This Scepter'd Isle (3 page)

The Hunters were a fearsome group, whose fantastic armor, costumes, and weaponry were designed a-purpose to strike terror into the hearts of the mortal humans foolish enough to have earned their attention. Denoriel rode with the Seleighe Hunt, whose victims deserved their attention—those "whom the law could not touch," who made the mistake of venturing into places where the Wild Hunt rode freely, their power uninhibited by the taint of cold iron. There were men enough in England who committed the worst excesses, who left death and weeping in their wake, and escaped men's justice, either because of rank, wealth, or cleverness. But they could not escape the Hunt, once it was on their scent . . . 

The Seleighe Hunt took only evil-doers; the Hunt of the Unseleighe Sidhe, the Hunt in whose ranks Denoriel's half-brother and half-sister rode, was not so discriminating. The wicked were much harder to separate from their fellows and lure or drive out where the Hunt could bring them their just reward, and the Seleighe Wild Hunt loved the challenge, sneering at the Unseleighe, who sacrificed poor careless innocents. Mortals, of course, could not tell the two apart, but that was their problem, not Denoriel's. He delivered justice, justice in the form of a slim, leaf-shaped blade and the bright silver arrows of elf-shot.

Nevertheless, his twin sister did not like to be reminded that he rode with any Hunt at all. Gentle Aleneil never caught sight of him in his batwing cloak and his night-dark armor without a shudder, so as he rode toward the Gate, he banished these accouterments, calling up the soft silks of courtly garb in Aleneil's favorite colors of green and azure to clothe himself anew. Denoriel was no Magus Major, but the elf who could not clothe and reclothe him- or herself with a single thought when Underhill hardly deserved the name of Child of Dannae.

He favored styles of an older mode than that current among the humans; the puffed breeches and short tunics, the lace ruffs and slashed sleeves seemed unreasonably silly, if not downright uncomfortable, to him. Let others ape the latest foppery of the mortals; he would keep to what suited him. His green tunic was beautifully molded to his body and at mid-thigh length exposed smooth-fitting azure chausses, cross-gartered in the green of his tunic, that displayed his handsome legs to fine effect. He could not change the obsidian hilt on his sword—and would not if he could—but the sheath was now soft silver rather than dead black.

Silver lanterns, like miniature moons, hung among the branches at intervals along the path, and he passed from light, into shadow, back into pearly light again. At length the path opened up into a round meadow, ringed with witch lights; the grass was studded with huge, white moonflowers, and at the center stood the Gate.

There was but one destination this Gate held—Elfhame Avalon, the mystic heart of Seleighe lands Underhill, and as a consequence, the Gate was guarded by Oberon's most trusted knights and warriors. Once, one of them had been Denoriel's father . . . 

The knights on duty at the Gate to Avalon did not bear their usual arms and accouterments; they wore instead a uniform style of armor and the High King's livery. With their helms down and closed, Denoriel could not recognize any of them, but they recognized him.

Recognized who he was supposed to be, at any rate. The Knights of the Gate were also magicians of power and took no chances. Denoriel felt the shiver of a spell pass across his skin, like the caress of icy silk, as one of them cast a magic that would dispel any illusion over him.

"Welcome, and pass on, Denoriel Silverhair," said a hollow voice that sounded as if it came from somewhere over his head, rather than from any of the knights. The two nearest him parted enough to allow him to take his steed between them, and onto the white marble platform of the Gate.

Gates took many forms, according to the whims of their creators. This one was an arched dome of opal lace, rising above the eight fluted pillars of chalcedony that supported it, its floor a platform of the whitest, blue-veined marble. Miralys's hooves rang on the stone as the elvensteed paced slowly across the marble to pass between the two closest pillars and under the arch.

And the moment that Denoriel reached the center of the dome, the very air shivered, he felt a moment of unsettling disorientation—

And he was no longer beneath opal lacework, but under the interwoven boughs of eight trees wrought of solid silver, and beneath the hooves of his steed, not marble, but a pavement-mosaic of an eight-pointed star, formed of thousands of pearly seashells, each smaller than the nail of a newborn baby's finger.

