Denoriel was not simply able to say "Good night," to FitzRoy and leave, as agreed with Norfolk. Even though he had taken the precautions of looking in the cupboards and under the bed—in fact anywhere a frightened little boy could believe a person might conceal himself, when he gave the boy a last hug and turned away, FitzRoy burst into tears. His guards tried to intervene—not, of course, the same guards who had been at the garden gate—these two knelt and assured the boy that they would guard his door with their lives. On the whole, the poor child had been amazingly brave up to this point; small wonder that he gave vent to his feelings now. One, at least, of these guards must have had a young child of his own; without losing a particle of his deference, he looked into FitzRoy's eyes, and redoubled his assurance that the boy was safe.
What about the windows? Denoriel thought. He had come through a window. More uneasiness rose in him when he recalled how soundly the guard had slept when he had visited FitzRoy's rooms the previous night. Doubtless these men would be more alert tonight because of the aborted attempt on the child's life, but the killers had not been found and might make another attempt. If they were hiding somewhere in the palace and still had the sleep spell, these guards might be no more successful at protecting FitzRoy than the first pair.
So Denoriel lifted FitzRoy in his arms and promised to stay until Harry was completely sure it was safe. That stemmed the tears; the guards were relieved and made no protest, and Denoriel hoped that Norfolk would never learn how far his permission to accompany FitzRoy to his room had been stretched. At least FitzRoy's nurse, who Denoriel suspected knew more than most others, would not inform the duke. She smiled and nodded a welcome.
FitzRoy was soon in bed, but Denoriel made no move to leave. In fact he climbed the steps and sat down beside the child. Although he had no real presentiment of danger, no sense, as he had had the previous night, of approaching evil, he felt incomplete, uneasy, as if there were something he should do and had not. He spoke softly to FitzRoy, assuring him of protection—and with the words he knew one thing, at least, that he could do for the boy's safety.
The nurse had moved to the other side of the room where she was examining clothing and dividing what needed to be laundered from what could be used again. Denoriel whispered two words and FitzRoy's eyes closed. Then he closed his own eyes and sought for the thin white lines of power in the diffuse cloud that floated everywhere Overhill. He drew a sharp breath as he drew one to him and the line of light seared his power channels; then he put the pain aside and began to build a shell of protection around the sleeping boy.
When he was done he sighed with satisfaction although he felt as if thin streams of fire were burning within him. Still, the pain of his body was worth the peace in his mind. No one would be able to touch FitzRoy and no spell would penetrate that barrier. Until the child woke in the morning and got out of bed, he would be invulnerable. Denoriel rose and went to the nurse.
"I've got him asleep," he murmured. "Please don't touch him or speak to him so that he wakes. Let him sleep off his fright. By the morning it will be far away, more of an excitement than a terror."
"Certainly, m'lord," the woman agreed. Then tears filled her eyes. "Who was it, m'lord? Who could be such a monster as to wish to hurt so sweet a child?"
He heard his voice roughen with anger. "If I knew, I would hunt them down, and you may be sure they could never try to harm him again. Alas, there were two and aside from seeing that they both had black hair and dark eyes, I was too busy looking at their swords to look at their faces. Surely there are many who match that description, and men that are black of hair and dark of eye could be of any nation."
The nurse nodded, though he noticed that she narrowed her eyes in thought at his minimal description. "Of course, m'lord. God bless you for saving him."
Denoriel nodded and patted her on the shoulder. Outside the apartment, he headed down the stair. Everyone knew him now and all the guards he passed acknowledged him with nods and smiles. As he crossed the great front hall, a servant hurried to meet him and ask if he wished a mount and an escort to be brought from the stable to take him as far as the gate. Denoriel accepted and within the half hour was at the gate, where a whistle and a mental "come" brought Miralys from the copse. The groom that had accompanied him widened his own eyes at that.
