They had come to no conclusion when the four finally parted. Pasgen offered, (rather too willingly, Denoriel thought) to go back to that Unformed land and see what he could see. Rhoslyn objected. Pasgen promised not to leave the Gate but just stand there and examine the mist and anything the mist chose to show him. He could depart on the instant if he saw or felt anything threatening.
"No," Rhoslyn said. "Or maybe, yes—if you will let me pattern the Gate and stand ready to snatch us out of there as soon as I feel threatened."
He frowned, but only slightly. "You will feel threatened at the first swirl forward of the mist."
"I am not new to making," she replied, with a little tartness, but only a touch.
What surprised Denoriel was the amiability of the exchange. He wondered again if something in the Inn of Kindly Laughter should be held suspect, but Rhoslyn and Pasgen were brother and sister and often together. He and Aleneil often disagreed amiably too.
"Pasgen," Aleneil put in, "Rhoslyn is right. I don't think you should trust yourself. You will see something that will make you curious and follow it, perhaps into terrible danger. On the other hand, Rhoslyn, someone should take another look at this place. And I think, if it is as you said, Pasgen, that we had better take this problem to Oberon and let him decide what to do." She paused, and added, "He is, after all the High King of us all, Bright Court and Dark."
All four fell silent, looked at each other, then looked at the table. After another moment Denoriel said, "Elidir and Mechain are old and experienced makers. Perhaps they should be the ones to look and . . . ah . . . take the news to Oberon if they do not know what to do."
"No!" Pasgen's voice was tight and almost sounded as if it were forcing a way through a solid obstruction. "I do not want the mist hurt. It did nothing to harm me. It did not try to save the vicious lion. It did not try to imprison me. If it—if it is learning to live, how can we dare kill it?"
There was another silence, as Denoriel tried to take in all the implications of what Pasgen had just said. Denoriel thought that a very strange sentiment for the notoriously cruel and wanton Dark Sidhe, but he said nothing. Rhoslyn looked appalled, holding tight to her brother's hand. Aleneil looked very troubled, plainly thinking over what Pasgen had said and possibly wishing to save the mist.
Denoriel shook his head. "I think we can trust Elidir and Mechain not to take any precipitous action. They need not fear any inimical beasts because Harry can use his steel gun if it is necessary. I will go with them also. When they come to a decision—if they come to a decision—I promise that we will do nothing until we discuss the matter with you. Would you be willing to make such a compromise, since Rhoslyn seems to fear danger for you if you go yourself to that place?"
Pasgen thought it over, biting his lower lip. Finally he nodded, slowly, reluctantly, and sighed. "I will agree, not because I think I would be in any danger if I went there, but because . . . because I want to go too much."
"Thank you, brother," Rhoslyn breathed.
"Now, how will I be able to let you know what Elidir and Mechain have discovered?" Denoriel asked.
A brief, awkward silence ensued. Denoriel knew that Pasgen and Rhoslyn knew where he lived, but neither wanted to come into Seleighe lands without being accompanied. Aleneil had taken Rhoslyn to Mwynwen's house so that Rhoslyn could ask about Richey. Rhoslyn had met Harry there and, oddly, that seemed to comfort her more even than the tale of Richey's mostly happy life. And neither Pasgen nor Rhoslyn was prepared to provide direction to their own domains.
"Ah," Pasgen said. "You could leave a message for us in the empty house. Not that the house is really empty, but neither Rhoslyn nor I live there. Likely neither of us will be there, but the servants are designed for taking messages and will not make any mistakes in transmitting them. You can suggest a place and time to meet. And if we cannot come then, Rhoslyn will send an air spirit to make a new arrangement where and when we should meet."
"All of us," Aleneil said quietly.
"Yes, all of us," Rhoslyn repeated.
That promise seemed to ease the awkwardness all had felt about parting. Denoriel raised a hand to call the kitsune server to them and signed he would cover the cost for all. Pasgen and Rhoslyn nodded thanks and left the inn. Denoriel had gold coins in his hand, but the server shook her head.
