Mercedes Lackey and Roberta Gellis - Ill Met by Moonlight

Ill Met by Moonlight

Cover painting by Larry Dixon

Cover design by Jennie Faries

Hardcover

This is a work of fiction. All the characters

and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real

people or incidents is purely coincidental.

First printing, March 2005

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

Data

Lackey, Mercedes.

Ill met by moonlight / Mercedes

Lackey, Roberta Gellis.

p. cm.

"A Baen Books original"--T.p.

verso.

ISBN 0-7434-9890-9

1. Elizabeth I, Queen of England,

1533-1603--Fiction. 2. Great

Britain--Kings and

rulers--Succession--Fiction. 3.

Great Britain--History--Tudors,

1485-1603--Fiction. 4.

Mythology, Celtic--Fiction. 5.

Princesses--Fiction. I. Gellis,

Roberta. II. Title.

PS3562.A246I45 2005

813'.54--dc22

2004026780

ISBN: 0-7434-9890-9

Roberta Gellis

reproduce this book or portions thereof in

any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

http://www.baen.com

Production by Windhaven Press

Auburn, NH

Electronic version by WebWrights

http://www.webwrights.com

Prologue

The great gold and black banners of King Oberon and Queen Titania flew over the Palace of Avalon

proclaiming to those of the elfhame that the King and Queen were in residence. And none too soon;

never mind that the elves and their Underhill kin lived long and slow lives, those lives still intersected with

the mortals in the World Above, and in that world things were moving, and in directions that were—less

than auspicious. Once again, there were choices to be made, and those choices would resonate Underhill

for centuries to come.

Still, for this moment, Aleneil could only watch and wait, as her elders and superiors set the wheels of

politics and progress in ponderously slow motion. Eirianell, who had been FarSeer in Avalon since

Atlantis disappeared beneath the sea, summoned to her a young mortal servant and bid her go to the

palace and ask Lord Ffrancon if an audience for the FarSeers could be arranged with the King and

Queen. Then, once more, the four FarSeers raised the great lens and looked within.

They looked upon a mortal future far removed from the England of Great Harry's prime. The land of

England in the World Above was dark, not black with horror, but gray with dullness and misery. No

singing and dancing accompanied by hearty cheers bespoke the merriment of a masque. In ale-houses

there was only silence or sullen exchanges where once raucous laughter greeted bright-eyed poets with

overlong hair who stood on tables declaiming verses of varying quality to the left eyebrow or shell-pink

ear of their latest mistress. In a royal court that had once been almost blindingly brilliant with sparkling

gems and garments of rich hues and cloth of silver and gold, there was only drabness. Suits of black, of

gray, of flat, ugly brown bedecked the courtiers, and gowns of the same hues made plain the most lovely

of women, who wore no adornment and kept their eyes always lowered. A young king ruled, fair enough

of face but dour of expression—and of a mind and heart so closed that it permitted no new thoughts

within.

What happened in the World Above was reflected Underhill; it might be slow in coming, but as life and

liveliness drained from the World Above, it would drain from Underhill. Still, the reign of a single king, the

lifetime of a mere mortal, was insignificant—so long as the damage to the World Above was limited to

what was displayed here.

But the trouble was—it would not be limited to the vagaries of a humorless king in love with austerity.

The next vision was worse, but the FarSeers did not flinch, for they had seen this one over and over, ever

since Great Harry had sired his first living daughter. Now black horror ruled the land except for the

terrible red of fires which ate screaming victims—men and woman and occasionally (the FarSeers

moaned in pain as the images crossed the lens, for they never grew accustomed to this) children. Books

burned, too: English Bibles and any other text that raised any question about strict Catholic doctrine and

abject obedience to the pope, no matter how corrupt and venal that leader might be. A dull-haired

woman sat on the throne, her belly bloated, her once-sweet face twisted with misery and determination.