Remounted, he rode west along the road that surrounded the palace as if he had been coming from London in the southeast so that he would have passed the postern gate and the garden with the pond. He had no particular destination, but turned south on the nearest road, which took him, just as dusk was falling, to the small town of Winkfeld. There to his relief he found a decent inn. He took Miralys to the stable himself, and when the ostler showed surprise and approached to remove the "horse's" saddle, Miralys threatened him with teeth and hooves.
Denoriel laughed. "He will let you fill his manger and the pan for oats and bring water, but if you try to touch him or his gear . . ."
"Never mind, m'lor'!" the man said, goggling at the elvensteed. "I can reckon well enough!"
Denoriel laughed again. "As you can imagine, I find it quite safe to leave him anywhere." He flipped the man a coin. "Here. Warn anyone away from him if you will. I am tired of threats and complaints when he turns on fools who won't leave him be."
The common room was bearable, at least no worse than those he visited in London with George Boleyn and his friends. The rushes on the floor were not trodden into a slimy mass stinking with decaying food and spilled ale and wine, and the tables, if stained, were not wet and filthy. He ordered ale from the landlord who sat behind a counter that protected the barrels of wine and beer, and then went to sit at a table back in the shadows.
It was a relief that the place was tolerable. Denoriel knew he would have to wait until dark before he could ride back past Windsor to that copse at the crossroad. And he still had no idea of how to protect FitzRoy for tomorrow and tomorrow . . .
As he sat waiting for his ale, a new and horrible result of the attack on FitzRoy occurred to him. Until now neither he nor Aleneil, who was making her own contacts among the Queen's women and the few noble ladies who had leave to attend the court, had detected any Unseleighe interest in FitzRoy. Certainly there was no trace of Rhoslyn and Pasgen around Norfolk or Windsor. Denoriel could only hope they were ignoring the boy, thinking him of no account.
Possibly their Seeing had been somewhat different than that Aleneil and her teachers had. And, of course, Vidal Dhu and his FarSeers would have been concentrating on the second vision, the coming of the Inquisition, in which the Princess Mary was so prominent. Doubtless Rhoslyn's and Pasgen's first purpose would have been to make "friends," as he had made "friends," so that they could occasionally be near the girl to be sure all was well with her. They might not have learned immediately about FitzRoy's elevation. It was not impossible that Mary's servants, trying to ignore a threat they could do nothing about, did not mention the boy. And it was actually likely, seeing that he represented an indiscretion on the part of the Queen's beloved husband, would never mention FitzRoy under any circumstances at all.
Denoriel's lips thinned. Not all of Mary's servants or supporters were ignoring FitzRoy. When Harry had related the attack on him to Norfolk, he had again mentioned how one of the men called his boat "una barca." Although he tried to hide it from the boy, to Denoriel's eyes the duke had been visibly disturbed, cursing the Spanish under his breath. Later he had said something to the steward and the guard from the front gate about the assassins probably having gained entrance and escaped by hiding themselves among Mendoza's entourage. Next time he came, Norfolk ordered, he was to come in alone; his army of guards could wait outside.
One tiny mouse-hole plugged. Denoriel was reasonably sure that no other direct attack on FitzRoy would be attempted. What he feared was far more insidious. Pasgen could take on the seeming of anyone; he could even mimic the duke himself. Oh, not for long. The duke's servants and guards would soon know something was wrong, but Pasgen would only need a quarter of an hour. In that guise he would be able to approach FitzRoy, dismiss the boy's guards . . .
Suddenly Denoriel froze, smelling/sensing/recoiling within from something burning cold, inimical. Shifting his eyes cautiously first to the door of the inn and then over all the others within, he sought the source of the evil. But no one new had entered. Had one who had been there recognized him and now was seeking to seize him? There were not many. Two old men on a settle near the low-burning fire, two men dressed as drovers near the doorway so they could look out and keep an eye on their beasts, three or four men back near the far wall of the inn crouched over a table.
None of those was even looking at him, but the terrible hot/cold was approaching. The barmaid? Denoriel could hardly believe his eyes, but the woman was the only one coming closer. Denoriel slid his stool back so he could spring to his feet without catching his thighs under the table. His hand drifted down to his sword hilt. He could not imagine what would happen when he plunged that silver sword into a seemingly innocent woman just doing her ordinary work . . . And then he saw it!