"What can you supply to us?" the kitsune asked.
"Mortal goods," Denoriel replied promptly, then his eyes sought the bejeweled carapace and orange eyes, which were still in the back of the room. He remembered Elizabeth's bargain with the crab person of Carcinus Maenas and laughed. "How about a cask of fish, real mortal fish, fresh or salt."
"Done," the server said, and dropped a thin wooden amulet in Denoriel's hand. "Put that on the cask in any Gate and the fish will get to us."
Denoriel took Aleneil's arm as they left the inn to offer support. She smiled at him when they stepped up on the Gate. "Pattern me home, love," she said with a sigh. "I am better, but still very weary and I need to rest. Mother Goddess, that iron hurts. It seems to draw the very life out of me, and every time that beast thrust at me, my shields became so eroded that I had to build them anew. I was drained to the dregs. Pasgen and Rhoslyn were both trying to come to my assistance, but they were even worse hurt by the man's steel. If Joseph had not come when he did . . ."
In Avalon where the Gate set them, the blank-faced guards nodded in recognition. Ystwyth was there, waiting, her large brown eyes turned anxiously on her friend. Denoriel boosted Aleneil into the saddle so the elvensteed would not need to kneel, and they were gone. Miralys, after a glance at Denoriel, simply stepped up on the Gate platform and allowed Denoriel to whisk them both away to Elfhame Logres. As the steed started toward the palace at an ordinary horse's trot rather than the space-eating gait he could use, Denoriel told the elvensteed what had happened.
Without instruction, Miralys then changed direction and carried Denoriel, not home, but to Mwynwen's house at the far end of the elfhame. Denoriel was not certain whether Miralys was bringing him to the healer to be examined for any ill effect of drinking lightning or because Harry lived with Mwynwen; however, Denoriel did not care which was true.
If Harry was not at home, Denoriel thought, he would try the Elfhame Elder-Elf, although these days—Denoriel grinned broadly—it would be better called the Busybodies' Elfhame. A very few of those who had taken refuge there had slipped away into Dreaming before Harry arrived. Afterward, one by one he found challenges for them that shook them out of boredom and often thoroughly terrified them so that they came alive.
Harry had arrived at the Elfhame Elder-Elf by accident, not being very experienced with patterning Gates. Wandering, lost, through the beautiful domain, he had found two drooping beings, white haired, rather limp, who had looked at him kindly but with eyes misted with age. Not knowing how to reorient himself, he had asked them for help and noticed that both became more animated as they explained what he had done wrong.
That they were puzzled by his ineptitude was clear and Harry never minded making himself the butt of a joke. By the time he had told them the whole tale of how he came Underhill, that he was Prince Denoriel's ward and Lady Mwynwen's lover and patient, both suggested that they go with him to his intended destination, the Elves' Faire. Young, pretty mortals, they said, were in some danger of being enticed by strange promises, seduced out of the market, and snatched away and sold.
Harry had been to the market with Denoriel many times and was in no danger of being seduced by false temptations. Moreover, as the illegitimate son of the King of England, who for some years could not seem to breed another boy, there had been no temptation, no inducement, that had not been offered him so he would whisper things in his father's ear. Harry knew how to refuse temptation, but he did not say that. He saw how the old Sidhes' bodies had straightened, how their faces lost the slackness of total boredom when they offered to guard him from harm.
He did not pretend he did not know they were old. He asked them questions about the past, and eventually one of them told him about the danger mortals held for Underhill. As examples, they described the cursing of Alhambra and El Dorado by the priests of the Inquisition and the evil that still lived there.
Harry's eyes widened and his fair skin flushed with anger. "What revenge had been taken for such insult?" he cried. And when Elidir and Mechain looked at him blankly—the Sidhe were mostly shallow creatures who did not feel deeply about anything—Harry asked if they had no pride.
Pride the Sidhe had. When Harry put the case in that light, that it was an insult that a Sidhe domain should be given over to human evil, both frowned in displeasure. Harry nodded agreement and asserted firmly that it was time, then, to clean out the cesspools.