And then the prize—at the end of the storm and the tempest, came the rainbow. Color and life so vibrant

it nearly burst out of the lens into reality. Theaters rose on the banks of the Thames with bright flapping

banners to advise that a play was being given. Music and dancing gladdened the hearts of all. The

presses clanged and rumbled as volumes of poetry and plays and books of theology and wondrous tales

were imprinted for all to read. In the vision were some dark blots—poverty, cruelty, ignorance—but the

FarSeers were aware that this was the human condition and simply accepted them. The mortals had been

granted free will, and with that great gift came the privilege to abuse themselves and others; the point was

to see to it that the bright and goodly things outnumbered the dark and dismal.

And reigning over all of this was the red-haired queen, whose golden eyes were alight with curiosity and

intelligence, and who strove to mold her subjects into a unified nation without making all alike.

Even though the vision was unreal, an ephemeral thing, there came right through the lens a taste and smell

of sweetness of new thoughts, new beauty, vibrant excitement. And in this Vision only, behind the queen,

unmistakably, stood the Sidhe lord, Denoriel Siencyn Macreth Silverhair, and his twin sister, Aleneil

Arwyddion Ysfael Silverhair.

Aleneil, the youngest of the FarSeers, sighed at seeing her image in the lens. "I thought, perhaps, the

mortal world would proceed without our help. I do not know if Denoriel . . ." Her voice faltered, for her

sibling had been sorely injured in protecting the red-haired babe who would be, if she lived, the queen of

the joyous vision. She interlaced the long fingers of her supple hands together, to keep them from

trembling. "It is possible that Denoriel will not be able. The channels through which his powers flow were

burned and Mwynwen does not yet know whether they will heal or how they will heal."

"He must be able," Morwen, the next youngest of the FarSeers said, firmly, as if her own will could

impose wellness upon Denoriel. "You saw what would come if you were not in the Vision. Dullness and

misery we will survive. Other times like that have come and gone. But think what will follow if what is in

the dark-haired queen's womb is born. Will Logres survive? Will Avalon?"

"Patience. Balance." The FarSeer with hair the color of old gold and a gown in the style of Periclean

Athens held up a hand. "Eirianell has already requested an audience. Perhaps the High King has

knowledge we do not." She lifted her hand, and the others rose with her, to fall in behind her. She led the

way with head held high, and every sign of serenity as they bent their path to the High King's palace.

Aleneil wished that she had such serenity—then wondered if it really was composure on the part of their

leader, or only a counterfeit. Aleneil was very young among the Sidhe, to them barely adult; the leader of

the FarSeers was as ancient in mortal years as the style of gown she favored. She had thus had many

years to cultivate a mask of calm repose.

There was no sign of what the FarSeers had read in their lens as they walked beneath the

star-bespangled false-sky, between two rows of towering linden trees, covered with silver-green leaves

and golden flowers. The path beneath them was of soft and springy moss, interrupted only by artistically

placed stones and clumps of violets and bluebells. Ahead of them stood a palace of lacey marble and

alabaster that had changed little over the passing of the years. Avalon looked as it had for countless

centuries, dreaming in an endless, peace-filled blue twilight, as nightingales sang and crickets chirruped.

And unless the High King found some new wisdom, if Denoriel could not take up the task of guarding

and guiding the young Princess Elizabeth Tudor, it all might end in fear and flame.

If Oberon had more knowledge than his FarSeers, he gave no sign of it. He greeted the ladies of the

Visions not in his throne room where the entire Bright Court might listen to them, but in a private

chamber. However, this was no intimate chamber where a king might shed his dignity and speak as an

ordinary being with intimates, or even play for a time. They gathered in a room where gracefully arched

openings in all four walls framed only blank alabaster panels. There were no places save the single door

into it where this chamber was open to the palace or the grounds. This was where a king made

arrangements and gave judgments he had no desire for his entire court to know.

