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Chapter 27

Rhoslyn's influence with the queen was further enhanced by the effectiveness of her advice on dealing with Elizabeth. Gardiner wished to question Elizabeth every day, to wear her down, to have other councilors question her about her true conversion to the Catholic faith, to have those in charge of interrogating Wyatt and Croft tell her that the men had confessed her involvement. But Rhoslyn reminded Mary of how resistant Elizabeth had been when she was hard pressed at the time of the Seymour scandal.

"She is always active, always doing," Rhoslyn pointed out. "To leave her with nothing to do, no way to discover what others have said of her, no way to defend herself against accusations is more likely to shake her spirit than harsh questioning."

Mary did remember Elizabeth's sturdy denial of any desire to marry Thomas Seymour, although her own people admitted that he had courted her, unwisely and immorally while he was still married. And Elizabeth had escaped all punishment. The Council at the time had even issued a proclamation stating that she was innocent of all stain. Mary advised isolation. Gardiner obeyed.

He was moderately satisfied with the result. The lack of attention seemed to disturb Elizabeth more than confrontation. She was almost eager to talk with him when he came to question her after two weeks. This time he had sent notice of his arrival; Elizabeth actually stood to greet him and seemed distraught. And then she made what seemed to be a serious mistake.

When Gardiner accused her of planning to move to Donnington so she could resist the queen's commands, she lied and said she did not even know where or what Donnington was. Gardiner stared her down and told her he had evidence, Sir James Croft's deposition, that would prove she was lying. With knitted brows she first insisted she spoke the truth and then said slowly that she did not know Sir James Croft.

Gardiner smiled and abandoned that line of inquiry; he had caught her in an outright lie. He had Sir James Croft's testimony and that of her ladies to prove the lie. Blandly he asked several easy questions and then sharply asked why the captain of her household guard had bought a great quantity of arms and supplies to feed many men. Elizabeth said somewhat absently that he would need to ask Sir Edward to explain that, but she was frowning and not seeing what she stared at. And then, much to Gardiner's fury—because so far where he had no proof she could not be frightened into changing any tale she had told—she clapped a hand to her forehead.

"Donnington!" she cried. "I knew the name was familiar. Of course, Donnington is one of my properties although I am not quite sure where it is. But now I remember, and I remember Sir James Croft, too. He was the one who told me of unrest in the country. He advised me to go to Donnington. My ladies can tell you of his visit. We spoke in my reception room. At first I thought he was a messenger from the queen or Council, but he was not, and I would not go apart with him."

"So you did agree to go to Donnington!"

"Oh no," Elizabeth replied, blinking as if surprised by the remark. "The queen had bid me live in Ashridge and without her word I would not leave it. But Sir James was so insistent. To make it easier to be rid of him, I told him I would consider it."

"Why would you consider following the advice of a man who told you rebellion was being raised against the queen?"

Elizabeth opened her eyes wide. "Why for that very reason. You must know, Bishop Gardiner, that I was terrified of being taken prisoner by the rebels and made into some kind of a figurehead for them. I was thinking of writing to Her Majesty and asking for her decision about what I should do, but I was afraid to trouble her when she must be so very busy. And then it was too late. Lord Denno told me that Wyatt was advancing on London."

"But you did not write to the queen. You sent out summons to your dependents to gather arms and supplies and meet you at Donnington."

"I never did!" Elizabeth protested indignantly.

"Sir Edward has confessed that he sent warning to your principal vassals to arm themselves."

Elizabeth caught her breath but then shook her head. "But not to meet me at Donnington nor to gather anywhere. Ask where you will and who you will. I am sure you have sent out men to those who owe me fealty. Has even one of them moved off his own land?"

"They have all hired men and brought in supplies. We have proof of that."

"I should hope so," Elizabeth said sharply. "After Sir James told me of the unrest in Kent and Sir Edward sent my people warning. I should hate to think that those who hold lands of me were idiots. I did not know until Sir James came that a rebellion was possible—" she pulled herself even more upright and her face showed indignation "—and I tell you now that I think it unkind and unsafe that the Council did not send to warn me of that."

Gardiner's lips twisted. "We were all sure you already knew and needed no warning from us."

