The door between the passage to the stable and the house was locked. Denoriel stared at it stupidly, aware of a fine trembling in his limbs and a hollowness in his gut that spoke of power drain and exhaustion. Had the house been attacked at the same time he had been? By whom? Why? What had happened to Joseph Clayborne?
He remembered at last that he had a key. The same key that opened the front door opened this one. He fumbled in his purse, inserted the key somewhat uncertainly after scraping it around the lock because his hand was shaking. Before he could turn it, the door was flung open and he was confronted by Joseph with a sword in his hand. Behind him, cudgel ready, stood Cropper.
Denoriel's mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Joseph, apparently, had decided to take over the business, and when the street thugs failed him . . .
"M'lord! M'lord, are you hurt?"
Joseph's voice was high with anxiety, the sword hastily sheathed. Cropper dropped his cudgel and rushed forward, hands extended to support his master.
Denoriel blinked. "Hurt? No, not at all."
"But you are all over blood, m'lord!" Joseph exclaimed.
"Yes, but not mine." Denoriel laughed shakily. "I was attacked on the way home from Chelsea. There are two dead men on the road—but I did not wait until the palace guard came to explain. When the door was locked and you opened it sword in hand . . ." He shook his head. "I began to wonder if you wanted to take over the business."
Now Joseph also laughed. "Not until I learn how to produce in three days a cargo such as was in the warehouse." He stepped back. "Come in, m'lord, do. Forgive me but you look terrible."
"I forgive you readily. I feel terrible." Denoriel went past Joseph and Cropper, who had flattened himself against the wall to make room. "But why are you armed for war? Are you expecting an invasion?" he asked as he entered the parlor and dropped into a chair by the hearth.
Joseph followed him into the parlor. "You said two men attacked you, m'lord? Could they have been the same two who have been watching the house? They are gone from the house across the road."
"Are they?"
"Yes. You wanted to know whether we feared an invasion." He shook his head. "You are a good deal richer tonight than you were last night, m'lord. I have never had a day for selling like today in my whole life. By midday I knew I would have no time to do any accounting and would need to bring the money home, so I sent for Cuthbert and Petrus to walk home with me. I do not like to walk from the warehouse to home carrying bulging satchels."
"Very wise."
"And toward evening, I bethought myself as to whether those men in the house across the road had just been waiting for a day of exceptional business, so I sent Cuthbert and Petrus to see if they could get rid of them."
"But they were gone?"
"Yes, m'lord, so I brought the money home. And no one bothered us. But later, after Cuthbert and Petrus were gone, I began to wonder . . . There is so much money. I began to wonder if those men had gone to get reinforcements, so Cropper and I armed, and when I heard what I felt were stealthy sounds on the side door . . ."
Denoriel smiled. "So you met me prepared for defense. I see. I wonder if the watchers were the ones who lay in wait for me at the palace? That would mean they had been watching all this while to see me go out alone."
"Could they have known about the cargo and meant to hold you for ransom?"
Denoriel shook his head. "The men who lay in wait for me at Chelsea meant death. It was only by chance that I did not get an arrow through my head. There is no ransoming a dead man."
"An enemy from your past?"
Denoriel shrugged. "From Hungary? I have been gone from there for over twenty years. A fellow merchant who envies my trading? What good would my death do him? Who else might think me worth the danger and expense?"
As he said the words Denoriel recalled the malevolent look on Thomas Seymour's face when he himself had stepped out of the shadows near the queen's bed. Yet this evening Sir Thomas had looked . . . contemptuous, as if Denoriel was no longer a threat. How the devil was he to deal with Seymour? Then Denoriel remembered his conversation with Aleneil when she warned him that Vidal might wish to destroy those whom Elizabeth loved.
An odd fluttering started right under Denoriel's breastbone at the thought that Elizabeth might love him. He suppressed it. But, he thought, even if she did not love him, Elizabeth surely relied upon him and hearing of his death so soon after that of her father would shake her to the core and make her vulnerable.