The room looked cool and somehow as if it held apart from what happened within it. The walls were

pale silver, slightly sparkling. There were no windows, which was somehow faintly oppressive, but light,

the soft, silvery twilight of Underhill, suffused the chamber, coming from everywhere and nowhere. The

ceiling was lapis-lazuli; the floor of blue-veined marble. At one end was a dais, and upon that were two

thrones. They were not huge, nor encrusted with gems and ivory and precious almost-living shells as

were the thrones in the Great Hall; these were made of a dark, shining wood twisted into strange

seemings as if it had grown that way. The High King sat in one of these thrones, his Queen, Titania, in the

other. Neither throne was larger than the other, mute testimony of their joint rulership, though Oberon

had been High King longer than Titania had been Queen.

Having listened to the Visions of the FarSeers, High King Oberon leaned slightly forward toward them.

Dark eyes—a black that somehow glowed—fixed on the four women who stood before the throne.

They knew him of old, of course, but even so each stared in wonder at him. Power pulsed in him as if

barely held in check, and he was beautiful . . . All Sidhe were beautiful, but Oberon was . . . different.

His hair grew from a deep peak on his forehead and swept back in gleaming black waves, the points of

his ears showing through, enough to mark him as of elvenkind, if his beauty were not enough. His brows

were equally black and high-arched over the fathomless eyes. In contrast his skin was white, not pallid

and sickly, but with the hard, high gloss of polished marble.

He towered over all other Sidhe, and not by enchantment. Physical strength almost immeasurable was

his, and formidable muscles in shoulders and thighs strained the black velvet tunic and black silk hose he

wore. He was all in black, only lightened by silver piping on every seam and the silver bosses on his belt

and on the baldric that usually supported the long sword which now leaned against his throne.

"You know I cannot do what you ask," he said. "I am High King of all the Sidhe—Seleighe and

Unseleighe alike. If I favor the Seleighe over the Unseleighe, the Unseleighe could rightfully deny my right

to rule. I do not say their rebellion would be successful—it would not. But I would know that I had been

unfaithful to my trust, and my power would be lessened. And they, feeling restrained and persecuted

Underhill, would meddle more and more in the mortal world so that in the end we might be exposed for

what we are."

"But if the Inquisition comes to England, it will rip and tear until Underhill is exposed anyway. Remember

El Dorado and Alhambra." Eirianell met the black eyes with calm. She had known those who wielded

power enough to sink a continent and dared reason with King Oberon.

But he showed no anger, only smiled and then said, "If. There are three futures. When we know more, I

will examine my constraints more closely."

"But I have no such constraints," Titania said, her green cat-pupilled eyes glowing with challenge.

Her voice was sweet and rich as warm honey and her presence was the bright contrast to her husband's

dark power. Titania was a wonder even to those she ruled. The Queen's lineage was pure High Court,

Seleighe elven, except that she was even taller than most male Sidhe. Her body was, of course, perfectly

perfect. Her hair was a rich gold, elaborately dressed in a high confection of tiny braids and curls, which

showed off her ears; they were delicately shell pink, almost transparent—but the pointed tip of one ear

was bent, which tiny imperfection made her somehow more perfect.

Oberon turned his head toward her, but he did not speak. Aleneil, who always watched the High King of

the Sidhe as a doomed bird watches a snake, caught a fleeting glance from his dark eyes. She saw, or

thought she saw, a kind of satisfaction in that glance. However, in the next instant there was nothing to be

seen in Oberon's eyes but an avid sensual hunger, perhaps heightened by Titania's defiance.

The Queen's eyes glowed a bright, pure emerald, brilliant pools deep enough to fall into and drown. Her

lips were pale rose, and through the ethereal light violet and white silk robes she wore, she looked . . .

translucent, as if she were lit from within. The tip of Oberon's tongue flicked over his lower lip. Titania

smiled.

"I desire greatly to see the red-haired child grow up to rule Logres," she said defiantly. "Do you forbid

me, my lord?" The smile had not faded from her lips and her eyes, if anything, were brighter, almost

casting visible sparks.

