Having delivered Elizabeth's letter to Queen Catherine, Denoriel was at a standstill. The queen had been deeply moved by Elizabeth's plea and had promptly sent a message to Sir Anthony Denny. Graciously, she allowed Denoriel to wait in the hall, and at mid-morning let him know that she had received a reply in which Sir Anthony had promised to visit her soon.
There was nothing more Denoriel could do. To try to see Denny and urge him to attend to Elizabeth's problems would be counterproductive. Sir Anthony liked him, but his suspicions would surely be aroused if both Queen Catherine and Lord Denno suddenly began to press him on Elizabeth's behalf.
Denoriel could have gone Underhill, but there was nothing there to hold his interest. He did remind himself that he should attend some festivities and seek out a willing lady, but the thought caused a decided discomfort in his stomach and a coldness where he should be feeling heat.
Exasperated with himself and the situation, Denoriel made his way to his London house where he was greeted with cautious enthusiasm by Joseph Clayborne, his man of business. Joseph actually ran Denoriel's business, keeping him in touch with the market and what other merchants were doing and saying. Denoriel then often arranged to get cargoes of what was most strongly desired through Seleighe contacts in domains all over Europe and even the Middle East.
Joseph was well aware that there was something very strange, uncanny even, about his master, but he had come to like Lord Denno. He was, moreover, no religious fanatic who felt that one should not suffer a witch to live. Joseph had never seen Lord Denno do any man any harm; contrariwise he had known Lord Denno to be generous and loyal even at some risk to himself.
"M'lord, do you have a moment?" Joseph asked, standing in the doorway of his handsomely appointed office.
"All the moments you want today, Joseph," Denoriel replied, smiling. "The Court is in such disarray with everyone scrambling for a new or better place that no one is willing to speak to me."
"Do you have any news?" Joseph asked. "It would help if I seemed to know what was going on."
"I think, since he holds the king, that Hertford, although I doubt he will be Hertford much longer, will come out atop in the Council. Right after the king died, Sir Anthony told me it was mostly Hertford's plan, although Paget agreed to it, to delay the announcement of the king's death until Hertford had secured Edward."
Joseph frowned. "To what purpose?"
Denoriel shrugged. "Henry was so strong a king that there never was another—at least not since Wolsey—to whom the nation could look. The new king is a child of ten. Someone had to seize the wheel and steer the ship of state."
"It is true," Joseph said. "I cannot think of anyone I would look to. I suppose Hertford is as good or better than another. At least he is the king's close kin without any claim at all to the throne."
Denoriel had not thought of that aspect of the kinship between Edward and Hertford. It was, now that Joseph had called it to his attention, another reason that the Council might be willing for Hertford to be first among them.
"Yes," he said, nodding thoughtfully, "Hertford is Edward's maternal uncle with no blood tie, no matter how distant to the king, and Queen Catherine does not come from a powerful family . . . nor one with overweening ambition."
Joseph stepped aside invitingly, and Denoriel walked into his chamber, dropping into a comfortable chair placed to the side of the table on which Joseph worked, where only those specially invited were likely to sit. Joseph went around the end of the table and sat in his own chair.
"So you assume Hertford will rule? Do you know him? How will this affect us?"
"Well, Hertford will not favor us with news or show my wares," Denno said with a rueful smile, "but I doubt he will trouble us either. I met him twice or thrice in Norfolk's company, and from what I learned from listening to him and from hearing Norfolk speak about him, it seems he is a strong man, certain of will, and with an unblemished honor. He was said to be fond of Edward too."
"You never pursued the acquaintance with Hertford?"
Denoriel laughed. "No. There was nothing to pursue. Hertford did not take to me at all. When I kissed his hand, he withdrew it as if my lips were coals. And it did not seem, at the time, worth the effort to win his trust, which shows how badly mistaken I can be. Truthfully Norfolk had survived so much—I mean two nieces executed for adultery, and one of them actually guilty of betraying the king. I thought the old man would last forever."