"But you were wrong," Elizabeth riposted passionately. "I did not know. And I did need the Council's warning."

Eventually Gardiner gave up. Elizabeth was immovable on two points: that she had nothing to do with the rebellion and that her captain's purchase of arms and supplies was solely defensive, designed to protect Ashridge from attack by the rebels. Gardiner managed to reduce her to tears by insisting that his questioning of Sir Edward might become physical if she did not confess. She begged him to spare her man, offering to plead for him on her knees, but she insisted that all the arms and supplies were still at Ashridge. They had not been used to arm rebels.

"Because there was no rising in Hertfordshire," Gardiner roared. "Had there been you would have been with the rebels."

"Never. Never." Elizabeth sobbed. "I love my sister. I am her most loyal and devoted subject. Why are you so cruel? Why will you not believe me? Should not a Catholic bishop be merciful?"

On that note, several of the councilors who had accompanied him and earlier asked Elizabeth sharp questions, began to remonstrate with him. Gardiner recognized the shifting sympathies and, remarking his cruelty was meant as a kindness, to bring her to confession and then pardon, he took his leave.

After another week of silence—not literal, of course, the women the queen had appointed to take the place of Elizabeth's ladies talked constantly and always of how merciful the queen was to those who confessed their guilt or other subjects to make Elizabeth uneasy—Gardiner tried again with no greater success. He sent others to question Elizabeth; Arundel ended up on his knees begging pardon for troubling her with unfounded accusations.

Nonetheless, although she had confessed nothing and Gardiner could never bring her a signed confession from anyone implicating her in the rebellion, on the twenty-fourth of March the marquis of Winchester and the earl of Sussex came to tell Elizabeth that she was to go at once to the Tower. The utter panic that seized Elizabeth at the thought of being immured where her mother had waited for death, sent the air spirit Underhill on an immediate search for Denoriel.

For one instant Elizabeth's spirit leapt with hope. Then it came crashing down into despair. Denno could not help her. He could save her life, but what life would she have left if she were confined Underhill? What would Mary do to poor England? Who would follow Mary on the throne to heal the wounds?

Frantic, Elizabeth sought for any delay, any hope of escape in what she thought was an immediate summons to death. She begged to be allowed to see the queen, and when that was most emphatically refused, to be allowed to write to Her Majesty.

The marquis and the earl disagreed about allowing it, but Sussex prevailed; he always had a soft spot for Elizabeth—and a sharp eye to the future in which this girl might rule. Elizabeth wrote her letter, taking so long over it that the tide had turned and the barge that would take her to the Tower could not shoot the Bridge. For one day more she would remain safe in Whitehall.

The queen refused to look at the letter and blamed Sussex sharply for allowing Elizabeth to write it. Elizabeth was to be allowed no more excuses. She was to be delivered to the Tower the next day without fail, Mary said—and put a hand to her head as a terrible pain stabbed through her temple and a feeling as if she had swallowed a cup full of ice settled in her stomach. She had promised Renard that Elizabeth would be sent to the Tower and she had done it. Whether she could do more . . .  The pain in her head intensified and the cold was spreading so that her entire body began to shake.

Elizabeth, however, had benefited from writing the letter, although not in the way she hoped. She had time to think that Denno's token could not only bring him to her but also her Da. Da would know what to do. Her mindless panic abated somewhat as she forced herself to consider keeping a visit from Underhill secret.

Denno and Da would have to come to her. She could not dare be missing for a moment in case Mary did relent and agree to speak to her. Mary would send a messenger, who would pass the queen's order to one of her attendants. The attendant would enter her room without any warning. Elizabeth swallowed a sob. They had all been doing that with lame excuses since she had arrived in Whitehall.

No, she could not chance that. No doubt Da and Denno would become invisible if anyone intruded, but that would mean they might not be able to finish talking. She needed to know what they thought was best and safest. Tears ran down her face and she wiped them away. She needed to feel Denno's arms around her, to be assured by Da's strong good sense. She could not bear to miss a moment of the comfort they could give her. She needed to immobilize all her attendants but the guards outside the doors.