"No . . ." Oberon drew out the word and at last looked away from his queen toward the FarSeers. "I do

not forbid, only caution. Do not act in your own person, my lady, and keep your favor for the red-haired

queen secret." He shook his head before Titania could protest. "I say that more for her sake than for

yours. She already attracts our Dark kin's regard; the attention of our Queen might well tempt them

beyond caution."

Titania rose from her seat and Oberon rose too, more slowly. She gestured at the FarSeers. "I will see

you ladies anon."

Chapter 1

The imp skittered sideways. Although it stood upright on its hind legs, it was no bigger than a mouse and

looked much like one, with a round little body, and four thin legs and a long naked tail—except that it

was bright red and quite naked. It had little beady black eyes, large round ears, and a pointed muzzle

from which sharp little teeth peeked. Those sharp teeth and equally sharp, overlarge, claws on stick-thin

front and rear limbs, from which a sick yellow-green slime oozed, curbed any desire to laugh in the one

to whom the imp was squeaking. It might be small—but size was no measure of how deadly a thing was,

especially Underhill. Most especially when the thing was Unseleighe.

Pasgen Peblig Rodrig Silverhair frowned and moved a finger just as the imp leapt toward him, and the

creature squalled and made a convulsive movement to retreat. It was held suspended midair, its struggles

quickly subdued as if a heavy, invisible blanket had been wrapped around it.

If anything, the creature looked more comical than before, hanging helpless as it was, squirming and

writhing. However there was another, more pressing reason not to laugh than the imp's poisoned claws,

which in any case had been neutralized for now. It carried a summons from Prince Vidal Dhu.

Pasgen did not frown, but he was—perturbed. Prince Vidal Dhu. Vidal summoning him. For the past

four years Vidal had been hanging between life and death, saved from perishing of iron poisoning only by

his healers, who, themselves constrained by blood oaths, died draining the poison out of his blood. Now

it seemed that Vidal had at last recovered enough to emerge from hiding. And he should not have been

able to find Pasgen.

"So Prince Vidal wants me," Pasgen murmured. "How interesting." His frown grew blacker, and he

raised his eyes to stare at the little monster. "How did you find me?"

The imp squeaked "Let me go. Let me go. Prince Vidal will punish you if you harm me."

The invisible blanket tightened around it. It tried to struggle, could not. The power that held it tightened

more. A despairing squeal contained the word "Token."

"Give it to me," Pasgen said, the edge of command in his voice.

The creature's mouth opened and it disgorged a small, coiled object, wet with slime. An immaterial hand

slid through the field that englobed the imp, seized what it had vomited and carried it toward Pasgen. As

it approached, he could sense the drumming beat issuing from it, a drumming that perfectly matched the

beating of his own heart.

Another gesture with one finger and the imp was dead, crushed to a formless lump of red, mottled and

streaked with green-yellow gore. The force that held it then carried the mess outside to be consumed by

the things that scavenged Pasgen's gardens. Its death had been quick, too quick for the creature even to

squall. Pasgen could not allow anything that knew the location of his private domain to live, but all the

years of Vidal's training had not been able to teach him to enjoy pain. He could be vicious when

necessary, but he was never cruel just for amusement.

Cleaned and dried by other invisible forces, the brown scrap was clearly preserved skin attached to a

thin layer of flesh. His own skin and flesh, Pasgen knew, from the vibration of congruence. He stared at

it, appalled. He had always been careful about hair clippings and nail parings, making sure to burn them.

And all the while Vidal Dhu had his skin and flesh. When and how had Vidal obtained so powerful a

token? More important, was this the only one the Black Prince had? And now what was he supposed to

do with it?

Pasgen held out his hand and the scrap of brown leather was laid upon it. Pasgen closed his hand. He

was immediately aware of a feeling of constriction. He opened his hand again; it was trembling. If he

could not close his hand on the thing without feeling choked, what would happen to him if he tried to

destroy it? Had Vidal known he would kill the imp? Had Vidal hoped he would kill himself too, unaware

of the token?