Vidal? Could Vidal have sent the assassins? For a moment Denoriel almost felt relief. Knowing who was trying to be rid of him would be half the battle won by knowing where to look for more trouble. Better Vidal, whom he could fight openly, than Sir Thomas. A chill passed through him as he remembered that the men who attacked him were not Sidhe. They were using steel arrowheads and steel swords.
"The truth is, m'lord, that I cannot think of anyone in the community of merchants that even dislikes you. A few envy you, but none believe they could take over your trade routes, so where would be the benefit . . ." Joseph shrugged.
Denoriel hardly heard him. He was thinking about whether he could still hope the attack could have been arranged by Vidal. But he could not speak of that to Joseph, so he turned the subject to the goods he had kenned and Gated to the warehouse.
Joseph waxed almost lyrical about the prices he had obtained and the fact that they were nearly sold out of everything.
Denoriel slapped his hand on the arm of the chair. "Grace of God," he groaned, "I meant to tell you to hold back some lesser items. I have what I want for Lady Elizabeth, but I should have tokens for the maids of honor and for Kat."
A broad, self-satisfied grin spread over Joseph's face. "Aha! I have just what you need. A parcel of vair, good furs but too ordinary for a coronation, and a pair of marten skins. Somehow they fell behind the vair and no one noticed them. The vair will do well for the maids; Mistress Ashley will enjoy the martens."
"As I have said more than once, you are a wonder and a marvel, Joseph."
The man of business laughed. "Not so wonderful and marvelous as you are, m'lord. I can sell and I have learned to think about how to please people, so I remembered that you were likely to go to Enfield tomorrow and brought home the extra furs, but I could not produce such a cargo . . ." His voice drifted away; he hesitated but then turned away. "A glass of wine would do you good before you go up, m'lord. Shall I bring you the malmsey or claret?"
"Claret, I think."
Denoriel stared at nothing while Joseph went for the wine, thinking that Joseph surely knew he was not human and had decided not to pry or speak of it, even to Denoriel himself. Would it help if Joseph knew about the threat from Sir Thomas or Vidal? No. He already knew an attempt to kill had been made. Specifics were too dangerous.
He drank his wine when Joseph brought it, although alcohol had little effect on Sidhe, nodded his thanks when Joseph said he would have the extra furs wrapped and disposed in a saddlebag, and finally made his way up the stairs to his bed. Leaving his soiled clothing in a heap on the floor to be cleaned or disposed of, he lay down, but not for long.
If the Dark Sidhe were behind the attempt on his life, might they also try to attack Aleneil? He must warn her. Although he was shaking with fatigue, Denoriel drew on a bedrobe, stepped behind his cheval glass (which looked as if it were too close to the wall to permit anything behind it), and Gated to Llachar Lle. He felt better at once as the healing power of Underhill flowed into him.
Denoriel and Aleneil spent a long night discussing the chances that it was Vidal who had set the ambush for him and what to do about it if it was. Nonetheless Denoriel was as good as his word to Queen Catherine and did arrive with her letter just before Elizabeth came from her bedchamber to break her fast.
Kat Ashley had not been best pleased when Dunstan told her that Lord Denno had arrived so early; however, when he explained that Lord Denno had a letter for Elizabeth from Queen Catherine and that he was all smiles about it, she bade Dunstan bring him in at once.
It was perhaps unfortunate that Elizabeth entered one door just as Denoriel came in the other. He had the letter out in his hand to give to Kat, but after a single look at his expression, Elizabeth shrieked with joy and flew across the room to take the letter from his hand. Breath held, she broke the seal and devoured the first few lines.
"Oh, Denno," she cried, "I am to go to Chelsea and live with Queen Catherine."
"Yes, indeed, that much I know already because the queen was kind enough to tell me, but—"
"Oh, you promised I would!" Elizabeth breathed. "You promised and I didn't believe you because I wanted it so much." She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, not on the cheek but full on the lips.
Denoriel froze, one arm was raised as if his hand still held the letter. The impact of her body with his as she flung herself forward to kiss him jerked that arm against her. For one instant it folded around her, and held her close.
"Lady Elizabeth!" Kat exclaimed.
"No, it must be there," Lady Alana's calm voice came from the bedchamber doorway. "Do look, all of you."
