FitzRoy had some initial nervousness about sleeping alone in a room—he had never been without a nurse or, now, his valet Shandy Dunstan on a truckle bed by his side. Denoriel solved the problem by pointing out that there were many servants listening for his smallest wish, and proving it by telling Harry to ask for anything he wanted . . . within reason.
"What's not within reason?" the boy asked at once.
"Twenty naked dancing girls," Denoriel replied and then blushed. The bed brought only one thing to his mind.
FitzRoy blinked. "What would I want with twenty?"
Blushing harder, Denoriel said, "You're a naughty boy! What would you want with one?"
The boy tried to swagger; the effect was enough to make Denoriel suppress a grin. "Don't know, but I'd like to find out."
Denoriel laughed. "Not tonight. You're too sleepy. Take it from someone who does know. Being too tired takes the fun out of it. No. Ask for a glass of water or more cider or a sweet."
He then went out of the room. After a little while, he heard a giggle and, eyes wide, rushed back in. There was, to his relief, no dancing girl, but Harry did have a large glass of water and what looked like marchpane sweets in a golden dish on the table beside the bed. In addition, he was attired in a clean, white nightshirt and a small nightcap.
He sighed sleepily when Denoriel came in and said, "You're right, Lord Denno. Your servants are paying close attention to me. But it is passing strange to have my clothes taken off and a nightshirt put on when I can't see what's doing it."
"As long as it was done right," Denoriel said, coming to the bed. "I'm glad they didn't have any trouble with your cross." He eyed the pouch in which the cross was concealed, but the shield spell over the enshrouding silk seemed strong and solid. Then he bent down and kissed the boy on the forehead. "Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?"
There was no need to ask. Harry's eyes were already closed and his breathing deepening. Denoriel stood by the bed for a few moments longer, mentally commanded the servants not only to serve but to watch and protect, and left the apartment.
As he crossed the great corridor of Llachar Lle, he felt a Thought brush him—a Thought he knew could rip away all his protections, could seize and rend him soul and body if it desired—and his step hesitated. A moment later the touch was withdrawn. Denoriel breathed again and hurried out. Miralys was waiting, trembling, at the foot of the steps.
When they arrived this time, Denoriel did not even need to speak to whatever guarded the Academicia. Magus Major Gilfaethwy was waiting at a doorway and bellowed at him before he had even dismounted.
"You meddled with my Gates! How dare you! You asked for simple Gates that would take you from one place to another. You tried to cheat me by changing the patterns!"
With a considerable effort, Denoriel got control of his jaw, which had been hanging open in shock. He had no idea that Gilfaethwy could have known of the collapse of the Gate near Sheriff Hutton—or how he could have learned of it so soon.
"I did not meddle apurpose, magus, I swear to you," he said as soon as he was able. "I was fleeing an Unseleighe attack, and the child who was the intended victim of that attack was wearing a cold iron cross, which seems to have disrupted the Gate."
The mage scowled, and Denoriel wondered if he was about to find out what flies tasted like. "That, too, I felt Denoriel Siencyn Macreth Silverhair. But if you had not first meddled with the Gate, it would not have failed so catastrophically, and I would not have nearly been rendered witless and useless."
"I am so very sorry, magus, but I didn't do it!" Denoriel protested, dismounting and approaching the fuming mage. "I swear I didn't. I don't know how, and there wasn't any other place I wanted the Gate to go."
"Liar!" Gilfaethwy roared. "I sensed your aura caught in the patterning. Do you think me such a fool that I do not leave safeguards on my creations? You aren't the only half-baked, untaught, untalented half-wit to try to cheat me! I sensed your aura . . . and the foulness you had hidden beneath your so-young, so-innocent . . ."
The mage's voice faded and Denoriel felt an assessing touch sweep over him. Denoriel had done this and that of which his too-gentle sister disapproved, but he was sure he had never done anything that a fellow Sidhe would consider foul and he raised no shields, except those that already existed on his very inmost being.
Then his mind caught on the idea of an aura very like his but tainted with foulness. Pasgen. Pasgen had meddled with the Gate!
"It was not I," Denoriel insisted. "I have a halfbrother . . ."
"Eh?" He caught the mage quite off-guard with that.