Nonsense, he told himself. He had not been aware of any sense of confinement when the token was

inside the imp. Most likely it was only because he knew he was closing his hand over it that he felt closed

in. Nonetheless panic still rose in him at the thought the token might fall into anyone else's hands. Yet if he

could not test its properties himself, who could he trust to touch it?

That question was answered before it was quite complete in Pasgen's mind, and the answer calmed and

simultaneously raised a new wave of panic in him. His twin sister Rhoslyn could be trusted to know about

the token and to test its effect on him, but if Vidal had a token from him, it was all too likely that the

prince had one or more from Rhoslyn also. He had to warn her—not that he knew what good a warning

would do . . . or would it be worse if she knew?

Pasgen rose from the stark white chair on which he had been sitting, his hand held carefully in front of him

. . . and stood irresolute—a condition that had not afflicted him for many, many years. Should he go to

Rhoslyn at once or should he first go to Caer Mordwyn and discover what Vidal wanted?

What Vidal wanted. Pasgen brought his skittering thoughts to bear on that. The fact that Vidal was able

to want anything was another shock. Pasgen cursed softly, his eyes on the token lest it fall to the floor.

He had been inexcusably careless, assuming as the years passed that Vidal would die or remain a

near-inanimate hulk.

Pasgen himself had recovered in two years from the wound he had received in the battle waged against

his half-brother and half-sister and their Seleighe allies. But he had only been scraped by a passing

elf-shot; not exactly harmless, but nowhere near as deadly as Cold Iron to one of the Sidhe. Vidal had

been shot with a bullet from FitzRoy's mysterious gun.

Well, FitzRoy was dead. He would shoot no one again. Pasgen's lips twisted. And if someone had to be

shot by a mortal, Vidal surely deserved it more than anyone else. Unfortunately it seemed that Vidal had

survived with enough mind and will to demand his presence . . .

Or was it unfortunate?

The idea that had come to Pasgen seemed to lift an enormous weight from his heart, and it removed his

indecision. He would go to Rhoslyn, warn her about the token, and leave his with her—obviously he

could not carry it with him to Caer Mordwyn. It would be safe with Rhoslyn; more to the point, it would

be safe being guarded by the creatures his sister had set about her to ensure her own safety. Pasgen

shuddered gently as he thought of the big-eyed, childlike girl constructs with their wire-thin fingers that

could be gentle as a butterfly or cut right through flesh and bone. They guarded Rhoslyn's domain every

bit as efficiently as his own burly male guardians—better, perhaps, because invaders were prone to

underestimate them.

He looked down at the scrap of skin and flesh in his hand and went to the black lacquer desk under the

window. The top was glass-smooth, the surface clear except for the low gold-wire stand holding three

thin gold pens. No design marred the perfect surface of the drawers on each side of the kneehole. Only

absolutely plain pulls—octagonal bars of pure shining gold—were fastened to the face of each drawer.

Pasgen opened the middle drawer on the left-hand side of the desk with his free hand. It held a variety of

boxes of different sizes and materials. He removed a small tortoise-shell square from the front of the

drawer, struggled for a while to open it single-handed, and then, grimacing—because he was reluctant to

have even his near-mindless and totally enslaved servants in the vicinity of that token—moved away and

summoned an invisible servant to separate top and bottom.

He bade the servant clean the box and then dismissed it. After a moment, he drew a deep breath,

deposited the token inside the box, and closed it. For a while he stood with his eyes closed, just

breathing deeply and evenly. Finally he opened his eyes and looked around at the white leather chairs

and settles, the black-framed chairs for visitors (not that he ever had any), the black lacquer side tables

and low, central table, the black and white tiled floor.