Joseph smiled in reply. "I think everyone expected the king to pardon Norfolk, but Henry was dying. And Norfolk is still in the Tower waiting execution. I fear there will be no quick release for him now . . . either way."
Denoriel sighed. It was hard to actually like Norfolk, who was the sort of man to use anyone or anything that came to hand, but one could certainly admire the shrewd old man. "Yes. I went again to the Tower and offered Norfolk what help I could give. He thanked me but said it did not matter that King Henry had died. King Edward was as welcome to his life as King Henry." Denoriel shook his head. "He is rich enough to be comfortable, for whatever thing he needs for his comfort, he can arrange to have, so there is really nothing more I can do."
Joseph frowned. "If you will pardon my saying so, you have done enough for the few favors the duke has shown you."
"We were not really friends . . . I doubt Norfolk could consider a foreign merchant a friend, but I rather—appreciated him. Now I suppose I must find another link to the top." Denoriel pondered his few options. "Sir Anthony is friendly enough and well trusted by the Council, but the king's death has sorely shaken him. I think if he had leave of his fellow Councilors that he would ask to retire."
"A link to the top," Joseph said thoughtfully. "Sir Anthony Cooke is tutor to Edward and well beloved of him, from what I have heard."
Denoriel shook his head before Joseph could go further. "No, I do not want my name or anything about me known to the king or his close companions. That would only draw close scrutiny, and expose my long association with Elizabeth."
Joseph looked disappointed. "Even at a safe remove? I thought news might flow both ways through one of Cooke's daughters. All three were in the group that Queen Catherine gathered as company for the royal children when they were at Hampton Court and all seem to have been fond of Lady Elizabeth."
"Likely," Denoriel nodded, thinking it next to impossible for anyone who knew her to be less than fond of Elizabeth. "She spoke of them to me, saying that aside from Lady Jane Grey, the eldest Cooke daughter was the best scholar. That would be—" He pressed his memory. "Mildred. Of course, Mildred was some years older than the others, it is reasonable she should have been the best."
"Yes, Mistress Mildred," Clayborne said, nodding. "We have twice received messages from her, requesting a few bottles of a particular wine, which she had had at Lady Elizabeth's table. Apparently Lady Elizabeth told her that you had provided the wine."
"You mean I should scrape an acquaintance on the basis of the wine?" Denoriel said doubtfully, then shook his head. "It is too close, and anyway she will not be at Court any longer even if her father is with the king."
"She is not in the country. Mistress Mildred lives here in London. She married a man called William Cecil—"
"Cecil," Denoriel interrupted, eyes wide with surprise. "You are telling me that Mildred Cooke is William Cecil's wife?"
"Yes, but I assume she will still see her father—"
Now here was the sort of acquaintance he needed at Court! William Cecil, as clever as Cromwell but with honor and heart that Cromwell never had. He was going to go far and climb high, or Denoriel would be very much surprised. "Never mind her father, if she is Cecil's wife . . . How did you plan that I scrape an acquaintance with Mildred?"
"Who is William Cecil?" Joseph asked with great interest.
"Right now he is custos brevium in the court of common pleas, but he already had some notice from the king—I mean the late King Henry." Henry had been a good judge of men too. Never of women, but his ability to weigh the worth of a man was uncanny. "Cecil is a man with keen ears and sharp eyes, a man who knows when and how to hold his tongue. He will go very far, and more to the point, he already wishes to please Elizabeth. He has several times sent Mistress Ashley snippets of Court information that pertained to Elizabeth, and he is the one who wrote to inform her of the Dirge for her father. No one else thought to warn her—alas, not even I. Yes, indeed, Joseph, I would like to be called 'friend' by William Cecil."
