When the light began to fail, FitzRoy read to Elizabeth while she had her bread and milk, then kissed her good night and withdrew to his chamber. How he had managed to keep a calm and cheerful face for her, he did not know, for his insides were all a-roil with tension. From a crack in the door, Gerrit watched the corridor. Once the false manservant came along it and scratched on the door of Elizabeth's outer chamber.
They all tensed.
Gerrit drew his sword and prepared to fling open the door and leap into the corridor. Behind him the soft slither of more swords being drawn surely gave him confidence. However, Jack Chandler did not enter the room; he merely called to Blanche for the tray. The supper tray was handed out, and he went back down the corridor to the stairs.
Soon after Chandler came up again carrying small lit torchettes, which he set into holders in the corridor. He glanced toward the door of FitzRoy's chamber, where Harry himself was watching, but Gerrit had left barely a crack, not visible to Chandler, and the man went downstairs again. Then, FitzRoy left his room as quietly as possible and went to Elizabeth's apartment where he scratched softly and was admitted.
Now it was his turn to guard the door.
After him, more carefully, more silently, one by one the others followed. As they approached the door, it opened and FitzRoy himself, sword in hand, let them in. Last of all came Denoriel and his sister. By now the tension among them practically made the air hum.
In low tones they discussed the best disposition of their limited force. Aleneil wanted to lock the door to Elizabeth's inner chamber and meet their opponents where they were, but FitzRoy pointed out that there was no lock on the door of the inner chamber. Moreover, there were windows in the room through which the Sidhe and their unsavory creatures could come and also there was a side-entrance that went to a dressing chamber, which opened onto an inner, servants' corridor.
Without more ado, they locked the door to the main corridor, left Gerrit and Nyle on guard, and withdrew to the night nursery. Locking the outer door was more to provide a warning than any expectation of defense. The steward had a key, of course, and if the night guard was now one of the Unseleighe, that key would doubtless be in his hand. So, if the key turned in the lock, an enemy was on the way.
And they waited, the sour taste of fear in their mouths, as the palace quieted and servants went to bed.
Even so, when, some hours later, the door opened and Nyle and Gerrit saw old, familiar faces—the footman who had served the princess for years and the night guard, also an old servant—and Gerrit hesitated . . .
For seeing people he knew, he could not simply thrust forward with the sword in his hand.
He was lucky he had drawn it when the lock turned, however, because the guard did not hesitate. He lunged, driving Gerrit back and away from the door, attacking in utter silence.
Jack Chandler rushed through the space provided toward the door to the inner chamber. "Chandler, you dog! Stop!" Nyle shouted, and followed at the run, but he was a few steps behind and Chandler wrenched open the door and dashed toward Elizabeth's small, curtained bed.
Nyle, slightly longer-legged, caught up, but he, too, hesitated, because Chandler did not have a weapon in hand. Thus, he did not thrust through Chandler's back and kill him; instead he slapped him hard with the flat of his sword.
Screeching an unintelligible curse, Chandler drew his sword and swung around, flailing at Nyle.
At that moment, they all made the fatal mistake of being distracted, and the rest of Vidal Dhu's party rushed unimpeded into the room.
FitzRoy howled a warning. Vidal, almost contemptuously, cast a shower of small knives at Denoriel, who had dropped the bedcurtain and turned to face him from the foot of Elizabeth's bed. Sword in one hand, strange silvery object in the other, FitzRoy stood at the left near the head of the bed.
Seeing that "toy," Pasgen hesitated and found himself pushed sideways to the right by the two Sidhe behind him. One simply glanced contemptuously at Pasgen and ducked away from him around the foot of the bed. His sword was still in its sheath, and he carried a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. The second Sidhe loped past Vidal, who had watched in some astonishment as the knives, which should have sliced Denoriel into a quivering lump of screaming flesh, had simply disintegrated.
"Damn you!" Vidal prepared another vicious spell, making preparatory gestures only to see Denoriel draw his sword and advance on him. Vidal laughed, and FitzRoy trembled; the closer Denoriel was, the more easily he would be made into a target.
But it was too late to do anything—that strange Sidhe had just discovered him. He drew his sword.
Aurilia had slipped into the room after Pasgen. Aleneil started forward to intercept her from where she had waited, half watching the door to the dressing room in case there was a double attack, but Aurilia was too quick. She sidled around Chandler and Nyle, who were slashing and hacking at each other, her gaze fixed on Elizabeth's bed opposite to where FitzRoy had engaged a very surprised Sidhe and was fighting him to a standstill.