Elizabeth worked out how to arrange that, but the thought of the Tower hung over all. Her little hope could not warm away the cold of terror and Elizabeth found herself panting with fear as she waited for an answer from the queen. No answer came.

Slowly the light of the day dimmed. It was time for bed, but Elizabeth could not bear to consider lying in the dark through the passing hours. She would not allow her attendants to acknowledge, no matter what her new ladies insisted, that Queen Mary had long ago retired to her virtuous couch and was sweetly asleep.

Sharply Elizabeth bade the women to hold their tongues. There was still time, she insisted, for her sister to summon her. She could not imagine that her dear sister would not be troubled by committing her, innocent as she was, to the Tower. The queen's sleep would be disturbed. A summons would come.

One by one the attendants nodded off and slept on the sofa or the chairs Elizabeth had graciously offered since she was keeping them up so late. Elizabeth bit her lip and blinked back tears.

"Bod cyfgadur," she whispered, pointing to each attendant (or possibly gaoler) in turn.

Then she drew from her pocket, where she had been clutching it all day, the token that would permit Denoriel to build a Gate to her chamber. Within moments of her laying it down on the floor near a blank wall, the black point formed and began to spread. Denoriel had been waiting for the signal and the Gate was barely large enough to allow him to pass when he sprang through.

"Elizabeth, what—" His voice checked as he saw the attendants asleep.

"They are bespelled," Elizabeth whispered, flinging herself into his open arms. "I could think of no other way to keep them from intruding on me. Denno—" she sniffed and her tears ran over "—Mary has sent orders committing me to the Tower."

But it was Harry FitzRoy's voice that answered. "I'm sorry, love, I know you are frightened, but it was to be expected."

"But I am innocent!" Elizabeth wept. "I know Gardiner has no proof against me. I had no part in the accursed rebellion. I did not even want it to happen."

Denno clutched her closer and Harry patted her shoulder. "I hoped it would not happen," he said. "Rhoslyn has been working on Mary so that she will be miserable all the time you are in the Tower—"

"So she will order me to be executed more quickly!" Elizabeth's voice rose hysterically.

"No," Harry said calmly. "She thinks that if you die she will die also. She tries to believe that you are not her sister, but within she knows it is not true. Too much of you is from our father—the hands, the hair, the manner. To order your execution would make her a kin-slayer. She remembers what happened to Somerset when he ordered his brother's execution."

"But she wants me dead. I know she wants me dead. When I am in the Tower the temptation may become too great for her."

"Mary will never sign an order for your execution," Harry said. "If she could get Parliament to vote an act of attainder for high treason and have you executed without a trial, she might have taken that path—although to speak the truth I doubt it. But Parliament will not vote against you, love. They will not even vote to disinherit you. Even Renard knows that. Gardiner tried it once and was shouted down."

"Perhaps I am to die of an illness or . . . or an 'unforeseen' attack in the Tower. Such things happen there."

"Not to you, Elizabeth," Denno said. "You will not die in any case, no matter what Mary orders. Wear your shields if you fear attack, and if you fall ill, send the air spirit and I will come and take you away."

Elizabeth turned a little in Denno's arms so she could see Harry's face. "But then I will be trapped Underhill . . ."

"No. Mary is only attempting to quiet Renard and Gardiner. You may be questioned further, but I doubt that too. Poor Mary," Harry sighed, "she is sick at heart over all the executions." He came a little closer and patted Elizabeth's cheek. "Last week she pardoned eight of the Kentish gentlemen that actually fought for Wyatt, and only yesterday pardoned Lord Cobham who was one of the chief conspirators. No, love, you will be bored and uncomfortable, but I do not think you need fear more than that."

"But to go to the Tower," Elizabeth said, her voice shaking. "Likely you are right, Da, but . . . but my heart fails me. I am afraid." She began to sob again.

"I will come with you," Denno said. I will wear the Don't-see-me spell and I will walk beside you and hold your hand. You will know you are safe."

Elizabeth turned her head to welcome the offer and saw the lines around Denno's eyes and mouth. He looked gaunt and gray, exhausted by the effort of building the Gate. She remembered now that the Bright Court was starved of power because of the misery of the country. Denno would not be able to renew himself and the Don't-see-me spell would drain him further.

