This Scepter'd Isle (15 page)

As he saw it, so it appeared on his hand a little while later. He noticed as he called in and wove power and air and mist from the Unformed places together with atoms of earth from the lawn that he could feel the channels throughout his body as if they were a little bruised. They were not painful now; the power Underhill seemed to soothe away the too-hot lightning power he had drawn into him in the mortal world, but he was aware of them, aware of other things in his body. When he had time, he must speak to a Magus Major . . . 

He held out the pouch to Aleneil and she touched it with one finger, then cocked her head to one side. "Is that suitable to a child?" she asked. "That solid black?"

Denoriel sighed at his oversight and fixed his eyes on the silk. Silver and gold threads began to crawl over the surface; then the interstices filled with color. When the pattern was complete, they both smiled. Denoriel had imitated an image he had seen frequently, a sweet-faced woman in a blue mantle with one hand raised in blessing.

"Yes, that's just the kind of thing that would be given to a child," Aleneil said, and began to build a spell, gesturing for Denoriel to follow the creation in her mind.

When she was done, he repeated the process, layering one shield over the other. Then he drew a deep breath and opened the shielded box to lift out the silk-swathed cross. Aleneil rose and withdrew. Denoriel set his teeth and began to unwrap his prize. His teeth were gritted and sweat beaded his forehead by the time he was able to lift the cross by its ribbon and slide it into the prepared pouch.

The violent sickness that had made him think he was going to lose the dinner he couldn't remember was instantly gone. The feeling of malaise, the subtle ache in his bones . . . all gone. Denoriel took a deep breath and called for his sister, who peeked warily around the doorway, then smiled and came in.

"I see we were successful," she said.

He nodded. "I just hope we weren't too successful. You see how I made the pouch so the cross can hang inside it or outside. I was afraid if I just gave the pouch loose to the boy he would lose it. He's only six, after all. Now I am concerned that he will forget to take the cross out again when I leave him."

Aleneil shrugged. "I can bespell you to remind him to take the cross out whenever you leave him. That is no great problem. More important is how you are going to hide the cross from his servants and anyone else who might see him take off his clothing and how you are going to explain to him what it is for, that he needs to put it in the pouch in your presence, and
always
wear it."

"There will be no need to hide it from his servants. I am not going to give it to Harry directly . . . at least, I hope I will not need to do so. I am going to tell a tale to the duke of Norfolk that will induce him to give the cross to Harry. He need not know that the boy will always wear it because the nurse will not tell him. She is superstitious. If she believes the cross to be a good-luck charm, she will help the boy hide it. For now, that will be enough."

Pasgen examined himself with near-black, round-pupilled eyes, staring into the full-length reflecting glass. Tight black curls framed his swarthy-skinned face and fell to his shoulders, hiding his ears although those were bespelled by illusion into the stupid round ears of a human. A tightly pleated white ruff encircled his throat, relieving the stark black of his doublet. But the buttons were gold and gold piped the seams. Gold also clocked his black hose and showed through the slashes on his puffed breeches.

He was richly enough dressed, Pasgen thought, to affirm his position to the man he was about to visit. His only variation from the Spanish norm was that he was taller and stronger than any of the Spanish men that he had yet seen.
Too bad,
he thought. He was not going to diminish himself into pathetic mortal stature. If Martin Perez remembered him and described him, it would not matter. Inigo de Mendoza would deny the existence of such a servant—and Perez would be even more sure of his importance if he did not know Pasgen's master. He would probably assume anyone dressed with this much wealth and with such physical presence reported back to a very high churchman at the least—or perhaps, had been sent directly from the king of Spain.

Besides, his strength would serve as an additional weapon to terrify the fool who had betrayed him.

A thought sent one of his blank-faced servitors for a horse, a
real
horse, not Torgan the not-horse, because he could not take a beast with clawed paws instead of hooves, blazing red eyes, and predator's teeth into the mortal world. When frequent visits to Overhill had become necessary, Pasgen had purchased mortal horses for himself and Rhoslyn. He rode a handsome brute as black as his not-horse with a temper even worse than Torgan's; Pasgen did not mind the temper, but the beast did not have the strength of the not-horse.