Aleneil stepped away from the wall to follow Aurilia only to be confronted by Rhoslyn, who threatened her with, of all things, a sword. Thoroughly infuriated, Aleneil hissed out the strongest defensive spell she knew and pointed at Rhoslyn's sword. That promptly began to glow, bright red . . . orange . . . yellow . . . white. Rhoslyn shrieked a curse and dropped the weapon. She did not reach for the knife in her belt, probably knowing that any weapon she touched now would turn on her. Instead she leapt at Aleneil, nails growing into talons on hands crooked into claws.
Aurilia had paid no attention to the fighting, cursing men around her. She went directly to Elizabeth's bed and pulled aside the curtain. She saw the cross on Elizabeth's breast but felt only a slight discomfort. Brows drawn into a puzzled frown, she reached toward the child, only to have her hand stop. She pushed, but the shield under her hand resisted as firmly as a pane of glass—only breaking it would take a lot more effort.
Aurilia's lips folded tightly together and she extended her senses toward the shield that protected Elizabeth. She would have to find its key and open it before they could seize the child. Completely concentrated on the shield, she was not aware of a movement in the shadow of the dressing room door. A moment later she was not aware of anything at all, as a large, heavy candelabrum crashed down on her head.
Blanche Parry smiled triumphantly and quickly bent to pull Aurilia back into the dressing room. She glanced around, but saw with trepidation that there was little more she could do to help the others. She would have no protection against the increasingly virulent magics that the black-haired Sidhe was using against Lord Denno and no spell she knew would touch that Sidhe, she was sure. His Grace of Richmond was more than holding his own; the Sidhe fighting him was bleeding from several wounds. The blond Sidhe, who looked so much like Lord Denno, seemed to be no threat to anyone. He was staring at the wall beyond where the two Sidhe women were grappling like a couple of angry fishwives.
There were too many combating pairs for Blanche to do anything to help, but she would go to help the female who was Denno's and FitzRoy's friend when—or if—she could. For now, she had something else more important to do. She was going to remove one threat, at least, from her darling Elizabeth for a long time, if not for good. This Sidhe she had rendered senseless, had great power, almost as much as the black-haired Sidhe fighting Lord Denno. Well, soon her power would be useless.
Blanche sank to the floor and removed from around her neck a black chain from which ten little iron crosses dangled. Smiling grimly, she sat squarely on the Sidhe's chest, holding her down, lifted her head, and wrapped the necklace tightly around her forehead. Even unconscious, Aurilia began to moan and struggle. Blanche held her fast. On Aurilia's forehead ten crosses began to redden and blister. Blanche began sing very softly, a spell that soothed the mind by wiping from it all complex and unsettling thoughts. But it was not a spell that could be hurried.
On the wall Pasgen had been staring at appeared a black spot, at the same time utterly dark and dazzlingly brilliant. Pasgen looked toward his sister, who had screamed with rage and frustration as Aleneil's skin turned dull silver and Rhoslyn's claws broke against it. The spot on the wall hesitated, began to shrink. Pasgen drew his mind from the battles around him and concentrated. The spot began to enlarge into a dead-black oval, but if one looked hard with witch-sight, one could make out the glints of red and gold of Vidal's throne room far, far back.
With one last word, Pasgen fixed the Gate he had built to carry Elizabeth away to hold until he terminated it. It would draw power from him, he knew, which would limit the magic he could do, but it would not limit his physical acts. Pasgen turned back to aid his sister, but hesitated, unsure of how to intervene. Rhoslyn was attempting to gouge out Aleneil's eyes while Aleneil had her hands wound in Rhoslyn's hair and was threatening to pull off Rhoslyn's scalp.
Dunstan and Ladbroke had been waiting in the darkened dressing room watching the door to the servants' corridor. When they heard the sound of fighting, they were torn between the need to watch for a secondary attack and the more immediate need to join the battle. It only took a few moments to decide because the door to the dressing room had an iron bolt. Dunstan checked to make sure it was shot firmly home, and both men rushed toward the fighting.
They barely saved themselves from tripping over Blanche, warned by her soft singing. Both shivered and parted right and left around the writhing, whimpering body and the shut-eyed smiling nursemaid. They emerged just in time to see a blond Sidhe who looked very much like Denoriel reach out to seize Lady Aleneil, who had grown a strange silver skin and was wrestling on the floor with another female Sidhe.