Around the barmaid's throat was a black ribbon, and from that ribbon hung a black cross—long as Denoriel's thumb, its cross arms just the right width for a graceful form, and thick as a sliver of wood—not steel but a cross of true cold iron. It was not, of course, the cross that affected Denoriel—that symbol only warded off creatures of true evil—it was the cold iron. Now that he knew what had affected him, he was able to brace himself to bear the discomfort. It would do him no harm unless he actually touched it or tried physically to force the girl . . .
Denoriel's thoughts stopped dead and then began to race. "That is a beautiful cross," he said to the barmaid as she set the mug of ale down on the table.
She smiled at him. " 'Tis 'tisn't it? M'brother made it. He's blacksmith here."
She lifted it in her hand held it out as she spoke so Denoriel could see it better. He cringed back against the wall, shaking his head.
"I've trouble seeing things near-at-hand," he said, swallowing hard. "Makes it cursed hard to read—but then, what's a clerk for but to read to a gentleman, eh? Do hold it away from me so I can better see it."
Evidently the barmaid had heard of folk with the long-sight. She smiled agreeably. "Ay, there's those as can't see what isn't right by their noses and there's those that's arms ain't long enough to hold summat they want to see."
But she drew the cross back the width of the table and Denoriel let out his breath. "Yes, that's a lovely thing. Is it the only one your brother ever made? Could he make another?"
She looked at him quizzically. "If'n he made one, surely he could do more. Why, d'you want one, sir?"
"Well, yes, I do, but I am only traveling through on my way . . . ah . . . to visit a lady." Now, how to get her to part with this cross, now? "She'd be pleased with such a well-made ornament."
The barmaid cocked her head. "A lady what would be pleased to have a cross like mine? It's only iron, sir, not silver, and sure not the good gold."
"Because it's iron. You know, there are tales of such things holding particular virtue." Denoriel hesitated and then said, "I know this was a gift from your brother, but if you would be willing to part with it and ask him to make you another . . . I would pay well. I've never seen a cross of iron before. I'll . . . I'll give you a golden boy for it."
"Oh, sir!" The barmaid's eyes went wide and she started to reach up to untie the ribbon as if she could not give him the gift quickly enough.
"Wait—" he said. "I don't want to make any trouble in your family. Why don't you run over to your brother and make sure he will not mind your selling a gift he made especially for you."
The girl shrugged, and looked at him as if she thought he was a little simple. "He sells his work all the time, sir. That's how he lives. 'Course he wouldn't mind! 'Nd he ain't in Winkfeld, today. He's in Ripplemore. He won't mind, I swear it."
While she spoke she was struggling to undo the knot in the ribbon and Denoriel was wildly seeking a way to take the cross without seriously injuring himself. Fortunately the knot refused to yield and with several frantic pleas for him to wait, she rushed off to find someone to untie the ribbon.
Meanwhile Denoriel had pulled two large silk kerchiefs out, one from his sleeve, which was for elegance and show, and one from an inner pocket where he kept it for wiping splashes, tying around scrapes, and other mundane chores that arose while keeping company with a six-year-old. He laid them out on the table, folded into generous quarters, the stained one right in front of him and the other near his elbow. And when the woman came running back, breathless with fear that he had changed his mind, he took a golden guinea from his purse and laid it on the table beside the stained kerchief.
"Put it on the cloth, if you please, so that I may do it up for her," he said, gesturing for her to take the coin. "And will you bring me some bread and cheese?" That would get rid of her so that she would not see he didn't dare touch the iron cross.
"Wouldn't you like a whole dinner, sir?" the barmaid urged, tucking the golden coin down between her breasts. "I'll bring you the best, and no cost either."
"No." Denoriel laughed. "There will be a full meal waiting for me at my lady's house. Just the bread and cheese, if you will."