"No," she said, "you mustn't. You are worn thin already, and . . . and you must be strong enough to build another Gate if . . . if that is all that will save me."

"I am not so worried about your needing to build another Gate Denno," Harry said. "But I think Elizabeth must do this herself. She will be too closely watched for even the smallest expression or gesture not to be noted. Whatever she does, however she acts, must come from her own heart, without support." He leaned closer and put his hand on Elizabeth's head, pulling her toward him to kiss her forehead.

"I am so sorry, my love," he went on. "I am so sorry that you will be frightened and miserable, and you know I would not advise it if there were any other way. But I truly think this is best."

 

In the Dark Court, Vidal looked out over his subjects with solid satisfaction. The throne room glistened with dark splendor and vibrated with power. The benches were full. Some of the ogres and trolls were only half grown but their stony bodies looked fat and polished. The witches snapped and sniped at each other; they had energy to spare. The boggles and banshees muttered and wailed softly, watching their prince, eagerly waiting Vidal's command.

In the forepart of the chamber, the Dark Sidhe sat in their chairs. Each one was sleek and satisfied looking. Vidal nodded.

"Two hunts," he said, his lips drawing back from his sharp-pointed teeth. "One near St. Boniface, which has just changed to the Catholic rite. Let us see if we can kill near the church. The other, in the purlieu of the Holy Redeemer, which is stubbornly reformist. Enjoy yourselves. Rend well the victims, but leave enough to show what died there."

All the Dark Sidhe laughed, their faces eager. "And can we take one or two for some entertainment here?"

The Sidhe who spoke was neither dark, in imitation of Vidal, nor blond and green-eyed. His eyes, less bright than the normal green, were light brown with greenish flecks and his hair was also a medium brown. Vidal stared at him. He knew Cretchar, but why did he feel Cretchar reminded him of someone else? Someone important.

"I think one extra should be allowed to each hunt," Aurilia said, breaking Vidal's uneasy thought.

The interruption did not irritate him unduly. Vidal glanced sidelong at her. Aurilia was as sleek and polished as all the other courtiers. Her hair was brilliant, curling luxuriantly; her eyes glowed with health and energy; a delicate flush of rose gave life to her white complexion.

Vidal smiled at her and nodded agreement. The interruption had been timely. Vidal was aware that something about a Sidhe with nondescript coloring had escaped his memory. He hated those lapses and accepted eagerly the reminder that everything was going exactly as he wished.

The horrible deaths and abductions would add to the anger and discontent Mary had generated by her choice of a husband. That was the city. The country should be roused too; having several flocks ravaged, especially in those counties that had not rebelled, would do it. Vidal instructed several parties of witches and were creatures to take young ogres and trolls up to the mortal world.

The older ogres and trolls took exception to their exclusion. Some of them turned on the chosen young ones. Vidal laughed and let them fight. The substantial inflow of energy from rage and misery had allowed him to replenish the numbers of monsters in his court. He noticed with satisfaction that the young were giving a good account of themselves. He had created well. The Dark Sidhe cheered and laughed, urging on their favorites.

Screams and groans and the meaty sound of flesh striking flesh soon echoed around the chamber. The odor of blood and feces permeated the air. At first Aurilia sat forward eagerly, sipping at the pain. After a short while, she snorted in disgust and leaned back in her chair. The acrid energy that came off the fighting trolls was weak and flat. It had none of the delicious pungency that mortals emitted when they were hurt and terrified.

"Stop them and send them away, my lord," Aurilia said to Vidal, gripping his arm with her hand so that her long, sharp nails pricked through his silken sleeve. "They are dull creatures and their conflict gives little pleasure. Let them all go to the mortal world. Let the people of England think a plague has descended on them with their new queen. They are too suspicious of each other and too disorganized to come after us. And in the chaos we can choose our own prey."

Vidal laughed. "Perhaps you are right, Aurilia. Perhaps you are right."

He waved a hand and the fighting stopped, although howls of frustration now echoed through the chamber from the creatures that were being magically restrained. Then he ordered silence and told them their battle had won his admiration so they could all go. However they must choose different places of egress so they would be spread out all over the country. Another wave started them all on their way. A third cleaned away the blood and gobbets of flesh, although there were not many of those, the lesser creatures having snatched them up to eat.