All were clear and bright. No fog or dullness, as if he were peering out through some obstruction,

obscured his view. It had been his too-active imagination, after all. He uttered a deep sigh, tucked the

box into the bosom of his doublet, and left the house.

Usually Pasgen took his time when he crossed the garden and park in his domain. The beautiful,

symmetrical order of the flower beds, the hedges, the trees with their ordered branches and precisely

placed leaves always soothed him. There was so much disorder in his life, in his mind, in his heart, that

the rigid and mathematical precision of the place was a balm to his spirit.

Today Pasgen merely hurried down the lavender graveled path that branched off the main way, which led

to a stark but plainly marked Gate. That Gate had six exits, all equally unpleasant; two of those six could

be fatal. It was a trap for the unwary, a clever way of disposing of any who thought to spy upon him or

worse, and make a quick getaway. The side path took several turns and even crossed the kitchen garden

before it petered out. A few steps beyond the little square that seemed the termination of the path, two

slender white-barked saplings stood about two feet apart, exactly like similarly paired birch trees all

along the path. Pasgen stepped between them, and was gone.

He emerged in a narrow alley that led to a quiet back street from which one could hear the sounds of a

busy market. The alley was empty, as it had always been since Pasgen cast an aversion spell on it. The

two doors that had once opened into the alley were boarded up. The street beyond the alley was not

always empty; only a little of the aversion spell leaked into it, but people using it had a tendency not to

linger and those whose houses backed on it tended to use their front doors. Today the street as well as

the alley was empty, and Pasgen strode toward the sound of the market.

It was not large, an open area perhaps three or four streets square, but then the merchants were

diminutive, the tallest coming only to Pasgen's elbow, so each booth did not take up much space. The

customers, however, were of all sizes, many of them Sidhe, and a few even larger folk, which made the

market seem very crowded. Pasgen did not mind at all. He slowed his pace to a shopping stroll and was

soon indistinguishable from the many other Sidhe. Seleighe, or Unseleighe? There was no telling. Anyone

who came here was careful to make his—or her—costume as neutral as possible.

He even stopped at a booth displaying a wide variety of amulets. Most were simply small carved figures

of everything and anything, even of every religious symbol—the Christian cross, the Moslem crescent, the

Hebrew six-pointed star, and the symbols of every pagan god Pasgen knew . . . and a number that he

did not recognize. Curiously, he touched the cross.

"Fine work," the little brown merchant said. "Won't burst if you put a spell on it. Sold a lot of them. Seem

to like love spells they do. Seen them glow a little with a love spell."

The little man had an inordinately long and pointed nose that drooped a bit toward his long and slightly

upturned chin. His ears were too large, the lobes hanging a bit below his chin and his hair was thin and

scraggly. Pasgen shook his head but smiled and took up four anonymous-looking ovals, a wooden rose,

a ceramic coiled serpent with lifted head, a leaping horse of bone, and a glass Sidhe head, with open

eyes and mouth, that clearly split apart just behind the pointed ears to hold something small.

"How much?" Pasgen asked, reaching for his purse. He spoke in the common trade-tongue used in every

marketplace Underhill that was not large enough to have a universal translating spell.

"Gold I have, master," the gnome replied in the same language. "Bespell for me an amulet and you will

have paid."

"Or overpaid," Pasgen said, still smiling, but with his voice turned hard. "What kind of spell?"

"Sleep. That should be easy enough for you, master."

It was easy. Pasgen looked down at the table, saw several more charming or frightening figures. "For

what I have in my hand, one use," he said. "If you want an amulet that will always bring sleep . . ."

Suddenly he realized that very few Sidhe were capable of creating such a spell. To do so would mark

him in the gnome's memory. He shook his head. "I cannot do that," he said, "but for five uses . . ." He

narrowed his eyes as if considering what he had offered. "Yes, for five uses, I will take these—" he

marked the amulets with his finger "—as well as what I have in my hand."