"Very possible." Now Joseph was looking pleased. "I honored Mistress Mildred's requests for the wine that I mentioned, but I had a new request just yesterday, and we do not have any more of that wine. I was about to write to her and explain, but if you want an entree into the house, you could take her a substitute in person, and give her the explanation yourself. Since you seem to be interested in William Cecil, perhaps the lady would introduce you to her husband?"
"Yes, of course she would," Denoriel said; it would be the work of a moment to put the idea into her head. "Thank you, Joseph. As usual you have outdone my expectation in solving problems for me."
Clayborne laughed. "Only by accident this time, my lord." Then he added, "There is nothing else in a business way . . . and of course, the only thing you have received in the way of social invitations has been cancellations of events. I sent civil notes." Suddenly his brow furrowed. "But there was an oddity the other day. A gentleman . . . well, no, probably he was not a gentleman. Let me say it this way. A person clean and in good clothing—but I would say not accustomed to being well dressed, combed, and shaven—came to the door and asked Cropper for Lady Alana."
Odd. Very odd. "Asked for Lady Alana? But I did not think anyone except Lady Elizabeth's household knew that she often stayed with me when she was in London. And Alana is with Lady Elizabeth now, so no one from there would be looking for her here."
"Yes, m'lord. That was why I said it was an oddity. And even odder, when Cropper said she was not at home, he did not ask for you, but asked to speak to me . . . by name."
But there might be an explanation that Joseph shouldn't know. Joseph thought the person was not accustomed to good clothing or to being clean and shaven, but what if the person was not accustomed to mortal clothing and disguise as a human. What if the person was Sidhe? Denoriel had thought when he spoke to his sister in his apartment in Llachar Lle that Aleneil might have private affairs to see to Underhill. Perhaps affairs of romance. What if she had not been able to settle the matter?
If Aleneil had given a Sidhe the direction of the house on Bucklersbury, it was someone she wanted to see. Had they quarreled? Had she not made clear the time she wished to see him? Denoriel wondered if he should go Underhill . . . and do what? Start seeking Aleneil's lover? She would murder him. The safest action here was none at all.
"Why should that be so odd?" Denoriel said, seeking to cover his thoughts. "If he was not a gentleman, he might think he would get short shrift from me. As for your name, I would not be surprised if your name was better known than mine in this neighborhood." He smiled. "After all, I am in and out so often that I am almost a stranger in my own house."
"That might be true," Joseph said, but still frowning, as if the encounter had left him feeling distinctly uneasy.
Denoriel shrugged, only now he was suddenly doubtful of his previous reasoning. Aleneil was not likely to have chosen a fool. On the other hand, a Sidhe who disliked the mortal world and had never visited it, might well be awkward . . . if the man was Sidhe. Dark Sidhe? No, the Dark would surely not ask openly for Aleneil. Who among the Unseleighe would be foolish enough to venture here to look for her?
"I suppose Alana might have told someone that she could be reached through me," Denoriel temporized. "Did he leave a message? I could take it to her."
"That was the other oddity. No." Joseph shook his head. "He did not leave a message, said his matter was in his head and private and asked when Lady Alana was expected. I told him, of course, that I did not know, that it was her habit to send us a message on the day or a day before she was due to arrive. He then said he would come by again and left. Perhaps he did not think he had enough money to bribe me to tell him when Lady Alana was expected, but he offered to make it worth Cropper's while if Cropper would leave a message for him at the Broached Barrel when Lady Alana was due."
Denoriel grinned. "Cropper told you?"
"Indeed. He is not taking any chances on losing his place. He is very happy here." Joseph smirked—or at least, came as close to a smirk as he ever did.
"Happy enough not to ask questions about the other servants?" That was a pertinent question.
Joseph smiled at him. "He knows the other servants are . . . a little odd but has 'decided' that they are really foreign foreigners, not like Frenchies, who are almost human—anyhow that was how he described them to me. And he doesn't talk about what he sees, nor does his wife, so the children accept them as . . . ah . . . foreign foreigners."