He hurried on. "Surely the tale is known to you! I have an Unseleighe halfbrother . . . We are contending with one another over this child. It is not impossible that he tried to set the Gate so that if I escaped into it, I and the child would be transported to . . . likely to his domain or to his twin sister's."
The mage blinked. "Twin sister?"
"Yes. There are two sets of twins, myself and my sister, and Pasgen and his." The double births were so extraordinary—quite unheard of—he could not believe that the mage had never heard of them.
"Silverhair . . . twins. Aha. Now I remember, of course. Two sets of twins."
Gilfaethwy paused, stared hard at Denoriel, and snapped his fingers. When they had arrived in his overcrowded and even more disordered workroom, he nodded.
"Now I remember." He spoke absently, and Denoriel suspected, mostly to himself, for the words came slowly, as if he was pulling memories out of some corner of his mind that had not been looked into for a very long time. "Yes. Llanelli Ffridd Gwynneth Arian craved children to the point of madness, and had a great magic worked and caught in it your father—not that he knew what she had done because he went innocently from Llanelli to the bed of his current lady . . . ah, yes, your mother . . . and enough of the spell was bound into him that she, too, conceived. And also twins. And then the Unseleighe learned of you, and came to take you. You and your sister, we saved, though at cost. And one set was stolen away by our Unseleighe kin—and Llanelli followed her children into the halls of shadow."
Denoriel made a wordless sound of agreement.
"So you are innocent of playing with my Gates. And your half-brother is a magician of considerable ability." He paused, making chewing motions with his mouth as if he had an sour unripe fruit in it that he had to swallow. "He understands Gates. He made it a little unstable, but likely if the child had not been wearing the cold iron cross, the Gate would have placed you where he wanted you."
"That gives me no great joy, magus," Denoriel said.
Gilfaethwy shrugged.
"Can you take the Gates down and replace them with new Gates?" he asked, urgently.
The mage gave him a withering look. "To what purpose, you idiot? Do you think your brother is not aware of what happened? Do you think he would not repattern any Gate you used?"
"Even the ones in London and at Windsor?" Denoriel persisted. "Can you sense his meddling there also?"
"I cannot even sense the Gates at this distance. Those are Treowth's Gates. He uses a completely different system than I do. If you want those Gates tested, he must do it himself."
Denoriel sighed. He had been told that Treowth had moved to the Bazaar of the Bizarre. There were three great markets Underhill—Elves' Fair, Goblin Market, and the Bazaar of the Bizarre. Denoriel had never been to any of them. He was young enough, still, to enjoy his life filled with music and dancing and making love and the Wild Hunt for excitement and danger. He had not yet needed to seek for toys in the market—any of the markets, where it was said that making a bargain for what you wanted might cost your life or your soul or both.
Elves' Fair catered to those who were so weak in magic that they could not build their own servants. Constructs of every variety were available there, as well as bound monsters, bound elementals, and, very occasionally, mortal slaves. There were no guarantees given with that merchandise. Goblin Market sold mixed wares, toys, spells, devices—mortal, Sidhe, and from the other planes—as well as information, but it was said that you could take nothing away except what you already had and did not want. Bazaar of the Bizarre was what it said . . . except that what was bizarre to elves and the denizens of stranger realms was bizarre indeed.
The question was how to get there. Denoriel drew a deep breath and said, "I know that Magus Treowth is said to be in the Bazaar of the Bizarre. I paid you for Gates, but I do not have them and you say you cannot replace them. Your contract is not fulfilled Magus Gilfaethwy."
"I can replace them," Gilfaethwy snarled. "Out of my good heart, I have warned you—"
"That you cannot make me a Gate proof against my halfbrother's meddling," Denoriel snapped back. "Very well, I accept that. Instead, tell me how to get to the Bazaar of the Bizarre and how to find Magus Treowth when I am there."
Again Gilfaethwy seemed to chew on that sour mouthful, but then he shrugged his shoulders. "It is easy enough, only four Gates from Avalon."
"Four Gates?"
"Oberon is not inclined to favor the notion that the Seleighe Sidhe become enamored of 'foreign' toys or uncanny slaves. Thus, he does not make the path to the markets easy." He made a grimace. "The High King is right, too. The Sidhe get lazier and lazier. With a little thought and a little labor they could make anything they can buy at the markets."
