, and he specializes in Gates. I'm sure he'll help you, to keep the boy safe!"
Denoriel gave her a hug and turned to leave, but she held him back, saying she presumed he had not seen his mortal court friends since he had been on the road.
Denoriel shook his head, impatient to get negotiations for his Gate going.
"You had heard that the Emperor Charles has refused to join Henry in tearing France apart and had finally decided to marry a Portugese princess and not wait for Mary?" she asked.
"I heard enough wild talk by George and his friends about how they would grow rich on French lands, and yes, they were furious that Charles would not accommodate their greed, but that was in March or April while I was just beginning to win my way into their circle. As for Charles marrying the Portugese woman, thank God for that," Denoriel by habit used the Christian God in his speech. "The last thing we need is Charles's Spanish or Imperial notions driven into Mary's head. She's Church-ridden enough as it is. What are you trying to tell me, Aleneil? This is all old news."
"Yes, but it is becoming new again because Wolsey is urging on the king a peace treaty with France. And that may be good news for you in that Rhoslyn and Pasgen may be so busy keeping Wolsey from tying the king too tightly to France that FitzRoy may become less important to them."
He made a face. "Or more important because of the king's reluctance to have a French prince rule England through his wife."
"I did not mean you should be less vigilant on FitzRoy's behalf," she protested, "Only that however little King Henry may want a French prince on the throne, Vidal Dhu would want it even less. Remember, the Inquisition was never allowed to take hold in France as it did in Spain, and the French are more addicted than the English to making merry. I think Pasgen and Rhoslyn—who are the most likely to serve Vidal's purpose—will be making mischief in the King's Court and you should not bury yourself in the north, but cultivate your courtly friends and pay attention to the gossip about England's balancing between French and Imperial interests."
"Hmmm." Denoriel gnawed gently on his lower lip. "That may be possible. Fortunately Sheriff Hutton is too far north for casual visits by Boleyn and his set and they are not much interested in Scottish affairs. Well, except for Percy . . . It might be possible for me to be in two places at once, or very nearly. I can Gate from Sheriff Hutton to London . . . Ah, yes. By any chance, have you discovered what mortal guises Pasgen and Rhoslyn have taken?"
"Yes." His sister pulled a face of her own. "It is fortunate that Lady Elizabeth is watching politics closely, because her husband is so often sent abroad by the king, and she has found me a good confidant when he is gone. Rhoslyn is Mistress Rosamund Scot, fervently religious, which makes it possible for her to go on retreat frequently; she is a close friend to Queen Catherine's favorite maid of honor, Maria de Salinas. Pasgen is Sir Peter Kemp. He is supposed to be related to the wife of George Cavendish, who is Wolsey's gentleman usher. He is apparently a welcome guest at all times to Wolsey. I can only believe that both Rhoslyn and Pasgen meddled with their patrons' minds."
Denoriel's lips curved down in distaste. "Very likely. I will do what I can to avoid both and listen hard for those names. Anything else?"
Aleneil cocked her head at him. "Yes. When you have leave to do so, please tell me how you are managing to drink power as a sponge drinks water."
So he had not succeeded in throwing her off that scent. Well, he should have known better—in her place, he'd not have been distracted, either. "Good God, will everyone in Underhill see it? Should I try to shield it?"
She thought, looking hard at him for a moment, then shook her head. "It is clear to me because I know you so well and you are different from what you were before. Close friends might notice but not someone who does not know you passing well. As to the shield, to build one would prevent you from drinking power. But there is a danger. You will be like a beacon light to anything that eats power—so have a care if you go into the chaos lands."
He raised his brows. "Anyone who goes into the Unformed places needs to have a care. But I will remember what you say. If I cast a shield, I will lose my ability to take in power." He frowned. "Oh, bitterly do I now regret thinking my sword could solve all problems. I will study magic, I swear it . . . as soon as I find the time."
She laughed at him and sent him on his way. A few heartbeats later Miralys brought him to the soft, glowing white, apparently featureless round building that housed the Academicia, often just called the "School" or the "Place of Wisdom." He dismounted and asked permission to enter. A door promptly manifested just in front of him. It looked invitingly open, but Denoriel—whose own door always looked open—did not attempt to enter. He came closer and thought clearly of who he was, that his sister was the FarSeer Aleneil, and that he wished to consult Magus Major Gilfaethwy.
A moment later a tall and surprisingly portly elf stood in the doorway. His hair was more white than blond, his ear-tips inelegantly short, and his expression was not inviting. He stared at Denoriel, taking in the round ears, the round-pupilled eyes, and the court clothing.
"What do you want, mortal?"
"I'm not mortal, magus," Denoriel said without heat, although he had already identified himself and the mage would have had that information if he had bothered to listen. It also surprised him that the mage had not bothered to send a probe that would differentiate between mortal and Sidhe. Still, mages were sometimes other; Treowth certainly was. So he went on, "I am Aleneil, the FarSeer's twin, Denoriel. I am wearing mortal guise because I am now working to protect a mortal child who my sister Sees is of importance to the well-being of Underhill. That is why I have come to you. To protect the child, I need a Gate to a place in the mortal realm."