"Joseph, if you ever threaten to leave me I will have to kill myself because I am afraid I really would not be able to live without you." Denoriel cast up his hands with a smile. "How did you manage to get someone who is not stupid as a stone to accept this household as ordinary?"
Clayborne met his eyes steadily. "The same way you bound me, my lord, by obligation. George Boleyn knew of my trouble, but it was you who offered me a way out."
"Nonsense, you have no obligation to me. You paid back my 'rescue' of your enterprise long ago." Nevertheless, Denoriel was touched. Loyalty—something no coin could buy, and was rarer than perfect pearls.
"True enough," Clayborne said, suddenly grinning, "but now I am yours through self-interest. I told you some time ago that I was growing rich in your employ. Your generosity in allowing me shares of your cargoes is hastening the filling of my purse." He shook his head. "I will not leave you, my lord, I promise, until and unless I train a substitute so well that you will not know a new man is in my place."
"I doubt that is possible," Denoriel said. "I have grown very fond of you, Joseph. George found you for me. How did you find Cropper?"
"Very easily. I went to the debtors' prisons. I looked for a family, but not too large. I spoke to the wife and then to the husband, and then I enquired of the officials about the details that caused the incarceration. I was lucky. There were three families that did not deserve their fate, but only Cropper was of a size and intelligence to make an adequate footman. I paid off his debt, found lodgings for him and the family in the back of a house in the Poultry, gave the family a few pence to get started . . . and now you have a most devoted servant."
"I think you have a most devoted servant," Denoriel said smiling, "but I am not complaining. I am sure the devotion runs over onto me." He stood up. "Since you have twice told me there was no business, I had better go away and leave you to deal with that pile of documents."
"Yes, my lord." Clayborne also stood. "So do you want me to write to Mistress Mildred Cecil about the wine—"
"No, of course not." He shook his head. "I will soon begin to forget my head on the days it is not screwed on tightly enough. I will go to see her myself. What kind of wine did she want?"
Without the slightest hesitation, Joseph picked a rather small sheet of heavy paper from the middle of a pile and handed it to him. "There is her letter. What I sent both times was rumney, but I think if you took her some claret, and perhaps some alicant, it will do. She will like the claret, what with the honey and spices in it; most women do, but in case her husband has more austere taste, the red should also suffice."
Denoriel nodded. Although he did not know what was kept in his warehouses, he actually did know the contents of the wine cellar in the house. There was a Gate there, behind a large tun, and Denoriel felt that examining and commenting upon the contents of the cellar was a good excuse for being in it so frequently.
"We have both in bottles," he said after a moment of thought. "And her direction?"
"In Cannon Row. Cropper will know the house. He took the rumney."
Joseph had risen while he spoke; he walked to the door of his office, opened it, and shouted for Cropper, who appeared in moments. Joseph told him what he should fetch from the cellar and that he would be carrying the wine to the house in the Strand.
Meanwhile, Denoriel had gone up to his bedchamber where he stood in front of the ruinously costly cheval glass to examine the illusion that made the pupils of his eyes round and gave him the appearance of small round ears. Then his eyes went to his clothing and he sighed heavily. How humans could torture themselves with such unwieldy and uncomfortable garments, he could not understand.
Over a spotlessly white shirt with full sleeves, the neck gathered into a low ruff, Denoriel was wearing a padded petticoat in lavender velvet; that was sensible in providing warmth in a world where the weather did not conform to the being's comfort. Over that was the doublet, in a rich silk brocade of silver and lavender, tight to the waist, with sleeves slashed at elbows and forearms so the white shirt could be pulled through. Long hose of dark gray tied up with points to the petticoat were covered with slops—heavy silk, striped in gray and lavender—which were in turn covered by the skirt attached to the doublet. And over all the gown, gray with lavender piping on all the seams.