A sigh of relief caught in Denoriel's throat when he realized that Aleneil had prevented Elizabeth's "ladies" from seeing the embrace. The girls were still in the bedchamber looking for something.
"I beg your pardon," Elizabeth said, but her eyes were all golden and laughing, and her complexion showed not the faintest tinge of embarrassed pink.
She and Denoriel had both withdrawn a step so there was a distance between them. He stepped back again and swallowed. "I was about to say, my lady, that I knew you were to live with the queen, but I could not help but wonder about your household. I guessed from the weight of the packet that it was a long letter and probably contained such information."
"Well, my part of the letter doesn't." She laughed, her eyes on his long, pointed ears, which only she could see through the illusion of human round ears. "The letter to me only says I am to come to her in Chelsea and sets the time for the day after my father's—" her voice checked abruptly, amusement gone. Then she clearly forced herself to continue "—after my father's funeral, which she is to attend." Elizabeth bit her lip. "But I am not," she went on, her voice harder.
Denoriel had gritted his teeth when Elizabeth's eyes fixed on his ears and he felt them get warmer and warmer. He was sure they had become red and hot enough to light a candle. Worse was that, despite knowing he could not really have felt the touch of her body against his through all the clothing, he still had a distinct impression of her high, young breasts pressed against his chest.
"Oh, there it is." A young girl's voice came from beyond the doorway.
"Thank you, my dear," came in Lady Alana's soothing coo, and Aleneil stepped into the parlor followed by the three girls who were Elizabeth's maids of honor.
"And thank you, Lady Alana," Elizabeth said, holding out her hand into which Aleneil put a kerchief.
Embarrassment and desire had both vanished when Elizabeth's voice trembled over mention of Henry's death and grew thin and angry over her exclusion from the obsequies. Both emotions were further diminished by Aleneil's arrival with the maids of honor. Denoriel wondered whether Elizabeth had left the kerchief in her bedchamber. It had seemed to him that Aleneil had manufactured something to look for to keep the girls busy, but if so Elizabeth's smooth reception of the square of silk showed a remarkable ability at deception.
Aleneil dropped a brief curtsey and Elizabeth turned back to Denoriel to say, "I cannot see why I was not invited to see my father buried . . . to weep and say goodbye . . ."
"Nor is King Edward, nor Lady Mary invited to attend," Denoriel said hastily, and then with some deliberation, "I think that was meant as a kindness, not to exclude you but to shield you from so sharp a reminder of your loss."
"Perhaps," Elizabeth said, and her eyes glittered. "But I will remember who managed these matters."
She turned then to Kat Ashley, who had come close, and handed her the several folded leaves that had made up the bulk of the packet. A single glance had showed Elizabeth that the folded sheets had not been written by Catherine herself but were in a secretary's hand. They were, as she suspected, instructions about when to move and how many of her household to take with her. Kat would tell her later.
Elizabeth saw the wary, anxious look on Denno's face and she recalled her last words and tone of voice. With a shock she realized she had sounded as if she expected soon to have power to do something about being offended; she restrained a shiver. That was dangerous. Her brother, the king, was alive and well. Her sister, who would succeed him if any tragedy should end his reign, was also alive and well. Only a violent conspiracy that removed them both would bring her to power. In her joy over living with Catherine, she had forgotten caution. No wonder Denno looked anxious. Elizabeth touched her lips with the kerchief Alana had handed to her.
"Have you broken your fast?" she asked Denoriel with ladylike civility.
The use of the kerchief reminded Denoriel of Elizabeth's eyes on his brightly glowing ears and he told himself that he would be a fool to linger and leave himself open to more of her mischief. But she had been so quiet, so oppressed since King Henry's death, it was a delight even to be the butt of her lightheartedness; however she did not look lighthearted now; her expression was bland, but her eyes pleaded.
"Yes," he admitted, smiling, "but that was a long time ago. It was scarcely dawn when I set out for Enfield."
"Then come and join us," Elizabeth said, gesturing toward a table covered with a cloth and arranged with one tall chair with back and arms in the center, two short benches at each end, and three stools each to the left and to the right of the chair.