The gnome protested and bargained. Pasgen allowed himself to be divested of three of the amulets he

had marked because to fail to chaffer would also mark him as unusual; however, he was growing

impatient and finally made as if to throw down the amulets he was holding and walk away. That brought

the gnome to heel and he accepted Pasgen's last offer of the five-times spell for the handful of amulets.

"Which shall I bespell for you?" Pasgen asked, about to pick up any amulet the gnome indicated.

Instead the little brown creature pulled a box from under the counter and opened it. Inside was a very

plain oval, lightly inscribed with a small tree entwined with a clinging vine. When Pasgen picked up the

amulet, it was blood warm in his hand, but it was the material of which it was made, not magic that

warmed it. He bent his head and began to murmur. He could see the gnome straining to listen but ignored

him. He doubted the creature could make his harsh and scratchy voice sound the liquid vowels and sweet

tones of the elven-mage-tongue.

"So." Now Pasgen was in a hurry, and he dropped the amulet back in its box. "You can give the amulet

to the person you want to wear it all the time, or you can lay it on that person's forehead or breast at the

time you want the person to sleep. Then, to invoke, you say 'Minnau ymbil' and when you want the

person to wake, you say 'Deffro deffroi.'"

"And to whom do I complain if the spell doesn't work?" the gnome growled as Pasgen picked up the

amulets for which he had bargained.

Pasgen started to turn away, but then hesitated and said, "Cry for justice to Vidal Dhu at Caer

Mordwyn."

"Vidal Dhu is dead," the gnome protested. "You know we are between the Bright Court and the Dark

and we had that news from both sides."

"Oh, no," Pasgen said, with a lifted eyebrow. "Then I give you a gift, along with the price of the amulets. I

assure you he is alive and well and will be holding court at Caer Mordwyn ere long—but the spell will

work. Never fear it."

And he slipped away, weaving skillfully among the booths and the customers. Actually he made two

rounds of the market in random fits and starts until he began to move into less crowded areas and finally

slipped behind a booth displaying very small gardening implements. There he waited rather patiently,

considering his urge to continue to his goal, but he neither heard nor felt any magic. Finally he took out

the amulet of the snake and sang to it the spell that opened a small, one-passage Gate.

Clutching the amulet in his hand, he walked away from the market into the narrow streets of the town.

The houses were hardly higher than his head and after some random turns and crossings, he could see

that no one was following him. Then he walked directly out of town until the open ground that faced him

blended into a formless mist. He invoked the Gate and stepped through, although if he had not known

that he had passed through a Gate, he could easily have believed he was still in Gnome Hold.

Here, however, the mists were not formless. They swirled and twisted, retreating from him and then

billowing toward him as if an erratic wind blew. Only there was no wind. Pasgen set out into the chaos

with a steady step. As he went, he turned his head sharply to sniff in a wisp of mist that was passing his

shoulder. A sharp scent, but not unpleasant.

A little later, he stuck out his tongue to taste a cloud that had formed directly in front of him—and that

was sweet, decidedly sweet. Pasgen smiled and began to draw into himself some of the energy Rhoslyn

might have used to create a construct. By the time he came to the Gate he had sensed at about the

middle of this Unformed land, he had restored all the power he had used to create the gnome's amulet

and build his Gate.

The Gate in the Unformed land took him to another busy hold, the next to a dead elfhame. Pasgen did

not linger nor leave the Gate. He turned his back on the crumbling hall and averted his eyes from the

encroaching "garden" of viciously snapping "plants" and putrescent flowers. Fortunately, this Gate had

three unused settings. Quickly, he willed a new terminus in another Unformed domain where he built

another Gate that, at long last, deposited him at the edge of Rhoslyn's holding.

As always he sighed, mingled exasperation and appreciation, because the scene before him was both

untidy and, somehow satisfying. There were no long, perfect vistas; the view was broken by little ponds

around which there were patches of trees, then meadows cropped smooth by dainty sheep. Sheep?