They sighed, slumping again, and told him they did not think they could raise an army sufficient to attack the cities. Harry laughed aloud. Elidir and Mechain were puzzled. The places had been lost by battle; the Sidhe could not imagine any other way to regain them. But Harry had been well taught in every form of political chicanery and covert military maneuver. "Let me see the cities," he said, "and I will find a way that we three, with perhaps a few friends, can destroy or drive out the evil."
First they had to find the cities, so long lost from the known places of Underhill. Elidir and Mechain had to rediscover ways to search through ancient forms of patterning. Magic skills long disused were awakened. Fighting skills, too, because both of the Sidhe felt responsible for the hapless mortal and believed they would need to defend him.
Two of the elder elves were soon as bright as new buttons. And when they took Harry to Alhambra and they were attacked, their defensive magic—and Harry's well-wielded sword were barely enough to bring them away safe. All three were furious and resolved one way or another to be rid of the disgusting menaces in the breathtakingly beautiful hame. They went to a market to eat and drink and make plans.
From that time to this, Elidir and Mechain, and a half dozen others strong in magic had no time to be bored. They had been laboring, often in great danger, to clean the lost elfhames from evil. Other problems cropped up from time to time and came to Harry's ears or Mwynwen's. Harry promptly brought the problems—and an inventive solution—to the Elfhame Elder-Elf. Denoriel now enjoyed a visit to a place that had once been full of sorrow—but the path of this endeavor must take him to Mwynwen's house first.
Mwynwen greeted Denoriel pleasantly, as she had no urgent patient, and was plainly interested when he told her about his lack of reaction to taking in mortal magic. She examined him closely and agreed that he seemed unharmed. Perhaps the scarring of his power channels had made them more resistant, but she urged him to be very careful; resistant channels might also be more brittle. A tear would be a disaster.
He attended to her advice seriously, and readily assured her that only dire necessity would drive him to touch mortal power. The spell that drew power to him Underhill was more than enough. When he asked for Harry, however, she showed some signs of irritation.
"Not here," she said. "When is he here?"
"Every sleep time for him, I am sure," Denoriel replied, laughing.
"Oh, yes," Mwynwen said, not laughing in response. "He is strong and eager enough in making love, but he does not really need me anymore. The elf-shot poison is gone. I have not needed to drain him for a year. And he seems so sure of himself. He has learned to read and write Elven and he never asks my advice . . . well, now and again when he is not sure of Sidhe protocol. But if I suggest something to him—"
Denoriel laughed again. "He is a grown man now, Mwynwen, and mostly knows his own mind. If you wished to share his adventures, I am sure he would welcome you."
"I do not! Killing and trapping!" She shuddered. "I know the things he and his old Sidhe take and destroy are evil, but for me—" She shivered again.
Denoriel shrugged. He did not, of course, agree with or even understand her response even though Aleneil reacted similarly. He had been a member of Koronos' Wild Hunt for more than a hundred years, and their purpose was much the same—to destroy evil that otherwise would escape.
He managed to say something polite, and then said, "I will try the Elfhame Elder-Elf then, but if I should miss Harry and he should come in, would you tell him to come to my apartment in Llachar Lle?"
She shook her head and sighed, but agreed to pass on the message, and Denoriel went out to remount Miralys. Elder-Elf's Elfhame could be patterned directly from the Logres Gate, and everyone there knew Harry. Someone had seen him and waved vaguely in the direction of Sawel's house, warning Denoriel that he should approach with care as there were frequent explosions. Denoriel chuckled. They were trying to do something with holy water, possibly to disguise it so the black entities in Alhambra would not recognize it, could be doused with it, and destroyed. Whatever it was Sawel was trying, the holy water did not approve!
As Miralys carried him in that direction, moving again no faster than a mortal horse lest he run down a busy and absent-minded elder, Denoriel suddenly "reheard" what Mwynwen had said about Harry. Miralys stopped and Denoriel patted his silken shoulder in appreciation.