Elizabeth went toward the chair, which Dunstan, appearing suddenly from an inconspicuous position against an inner wall, pulled out for her. As she sat she beckoned to Denoriel to take the stool immediately on her left. The stool on her right remained unoccupied as Aleneil sat down on the next stool, and the three young women distributed themselves on the benches and remaining stools.
Dunstan had moved Elizabeth's chair back to the table and was about to disappear again when Denoriel signaled discreetly for him to bring in the packages that had been left with him. Elizabeth had asked Denoriel politely whether it had been very cold when he started and he had begun to reply when Dunstan returned and laid the parcels on the table.
He broke off that answer to say, "One of my ships had just come in before I received Queen Catherine's message, so I was able to bring her a small token. And then, when her majesty gave me the good news that the Council had agreed you should live with her, I thought we should all celebrate."
He opened the largest parcel and handed two skins of vair to each of the girls who cooed and murmured with delight. The two marten skins, he laid near the vacant stool, on which he was sure Mistress Ashley would be seated. Elizabeth watched, her eyes brilliant, until he opened the last package and placed it before her. She caught her breath with delight.
"Ermine! Oh, Denno! And the silver fox! Oh!" She stared for a moment and then smoothed the fox furs with gentle fingers. "Oh, thank you! You do spoil me!"
"Not often," he said, smiling at her. "It is not often that my ships carry any item in which you might take delight. But the furs were appropriate to the weather, and I thought you might need new clothing, or at least trimmings, because you would be living with the queen."
There was now a general murmur of agreement and then each girl uttered personal thanks and excitedly told the "old merchant," who was by now so familiar as to be accepted as a confidant, what she planned to do with his gift. By then, Dunstan had reappeared at the head of several servants bearing platters of food, bowls for porridge, and trenchers of stale bread to hold meat.
Kat Ashley now left the queen's instructions on Elizabeth's writing table and came to the table to seat herself. She hesitated at sight of the shining marten skins, but then after a glance at Elizabeth's plunder and the gift each maid of honor had, sighed with resignation. There would be no way of wresting ermine and silver fox skins from Elizabeth and to demand refusal of the vair, to the maids of honor from financially straitened families, would be real cruelty. She sighed again.
"You are too generous, Lord Denno," she said, stroking the furs laid by her place. "We will all be in trouble if you continue to shower us with gifts."
Denoriel laughed. "I will be in trouble if I continue to shower you with gifts like these. I assure you, Mistress Ashley, this is a one-time thing. A special and rather unexpected cargo, and the news from the queen made me feel . . . ah . . . expansive."
Kat sighed once more. "Yes, you always have good reasons for your generosity, but I am sure I am supposed to prevent the presentation of such rich gifts, which might lead to the assertion of undue influence—"
Elizabeth's sharp giggle cut off Kat's speech. "When," the girl asked, "have you ever known Lord Denno to try to exert even the smallest influence on me? Have you ever heard him ask a favor? Or urge me to think about a particular subject or say or do anything special for him or another?"
"No, no," Kat agreed hastily. "I know Lord Denno is the soul of discretion, but if gossip about such gifts is spread to the Court, others might wonder what he expected in return for them. The queen—"
"Had her own token from my cargo," Denoriel said, grinning.
Kat laughed. "I should have known. Well, I am glad that we will not need to hide our new riches. We would not have had much time to do so. Queen Catherine, from what her secretary writes, desires us to arrive at Chelsea on the seventeenth. She intends to go directly from Westminster Abbey to Chelsea Palace on the sixteenth after the funeral, and has put all in train for Lady Elizabeth's apartments to be ready."
"The sooner the better," Elizabeth said. "I am starving for some rational conversation."
"Elizabeth!" Kat exclaimed, flushing.
Elizabeth flushed also. "Oh, forgive me," she said, looking around the table. "I do not mean that what we talk about is not interesting, only that the queen is older and wiser and has had so much experience in the world at large. She also owes me nothing and can instruct me with freedom."
"That is very true," Alana said softly and then chuckled gently, "and besides I do not think any of us will have much time for conversation before we leave Enfield. The queen's instructions say that the apartment will be ready, but what does that mean? Is it furnished? What are we to bring with us? Beds? Chairs? Tables? Only clothing?"