"I am not going there for toys," Denoriel pointed out. "The child I am protecting must be returned to his own time and people. The good of the mortal realm of Logres as well as that of Elfhame Logres, and perhaps Elfhame Avalon, rests on him somehow. I must have a safe Gate."
The mage heaved a theatrical sigh. "Very well. Very well. The first Gate is from Avalon to the Hall of the Mountain King."
"The Gate from Avalon only takes me to Logres!" he protested
The mage gave him another withering glance. "You are an idiot! The Avalon Gate has six termini. Pick the one to the Mountain King's Hall."
"How?" Denoriel roared, his hand going to his sword.
A flash of light flew from Gilfaethwy's index finger. As swiftly Denoriel's shields were up and the light splashed harmlessly on them. Gilfaethwy's eyes opened wide.
"Not such an idiot after all," he said, grudgingly.
"Shields I know," Denoriel said. "My duty is to protect the child. Shields have been necessary."
Gilfaethwy sighed. "Very well. In every Gate there is a power point." He gestured and a small Gate appeared in the air between them. "Look for that." When Denoriel nodded, his brows went up, but he only said, "Feel within for the nodules— "
As Denoriel "reached" within the Gate, the mage waved a frantic hand at him. "Aieee! Do not touch them or think at them. There is only the Void on the other side and no Gate back."
"Sorry," Denoriel said, contritely.
Gilfaethwy paused, and gave him a measuring look. "You are very quick to learn. How is it that you are so disgustingly ignorant of magic?"
"Because I am just what you said, Magus Gilfaethwy . . . an idiot!" Denoriel replied feelingly and sincerely, full of disgust at his own ignorance and hubris. "I thought my skill with a sword could answer any trouble I might find and I refused to learn. Of course I was terribly wrong. I know it now."
"Hmmm." Gilfaethwy eyed him with speculation. "It is not too late."
"I know that, magus," he said earnestly. "And I have sworn that I will learn magic as soon as I have time. But right now what is most important is the safety of the child I guard and his return to his own time and place."
"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.
Lord Ffrancon pointed and two chairs appeared an ell back from and to the right of the dais. Denoriel put his arm around Harry's shoulders and led him to the chairs. Although many noble Sidhe still standing watched, the boy sat down in one without question; Denoriel put the mortal-made saddle on the floor and sat beside Harry. The High Sidhe lord stepped up on the dais and whispered in Oberon's ear. Oberon leaned over and spoke to Titania. She looked briefly at Harry, then at Denoriel, and then shook her head.
Denoriel had never been so glad of anything before in his life as he was that Harry was nothing special. He was a most ordinary looking boy, with sandy hair, pale, nondescript eyes, blunt features. Even his older, thinner face retained the look of sweetness he had had as a younger child, but there was nothing in that to attract a Sidhe's attention.
One would think that the High King and Queen would be primarily interested in the good of Underhill, Denoriel thought, and to a certain extent they were. However, too often their own pleasure—or their quarrels with each other—took precedence over the common good. Not forever, which was why they remained High King and Queen, but they were prone to indulge themselves. Of course, when they were finished with their amusements, they were powerful enough to bring everything back to where they had begun . . . Only sometimes the plaything had terrible—or wonderful—dreams and could never again find contentment.
A Thought—not as terrifying as the one Denoriel had felt earlier, but equally strong—brushed by Denoriel, and Harry's look of pleased wonder blanked. He still sat in his chair and still looked at the dais and its occupants, but his eyes were empty. Denoriel gasped and jumped up.
"I have done him no harm." The Queen's voice was rich and very sweet, pure music in the mind and heart. "It would be better if he did not remember what was said here."
"Which leads me to ask why you brought the child Underhill?" Oberon asked. "I sense that you love him far more than is sensible for a Sidhe to feel for a mortal. Do you plan to keep him?"
Denoriel remained standing and managed to meet Oberon's eyes. "No, Your Majesty, of course not. I brought him here to save him from an Unseleighe Hunt. You are, I am sure, aware of the FarSeeing that concerned the red-haired child."
"Yes. Is he the red-haired child?"
"No, Your Majesty, but he is essential to the preservation of that child. My sister, Aleneil, a FarSeer, has Seen that much, but no more. She charged me to watch over Harry."