"Right," he said to the elvensteed, "I'll walk. I need time to think."
But he didn't walk. A gesture brought a bench when Miralys had disappeared, and Denoriel sat down on it. He had always known, although with typical Sidhe avoidance of the unpleasant he had refused to think about it, that Mwynwen had never cared for Harry as a human woman would care for her lover. At first it was irrelevant, as Harry's primary need was for healing. And even when he saw that Harry was enamored, what could he do?
Mwynwen had lost the "child" she had been raising for ten years. Richey, as she had named him, was not a living child but a changeling, which Mwynwen had kept "alive" with a spell that constantly fed it power so that it would not fall apart. The changeling's body had grown, except for its expressions, which retained much of the sweet innocence of the ten-year-old it had been when it came into Mwynwen's keeping.
Physically Richey continued to closely resemble Henry FitzRoy. At seventeen, both were dying, Richey because its made body could no longer absorb the power it needed to stay intact; Harry from the poison of an elf-shot wound taken in defending Elizabeth from capture by Vidal Dhu. It had been possible, at Richey's request, to exchange the young men so that Richey could die in peace and Harry be healed, although Harry was permanently exiled to Underhill because he was dead and buried in the mortal world.
Mwynwen, heartsick with grief over losing her child, which was about the only strong emotion most Sidhe could feel, agreed to cure Harry, whom she called "Richey's gift." He, too, was her "child," sick, needing constant care, and totally ignorant of the manners and mores, the customs and history of Underhill.
So for many years Mwynwen had another "child" to raise and was content, even more than she had been with Richey because as soon as Harry was well enough he began to crave her body. Mwynwen offered it, as she would offer a new toy to a frail child, and was surprised and rewarded when the toy was as delightful to her as to Harry.
But Harry was mortal, and as his body was cured and his ignorance corrected by education, he grew from a child into a man. He developed interests of his own, closer to those of Denoriel than to those of Mwynwen; he hunted, fought any invasion of Dark Sidhe or their creatures, rode in the Wild Hunt, explored strange domains. Mwynwen was quite correct, Denoriel thought. Harry did not need her anymore, at least, not as a child needs a mother. Denoriel shifted on the bench.
The question now rose of whether Harry needed Mwynwen as a lover. Denoriel knew that some humans were as light in love as Sidhe; however, some tended to be much more faithful. Those would marry and live together all of their lives, sharing their joys and griefs and leaning on each other for comfort and support.
Sidhe lived too long. There were a few who life-mated and clung to each other for the thousands of years that they survived. Most drifted in and out of love, if one could call it that. Before he brought Richey to Mwynwen, Denoriel had been Mwynwen's lover. They had drifted apart easily when his attention was fixed on Harry and hers on Richey.
Denoriel stared sightlessly at the smooth green turf between his feet. If Harry had formed a lasting human passion for Mwynwen, he was about to be hurt when Mwynwen withdrew herself. Should he try to warn Harry, Denoriel wondered? How? What should he say? Should he tell Harry he had better pay more attention to Mwynwen, offer to do what she would like best? Should he try to introduce Harry to a few Sidhe ladies who were curious about him and would gladly—for a little while—take a human lover? Would that make Mwynwen jealous or simply give her an excuse to break the relationship?
Denoriel sighed. He had no idea how Harry would react to such a suggestion. He stood up abruptly. He said he loved Harry, but he realized that for some time he had been so busy with Elizabeth that he was not sure he knew Harry very well anymore. Well, Elizabeth needed some weeks or even months to settle into her new household. He would give that time to Harry and see what he could do . . . if anything.
He had barely set out toward Sawel's house again—it was set well away from the main building and clustered cottages of the other Sidhe—when the warned-of explosion came. With Harry firmly in mind again, Denoriel rushed forward to help, but found everyone unharmed. They were prepared for explosions now, it seemed. At first they were all too absorbed in what they had been working on to do more than greet him in an absent way, but when they had thrashed out the reasons for the unwelcome, if not unexpected, results and worked out a new refinement, Harry came over and hugged Denoriel. His two most constant companions, Elidir and Mechain, followed close behind him.