When the room was clear, he stood and held out his arm to Aurilia in a courtly gesture. A brief, almost effortless, exertion of his will brought them into his private parlor. This was so magnificently decorated that it was hardly ominous. Vidal looked around and sniffed discontentedly, thinking that he had not yet achieved the proper mixture of grandeur and darkness. He dismissed the dissatisfaction; he would find some horrors to add to the decor to increase the somberness of the chamber.

"We must have a little celebration," he said to Aurilia as he waved her to her chair by his own. "At last Mary has taken the first step to ridding the realm of Elizabeth. Yesterday in the early morning, Elizabeth was taken to the Tower."

Aurilia pursed her lips. "Do not get your hopes up too high for Elizabeth's execution. At first I thought as you did, that as soon as Mary had any excuse, she would order Elizabeth's head removed, but it seems we were wrong. Albertus tells me that Mary will not do it. In spite of all Renard and Gardiner can do she did not even want to send Elizabeth to the Tower. She has been asking the more powerful members of the Council and any of the courtiers she feels is truly devoted to her to take her sister into house arrest. So far, none is willing."

Vidal looked startled and angry. "Albertus! How can he know?"

"He is one of Mary's physicians. She has told them that she cannot bear to harm her sister, that the moment she thinks of taking any revenge on her, her head nearly splits with pain and her belly feels like she swallowed a bucket of ice."

"Why is Rhoslyn not supporting Mary's spirits?"

Aurilia made a moue of distaste. She did not like Rhoslyn. "Ask her, not me. It may be that we will need to find another way to deal with Elizabeth."

"I can make sure that none of the nobility will agree to take charge of Elizabeth. Some visit Otstargi for advice. I will spread the word that so onerous a charge will bring disaster, reminding them of Elizabeth's 'enchanting' nature and predict that she will seduce their servants and involve them in a new rebellion."

"The hint of witchcraft will not help." Aurilia shrugged. "Mary has been burnt too often and too deeply to accuse Elizabeth of being a witch. What you need to do, my lord, is somehow get Philip here to marry Mary."

Vidal cocked his head inquisitively. "I have apurpose not meddled with his reluctance to take his most willing bride. It seems to me that once Philip arrives and they marry, Mary will forget all about Elizabeth."

"She might," Aurilia agreed, "but so long as Philip gets a child on her Elizabeth will no longer be of any account."

"Will Mary get with child?" Vidal's lips twisted. "She is a scrawny old bitch for enticing much virile play from a man."

"Philip will do his duty," Aurilia said. "Mary may be old and scrawny, but he knows the great benefits a child will bring to Spain and the Empire. He will couple with her and I will see that the coupling bears fruit."

Vidal narrowed his eyes. "That is no easy thing."

"No, but I have been studying. I think I know the way."

 

"Where did they go?" Ilar asked furiously, looking around the outer perimeter of the Goblin's Market.

Aleneil sighed, unable to offer any further help. Of the many Gates that dotted the area outside the market itself, five had been used. Three of those likely had delivered their passengers to Dark Domains, but Aleneil did not have the skill to read the exact destination.

"We need Pasgen," she said. "But by the time I find him, the traces will be overlaid by many other Gatings. The market Gates are heavily used."

"We almost had him this time," Ilar said, through tight set jaws. "I did not realize he had set a lookout to warn him. That was stupid of me."

"Not so stupid," Aleneil soothed. "Neither of us thought he would dare use a confederate who could betray him."

"Not after what was done to Chenga," Ilar said with grim satisfaction. "At least we saved the mortal he was trying to seize, and we saw him and the Sidhe who was assisting him."

Aleneil's lips folded to a thin line. "That Sidhe. He was of the Dark Court I believe, but he was not so deeply stained with their power of pain and misery as are those long Vidal's servants. He must have gone to the Dark Court from the Bright Court not long ago. And the power he held was—" She hesitated and then said distastefully "—from life force."

Ilar gasped and his hand went to the sword at his hip.

"Not mortal," Aleneil said hastily. "Small things and the creatures of the Dark Court, though they have little life force."