Two men burst into the room and Pasgen whirled to face them, backing away to cast a sleep spell, which had no effect, and then one of paralysis, which rolled off their shields. Uttering a string of obscenities, he drew his sword and blocked their thrusts, but he knew he could not hold both men off for long. He was probably a better swordsman than either, but together they were too much for him. He continued to back away toward the closest concentration of Dark Court fighters.
Denoriel was still fighting sword-to-sword with Vidal Dhu. The Unseleighe lord's face was sickly pallid with two crimson spots high on his cheekbones. His eyes were almost as red; his mouth was distorted by fury. He had his sword in hand, but had obviously been mostly unsuccessful in blocking Denoriel's cuts and thrusts because he was bleeding freely from a number of small wounds.
Those were less owing to bad swordsmanship than to a lack of concentration. Most of Vidal's attention was on throwing spells at Denoriel. Little shining knives, ribbons of light, threads of poisonous worms, balls of light that burst over Denoriel's head and ran down over his shields. Those shields were not what they were at the beginning of this fight, because Vidal's spells were not totally ineffectual. Each new assault wore away at Denoriel's protection and he had to renew it. And he began to wonder, at the back of his mind, which of them would run out of power first.
FitzRoy had managed to drive the Sidhe who had attacked him down the full length of Elizabeth's bed. He cursed in a fluid sing-song under his breath because the elf was just good enough that FitzRoy was unable to finish him off. He could have shot him, of course; the iron-bolt-throwing gun was in his hand, but he could not stop hearing the screams of that other Sidhe he had shot and he could not make himself pull the trigger.
There was a shriek of pain from the outer chamber. No one except Nyle cared. Nyle heard, but he could not finish off Chandler and go to help his friend. Chandler was far more powerful than he looked and a much better swordsman than any manservant should be. Nyle's moment of inattention was costly. Chandler beat his sword aside and thrust. Nyle twisted away, but the blade slid along his ribs and he cried out in pain.
"Coming!"
That was Gerrit's voice. Nyle could feel blood running down his side and he called again. Gerrit's blade beat aside Chandler's return stroke. Nyle slipped under his guard. Gerrit ran him through. They both stood for a moment, panting, and then guiltily looked for their master. He was still fighting gamely, although he was now dripping sweat. Both men looked for the quickest way to him.
Just beyond them a black-haired devil was holding a sword in one hand and making throwing motions with the other. Things seemed to crawl over Lord Denno and then drop to the ground or disappear. Lord Denno had his sword out; he had wounded the other man. Beyond him someone who looked a lot like Lord Denno was fighting with Ladbroke and Dunstan.
Nyle and Gerrit consulted each other with a quick glance. They would never get through that way. Both looked toward the other side of the room and, simultaneously let out roars of rage. Another one of those blond demons was sneaking toward their master's back. He had a bundle in one arm, but the other hand held a bared sword and there could be no doubt that he intended to stab His Grace in the back.
Ten strides took them across to him, still shouting, and he whirled to face them, parrying the blows launched at him not only with his sword but with the thick bundle in his left arm. Nyle's sword slid along his opponent's and the tip touched him. He shrieked with pain, which startled Nyle so much—because he hadn't actually wounded the man, only touched him—that he jerked back.
Gerrit stepped smoothly in front of him, thrusting. Again the bundle was thrust into the sword's path; it stuck, and while Gerrit struggled to pull it free, Nyle attempted to stab his opponent over that awkward shield. He thrust so hard that his sword went right through and nicked the body behind. The long-eared creature squalled with pain, dropped the bundle, and began to shout the same unintelligible phrase over and over while slashing so furiously with his sword that neither Nyle nor Gerrit could close on him.
That Sidhe had been infused with great power, which he was supposed to feed to the changeling just before he placed it in Elizabeth's bed. But the changeling was dead now, stabbed many times by steel swords. Doubtless he would be punished for that, but the pain of the scratches he had already received was so great that his master's punishment faded in comparison to his fear of being wounded by steel. He took the power he had been given and wrapped a spell of sleeping in it and cast it at the men who fought him.
Nyle hesitated and shook his head. His eyes closed; he fought them open, and they drifted closed again. He fought it because he saw Gerrit wavering on his feet. He tried to raise his sword, lest the person they were fighting take advantage of this overpowering lassitude and skewer them. Since he knew that in another moment he would not be able to use the sword, he gripped it near the hilt by the blade and threw it. He never knew whether or not he had hit his target, only that it squalled again, as the lassitude overcame him and he dropped to the floor.