Kat nodded at her. "Lady Alana is always a fount of good sense. So, by the Grace of God, is the queen. The secretary writes that beds will be needed and that there will be room for any favorite item of furniture, but that there are tables and some chairs ready in the rooms."
"There are never enough chairs," one of the girls said. "The queen is used to seeing all her ladies and gentlemen standing."
"And that is quite proper," another girl said; she was sweet-faced but of considerable girth. "But we do not need to stand in our own private rooms. Besides that, what is left behind is often worn and not very sturdy."
"Also they never seem to leave small tables that can be set by a chair for a drink or a book," the last maid pointed out.
"But if we take chairs and tables and beds, we will need several wains," Kat Ashley protested. "To buy wains when, if we move again, it is likely to be within the queen's party is foolish."
"Yes, indeed, since I can supply wains," Denoriel said. "Just tell me how many, where they should be and at what day and hour, and you will have them."
"You are always my savior," Kat said, and laughed.
"Yes, and you, Kat, are growing quite adroit at voicing problems in the right way at just the right moment. We could, I am sure, have rented wains." Elizabeth laughed too.
"Which Mistress Ashley knows would be ridiculous when I already own many such. And she is polite enough not to ask me outright, which might be awkward for me if the wains were in use or not in London on the seventeenth. Thus if use of my wains would be difficult for me, I simply did not need to offer."
Elizabeth sniffed. "But you would have offered anyway," she murmured, leaning close so her voice would not carry to the others at the table. "I come first, do I not, my Denno?"
"You were a noxious brat when you were three, but adorable . . . and nothing has changed." Denoriel sighed. "Yes, my lady, you come first."
Rhoslyn sat with one hand touching the pendant portrait of King Henry that hung from her necklace and the other open on her lap. Her eyes were lowered, her face sad. Lady Mary was reading from one of the Fathers on the subject of life after death. Rhoslyn was really tempted to cast a spell that would strike Mary mute for an hour or two. That would cause some excitement.
These readings, or the reading of prayers for the dead, or attending extra masses, had been constant since Mary had news of her father's death. She was, Rhoslyn guessed, trying to save his soul. She had written to the pope and to every conservative bishop she knew to beg that prayers be said for Henry. She had pinched her household to wring a few extra coins to send as offerings with requests for prayers. Rhoslyn had gained even more favor by presenting her mistress with a pouch of gold as an offering for the late king's salvation.
Behind her modestly downcast eyes and her sad expression, Rhoslyn wondered, not for the first time, whether she should receive a message from her fictitious brother requesting her company. Hearing that her brother had had one of his spells and needed her would save her from death by boredom. On the other hand, leaving Mary would deprive her of the opportunity to learn whether the political settlement would affect Elizabeth.
It was not likely to be a final settlement, she thought, trying to soothe her conscience so she could escape. And if Hertford took control, as looked to be likely, his wife was a good friend to Mary and would surely incline her husband in Mary's favor. There would be some weeks, possibly even some months of quiet and possibly by the time she returned, Mary would have had her fill of praying. But . . .
The lindys on Roslyn's breast, clinging just below the miniature portrait of the late king gave a convulsive shiver. Rhoslyn uttered an involuntary cry of alarm and pressed her hand over the little construct. Pasgen was hurt or frightened or in danger! Rhoslyn half rose from her seat. The women on either side turned their heads to look at her. Rhoslyn sank back in her chair and clutched the lindys gently. Her lightly clenched hand seemed to rest over her heart.
Whatever happened to Mary or Elizabeth or to England, Rhoslyn had to go to Pasgen immediately. In the moment she had to think—provided by all the ladies moving to look at her—she determined to use what had already happened. She cried out softly again and bent forward. So far the lindys had not convulsed again, as it would if Pasgen's fear or danger had increased, but it did not relax either. Under her fingers the construct remained stiff, indicating a steady anxiety or discomfort. Rhoslyn moaned softly, but not so softly that Mary did not hear. She looked up, peered forward with her short-sighted eyes.
"Rosamund! What ails you?"