"But you said our mortals live and are not injured."

"So says my scrying." Aleneil nodded. "They are held safe, but where I cannot tell."

"We must rescue them."

"Yes. I do not know how much longer they will be safe. That Sidhe . . . he hungers."

"I will try the three Gates that were used," Ilar said desperately. "I will think Dark Court and recent use. Perhaps—"

Aleneil frowned with concern. "Be careful, Ilar. The Dark ones will sense you. I cannot come with you. I would only bring you greater danger."

Ilar nodded and patted the sword at his side. "I will be careful, but we of Cymry do not divide Dark from Light so sharply as Avalon or Logres does. I may pass without challenge."

"Still," Aleneil touched his cheek, "have a care. Meanwhile I will go back to Avalon and try to discover who recently abandoned the Bright Court for the Dark . . . or was driven out. If I get his name, perhaps I can set a calling on him."

"The other was drawing power from Cymry without asking, without even a courtesy call on Idres Gawr," Ilar said indignantly. "As if he had a right to take anything he wanted."

Aleneil laughed briefly and shook her head. "You could not expect him to ask permission to draw power from Idres Gawr if he intended to abduct your mortals. No, he did not wish to be known."

"I am sure of that." Ilar snorted.

"And he was not of any elfhame I could recognize," Aleneil said slowly. "And fat. It is not common for Sidhe to be fat. I will return as soon as I may, and I will scry and try to set a calling."

 

Pasgen threw up a shield around himself and Hafwen just before the thrown hand ax reached them. It struck the shield and clattered to the stone floor. The ax-thrower had taken shelter behind an earthen redoubt. Pasgen stepped off the Gate platform holding up empty hands.

"Please," Hafwen called, peeping around Pasgen's shoulder. "We mean no harm. Indeed, we seek to bind or destroy the thing that harmed you."

"Who are you?" The voice was not friendly.

"My name is Hafwen and I am from the Bright Court, from Elfhame Avalon."

"What brings you to this rookery from the fine heights of Avalon?"

"Hafwen is a senser of evil," Pasgen put in before Hafwen could answer. "I know Gates and can read their past. We followed whatever it was you are now armed against to this hame. It did much damage to places I value. I am most eager to destroy it so it can do no more harm."

Slowly about midway back from the front of the earthen dike, a small squat figure rose. Its normally brown face was white and waxy, the eyes small black pits; one ear was missing. Hafwen drew in a trembling breath.

"You cannot destroy it," the damaged gnome said. "Pure Evil it was. That will always be with us."

"I am sorry for the trouble it caused you," Pasgen said. "But if it roosted somewhere in this hame perhaps I can drive it out."

Before the damaged gnome could answer, something multilegged and black, glistening with slime, leapt from a fold of the earth about midway between the fortification and the Gate. Pasgen drew breath and drew his sword at the same time. The slimy horror, not at all afraid of the sword, if it saw it, leapt up as if to strike on Pasgen's face but it, too, rebounded from Pasgen's shield and fell back. Hafwen uttered a thin cry of disgust which blended with and distorted a shout of warning from the gnome.

The warning came too late. Pasgen had already stabbed the thing. It made a high, shrilling sound and then simply fell apart. But it was not dead. The many pieces twitched and writhed and then began to grow again; legs formed, legs tipped with claws. And the multitude of tiny creatures oriented themselves and all began to crawl up or try to get under Pasgen's shield.

Hafwen screamed. Pasgen let out an oath, pulled her tight against him, and spread thin the kind of energy that made a levin bolt over the surface of his shield. Most of the creatures were fried and Pasgen, gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering with cold and horror, pointed at any that still moved and burned them one at a time. The effort drained him dangerously. By the time nothing more moved, he was as much clinging to Hafwen for support as keeping her close to protect her.

A ragged cheer came from the gnomes as the last of the slimy wrigglers went to ash. "We tried to warn you," the damaged gnome called.

Pasgen shuddered. "I heard you, but it was too late for me to stop my stroke. What was that?"

"We know no more than you." The damaged gnome came forward and climbed to the top of the redoubt. "That Evil brought the creatures or spilled them out of its body."