By the time Pasgen reached the door of his manor, the horse was saddled and waiting. He rode to the Gate that would take him to the Bazaar of the Bizarre, and then, as if he had come to shop, through the market to a second Gate that debouched in the mortal world just outside of London.

It was black night to mortals, but barely twilight to Pasgen. The horse jibbed at first, misliking the need to ride out into darkened streets, but Pasgen simply gripped its feeble mind and rode it through the night. He did not force the animal beyond its limits, however, so it was late afternoon when he passed the gates of Windsor and disappeared into a small wood just off the road. From there he watched, and when he saw the guards demand that every person who came to the gate be identified, and then be searched for weapons, he knew that things had changed at Windsor. Drastically. This was not the time to force a confrontation, particularly when he saw that if the person insisted on going to the palace, he found himself accompanied by a guard.

Pasgen did not attempt to enter.

Instead he rode on to the little town that had grown up to service the needs of Windsor Palace. At the inn he complained bitterly that he had come all the way from London at the request of the steward and that he had been turned away. What was going on? Pasgen demanded. Half a dozen patrons rushed up to the serving counter to tell him.

It took some time to sort out all the different tales, but when he was sure enough of what was fact and what was assumption, Pasgen grumbled that the steward could go hang, that he would return to London. He paid for the meal he had ordered and several rounds of drink for himself and a group of those he considered best informed about the events in the palace the previous day. Then he went out and demanded his horse.

It had not been a satisfactory journey—except that he had learned that what Vidal had claimed was true, that there
had
been an attempt on FitzRoy's life.

As he rode back toward London, he considered whether he should create a Gate near Windsor. He was surprised that he had not sensed one nearby because it seemed likely to him that the so-called foreign Lord Denno who had saved FitzRoy was really Denoriel. He snorted lightly with contempt when he realized there was no Gate nearby. Just like his stupid, overcautious half-brother. Denoriel was so fixated on keeping the secret of Underhill that he probably rode the whole way from the London Gate each time he paid a visit to the boy.

However, if Lord Denno was Denoriel, Pasgen thought, that added another layer to his problems. The moment Denoriel saw the changeling they intended to substitute for FitzRoy, he would know what the creature was. A local Gate would make his escape with the real FitzRoy quicker and safer, but Gates left traces that Denoriel might well be able to read and follow.

Well, Pasgen thought, he had time to consider whether to build a Gate. It would take Rhoslyn some days, perhaps even a week, to create the changeling. Perhaps she could make it real enough to fool Denoriel for a while. She would have a good image of the boy because she would wrench that image hair by hair out of the minds of the men who had been sent to kill him.

Although he had not pressed the horse and had even lent it a little strength, the animal was very tired when he passed through the Gate to the Bazaar. But of course, his journey was not even close to being done. Instead of returning to his domain, he simply turned around, and passed through the same Gate again, this time arriving in London midmorning of the day after the attack on FitzRoy. Pasgen knew exactly where he was going, although he had never actually been in London before. He had a mental grip on that treacherous mage's aura and the man could not escape him no matter where he hid himself.

Reminded by this of precisely why he had spent a day riding to Windsor and almost another riding back, Pasgen was suddenly furious.

When he noted that passers-by were looking at him in startlement, then quickly shying out of his path, he damped down his rage, lest he attract too much attention. Then he took the moment to be sure that the aura wasn't moving—just in case the wretch might be, say, on a ship on his way back to Spain. . . .

But no. There was nothing to indicate that Martin Perez knew his deception had been discovered. He was unlikely to be hiding, and unlikely to suddenly decide to take himself elsewhere, unless he felt Pasgen's anger. And although Pasgen didn't think Perez was a good enough mage for that, it wouldn't do to alert him at this point. Another reason to throttle his own anger—for now.