"Has he needed watching over? And never mind the 'Majesty.' Oberon or Lord Oberon will do."
"Yes, Lord Oberon. He has needed watching over." Denoriel's lips thinned, and at a gesture of invitation he told the whole story of his guardianship of FitzRoy. He began with his defeat of the two swordsmen who had attempted to drown the boy, described Rhoslyn's attempt to replace him with a changeling, mentioned Pasgen's and Rhoslyn's attacks on the cortege traveling to Sheriff Hutton.
Oberon stopped him there and asked for a better description of the mouse-sized goblins and a confirmation of his estimate of their numbers. There were sounds of indignation from the crowd of attending Sidhe. A raised finger silenced them but Oberon's eyes were blacker than ever and bleak.
"They nearly had him this last time," Denoriel went on. "It has been so long in mortal years since the last attempt that I almost did not accompany the party. The Council have been traveling back and forth without attack since they settled in the north and it is no great distance, but I—oh, it was an excuse to see Harry so I did go. This time the Unseleighe used man-sized monsters to scatter the party—"
"The same pair? Your half-brother and -sister? To whose domain do they belong?" Oberon already knew, of that, Denoriel would have been willing to stake his life—but he wanted his court to know, too.
"Yes, Lord Oberon, the same pair. Vidal Dhu rules the domain but they have some power there. I am not sure how much, but enough this time to call out the Unseleighe Hunt. They knew they could not touch him, you see. He wears a cold iron cross, pure cold iron, not steel—"
"Here?" Oberon bellowed, leaning forward, hand raised.
Denoriel stepped in front of FitzRoy. "My lord! It is safely warded in silk and spells."
"I thought there was something uncanny about the child," Titania said. "It does not trouble you, Denoriel?"
"Without the spells, it does, Your Majesty." He shrugged. "My bones ache, but I can bear it. I am somewhat resistant to cold iron."
"Silverhair—his father—was, too," Oberon remarked to his wife and then looked back at Denoriel. "And his uncle has the same gift—if gift it is. Go on—and sit down. I won't hurt the boy. So, if your half-brother and -sister couldn't touch him how did they plan to seize him?"
Denoriel shrugged. "I am not in their confidence, my lord, but believe the plan was for the Hunt to drive him into a Gate. My half-brother is quite skilled in Gates. I suppose they thought once they had him Underhill that they would be able to get him to take off the cross." Denoriel smiled grimly. "I doubt they would have succeeded; Harry is a most determined child." Then he shivered. "But they might have killed him with their attempts."
Now Titania leaned forward, examining Denoriel speculatively. "Did you fight off the whole Hunt?"
Denoriel felt like a bird confronted by a particularly beautiful and especially venomous snake. To waken Titania's interest in him as a male—it was not unknown for her to favor the odd elf who seemed heroic—would be a disaster. Though Oberon was more often amused by her escapades than jealous, Titania's favors could leave a drained wreck behind.
If Denoriel could have backed away, he would have. Held motionless by the chair, he managed to say, "No, Your Majesty. I am no hero. I snatched Harry off his horse onto Miralys and ran like a frightened rabbit to my own Gate—only Pasgen had meddled with it—"
"How do you know that?" Oberon snapped.
Denoriel then explained in detail his interview with Gilfaethwy and the magus's conclusion that Denoriel must find Magus Treowth to get Harry back home. When he stopped speaking, the High King nodded and leaned back in his chair.
For quite a long time Oberon said no more, his eyes going from FitzRoy to Denoriel. Denoriel would have been frightened out of his wits, if he had not noticed an occasional twitch of the High King's lips. The crowd of Sidhe behind him was sympathetic too; he heard a number of hisses when he spoke of Pasgen and a muted cheer when he described his unheroic foiling of the Unseleighe Hunt. Denoriel tried not to show his relief at that sign of support. Oberon ruled his people, but he was not above noting their feelings.
Finally Oberon said, "We must discount the attack by the human mage, but that still leaves three attempts to get control of . . . who is he, Denoriel? Who, precisely, is this child who is so crucial to our future?"
"His name is Henry FitzRoy, and he is Earl of Nottingham, Duke of Somerset, and Duke of Richmond. He is the first duke in England, having precedence over all other nobility except those of the king's own blood, and he is of the king's blood, being King Henry's natural son."