"When?" Hafwen asked urgently, coming around Pasgen to face the gnomes.

"It would have been two sleeps ago—if any of us dared sleep since that evil thing came through the Gate. It was Sidhe! We thought it had work for us. We welcomed it into our village."

"Sidhe!" Pasgen exclaimed.

This was the first being that had actually seen the Evil. Until Gnome Hold, Pasgen and Hafwen had been following a trail of senseless destruction, mostly Unformed lands turned into vicious Chaos, the mists inimical and treacherous. In one Dark hold of boggles they had found only the dead; seemingly the creatures had turned on each other and killed until none were left.

"Like us?" Hafwen asked. "Or Dark? What did it look like?"

"Not Bright Court looks, but not Dark either," the gnome replied.

"It was . . ." Another gnome popped up beside the injured one. "I keep accounts for this hold and I noticed because I almost did not notice," the second gnome said. "We look carefully at those we work for. They are not above trying to escape payment, especially for a difficult task. I almost did not look at this one. He—"

"Male?" Pasgen asked. "Are you sure?"

"No," the gnome replied. "The Sidhe . . . creature . . . whatever it was sort of faded in and out. Sometimes it was hard and bold, sometimes it was not more than a shadow. Mostly it looked male, but when it faded it could have been anything . . . except it was Sidhe. It was always Sidhe. It did not shift form."

"When you could see it how did it look?" Hafwen glanced up at Pasgen. "If it was neither Bright Court nor Dark it will be easy to make a picture in my mind. Perhaps the ladies of the lens could scry for it."

The gnome who had been answering shrugged. "It looked as if it could not make up its mind how to look. Hair neither dark nor light, like mud, the skin like lighter mud. The eyes also were the color of mud, but not dull, bright."

"That I saw also," the injured gnome said. "The eyes were too bright. Brown but with a red underlay. I did not like the eyes. Sidhe with such bright looks are still tasting guilty pleasures and looking for innocent victims." He looked uneasily at Pasgen and went on hurriedly, "Not evil. Mostly Bright Court Sidhe are not evil, but they are careless and indifferent. What does not seem harmful to them causes us to lose face among our own people. No. I did not like those eyes at all. I was telling the Sidhe to go away, that we did not want its work—but it began to laugh and it let loose a small swarm of those black things."

"Rumgunter died," the first gnome said, eyes filled with tears and an unbelieving sound to his voice. "One of those things leapt on him and seized his ear. I thought little of it. I leaned down to brush it off his ear and he was cold and white—drained. I should have been quicker."

"You were quick enough to save me," the gnome who was missing an ear said. "I saw what happened, but I did not understand. When another leapt on me and seized my ear, I tried to pull it off. I was half dead before Hardgrumble drew his knife and cut off my ear."

A third gnome now climbed up on the earthwork. Pasgen noticed that he was careful where he set his feet. "The thing that killed Rumgunter had grown very large," he said. "I made the mistake of striking it with my hammer. I thought it would squash like a spider. But you saw what happened."

"You could not know," Hardgrumble said. "But iron kills them. When I cut off Gosfarri's ear, I cut the sucking thing too and it folded up like an emptied bladder. Only they are so fast that I only struck one other. The others rushed away in all directions."

"Sweet Mother," Hafwen breathed. "Are you overrun by the things? Shall I go back to Avalon and try to gather up a troop to come here and use levin bolts to clear your hold?"

"A kind thought lady, but we are managing on our own very well." The gnome that had first thrown his ax at Pasgen turned to Hafwen and made a little bow; he did not look particularly pleased with the idea of Bright Court Sidhe throwing levin bolts around. "I am headman here; my name is Tomtreadle. There is a black oil that gathers in deep seams of rock in the mortal world. It burns. It burns most fiercely. When the things try to reach us—" he showed his teeth "—they burn. Only a few are left. One you lured out and killed. When you are gone, we will deal with the few that still lie in wait."

"But . . . but the one who loosed this curse? Where is he?" Pasgen asked.

He was not at all sure what answer he wanted. If the Evil he and Hafwen were chasing was still here and there was no other Gate they might have trapped it. But if it could loose more of those monstrosities, Pasgen was not at all sure he could defeat it.