His twin sister, Aleneil Arwyddion Ysfael Silverhair, waited for him at the edge of the pavement, bathed in the blue twilight of Underhill, her eyes grave, but welcoming. Denoriel swiftly dismounted and strode toward her, hands outstretched to catch hers.

As always, he felt that shock of familiarity, that unsettling feeling of staring into a mirror that somehow inverted his gender. The same eyes, Elven-green with slitted pupils, were common to High and Low Court, Seleighe and Unseleighe—but hers were the exact shape of his. The arch of her brow duplicated his, the sharp curve of cheekbone was the same that his own fingers traced, the barely tilted nose, one he had lamented in his own features, but which her suitors called "adorable," was also the same. Differences—there were those. Her hair was longer than his; hers swept the ground behind her, unbound, covered only by a tiny, heart-shaped cap, while his was neatly trimmed at his shoulder blades. And she wore a gown, not a tunic or doublet, fitted in the bodice with a low, square neckline, spreading as to the skirts. Today she wore a gown, tomorrow it might be doublet and hose; Elven women were free to wear or not wear whatever they chose. But Aleneil not only chose the sweeping skirts, she chose them in the current human mode, not the antique garments of another century, nor the curiously wrought robes favored by the most traditional of their kin.

"I'm here, as you asked," he said, meeting her eyes and seeing trouble in them. "But you didn't tell me—have you asked me as sister, or as FarSeer?"

"FarSeer first; then as your sister. It is as FarSeer that I must show you something of grave import; it is as sister that I will then ask something of you because of what I will show you." Her solemn, almost fearful, expression gave him a chill of foreboding, but she said nothing more, though he looked at her with a hundred questions in his eyes.

She took his hand and led him away; Miralys they left to graze as he would near the Gate. The steed would come to no harm here, and if Denoriel needed to ride, Miralys would come to him at a thought, no matter where he was, Underhill or in the mortal world. Elvensteeds were not limited to passing by Gates.

They were all fortunate that the steeds would not travel into Unseleighe Domains in their unlimited journeys, or the ongoing skirmishing with their Unseleighe cousins would turn into something even uglier than it already was.

Elven FarSeers, Healers, and the most powerful of the Mages were trained here in Avalon, which was said to be one of the oldest Elfhames. Aside from the teachers and those in training, only a select group of FarSeers actually dwelt here still. Avalon was small, but the very air hummed with power, and unlike any other Elfhame, there were no actual buildings here. Fragments of walls were melded with living trees and bushes, creating as much or as little privacy as the inhabitant or the use required. There were no roofs; where was the need for roofs where it never rained? Avalon's air was always that of a sweet and balmy spring night with a hint of a breeze, and if one wanted a little more darkness than the twilight, one could make one's dwelling in the deep shade of the boughs of a cascading cypress or a sighing willow.

In the time of Arthur, human mages and the novices in service to the ancient gods had come here too, to be trained, passing—if not "easily," then certainly at their will—across the boundary between mortal and Elven lands. But then Christianity had supplanted the ways of the gods and goddesses, and the humans came no more. No mortal had set foot in Avalon for a thousand years.

Which was, Denoriel reflected, just as well.

As Aleneil drew her brother deeper and deeper into the heart of Avalon, the signs of current and former occupants appeared more often along the path. The pathway itself was lit by moon-lanterns, and the pearly glow they shed showed the arch of a doorway here, the thrust of a tower there, a surprising burst of color from a stained-glass window framed, not in stone, but in the living trunk of a tree.

He knew where she must be taking him, although he had never seen the artifact himself—the great Mirror of the FarSeers. This was not only a vehicle for the FarSeers to use in seeing the possible futures, it had been enchanted to be able to capture those visions and show them to those who were not, themselves, able to FarSee. It was the only creation of its kind in all of the Seleighe lands; perhaps the only one in the world, mortal or Underhill.

When they came upon it, though, it was a complete surprise.

On the rare occasions Denoriel had thought about the mirror in connection with his sister, he had wondered idly whether it would be silvered glass or blackest obsidian? A still pool, rimmed with glowing precious stones? A giant ball of flawless crystal?

It was none of these things.