FitzRoy had been unaware of the Sidhe who intended to take him from the back until he heard his men call a warning. He turned then, so he could watch better while still keeping most of his attention on the Sidhe he was fighting. It was not a good plan, and he would have been dead in a few minutes, except that the Sidhe had seen something that distracted him as much. Vidal Dhu was down on his knees and over him, with one hand extended, stood a figure that glowed and crackled with white lightning.
Hastily the Sidhe disengaged and leapt back, actually dropping his sword as he pulled his small bow out of the spell-protected sheath in which he carried it. From a pocket in the sheath, he pulled a shaft. He nocked the short arrow with an evilly gleaming head and drew the bow. FitzRoy saw that the elf-shot was aimed directly at Denoriel. He leapt forward, shouting, and slammed his sword across the Sidhe's arm. The bolt flew wide.
Pasgen heard FitzRoy's shout of warning and turned his head. His eyes went wide as he saw the bow swing in his direction. He flung himself sideways, screamed as Dunstan's steel sword nicked his forearm, but it was not the pain of the iron touching him that wrenched the cry from him. To his horror he realized that the elf-shot had passed between the two mortals attacking him and struck his right shoulder, and the pain that screamed through him was unbearable.
Rhoslyn heard Pasgen scream. She launched a terrific blow at Aleneil and then thrust her away with all the strength she had. Aleneil, unable to avoid the blow completely, was rocked off balance and staggered back, raising her arms to guard herself and launch a blow of her own, but Rhoslyn's attack had ended. She rushed to Pasgen and fell on her knees beside him.
FitzRoy's cry had another, more disastrous, effect. His voice drew Denoriel's attention. The bolt of white lightning, that Denoriel had been about to loose on Vidal hung suspended for just a breath, but in that breath Vidal had lunged to his feet and muttered a spell. Poison now glistened along the blade of his sword, and that blade was only a few fingers'-breadth from Denoriel's throat.
Because he was watching to be sure that the elf-shot had not hit his Denno, FitzRoy saw the new danger. Without a regret, the silvery gun rose. The iron bolt hit Vidal Dhu with such force that it flung him backward. He began to shriek, his voice warbling with agony, but his head struck the floor forcefully, mercifully stunning him into silence.
The strange Sidhe with the crossbow cried out and, unthinking in his fury, nocked another elf-shot, turning the bow on FitzRoy. FitzRoy flung back his head to clear the hair from his eyes. To the Sidhe's vision, the blue star suddenly visible on his forehead gleamed, almost pulsing with energy against the threat of elf-shot. Simultaneously, FitzRoy raised his gun. The Sidhe cried, "No!" and tried to fling away his bow, but the bowstring snapped forward, the nocked shaft flew the short distance between the Sidhe and FitzRoy and the bolt struck FitzRoy full in the chest.
There was no force behind the bolt, it did not penetrate even past FitzRoy's clothing, but elf-shot was deadly stuff, and needed only to touch a mortal to harm.
The bolt fell to the ground. FitzRoy coughed once, wetly, tried to draw a deep breath, and could not. The air rattled in his throat, but the gun was steady, trained on the Sidhe before him.
"No, please!" the Sidhe cried, raising empty hands.
The room was almost quiet. Keeping the gun leveled at the Sidhe, FitzRoy looked around. There was nothing to fight for any more. The mortal who was supposed to remove Elizabeth's cross was dead. The Sidhe who had been fighting Nyle and Gerrit huddled on the floor, moaning with the pain of steel-poisoned wounds. Rhoslyn had lost all interest in Elizabeth; she knelt by her brother, trying to block both the poison of the steel-inflicted wound and the elf-shot. Blood gleamed wetly on Vidal Dhu's black doublet; he was unconscious but still breathing.
FitzRoy saw movement by the door to the dressing room. He stepped back so he could cover both the Sidhe and that doorway, but it was Blanche Parry, dragging Aurilia by the feet. He looked at the Sidhe.
"I can kill you all," he said, lifting the gun, fighting the strange tightness and pain in his chest, "and remove your ears so there will be no hint you are not mortal. Then my men will bury you, and you will be no embarrassment. Or, you can remove the living—and go—"
Rhoslyn had turned her head to listen and rose to her feet. "Quick. Help me with Pasgen and I will help you with the others. We can use the Gate Pasgen built, but hurry. I don't know how long it will last with him unconscious."