The road was perfectly straight and would bring him past Whitehall Palace and onto The Strand. Down a lane south from The Strand was a small house not far from the manor rented by the Spanish to be their embassy. That was his goal, and Pasgen knew by the strengthening sense of Perez's aura that his path would lead him there. He gave his mind to just what he would do to Perez, and after losing himself in the pleasurable contemplation of taking full measure of his vengeance, wakened with a start to shrill imprecations.

Pasgen looked around with considerable shock. The road was now overfull of people on foot, ahorse, driving carts and wagons, pushing bushels by hand, and his tired and nasty-tempered brute of a horse had shouldered aside a handcart, tipping it over so that what it carried had been spilled into the mud of the road. Instinctively Pasgen lifted a hand to blast the mortal fool who had got in his way, but hearing curses rise all around him, thought better of the impulse. Instead he fished a gold coin out of his purse.

His lips curved up in a travesty of a smile. He could blast them all, but that would betray the kind of power he wielded and even Vidal Dhu would not condone that. Better to let them tear each other apart. It was far more satisfying when the mortal scum did his work for him. He called an apology, and flipped the gold piece into the air toward the woman who had been pulling the handcart but made sure it fell just short of her reach. She flung herself forward, but others had seen the glint of gold in the air. Pasgen wrenched his horse left, away from the converging crowd, and then drove it forward. Behind him he heard screams and shouts, then louder howls of rage and pain. No matter who won in that tussle behind him, there would be many more losers than winners. He did not look back.

That had been amusing, but he realized that he could not afford to cause riots all along his path, and he gave his attention to managing the horse, cursing it under his breath because it did not have the wits of a not-horse. Torgan, instructed by a mental command, would have picked its own way through the crowd and with a minimum of fuss. The damned horse seemed bent on causing as much havoc as possible.

The attention he was giving to where he was going also opened him to a variety of other unpleasant experiences. The sun was too bright; it hurt his eyes. The road was growing more and more crowded, and the people did not draw aside respectfully. They shook their fists at him when he tried to force a passage, and shouted curses at his back. Worse, everything stank! The odor grew worse and worse as he approached the city, and all kinds of filth appeared in the ditches alongside the road.

There were Unseleighe domains that were as disgusting, he supposed, but ordinarily the denizens of those places were summoned somewhere less noxious if one of the Sidhe wished to give it orders. If messages had to be delivered to such a domain, mortal slaves were sent, or constructs, or even lesser Unseleighe. Here he could not avoid the miasma; he could not even eviscerate the mangy dogs that barked at his horse, ran at its legs, and made the stupid beast shy so erratically that Pasgen, who was a superb horseman, was twice nearly unseated.

Rage grew in him, and the need to keep it inside made it worse. And when he realized that the aura he sought had peaked and was diminishing, he sat for a moment on his horse perfectly still, fighting the urge to destroy, destroy anything. Then, slowly, carefully, to keep himself from lashing out all around him with balefire and thus clearing the area, he turned the horse—no easy thing in the crowded street—and retraced his path. When he felt the aura peak again opposite the lane between Somerset House and the Savoy Palace, he rode south. At least this small street was less crowded, mostly servants afoot and a few liveried riders.

About a third of the way down the street he felt the aura begin to diminish again and turned back. A grand manor occupied the whole corner. The next house was a more modest structure of dull-red brick with black door and window frames. There was a rail to the right of the front door; that was where he rode up, and stopped, sure that he had, at last, tracked his quarry to its lair. Pasgen waited a moment, but no servant darted out to take his horse and finally he dismounted and tied it to the rail himself. It was just as well, he told himself. He would not be inside long.

He applied the knocker to the door thunderously, and when it was flung open by a startled and angry servant, threw a compulsion spell at him and demanded to be taken to his master. Pain contorted the man's face, and a mewling cry escaped him as the spell pierced his mind and froze his faculties. Then he turned about and began to walk woodenly across the small entrance foyer toward the stair that rose to the second floor. Unable to do anything except lead the way to his master, he left the door open. Pasgen growled but took the time to shut the door, being disinclined to cope with unexpected intruders.