"I do not know," Rhoslyn gasped. "A pain. Here." Her fingers arched over the lindys.
"I will summon my physician," Mary cried.
"No. No." Rhoslyn pleaded. "No physician. I am too familiar with physicians. I have a tonic that will take away the pain. But it makes me sleep, my lady."
"Oh, my dear Rosamund, you are excused all service until you are fully recovered. Jane, Susan, help Rosamund to her chamber and call her maid to her."
Rhoslyn was shaking with anxiety and eagerness to be gone, but she did not dare run to hide herself, pulling two of Mary's ladies with her. The lindys was quiet, although still very tense. Rhoslyn could not restrain herself from uttering a soft sob.
"Rosamund, do let me summon the physician," Jane Dormer urged. "Our lady need not know."
"No, this has happened many times before," Rhoslyn said. "I know what to do. I only need to be alone and quiet and it will pass."
"I will run for a footman," Susan said. "We cannot get you up two flights of stairs."
"Oh, yes," Rhoslyn breathed, with real gratitude, "thank you. And if you will send for my maid . . ."
In fewer moments than Rhoslyn had hoped, a tall and sturdy footman arrived. With a murmur of apology, he swept Rhoslyn up in his arms, hurried to the stair in the north wing, and carried her up to her tiny chamber under the gable. There was only a narrow bed with a tiny table beside it, a chest, and one chair, armless but with a back. Still this was luxury when Mary's other ladies were packed four to a room not much larger than Rhoslyn's.
The footman laid Rhoslyn on the bed. She fumbled in the purse hung from her belt and pressed a coin into his hand. He bowed and backed away but did not leave, standing near the door and watching her, in case she should faint or need help. Moments later, Jane arrived, panting slightly from the climb and urging Rhoslyn's maid before her.
The girl uttered a faint cry and raised her hands to her head as Rhoslyn violently thrust instructions into her mind. Jane and Susan looked approving, assuming the cry signaled distress at seeing her mistress prostrate. Then the instructions so forcibly inserted into her mind caused the maid to seek in the chest and take out a hard leathern case. She then closed the chest, set the case atop it, and withdrew from it a small bottle. This she brought to the bed, set on the table, and helped Rhoslyn to sit up against her pillows.
Rhoslyn removed the cork and set the bottle to her lips. Having taken a small draught, she sealed the bottle again, handed it to her maid, and smiled wanly at Jane and Susan.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much. You need not stay. Nell knows what to do for me and I will very soon sleep, deeply and long. Tomorrow I will be quite myself. Please thank Lady Mary for her concern and tell her that I hope to attend her as usual . . . tomorrow."
"Do not seek to do too much too soon," Jane said. "I will wait on you tomorrow morning. If you are not completely well, I am sure Lady Mary will excuse you for another day."
"Thank you," Rhoslyn said again, as Nell approached and unclasped the heavy necklace that supported the late King Henry's portrait.
She did not smile, although if the lindys had not still been rigid she would have felt like doing so. Jane Dormer would be only too glad if Rosamund Scott did not feel well enough to attend Lady Mary the next day or any day. Jane was devoted to Mary and rather jealous of Rosamund, who, Jane believed with resentment, had divided loyalties. Rosamund too often would leave Lady Mary to attend on her brother yet remained a great favorite with Mary because she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of gold.
Susan promptly took the hint that Nell would like to undress her mistress and stepped out of the room. A moment later, Jane had said, "Rest well," and followed Susan. As soon as the door closed, Rhoslyn raised her hand; the maid froze, then went to sit in a comfortable cushioned chair not far from the bed. She closed her eyes.
Rhoslyn slipped from the bed, drew two pillows from the mass supporting her and used them to simulate a body. A pass of the hands, three words, and a simulacrum of herself lay under the rich, furred coverlet. She turned to the maid, set a hand on each temple; her lips thinned with effort and the maid's face twisted with pain. Rhoslyn drew a deep breath, hoping to still the inner quaking that resulted from the draining of her power.