The woman almost ran to the kitchen, drawing the small amount of attention that had turned on Denoriel when he offered for the cross, and he quickly drew the silk over the cold iron. Holding it gingerly so his fingers did not come in contact with the metal, even through the layers of silk, he moved the packet to the other kerchief and covered it even more thoroughly. Finally he transferred the wadded silk to his purse. The worst was over, although he could still feel a kind of bite near his thigh and a general unease from the shielded cross.
Unwilling to wake the smallest suspicion about what he had done, Denoriel slowly ate his bread and cheese—which he noted, grinning inside, had been brought by the landlord; the barmaid had apparently decided to keep well out of sight in case he should change his mind—drank his ale, and finally made his way leisurely out of the inn and back to the stable. Miralys snorted and fidgeted as he neared, but Denoriel entered the stall and told the elvensteed to be quiet.
The ostler walked over, his face mirroring surprise in the light of the lantern he carried. "Be full dark, sir," he said. "When you didn't come right out, I thought you was staying at the inn. Not safe to ride in the dark. Moon's not even up."
What was dark to the ostler was like early evening to Denoriel, but he merely smiled and pretended to check Miralys's girth and the nonexistent bit. "I'm not going far and I know the road. Besides, there's a lady at the end of it," he said, earning a knowing laugh from the ostler, then led Miralys out and mounted.
As soon as they were on the road, he reassured Miralys, who was quivering with anxiety, that the sense of discomfort was not any oncoming danger but the cold iron he was carrying. He could feel the steed's unspoken protest and chuckled.
"I'm not going to keep it," he assured Miralys. "Certs, I could hardly keep it Underhill for long! It's for FitzRoy—he's mortal; cold iron won't bother him. And I'm afraid he'll need it. I think Unseleighe attention will be drawn to him after that attack, and I cannot stay with him day and night. I put a shield on him tonight, but I don't dare trust to shielding which he can't sense and couldn't renew. If the shield failed, all would be lost. But cold iron . . . no one could take him by force if he were carrying cold iron."
Reluctant approval from Miralys. Denoriel sighed and said, "Go around behind Windsor where the gate guards won't see us, Miralys, and let's Gate back Underhill. I can't bring this to FitzRoy tonight. I'd have to break the shield to give it to him and that would be a waste of work and magic."
Once home, he headed for the dining room. "A decent evening meal," he said into the air. "I don't care what."
Instantly a place setting, goblets, a decanter of wine all appeared before his favorite seat, one which permitted him either to look out through the windows at the woods and meadows or call up a clear panel on the far wall that would show the outside corridor. He did neither, staring sightlessly down at the delicate porcelain plate until, a few moments later, he became aware that it was still empty. He looked around, puzzled, and then laughed at himself.
The cold iron, even muffled at it was, was keeping his servitors away. Sighing, he rose and went into the living room. There, he deposited his prize in a shielded box he used to keep odd trinkets he had taken from the victims of the Wild Hunt. They were all things with some feel of power to them, things Koronos said should not be left for others to find but that no one else wished to touch. Nor did anyone else have any suggestions about how to dispose of the objects, so Denoriel, the least affected, kept them.
He looked down at them: an odd little knife, mostly of bone but with an ugly hook and serrated edge of steel; a whistle that had almost defeated the whole Wild Hunt because it sent the dogs howling and groveling in agony and brought all the elvensteeds to their knees; three matched steel coins with sharp edges connected by short thin chain to . . . Denoriel had no idea for what those coins were used, but there was an ugly feeling about them.
Shaking free of the recurring question, he put the well-wrapped cross in the box on top of the lot, and closed it. When he returned to the dining room, his meal was on the table. He began to eat without tasting. There was no doubt that the cold iron cross would keep any lesser Unseleighe creature away from FitzRoy. A determined Sidhe might force him or herself to come near the boy, but to seize him would cost pain, even injury.