"Gone." Tomtreadle shook his head. "I struck the Evil Sidhe on the feet with my stone hammer and it screamed and reached for me. I fell back and suddenly there was a rush of light. I was blinded."

"As were all of us," the redoubtable Hardgrumble said. "Those things could have killed us, but none leached onto us while we were helpless. It was as if they were frozen by whatever caused the light. And they did not come out from where they had hidden at once, so we were able to learn that fire destroys them as well as iron."

"We never saw more than that one flash of light. When we had vision again, the Evil was gone," Gosfari said.

"May I walk through your village?" Hafwen asked. "I will come alone and I am unarmed, except for my knife." She touched the hilt of a thin blade in an elaborate sheathe. "I wish to make sure that the Evil is not hidden somewhere."

There was a tense silence. The three gnomes who had been on the redoubt dropped down behind it. Pasgen's lips thinned, but all he did was to sit down on the Gate platform. In a few moments, the gnome called Tomtreadle climbed over the barrier. He did not cross the area between the redoubt and the Gate but stood waiting. Hafwen drew a short breath, exchanged a glance with Pasgen, and set out toward him. A very faint blue light glimmered on her fingers, but nothing attacked her and she reached Tomtreadle without trouble.

He made a brief bow to Hafwen and said, "I will lead you, but I warn you that there is iron on the way."

There was, indeed, iron of every sort—pots, pans, griddles, flatirons, knives, and spearheads—lying on the ground between the earth barrier and the first small houses of the village. Hafwen shivered as she made her way through what was clearly meant to be a barrier to the evil spawn. Indeed she saw a number of what looked like very ugly black bags with fringed bottoms lying here and there and a multitude of dead black spiders.

She had to set her teeth against the ache the iron waked in her, but she was not sensitive to iron as she was to evil. Picking her way carefully, she followed Tomtreadle through every street and then around the outer fields and through a small wood. There was, to her intense relief, nothing inimical in the entire hold. Once in the village she hesitated outside a cottage, but after a moment she recognized what she sensed was no more than a curdled nature and a will to do evil; it was nothing like the dreadful malevolence in a Chaos Land that Pasgen had nearly wept over.

Returned to the Gate by her escort, Hafwen said, "Gone. There is nothing evil in the village, not even the disgusting aura those black things cast. And this is a small hold. Only the village, the surrounding fields and that very small woods. I have been through all of them."

"Are you sure?" Pasgen asked, frowning as he watched Tomtreadle climb over the redoubt wall and disappear. "I have been working on this Gate, and it does not seem as if that Thing we are chasing left through here."

"But the gnome, Tomtreadle says this is the only Gate to this hold. They like to keep a close watch on who comes here."

Pasgen shook his head. "Yet it seems as if no one left through this Gate for any time that the gnomes would have called two or even three sleeps. I do not even have the thread of that Evil coming here. If the Gate we started from had not sent us here and the gnomes confirmed the Evil's arrival I would have found no trace of it here. The Gate shows no use until our coming."

"Nonetheless, it is not in this hold," Hafwen assured him. "Have we lost it altogether?"

"I think so," Pasgen said. "Something powerful created that flash the gnomes spoke of and wiped out all signs of our quarry."

"Apurpose?"

He sighed heavily. "I fear so. I fear the flash-maker has in some way joined forces with the Evil Thing. Why else should the traces of memory in the Gate have been destroyed?"

"Joined forces?" Hafwen repeated unbelievingly. "How can anyone join forces with such indiscriminate evil? Surely anyone so strong in magic should realize that it is untrustworthy."

Pasgen shrugged. "The desire for power sometimes wipes out common sense and there is power in that Evil. But we do not need to worry about losing the trail for long. It will burst out again." He bit his lip. "Unfortunately without us on its heels, it will have time for a more complete destruction of its next target."

Hafwen put a hand on his wrist. "Let us go back to Avalon. I will speak to the ladies of the lens. Perhaps one of them can scry for such a Sidhe as the gnomes have described."

"Will the guards at Avalon pass me?" Pasgen asked.

Hafwen tightened her grip on his wrist and smiled. "I am sure they will . . . now."

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Framed