What were sheep doing in an Unseleighe domain? When the Dark Court wanted mutton, they engaged in

a riotous hunt on mortal flocks, left grazing injudiciously too near a Stone Circle, a Standing Stone, a

Barrow, or some other passage into Underhill. Pasgen shook his head. Not that they often did such a

thing, at least, not for the meat. Venison, boar, and pheasant were more like to grace the tables of

elvenkind. Or peacock and antelope, had anyone a taste for the exotic.

Beyond was a patch of woodland from which emerged a babbling brook following a wavering course

over stones of every size and shape. He sighed again as he invoked the minor spell that would in effect

give him seven-league boots and take him in three steps to Rhoslyn's castle. A castle . . . Again he shook

his head. It was a mortal child's dream, that place; a fairy-tale castle with pretty towers and turrets and

bright flags snapping in the nonexistent breeze.

His last step took him to the drawbridge over the moat—the shining, clear moat in which one could see

large, bright-colored fish swimming. That was new. The moat used to look like a moat in mortal lands, or

one in Unseleighe Underhill—muddy, green with algae, and clogged with razor-sharp swamp grass. It

had never held golden fish with trailing fins before. Those were Seleighe things. If Vidal saw . . . If Vidal

had a token and found Rhoslyn's domain and saw what looked too much like a Bright Court palace, he

would tear it apart and break Rhoslyn's heart.

Pasgen swallowed hard, clenched his jaw, and reminded himself that—that was then, this is now. Vidal

would do no such thing. Pasgen knew he had been close to matching Vidal's power before the disaster,

and he had spent his years in learning new magic and finding new sources of power, while Vidal had been

lying insensate, unable to learn or do anything. Vidal could do nothing to harm Rhoslyn that he, himself,

could not counter . . . unless Vidal had also spent the years in growing stronger. And how could he?

Surely the time had passed in weakness and pain.

As Pasgen set his foot on the first step of the portico that enclosed the castle door, it opened and two of

Rhoslyn's constructs barred the way, standing and watching him. He was surprised. All of Rhoslyn's

constructs knew him and all had been instructed to let him pass without hindrance.

"Who are you?" one of the constructs asked. "What do you want here?"

"I am Pasgen Peblig Rodrig Silverhair," he replied. "I am Lady Rhoslyn's brother and I have free passage

into the lady's home. Are you new-made that you do not know me?"

It was impossible to tell one of Rhoslyn's constructs from another, except by the ribbons around their

necks. They all looked like starveling girl children with huge eyes and small mouths. But those pursed lips

could open wide as a lion's maw and show teeth that were as long and pointed as any wolf's. And the

long, thin fingers on their sticklike arms . . . Pasgen had seen those fingers slice up an ogre as if he were a

cheese.

For a long moment the constructs stared at each other in silence and Pasgen began to debate in his mind

whether he could destroy them before they wounded him . . . and what his sister might do to him if he

destroyed her toys.

Then Rhoslyn was there, stepping out of a shadow as if she had been conjured.

"Pasgen," she said, and looked at her constructs. "What ails you? Do you not know my brother?"

"Yes, lady," the girl with the yellow ribbon whispered, flexing her hands, "but this one is not the same. He

has two hearts."

As Denoriel passed through the door to Aleneil's house, he wondered whether Elfhame Avalon was not

just a bit too open to passersby. Elfhame Logres was open too—the gardens, woods, and meadows, but

the palace Llachar Lle had defenses. Even his own apartment inside the palace had a door that would

exclude any who had not been sealed into its memory.

Of course with the Academicia in Avalon where most of the Magus Majors lived and worked, an inimical

intruder would not last long. Not to mention what King Oberon and Queen Titania could do should

anyone be foolish enough to invade the place . . .

Denoriel found himself smiling, and relaxed; he was being foolishly protective. Surely he did not need to

Mercedes Lackey and Roberta Gellis - Ill Met by Moonlight

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