And the mortals seemed to enjoy the torture of removing and replacing the garments several times a day at the slightest excuse.
Fortunately no one had spilled anything on Denoriel during his wait in the queen's hall, so that he did not need to change. For verisimilitude he had a wardrobe full of clothing in his bedchamber, but he rarely wore any of it. To dress in any of those garments, he would have to call one of the male servants to help him tie points and button buttons. And the Low Court Sidhe who cooked and cleaned the house all laughed so hard over the clothing that they weren't much help. It was far easier to Gate Underhill and magic the clothes onto his body than to dress here in the World Above. Since none of the servants spoke more than a word of English, they could not betray him. And today he had a good excuse; none of the clothes stored here was in suitable colors for the half mourning that a foreign noble would be expected to wear. Not the black of full mourning. That would be presumptuous.
Cropper was waiting in the corridor near the front door carrying Denoriel's fur-lined cloak. The basket of wine bottles rested on the table with the salver for cards. Cropper put Denoriel's cloak over his shoulders, opened the door for Denoriel, waited until his master had passed through, picked up the basket, and closed the door behind him. He waited for Denoriel to set out and followed him, a careful three steps to the rear.
A few feet down the street, Denoriel was aware that Cropper had hesitated and fallen back a few steps. Denoriel did not turn his head to look, assuming something was in the man's shoe, or a shoe had come loose. He did not want Cropper to feel he was being criticized, just slowed his pace a bit so the man could easily catch up.
When they reached Cannon Row, Denoriel became aware of the inconvenience of finding a place when the man who actually knew where they were going, was behind him. He stopped, gestured Cropper forward and said to him, "Go ahead and make sure it will be convenient for Mistress Cecil to receive me—or Master Cecil if the mistress is not at home and he is."
Pasgen was enjoying himself studying this Unformed land, but he stopped dead as he felt the lindys under the wide collar of his shirt stiffen. He was dressed only for comfort and some protection against odd outcroppings of rock or twigs and thorns in a white silk shirt with full sleeves, close-fitting black velvet trousers, and soft, unpolished, knee-high leather boots. And because one never knew what might have been loosed by some lunatic or mischievous Sidhe in an Unformed land, he wore both silver sword and long knife.
The lindys twitched. Pasgen tensed, hand raised to spell him to the Gate, although he realized that a spell in this place might be very dangerous. Nonetheless, if Rhoslyn was in trouble and needed him immediately any other danger was insignificant. But the lindys did not convulse. It did not even stiffen into rigidity, only lying still and tense. Pasgen dropped his hand, the slight glimmer of blue power fading from his fingers, and concentrated on sensing what information the lindys held.
Rhoslyn's construct could only warn her if he were in acute danger and help her Gate to wherever he was; he did not want to stress her with his tensions and anxieties. His lindys gave much more complete information. For a moment he closed his mind to the faint cries of fear and an only slightly louder roaring that had attracted his attention and concentrated on Rhoslyn. She was Gating, anxious but not threatened, ah, Vidal and Aurilia—Pasgen's nose wrinkled—Aurilia using a truth spell.
A thin smile stretched Pasgen's lips for a moment. Doubtless Vidal wanted to know where he was. Since Rhoslyn did not know, she could answer with perfect truth. Nonetheless Pasgen set off in the direction of the Gate. He wanted to be near enough to Gate immediately if Vidal did more than question Rhoslyn.
Pasgen could not see the Gate through the swirling mist, but when that little monster Elizabeth and her party had arrived he had felt her mark the Gate. Then he, too, had felt the difference of the power flow in the mist where the Gate was. Resentment flicked him because she, ignorant and untaught, had found magic that he, deep scholar of power, had never noticed.
Then he smiled again. He could not envy what was inborn. She was some little prodigy of art and nature, that Elizabeth. He was really pleased that he had promised Rhoslyn to do her no harm. A double benefit to that: he would be able to study the puzzle of her power and indirectly to frustrate Vidal at the same time.