The Sidhe cast a nervous glance at FitzRoy, but he nodded and gestured with the gun. Pasgen was quickly moved through the Gate, then Rhoslyn and the Sidhe carried Vidal Dhu through it. The Sidhe moaning over his steel-poisoned wounds was dragged to his feet by his unsympathetic companion and shoved through the gate. Rhoslyn returned, stood beside the sole unwounded Sidhe, and looked to see if there were any more survivors.
"Here," Blanche called, "don't forget this one," shoving the limp, softly moaning Aurilia in his direction. "Nor this." Her face hardened as she picked up the still-covered bundle and thrust it at Rhoslyn. "Remember," she added, as Rhoslyn took the blanket-wrapped changeling, dead before it had ever been awakened to life, not ungently into her arms. "I can smell them at twenty feet, and there's always this." She lifted the black iron necklace with its dangling crosses. Rhoslyn shrank back. "Look at that other one when she wakes up, if she wakes up, and decide whether it's worth it to try again."
"To me she is not," Rhoslyn snarled. "But I do not rule."
Rhoslyn turned on the words and ran through the Gate, following the Sidhe with Aurilia. Blanche's eyes following her, widened as she saw the empty blackness. She wrenched one of the crosses from her necklace and threw it into the void. A moment later there was a violent flash. Plaster rained down from the wall and a blackened area of lathe showed behind it.
Blanche bit her lip. That those who wished ill to her princess could come through solid walls had not before occurred to her. The cross had solved the problem. She would need to have more made, larger and heavier, since she would not need to wear them, and she would need to put some kind of warning spell, possibly a warding spell too, on the wall. But it was no immediate problem. The demons would need time to lick their wounds. And meanwhile . . . Blanche went to kneel between Nyle and Gerrit and began to whisper the spell to wake them.
Denoriel was dying. He knew it. He was only dimly aware of Aleneil kneeling beside him, her hands on his chest, holding back the worst of the agony of burned-out channels of power. His whole body burned. He had been full when he confronted Vidal Dhu and his shields had been layer upon layer, the strongest he could build. But Vidal was strong, stronger than he thought—having assumed wrongly that the dark magics were weaker than the bright—and his shields had melted away under the repeated assaults.
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.
It was very, very strange to see yourself sitting in a chair while you were standing elsewhere, FitzRoy thought, but even the amazement he felt began to slip away from him. The strength that the woman's touch had given him was ebbing swiftly and sun or no sun it was chilly to be standing naked in the garden.
FitzRoy wavered on his feet and looked around for someone or something to hold on to. He did not need to look far. Dunstan was on one side of him and Ladbroke on the other. They had peculiar expressions, broad smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes as they lifted him up onto Lady Aeron's back.
His feet feebly sought stirrups. He knew it was insane for a man in his condition to try to ride a horse, but to be on Lady Aeron's back again was like a foretaste of heaven. He was perfectly willing to die trying to ride her. Besides, something warm and soft was around him, and he hardly felt it when Lady Aeron leapt straight upward into seeming nothingness. Gate, he thought, as he felt the strange shivering chill, but there was no Gate at St. James's palace. . . .
And then he remembered that Denno had once told him that the elvensteeds didn't need a Gate. And it must be true because Lady Aeron was down without a jar on a lawn like velvet approaching a house that seemed to flower from the land around it, and by the door . . .
"Denno," FitzRoy gasped, beginning to weep. "Denno. I thought you were dead. They told me you were healing but I didn't believe them. I couldn't believe you wouldn't come to me when I was dying."
Lady Aeron had stopped and Denoriel ran forward to reach up so that FitzRoy fell off into his arms.
"Harry," Denoriel breathed, trying weakly to hold his dearest friend up.
Then the invisible arms of a healer's servants, always alert for those needing help, caught at FitzRoy, and Denoriel had only to walk beside him, staggering slightly. Inside the house, FitzRoy was laid in a bed and a silken coverlet floated over him.
"I'm nearly well, Harry," Denoriel said, grinning like a fool with joy, "but don't tell Mwynwen that I came out to meet you or she'll burn off my ears. She told me not to."
FitzRoy touched his face. "I'm so glad to be with you Denno, so glad. And to have seen Lady Aeron again. I don't mind dying now."
"You won't die, Harry," Denoriel said, laughing softly. "Mwynwen said you wouldn't, and no one dares die when she says they'll get well. You'll be hunting on Lady Aeron's back before there's snow in the mortal world."
And so it was.