"Natural? Of course he is natural. Unless . . ." Oberon looked eagerly interested. "Have mortals learned to create unnatural children that are real and survive?"
Denoriel shook his head. "Not that, my lord. These humans marry, as do we, but it is forbidden to them to couple outside of that bond—"
Oberon and Titania both laughed raucously.
"No doubt a rule more honored in the breach than in the keeping." Titania giggled.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Denoriel smiled. "Very much so, and flagrantly in the case of their king, whom his subjects call familiarly 'Great Harry.' But any child born outside of such a union is counted somehow lesser and punished by not being in the succession for goods or lands. I must admit I do not understand why the child is punished for its parents' sins, unless perhaps it is to make the parent sorry. Such children are called 'natural.' "
Oberon shook his head. "Clever as they are, what fools those mortals be! As if one's birth is of any moment." He laughed. "Vidal Dhu was as high a blood line as Lord Ffrancon here, and your half-brother and -sister even share your blood. Their tastes, their way of gathering power, that is what divides Seleighe from Unseleighe Sidhe."
"It is not all Pasgen and Rhoslyn's fault, Lord Oberon." Although he had no love for them, Denoriel felt bound to offer some defense. "My half-brother and -sister were raised Unseleighe. They were taken as infants to the Unseleighe Court. My father died trying to rescue them."
"I remember," Oberon said. "Impatient and passionate, Silverhair was. Yes."
"A noble fool. If he had waited . . ." Titania shrugged and sighed.
"Which Vidal Dhu is not, although he is equally impatient. He has once again allowed his greed for power to push him too far. He should never have meddled with this child, who is too important, too close to the real power in Logres. Still, I did not interfere. He has had a fair chance to catch the child. Three times they have attempted to seize him and three times they failed. That is enough."
"That is more than enough!" A delicate flush dyed Titania's cheeks and her eyes were almost too bright to meet.
Oberon glanced at her and shook his head. "I am High King of all the Sidhe. Except for very special circumstances, I will not stretch out my hand to favor the Seleighe over the Unseleighe Court, but failure that brings Underhill close to exposure must be punished."
"It must indeed," Titania snapped. "You expend too much effort to cozen the Unseleighe. A good lesson is what they need."
"Gentle lady," Oberon's irony was palpable, "I am not ready to go to war over who rules a mortal kingdom."
Titania lowered lids over her gleaming eyes. "Who spoke of war? However, if you do not deal with Vidal Dhu, I will. Even though I can use it, I do not like the foul taste of the power that drains from mortals in misery. I favor the coming of the red-haired babe, and any who will see it to the throne."
Oberon did not answer her directly. Denoriel wondered if sometimes the dark High King liked a flavoring of agony in his power source. He buried the thought deeply as Oberon rose from his throne and stepped down from the dais.
"We do not need to go to war over one child. However, Vidal Dhu has gone too far." Oberon's lips tightened. "There must be other ways to further his cause. Your Harry FitzRoy is too high on the mortal ladder of importance to meddle with so openly. The use of goblins and monsters in daylight when there were so many to see, was a violation of the pact of secrecy. There are too many mortals who will now cry of uncanny forces. I think I must put FitzRoy beyond Vidal Dhu's reach."
The High King had stopped before Harry's chair. Now he leaned forward and pressed his thumb into the center of the boy's forehead. It seemed to Denoriel that the finger sank deep into the flesh and right through the bone of the skull; he leapt to his feet again, drawing a frightened breath, but stood frozen. And when Oberon withdrew his hand the skin was unblemished . . . except that a brilliant blue six-pointed star blazed on Harry's forehead.
Oberon stepped back and Denoriel could move again, but the High King did not look at him. He turned and resumed his throne, saying to Titania, "He is protected now from any Sidhe and likely from most of the lower planar creatures. Vidal Dhu cannot touch him. That is as much as I am willing to do." Then he faced forward again and gestured at Denoriel. "You, like your father, are a fool. In the mortal world, he will grow old and die and break your heart."
And all that Denoriel could do was to bow his head, for in his heart, he knew that his king was right.
But it was, of course, nothing that he could, or would, do anything about.