That raised another question. He rubbed his thigh, where the ache caused by the shielded cross he had carried in his purse was just beginning to diminish. How could he touch Harry if the boy was wearing the unshielded cross? FitzRoy was used to being hugged; Denoriel shuddered at the thought of pressing Harry to him with that cross hanging on Harry's chest. He could do it if he had to, but . . .
He pointed to his wine goblet, which was refilled, and sipped from it while he pondered the problem. Harry had called him a fairy knight, and was aware that fairies could not abide cold iron. And therein lay his solution. He would only have to tell the child to pull a protective silk pouch over the cross when he arrived. But layers of silk had not been enough to keep the thing from hurting him, though it was merely some discomfort and not real injury; still, he didn't want to wince every time he embraced the boy. Perhaps a magic shield more effective than those he knew would help. Mwynwen might know . . . or Aleneil.
Aleneil first. She would be anxious about what had happened after she sent him off to the mortal world in such a hurry. He gestured at the table, which was instantly cleared, and sent a call to Miralys. Then he went to get the cross. When he opened the box, an aching unease stole out of it like a miasma. Denoriel set his teeth and reached for the cross, then hesitated. If he took that with him as it was, he might upset the patterns of the Gates. Denoriel shook his head. All the Magus Majors in Underhill would be out hunting his hide. He closed the box again and took the whole thing with him.
The FarSeers had their own place within Elfhame Avalon, comprised of the learning place and a number of separate cottages. It was tucked away by itself across wide meadows and buried in a gentle shadowy wood of flowering trees. A narrow grassy path approached it, passed under an archway in the featureless, round, white school building, and opened onto a placid lawn through which ran a very small tinkling stream. A number of cottages were arranged around the lawn; they were indistinguishable one from another, but Denoriel knew that his sister's house was the last to the left when exiting the arch, closest to the woods.
He sent a thought out to her, and the door opened at once. A moment later Aleneil was standing in it, a hand stretched in welcome. Denoriel dismounted, the box firmly clutched under one arm. Miralys dropped his head to the grass of the lawn.
"What happened?" Aleneil asked as she gestured him to come into her sitting room. "I scryed the fight, but who were the men? Why did they try to kill FitzRoy?"
"I'm not sure who the men were, but you were right about them not being Unseleighe, even though they used a sleep spell on FitzRoy's guards. They were purely mortal. Their weapons were steel."
"A sleep spell?" Aleneil echoed, then said, "Sit down, brother, and take some ease. You have had no rest in a long time. Are you hungry?"
It took Denoriel a moment to remember that he had eaten, so distracted had he been during the meal, but he said, "No, I ate at home—though I have not the faintest idea what."
Aleneil nodded acceptance and waved toward the chairs that flanked a well-padded settle. Denoriel sat in one, delicately carved and inset with mother-of-pearl, which luminously gave back the greenish blue of the double-thick soft cushions. He set the box on his lap. Aleneil looked at it, but seemed to decide to put that question aside.
"You said the assassins had a sleep spell?" she said, sinking down into a corner of the settle herself.
Denoriel's lips tightened. "There's a mortal mage involved."
"A mortal mage," she repeated, her expression reflecting distress. "I thought the coming of Christianity, or at least, of all this 'New Learning,' had done away with them. All the years of hunting and burning because some fool wrote down 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' If the witch does no harm, why not?" She sighed and shook her head. "Of course, there still were born those who could become mortal mages. Men and women are born with Talent all the time, but I didn't know anyone would dare train one or that any were strong enough to give a spell to another to use." She tapped her finger on the arm of the settle. "Perhaps one of those men was a mage, himself?"
He shook his head. "I cannot say, except that I think not. Both were too skilled as swordsmen to have spent much time studying magic. And neither tried to use magic on me when we were fighting, nor against FitzRoy. My guess is that they had an amulet with a release word but had no personal knowledge of or trust in magic." He told her about how the ensorcelled men had been tied and gagged, finishing, "And they did wake within a time that I felt was too short for safe completion of the purpose."