But, on the twenty-second of July, in the Palace of St. James a changeling, who had lived his life as Richey, peacefully died as Henry FitzRoy, earl of Nottingham, duke of Somerset, and duke of Richmond. FitzRoy's father was not there—King Henry was on progress, showing his new wife, Jane Seymour to the country. However Richey, who had never known the king as his father, did not care. Nothing hurt; power did not force its burning way in to galvanize his aching body; his "mother's" terrible grief no longer tore at his heart.
Nonetheless he was never alone and was tenderly cared for by three of FitzRoy's faithful servants—Mistress Bethany, Shandy Dunstan, and Kip Ladbroke. The men showed no horror over his disintegrating body—the woman never saw it, for she had been bespelled to see only her duke's wasting form. All talked gently to him when he was not too tired to listen. That morning a priest came; Richey pretended to listen because that was what Denno's Harry would have done, but he wept when the priest was gone because he had lived all his life in "heaven" and had no desire to return, only to be at peace. Afterward, in the outer chamber four silent guardsmen kept the young man they believed to be Henry FitzRoy safe from further intrusion—until nothing could intrude on him ever again.
"You know you'll never be able to go back, Harry," Denoriel said, and glanced uneasily at his companion.
They were sitting in the back garden of Mwynwen's house with Lady Aeron and Miralys grazing in the near distance. News had come the previous day about Richey's death and his strange funeral. They had heard that the duke of Norfolk, placed in charge of the funeral arrangements, had been ordered to wrap the body in lead and have it hidden in a farmer's wagon. It had been carried in secret to Thetford and buried quietly in the Cluniac priory there.
They had not spoken about the consequences of Richey's death then, but had concentrated on trying to console Mwynwen. She had wept bitterly for a while, knowing the reason for the lead wrapping and the secrecy, but when the worst of her grief and horror had passed, she had taken FitzRoy's hand in hers and kissed his cheek and called him Richey's gift.
Denoriel had breathed a sigh of relief. He had been much afraid that when Richey died she would begin to resent Harry and not put forth her greatest effort to save him—and then he had been ashamed of himself. Mwynwen had loved Richey, but she was a dedicated healer.
In the week between Harry's arrival and Richey's death Mwynwen had struggled constantly to draw the poison of the elf-shot from FitzRoy's body. Fortunately what FitzRoy had absorbed was only an exhalation loosed by the mild pressure of the blow of the bolt. Had the elf-shot really touched him, she could not have saved him.
Even so, he would need to live with her so she could continue to draw out the poison as it slowly leached from his flesh and bone. At least he no longer coughed and he could breathe easily. He was still skeletally thin, but that would soon be amended by the meals Mwynwen's servants stuffed down his throat at frequent intervals.
"Yes, I know," FitzRoy said in answer to Denoriel's warning that his own world was closed to him forever. "You know I always wanted to live Underhill. Why should I repine when I've got my wish?"
"It's very dull Underhill," Denoriel warned.
Harry glanced over his shoulder at the house where Mwynwen was seeing another patient and then looked across the garden at Lady Aeron. "Not to me," he said. "Besides, I've had enough excitement to last me for a good long while." Then he said sadly. "I'll miss Elizabeth and she'll miss me, but I would soon have become a danger to her—the first duke in the realm and the king's bastard to boot, how long do you think I would have been permitted free access to the princess who had been declared a bastard?"
Denoriel frowned. "I suppose that's true. In any case, you need not worry about her safety. Vidal Dhu is still hanging between life and death and Aurilia has not the sense of an infant. Both may recover, but it will be a long time, much longer than my full restoration. Aleneil will soon be established as a maid of honor to Elizabeth and Blanche has an air spirit to serve as messenger when Aleneil is not on duty."
FitzRoy was silent for a moment, but then suddenly he grinned broadly. "I will lay odds that Elizabeth will be a lot more trouble than I ever was."
Denoriel groaned softly, but he was grinning too. "Do not remind me, Harry. I cannot stop thinking of the color of her hair . . . and that scowl . . . My heart nearly fails me."
FitzRoy laughed, and the healer's garden was filled with the sound of unfettered joy. "She's more than a match for any mortal ever born, Denno, and that includes my father, I wager! No matter what he says, there will never be any doubt in anyone's mind that she's Great Harry's child. Not to him, and not to anyone else in or out of England."
"Nor Underhill, either," Denoriel sighed. "I fear it's myself that will be needing protection from her, and not her enemies, before she's much older."
"Believe it, my friend," FitzRoy said, grinning. "Oh, truly believe it!"