It was, however, set in the middle of a depression in the earth, a tiny bowl of a valley, carpeted with millions of minute flowers. They nestled among leaves no bigger than seed-pearls, which gave off a sweet, spicy scent as he trod on them. In the center of the bowl was a pedestal of alabaster; on the pedestal stood a silver frame, enclosing what appeared to be an enormous lens of crystal.

Standing beside the lens were three elven women Denoriel didn't recognize. One, like Aleneil, was gowned in the height of current mortal fashion, though her chosen colors were sapphire and sky-blue. One wore little more than draped silk gauze, pinned in the style of ancient Greece at the shoulder with bronze brooches and held to her waist with a matching belt. The third, gowned in a style not seen since Atlantis disappeared beneath the sea, wore silks in pastel colors that clung to her body, embroidered all over with vines and leaves, with trailing sleeves and a train that covered the tiny flowers for yards behind her. All three were blond, of course, for Seleighe Sidhe favored blond hair, but the first had hair like a ruddy sunset, the second like a field of ripe corn, and the third, like Aleneil, pale as moonlight.

"My teachers," Aleneil said simply. "Now come and look into the Mirror."

He stood where she directed, and she beside him. The three other ladies raised their hands, and a glow of power lifted about the crystal lens.

"Here is the nexus of our future," said the one in the dress of ancient Greece, and a mist seemed to pass over the surface of the lens. A moment later, the surface cleared, but within it, Denoriel saw the image of a human infant, red-haired and scowling, swaddled in fine, embroidered linen and lace . . . and glowing with power. The babe was being held by a figure that Denoriel recognized—the mortal king of England, Henry, who was the eighth of that name.

"And here are glimpses of the future when this child comes to reign in Great Harry's stead," said the lady garbed as a mortal of that court. The lens misted again, and scene after scene played out briefly before him—briefly, but enough to show him a future very bright for the mortals of England, a flowering of art, music, and letters, of freedom of thought and deed, of exploration and bravery. Oh, there were problems—twice, if Denoriel read the signs aright—Spain sent a great fleet against England, only to be repulsed at minimal cost. But the troubles were weathered, the difficulties overcome, and the result was nearly an age of gold.

"And this—" said the lady of the ancient ways, "is what will come to pass if that child does not reign."

Fires . . . 

Image after image crowded the lens, and even Denoriel, not unaccustomed to pain and terror, winced away from the appalling scenes. Black-robed Christian priests, grim-faced and implacable, brought scores, hundreds of victims to the Question, torturing their bodies until they would confess to anything, then burning what was left in front of silent onlookers. Others, whose intellects burned as brightly as the flames, did not need to be tortured; they confessed their sins of difference defiantly, and were burned. In place of a flowering of art and science, came a blight. Darkness fell over the land, pressed there by the heavy, iron hand of Spain and the Inquisition.

Then the lens cleared, and the ladies stood quietly, watching him. "Interesting," he said at last, forcing his breathing to be steady and even and swallowing the constriction in his throat. "But I fail to see what relevance this has to us."

It was the last of the ladies to speak who addressed him, her brows raised, her voice patient, as if she addressed a particularly stupid child. "What happens to them has always been relevant to us, Denoriel. Britain is bound to Logres, and Logres to Britain; it has always been so, and will always be. Think! Have you never heard of Elfhame Alhambra, of Elfhame Eldorado, and what became of them when the hounds of the Inquisition were set loose upon the land of Spain?"

He stiffened; no elf liked to be reminded of the darkened, deserted halls of the great palace of Alhambra, of the silent gardens of Eldorado, both haunted by things it was better not to meet. If anyone had told him why the elves had fled those elfhames, it had not stuck with him. But the word had been enough to give him the clue . . . Inquisition.

The lady of the Greek peplos stared at him in rebuke. "If dark times come upon the mortals of Britannia, they will come to us. Death and cruelty feed our Unseleighe kin, as creativity and joy feed us. If that comes to Britain at the hands of the Inquisition—the gates to Logres will be open to the Unseleighe Underhill."

Her eyes flashed angrily at him, and he stepped back a pace, startled. "Your pardon, lady," he murmured. "I did not know—"

She sniffed.

"But lady," he continued rather plaintively, "what has this to do with me?"