His sister frowned a little. "But it would not have been too soon if you had not come. It would not have taken long to drown the boy, perhaps five minutes. Then they would have fled, and the guards would have wakened very soon, all but eliminating the chance that someone would find them asleep."
Denoriel scowled. "Do you really think a human mage could judge the duration of a spell that finely? I cannot."
"I don't know," Aleneil admitted, "but I don't want you to underestimate your opponents. So, you believe that the men were only hire-swords?"
He thought back to his encounter. "Possibly hire-swords, but not, I think, men off the London street. Norfolk seemed to think that they were Spanish and had come in the entourage of the Imperial ambassador, Inigo de Mendosa, and then, after I wounded them, got away by hiding themselves among his numerous guardsmen."
"Spanish." Aleneil shivered gently. "That is from where the Inquisition will come if we do not manage to enthrone our red-haired babe, but why should the Spanish attack FitzRoy?"
So Denoriel told her what George Boleyn had told him about the succession to the throne. When he had explained the importance of a male heir, she sighed and nodded.
"They wish to make sure the path is clear for Princess Mary who, in her innocence and piety will bring in the Inquisition." She shook her head. "Cruel, so cruel! I cannot understand these mortals. But how can you possibly protect FitzRoy from mortal attacks? You cannot be with him constantly."
"I'm no longer much worried about direct or physical attacks." The more he thought about it, the less likely another direct attempt at the boy's life seemed. "I don't think poor FitzRoy will be allowed to enter the jakes alone. He will be better guarded—the men right with him, not standing at a gate some distance away—and the other children will be with him too. And since strong suspicions have already been aroused by this past attempt on him another, even if successful, would be fruitless."
His sister blinked at that. "Why?"
He smiled humorlessly. He grew better acquainted with the machinations of mortals every day. Perhaps, when all this was over, he should consider a position as advisor to the Seleighe king. "Because King Henry would be so outraged that he would likely expel the Spanish from the country and make sure that all Spanish influence is removed from around the princess. She is still young enough to be taught to hate them, specially by her father, whom she admires and loves. And for her mother to try to excuse them . . . What could Queen Catherine say, that the Spaniards murdered her bastard nephew to smooth her daughter's way to the throne?"
Aleneil nodded slowly. "She would soon abhor Spanish influence. I have heard something about her, and apparently she is truly good at heart but narrow of mind. So is young FitzRoy safe?"
Now came the tricksy part. "From death, I hope he is, but more endangered than ever of being stolen away to the Unseleighe Court. Until now, as you said to me, they have overlooked FitzRoy. Mary is the legitimate heir, and Underhill we do not think so little of our women as they do in the mortal world. Unfortunately this attempt on him by the Spanish will point out that they fear him and draw Vidal's attention."
Aleneil interrupted. "But to steal him away would result in the same outrage and suspicion against the Spanish—"
"Not if a changeling was left in his place."
"But how can they make a changeling?" Aleneil asked. "None of them has ever seen FitzRoy, have they?"
"I don't know," Denoriel admitted. "I never felt any touch of the Unseleighe on him, and I know the people who are always around him. But Windsor is a busy place, especially when Norfolk is in residence. Many come and go—those assassins did."
"I see." Aleneil bit her lip. "A changeling! How can you protect him? There is no way you can be constantly in his company. I can help you set a shield that will protect him from being ensorcelled or being fooled by a glamour, but if they simply muffle his cries and carry him away . . ."
Denoriel shook his head and grinned. "I have the answer to that." And he opened the box he had set on his knees when he sat down.
Aleneil gasped and shrank away as far as she could get. "In the name of Dannae, what have you there?"
"Cold iron," Denoriel said, his voice a bit rough despite having braced himself against the baleful influence of the thing. It was hard to believe that it wasn't a thing of evil in and of itself, that it was just that it was poison to his kind. . . .
"Put it away," Aleneil said, somewhat breathlessly. "Why did you bring it here? For what will you use it?"