"We are trying to find a way to entice the Great Evil out so we can somehow thrust it into the Void," Harry said. "It cannot be destroyed, but it must not be loosed either. Do you think the Void will hold it?"
"You will need the opinions of better mages than myself," Denoriel said, "but I have a new and possibly even more dangerous problem to describe to you."
"More dangerous than the Great Evil?" Mechain said. "Or is this a ruse to keep Harry away from this work?"
"And where is our adorable Elizabeth?" Elidir asked. "You have not brought her Underhill in far too long. I did hear that Oberon had consented to allow her to visit again."
"Harry is a man grown and I hope knows how to judge his own danger," Denoriel said, and then laughed. "Of course I wish to keep him out of danger, but this new business . . . Can we go somewhere where we can sit and talk in comfort? The stink—what is that unsavory odor?—around here invites our swift absence."
"Your place," Harry said to Denoriel. "Elidir and Mechain's cottage is really too small and besides—" he grinned broadly "—I still love to be waited on by your invisible servants."
Before they had taken ten steps toward the Gate, five elvensteeds were somehow beside, ahead, and behind them. They all mounted, arrived at the Gate in what seemed like three strides, Gated through, and were at the broad marble steps of the palace in three more strides.
With wine and cakes and small savory tidbits readily to hand, Denoriel repeated what Pasgen had told him. He expected argument and denial. Instead Elidir and Mechain exchanged long glances. Elidir rubbed his long-fingered hands together nervously; Mechain shuddered.
"I knew there was something wrong in that Unformed land, I knew it," Elidir said. "You remember," he said to Mechain, "that one time we were there when there was grass near the Gate for the elvensteeds to graze—and neither of us had made grass there."
"We thought the elvensteeds had done it," Mechain said. "I never knew them to make before, but who knows what they can do? I have never reached the bottom of what Phylyr can do." She hesitated and then near whispered, "But sentient?"
"So far it does not seem dangerous," Denoriel said, "but my half brother—"
"The Dark Sidhe?" Harry asked. "Do you trust him? He tried several times to kill me, I remember. Could he have set some kind of trap in that Unformed land?"
That question caused a digression into Rhoslyn's changing attitude and her influence on her brother. Finally Denoriel shrugged. "It isn't something we can just ignore," he said. "I think we have to go and look at the place and see if we can feel anything there. And since we will all be alert for danger, I think all of us together can deal with any trap Pasgen left, if he did leave one."
"Yes, we must go," Elidir agreed. "We have not been back to that place since we took Elizabeth there and fought that battle against Prince Vidal. But even before then, Mechain and I had decided not to use that Unformed land anymore."
"Yes," Mechain said. "It was too easy to make there."
Harry said only, "Wait for me. I must get my sword and pistol from Mwynwen's house. Lady Aeron will take me. I will only be a few moments."
That was true enough. Denoriel had barely enough time to absorb the fact that Harry had said, "Mwynwen's house" instead of "home." Very interesting. It was as if Harry had become more guest than lover. But before Denoriel had a chance to examine the idea more carefully, Harry was back and they were all on their way.
Both Elidir and Mechain knew the pattern for that Unformed land as well as they knew the one for Elfhame Elder-Elf. They agreed to ask the elvensteeds to remain behind as they did not intend to get off the Gate platform. All were ready to repel attack as they dropped through the darkness of Between and arrived at their goal.
No attack. Nothing that Denoriel could feel, although both Mechain and Elidir drew in sharp breaths. Harry drew his sword and loosened the catch on his pistol. He would not draw that except in dire need because it would be harmful to his companions. Denoriel did not draw, although his hand rested on his sword hilt. Then he, too, drew in a sharp breath.