A pleasant sensation of satisfaction rose in him as he neared the Gate, and he folded his legs and sat down on the invisible—ground? was it ground? The surface, anyway. He was now only a few long running steps from the Gate. He doubted Rhoslyn would need his support, but in case she did, he would not need to use magic to reach the Gate. And in this particular Unformed land he did not want to use magic unless it was a matter of life and death.
For as long as the lindys remained tense and unmoving, Pasgen concentrated on the telltale. Distantly, from time to time, he again heard some sounds and wondered whether it was merely the soughing of the movement of shifting power in this very strange place or whether something material was crying and roaring. Then the lindys relaxed; Pasgen could feel Rhoslyn's satisfaction and was himself also satisfied.
He made a mental note to visit the empty house to ask Rhoslyn what Vidal wanted as he rose to his feet, but the forefront of his attention was now given to his ears. Surely the sounds were real and separate. The timbre of the cries was very different from that of the roaring and surely there was occasionally a rhythm almost like speech in those cries. His head cocked to the side, listening, Pasgen began to walk toward the sounds.
In mere moments they were more distinct and he no longer felt any doubt. One set of sounds was cries—almost Elven, almost human, but not quite either in pitch. And it was a set, one a higher, the other a slightly lower voice. The voices shrieked in unison and the roar sounded almost atop the cries. Without thought Pasgen began to run. Something? someone? was in deep trouble. Weirdly, the mist seemed to thin before him as if it were making a path.
Ooof.
The cry was thin and terrified, but Pasgen felt the impact of a slight but firmly solid body. Before he could make any response, a scream of agony rang out followed by a near deafening animal roar. And through the mist he glimpsed a tawny coat, a ragged mane. Pasgen drew sword and knife just as the mist curled away and disclosed a very genuine-looking lion just about to spring atop a vaguely Elven form.
Pasgen shouted aloud.
The lion lifted its head from its prey. Whatever . . . whoever had hit him, brushed his shoulder, running back toward the lion. Pasgen thrust it away with the elbow of his knife hand, away behind him, away from the lion. He had no idea why. The thin voice cried out again, despairingly. If he had a brain in his head, Pasgen thought, he would let the lion eat his meal and slip away while the creature was busy. But that would leave the lion loose in the mist, perhaps to leap on him when he was unaware.
He remembered suddenly that Elizabeth had said she had asked the mist to create the lion to save her from some human abductors. She had thought it would frighten them, but it had killed them instead and then almost killed her. It was too dangerous, and she had brought with her help—Denoriel; that boy grown into a man now, that he and Rhoslyn had tried so often to abduct and Vidal had wanted so badly; and two Elven makers—all to try to destroy the lion. And he, all alone, was shouting to draw its attention.
He succeeded.
The lion tensed, its head lifting, quivering slightly as it prepared to leap at him. Pasgen's sword rose to point at the lion; words of a spell of dissolution trembled on his lips—and were swallowed back. The Great Allmother alone knew what would happen if he spoke that spell without warding in this place. And even if it worked, Pasgen knew that the mist would not like it.
Later, when he had caught his breath and had time to think, Pasgen wondered if he had gone utterly mad. At the time, he shouted again and leapt forward before the lion could. The creature reared up in surprise, exposing its throat and chest. Pasgen plunged forward another step and thrust his sword into the beast's throat.
The blade went in to almost half its length, but there was no blood and an absolutely unweakened roar followed. Pasgen withdrew his sword, backed a single step, and slashed. He knew the gesture was utterly futile and would be his last, but he was so enraged at the thought that his life would end under the claws of a senseless beast that he had to strike out. To his intense astonishment, the sword went through the thick neck . . . and then the whole animal began to ravel away.
He stood staring, watching the rich color fade from the fur, the coarse and tangled mane become wisps of colorless mist, the whole dissipate into a formless wave of motion.