"This is what will protect FitzRoy," Denoriel said, dropping it back into the box and closing it. "He is mortal. He can wear it without harm or discomfort. But no Unseleighe creature will be able to approach it. A determined Sidhe might seize him, but not for long. The cross was muffled in more than eight layers of silk."
"A cross? I have never been affected by a cross before," Aleneil protested.
"The cross is made of cold iron—pure cold iron without any admixture of any other metal. What I have come for, sister, is help with a shielding spell to muffle it."
Aleneil shook her head. "But if you shield it, it will no longer protect the child."
"The spell will be on a pouch I will provide, a triple-thick, tight-woven silk pouch. I hope the silk will shield the spell from the iron and the spell will shield me from it. Harry is used to being touched by me. He holds my hand and expects me to hug him—and I am glad enough to show him all the affection he wants because he's a sweet child . . . but I cannot touch him if he will be wearing that cross, unshielded."
As he spoke, Denoriel was already envisioning the kind of silk pouch he wanted, the tightness of the weave close enough to make the silk waterproof. He decided on three layers bonded together with the substance the silkworms used to seal their cocoons, which made the silk almost as stiff as wood but more flexible. That bonding substance might even provide additional shielding.
He envisioned the pouch the length and width of the cross then added a touch more space so the cross would slip in easily. But how would it stay in? Denoriel thought of the easiest thing for a still-clumsy child, a simple flap. No, a flap with a hole in it for the gold chain he would provide to go through. When the cross was pulled out, the pouch, still held by the chain, would drop behind, leaving the cross exposed. To ken such a thing was a small matter, easily done.
As he saw it, so it appeared on his hand a little while later. He noticed as he called in and wove power and air and mist from the Unformed places together with atoms of earth from the lawn that he could feel the channels throughout his body as if they were a little bruised. They were not painful now; the power Underhill seemed to soothe away the too-hot lightning power he had drawn into him in the mortal world, but he was aware of them, aware of other things in his body. When he had time, he must speak to a Magus Major . . .
He held out the pouch to Aleneil and she touched it with one finger, then cocked her head to one side. "Is that suitable to a child?" she asked. "That solid black?"
Denoriel sighed at his oversight and fixed his eyes on the silk. Silver and gold threads began to crawl over the surface; then the interstices filled with color. When the pattern was complete, they both smiled. Denoriel had imitated an image he had seen frequently, a sweet-faced woman in a blue mantle with one hand raised in blessing.
"Yes, that's just the kind of thing that would be given to a child," Aleneil said, and began to build a spell, gesturing for Denoriel to follow the creation in her mind.
When she was done, he repeated the process, layering one shield over the other. Then he drew a deep breath and opened the shielded box to lift out the silk-swathed cross. Aleneil rose and withdrew. Denoriel set his teeth and began to unwrap his prize. His teeth were gritted and sweat beaded his forehead by the time he was able to lift the cross by its ribbon and slide it into the prepared pouch.
The violent sickness that had made him think he was going to lose the dinner he couldn't remember was instantly gone. The feeling of malaise, the subtle ache in his bones . . . all gone. Denoriel took a deep breath and called for his sister, who peeked warily around the doorway, then smiled and came in.
"I see we were successful," she said.
He nodded. "I just hope we weren't too successful. You see how I made the pouch so the cross can hang inside it or outside. I was afraid if I just gave the pouch loose to the boy he would lose it. He's only six, after all. Now I am concerned that he will forget to take the cross out again when I leave him."
Aleneil shrugged. "I can bespell you to remind him to take the cross out whenever you leave him. That is no great problem. More important is how you are going to hide the cross from his servants and anyone else who might see him take off his clothing and how you are going to explain to him what it is for, that he needs to put it in the pouch in your presence, and always wear it."
"There will be no need to hide it from his servants. I am not going to give it to Harry directly . . . at least, I hope I will not need to do so. I am going to tell a tale to the duke of Norfolk that will induce him to give the cross to Harry. He need not know that the boy will always wear it because the nurse will not tell him. She is superstitious. If she believes the cross to be a good-luck charm, she will help the boy hide it. For now, that will be enough."