The mage frowned. "Gates to the mortal world are not easy to build."
"I am willing to offer compensation, if there is something I have that would be pleasing to you," he said, humbly—remembering the adage, "It is not wise to anger a wizard, for you would not enjoy the taste of flies."
"What could you have—" the mage began, and then suddenly stopped and smiled.
He pointed at Denoriel, who immediately felt the odd quiver of being moved a short distance by Gate. And he had been. He was now in an incredibly cluttered workroom. Books lay on shelves, on benches, on the floor. They were atop of and under sheets of parchment and paper; other sheets were stuffed between the pages. Among the books were all kinds of vessels, mostly of glass but some of silver and pewter, even gold. Around a few, tiny salamanders danced, and within the vessels liquids bubbled. A few had fallen and spilled their contents onto the books and papers. The spills looked dry, most of them, as if they had been long ignored. At least the odors in the room were pleasant.
"You said you were often in the mortal world?" the mage asked, and gestured vaguely at a stool.
Since it was covered with papers and two squashed scrolls, Denoriel made no attempt to sit. "Yes, magus."
"Good! There are some things I desire from the mortal world. I will build your Gate, and from the mortal world you will bring me . . ."
Denoriel's lips tightened, ready to refuse to abduct a child, although from what he had learned about the life of the boy who was now assisting Ladbroke, there were many who would be better off Underhill. But to his surprise, the mage reached out and fingered the hanging sleeve of his gown, then snorted disparagingly.
"Kenned," the mage said. "I want the real thing and the first thing I want is wool."
"Wool?" Denoriel echoed unbelievingly.
"Yes, wool. That stuff that grows on one of the mortal world animals."
"I know what wool is," Denoriel said. "I was just surprised because I am supposed to be buying wool right now. But I had no idea that there was any difference between a kenned artifact and that from which it was kenned. I will get all the wool you want . . . er . . . For what do you want wool, magus?"
"Never you mind," Gilfaethwy said. He then raised his hand and snapped his fingers. When he opened his hand, a silvery amulet lay in his palm. "Take this and set it where you want the Gate to open."
He was about to gesture, which Denoriel was sure would deposit him outside the door of the Academicia, but an idea had come to Denoriel and he raised a hand. If all Magus Gilfaethwy wanted was artifacts from the mortal world, he could afford to have an extra Gate or two.
"Ah, magus . . ." Denoriel said hastily. "I will bring you anything you want from the mortal world. Could you build two Gates, one inside the castle of Sheriff Hutton and one about a mile outside it? And another two some months from now in Pontefract castle?"
The mage pursed his lips. "Not everything I ask for will be as easy to obtain as the wool. And it must be real, and from the mortal world. Blood, for example. I need mortal blood that has never been Underhill and has never been touched by a magic spell."
Denoriel was just about to say he did not need the extra Gates when he remembered the ridiculous mortal practice of bleeding themselves. He could easily bribe a chirurgeon or a barber to save blood for him . . . but he would have to remember to go as someone besides Lord Denno. If people heard of Lord Denno of Hungary buying blood, they would think he wanted to drink the stuff and call him an evil spirit, or suspect him of sorcery. That was the last thing he needed!
"Very well. I can bring you blood, but you know it does not stay liquid very long."
"No trouble. I will give you a spell of stasis, that will keep it fresh."
Stasis. Denoriel suddenly remembered FitzRoy's guards standing like statues. Had they been breathing? He could not remember.
"Magus, I have another problem. The boy I must protect is a target of the Unseleighe Courts. They seek to abduct him. He has mortal guards, but they have already once been made helpless by magic. Do you know of a spell that can ward a mortal against magic, either mortal or Underhill magic?"
He was thinking how much safer Harry would be when he could not be with him if his guards could not be turned into statues or automata. Awake and aware, with their steel armor and steel swords, they could protect the boy against any Sidhe attack.
"There is still mortal magic?" Gilfaethwy asked, his eyes lighting. "I had thought that idiotic Christianity they stupidly embraced had destroyed both the magic and those able to use it. It was said, but that was even before I was born, that mortal spells were much stronger than Sidhe magic because the spell had to work on so much less power. Do any books from those ancient days survive?"
"That I do not know," Denoriel confessed, "but I can certainly find out."
"If such exist, get me a true grimoire and I will build as many Gates as you desire. Here—" He snapped his fingers again and opened his hand to show half a dozen silver medals. "As an earnest of my goodwill. These amulets will ward off most spells of compulsion."
Denoriel accepted them gleefully. "Gilfaethwy, my thanks! I had not expected such generosity!"
"It is not generosity," the mage said, bluntly. "I expect a full recompense. And if you are going to start on fulfilling your bargain, you had best get on your way."
It is not wise to anger a wizard, he reminded himself, and hastily did just that.