There was nothing to see. The mists coiled and then streamed away, puffed here and there, blew right and left and around, as the mists in any Chaos Land did. Elidir stretched out a hand.
"Rest," he said. "You have done enough. We will ask no more of you."
"We thank you," Mechain added, "for all you have done for us. Now rest."
There was a stirring in the mist not far from the Gate platform and a glint of gold and bright red where the hair of a man and a small woman might be. Together Elidir and Mechain willed the Gate to take them back to Elfhame Logres and to their elvensteeds who waited. No one said a word as they mounted, and they were still silent as they took the seats in Denoriel's parlor they had vacated so short a time earlier.
"I fear that what your half brother told you is true," Elidir said, when he had swallowed the nectar an invisible hand had poured into his cup.
"It welcomed me," Mechain whispered, but not so softly that all did not hear her.
Elidir nodded agreement. "Me also, as if I were an old friend returned after an absence."
"And me it questioned," Denoriel said, "wanting to know who I was. I had a quick, muddy image of Pasgen—that is my half brother's name—and a feeling of doubt." He shivered. "We differ enough in the set of our minds—he is much more mage than I, and I can bear the mortal world and its burden of iron better than he. But . . . but that a mist should feel this?"
He looked from face to face. Harry looked slightly regretful, as if he knew that mortal without Talent as he was, he alone would not be touched by this wonder . . . or horror. But he was not too regretful; his immunity to magical influence of his thoughts had saved his party in the stricken elfhames more than once. Elidir and Mechain wore similar expressions of distress mingled with confusion.
"But there was no threat to me. No feeling of threat at all," Mechain said unhappily.
"No, nor even to me," Denoriel admitted, "when it realized . . . I cannot believe I am saying this, that a mist realized I was not Pasgen. But my half brother, who was frightened near out of his wits when he realized that the mist was making on its own, also felt no threat and . . . and when I had suggested that we bring the problem to Oberon"—he hesitated while all the others stared at him with widened eyes—"he begged me not to. He said—mind you, he is of the Unseleighe kind—but he asked whether we had the right to kill what was coming to life."
"Are we certain that Oberon would kill it?" Mechain asked.
"Who can know what Oberon will do?" Denoriel sighed. "What he does will be beyond us once the matter is in his hand, so the decision, and we must consider it to be death or life, is ours."
Elidir nodded acknowledgment of Denoriel's statement of responsibility, but when he asked, "So what do we do?" he looked at Harry, not Denoriel.
"We watch, or rather, you watch, since I was not aware of anything," Harry said promptly. "If there's anyone more sensitive than you . . . yes, yes, set the burden on Gaenor. Later, or tomorrow, we can explain to her what we fear and take her there. We can introduce her as a—as a maker who has been so long away from making that she does not well know it anymore. See whether she feels any response from the mist."
"And if she does?"
"Then Elidir had better come back alone or, or with Mechain, of course, and tell the mist to sleep again. After leaving it quiet for some time—you can suggest to Gaenor that she try to find some spells to deactivate a made thing, and that she had better be ready to flee as soon as she casts the spell because the mist might not want to be deactivated."
Mechain blinked at Harry and breathed out a whistling breath. "Well, that should wake Gaenor up smartly."
Elidir chuckled.
"And she can keep going back for . . . oh, a full season. But if the mist is still awake, if it is doing new things, or if it starts to threaten Gaenor, I think we will need to take this trouble to Oberon. God knows, I cannot think of a way to deal with a mist."
"And we had this new burst of creatures in El Dorado," Elidir said, the good humor gone from his face. "They are almost impervious to magic, but they need killing. It is interesting that they are smaller and weaker than the last plague that was produced."
Denoriel gestured and the air was troubled. "Will you all dine with me?" he asked. "It is some hours since we have all eaten and I would like to hear your plans. Elizabeth has just moved into a new household; she is to be under the dowager queen's care. She will be too busy to come Underhill or even to see me for a few weeks, perhaps as long as a month. Thus, I will be free of my duty to her and would like to come with you and help clear the plague from El Dorado."