"Did you wish to be rid of it, mist?" he whispered, standing still, listening with every sense he had.
Behind him there was an indrawn breath. Pasgen whirled around, sword ready, but there was nothing to fight. What stood behind him, protectively over the thing the lion had savaged, was weaponless, small and slight. It was not elven; it was not human, but . . . Pasgen swallowed. It had red hair, and though the body and features were those of an ill-made doll, it had a bright, inquisitive feeling about it.
Pasgen blinked. Mist couldn't have a will! Mist held power, but only as wood held fire. Had the mist been enchanted by Elizabeth as so many who dealt with her were? Had it made an Elizabeth for itself? Cold shimmied up and down his back. Was he going mad to have such a thought about a domain of unformed chaos?
He closed his mind to those questions and took a step toward the recumbent thing. The red-haired doll stood directly in his path, upright as a stave, its indistinct features nonetheless forming a mask of determination. He became aware of the naked sword and knife in his hands and sheathed them. The rigidity of the ill-formed figure relaxed somewhat, but when Pasgen stepped forward toward the thing on the ground, she—the long red hair made it, whatever it was, feminine—sidled around in front of him.
"I mean your . . . friend . . . no harm," he said.
After a further moment of indecision, she stepped aside. Pasgen went down on one knee and found himself stilled by shock. A Sidhe, as badly made as the red-haired doll, but that was human . . . sort of . . . and this was Sidhe. The hair was gold, the ears large and pointed, the other features as indistinct as those of the thing with red hair, but . . . Pasgen swallowed again . . . the thing was somehow familiar, chillingly familiar. An image created from a faulty memory of him? A mist with a memory?
Pasgen was shocked again when his glance moved from the face down to the body. It had been ripped open from chest to groin. The thing could not have survived! Almost, Pasgen laughed. Clearly it was not alive to begin with, how could he think in terms of survival? But the lion had dissipated after a much less fatal wound. And as he watched, the great hollow scooped out by the lion's claws was already filling. The mist, it seemed, did not want to lose this . . . whatever it was.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Pasgen asked, rising to his feet and facing the red-haired doll.
After a long moment, as if, perhaps, the mist had to make sense of what he had said and pass it to her, she smiled. Well, there was some motion around the slit that must be her mouth that Pasgen took to be a smile.
"I will leave you then," he said. "I have business elsewhere."
That drew no response at all and to his own intense astonishment, Pasgen bowed. He would not allow himself to think at all as he walked back toward the Gate. In his mind he said over to himself the most complicated, and harmless, spell he knew, one he had devised to create a room full of furniture all at once. There was deep, deep fear in him now, he who feared so little. But this—this was new, was unheard of—and the potential for danger was so great he resolved he would not think of it until he was somewhere safer.
When he reached the Gate, his will called up the glowing field into which patterns could be fixed. There were several already set. His glance ran over them; then, suddenly, he closed his eyes and took into his mind the feel of this Gate, thoroughly, carefully, so that he would always have it, know it, and be able to return here. Quickly then he chose a pattern already fixed into the field for a destination and directed his will at it.
Blackness, falling, arrival. Pasgen barely glanced around. The Gate was handsome but not spectacular and what he could see of the domain was peaceful and beautiful but too irregular to soothe him—a stream there, bushes and trees scattered, their leaves all helter-skelter any way they wished to grow. And there were voices, thin and at the same time rough with age, off in the distance where a shimmering white cupola barely rose above a small copse of trees.
Hurriedly Pasgen called the pattern field. All three great markets were permanently infixed. Hardly noticing which one he selected, Pasgen willed himself to Gate. Arriving, he made haste into the market, found another Gate, and after five more transfers, he was in his own domain. There, where each leaf on each tree, each bush, was placed perfectly, where the soothing tinkle of crystal music smoothed away the memory of strange, discordant sound, he sat down on a small bench . . . and began to tremble.