That did not matter now. If anyone came to inquire about her, her maid would open the door just enough to provide a glimpse of the body in the bed. She would say that her lady was asleep and that her color was good and her pulse quiet. The maid would request that the visitor not enter as to disturb her mistress' sleep might be dangerous. If no one came, the maid would get up and walk about every hour or so to keep herself flexible. Her memory would record her vigil accurately, only failing to notice that her mistress never moved at all.
It was the best Rhoslyn could do so quickly and she did not really care. She needed more urgently to get to Pasgen than to maintain her position with Mary. Behind the chair in which the maid sat was a tiny Gate, hardly large enough for her, but it took her to the Goblin Market. From there she wove the tortuous course that would take her to Pasgen's domain.
She found him still seated limply where he had dropped when he arrived and she sank down to her knees, taking his hands in hers. "What is wrong?" she whispered. "Are you hurt? Bespelled?"
"No." But instead of pushing her away, he gripped her hands and, after a moment, almost smiled. "I am frightened."
"Frightened?" Rhoslyn's voice shook. "Do we need fighters to defend us? I will go to an Unformed land—"
"No!" Pasgen exclaimed. And he told her about his adventures in the Unformed land, shuddering as he added, "What if there is some communication among the Chaos Lands? What if the land you work in should also wake? That thing . . . That thing it made was a travesty of . . . of me." He shuddered again. "It let me go, but I think only because it did not yet know how to stop me. I feel as if it is waiting for me, that it wants something from me. I—I feel it reaching for me."
Rhoslyn shivered too, then got to her feet, tugging at his hands. "Get up, Pasgen. Let's go inside. The wards on the house are stronger than those out here."
She did not doubt his word. Although Rhoslyn felt nothing untoward in the atmosphere of the domain, the description of those incomplete doll-like constructs was chilling. And the idea that the Unformed land itself had created them was mind-boggling.
Inside the house Pasgen sank into the hard-looking but surprisingly comfortable white sofa. After a moment he drew a long breath and shook his head. "I do not know," he murmured. "I cannot believe that anything can come through my wards. Yet I still feel a drawing on me."
"Are you sure those things were mist-made?" Rhoslyn asked. "You said Vidal was in that Unformed land. Is it possible that he left someone there, someone who was not an expert in creation, and that person made them?"
He thought for a while and then slowly shook his head. "I have no proof of who made the things, but when the lion tore the . . . the male thing, the mist healed it. And that lion was no half-formed blob. Likely that was because Elizabeth had an image of the lion in her mind and must have projected it at the mist. So if someone wanted to create a construct of Elizabeth . . . or me . . . the image would have been much more real. I can only believe that the mist was working without a mind to direct it."
"You think it wants you to direct it?" Rhoslyn's voice was thin. She sank down before him again and took one of his hands. "Don't go back there, Pasgen. Don't."
"No, I won't. At least—" he swallowed hard "—not if I can help it. There is a . . . a pull on me . . . a kind of horrible curiosity about whether what I saw was real, a desire to see those things again, just to be sure. But I am sure! So why do I want to look again? Is that something the mist set on me?"
Rhoslyn tightened her grip on his hand. "You still feel an urge to go back there?"
"Yes. My infernal curiosity. I always want to know and this is such an enormous mystery. Perhaps what is driving me is within myself and nothing to do with that accursed mist."
"You need to be busy. You need to be busy about something entirely different." She spoke quickly, panic pushing the words out almost in a tumble.
"I am not sure I could be sufficiently interested in something entirely different. I . . . even as we talk, I am wondering . . ."
"You need to be where the mist cannot reach you!"
The note of panic was stronger in Rhoslyn's voice, which made Pasgen lean forward and put an arm around her shoulders. "I will try, but if it can draw me here, in the midst of my own domain and my strongest protections—"
"The mortal world," Rhoslyn interrupted. "Their life-force drains down to us, but nothing from Underhill reaches into the mortal world. If you go there, if you try to find out what mischief Vidal plans against Elizabeth, that should keep you occupied."
"The mortal world," Pasgen repeated. "I do not like the mortal world."
But even as he spoke his head turned away, outward toward the Gate which could take him back. Rhoslyn released his hand and took hold of his face, turning it toward her.
"Don't go there, Pasgen," she cried. "You will be trapped. Don't leave me alone!"