Elizabeth screamed, but there was no sound—
Somehow, that made things even more terrifying.
But before she could draw breath to scream again, she was standing quite solidly in the most gorgeous place she had ever seen.
Terror turned to wonder in a single instant. Above her head arched a dome of opal lace, iridescent, coruscating with light, yet plainly thick and solid as stone. The dome was supported on eight fluted pillars of . . . could it be? Could it really be? She had seen the stone in prized rings, small oval pieces of a rich orange flecked and streaked with less-desirable brown, and here there were pillars of pure orange as thick around as a ten-year-old tree . . .
If she was any judge of stones, those entire pillars were carved of chalcedony. At least the floor beneath her feet, although beautiful, was not an outrage to common sense; it was a simply a platform of the whitest, blue-veined marble.
There was no sun. Although it had been almost noon and sunny when she rose from her bed, the sky above her now, which she could see through the dome, was midnight blue and speckled liberally with stars. But there was no lack of light. She could see with perfect clarity, the platform itself and all around the platform on which she and Lord Denno stood, an even sward, starred with small, slightly glowing white flowers. She bent, Lord Denno's arm loosening enough to allow her freedom of movement, and peered around, looking for the large and brilliant moon which could give such a bright, silvery light. There was no moon.
Elizabeth turned her eyes up to Lord Denno, who was looking down, looking somewhat anxious. Before asking any of the other questions that filled her mind, Elizabeth became aware of an oddity. It was the depths of winter, the middle of February, and they were out-of-doors and she was barefoot and wearing only a nightdress. Admittedly, the dress was a heavy silk—another of Denno's gifts—and it was delightfully warm, but not warm enough for out-of-doors in February.
"Why am I not freezing?" she asked.
The anxious frown on Denno's forehead smoothed out and he broke into a delighted laugh. "Because you are now Underhill, where the weather suits the clothing, not the other way around."
"Underhill?" she replied, unable to understand what he meant. "The realm of the faeries, more like. Tell me true, am I asleep in my bed at Hatfield, dreaming?"
"No. You are here in the flesh. You must not think of yourself as dreaming," Denoriel warned. "It is beautiful here, Underhill—not Fae-land; the faery . . . they do not rule Underhill, thank God—but Underhill can be dangerous. Stay close to me where I can protect you. Do not wander away or let yourself be tempted away. Even here in Logres there are creatures, not evil, but mischievous, and with no understanding that someone might be hurt by their actions—the faery, the wee folk, for example, who are very beautiful but have not the sense of a puling babe. Creatures such as these for pure amusement might take you elsewhere and leave you there with no way to return or to call to me."
Feeling just a touch of chill, Elizabeth stepped closer and took Denoriel's hand. "Where does—" she began, intending to ask from where the light came without sun or moon, but in that moment a most magnificent horse appeared by the platform and she changed her question to "Where did that horse come from?"
Denno laughed again. "Hatfield, I suppose, but he may have made some stops along the way. It is Miralys, Elizabeth, come to carry us to Llachar Lle, the Summer Palace—although why it should be called the Summer Palace when the weather never changes, I do not know."
Elizabeth felt affronted. Denno teased her sometimes, but this time he was actually trying to make a fool of her. "I have seen Miralys when we went hunting. He was a black horse, very handsome, but nothing like this vision."
The creature was a brilliant silver with a blue-black mane and tail and eyes as green as Denno's own. The horse snorted and on his back appeared the most wonderful saddle of bright red leather with a high, golden pommel, and a second, pillion-seat (shaped much like a saddle rather than the simple pad she was used to seeing) behind the rider's seat that was clearly designed to carry a child. Elizabeth gasped.
"All the horses you have seen me ride were Miralys," Denno said, chuckling. "I have only one horse, but you know it would never do to allow anyone of rank or wealth to know I have only one horse, so Miralys changes his color and his shape just a little so everyone thinks I have a whole stableful."
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it again while Denno lifted her up into the saddle. She closed her hands tight over the cantle of the rider's saddle, feeling nervous at being mounted with no reins in her hand. There was no way for her to control the horse, and she had not ridden pillion behind anyone since the moment she had first learned to control a pony on her own. Blanche did not ride at all, of course, but Kat only rode pillion—being able to ride out for pleasure or to hunt, without Kat, and being in full control of her own horse or pony had given Elizabeth some of the few moments of complete freedom she had ever felt.
Miralys did not need control, however. He stood like a rock until Denno was mounted. It was only then, when Denno rested one hand on his knee and adjusted the fall of his gown with the other, that Elizabeth realized there were no reins. She flung her arms around Denno's waist to hold on in case the horse should bolt.
They started off as the thought came to her, not in an uncontrolled gallop but at an easy canter. "Denno, where are we going?" she cried.
"To Llachar Lle, as I said." His voice was assured, perhaps held a note of surprise. "I have an apartment there where we can wait in comfort until we are summoned by Queen Titania. If you are hungry, we could have a nuncheon."
"But you have no reins," she wailed. "How can the horse know where you want to go? How can you control him?"
"Ah." Denno reached back and patted her shoulder. "Miralys always knows where I want to go. How he knows, I am not prepared to say . . . No, I don't mean I won't tell you, I just have no idea. When I was a boy, oh, four or five years old, a pony appeared, as it often happens for those of our kind. As I grew, he grew, and we have been together ever since. Miralys is not a . . . a horse. He is an elvensteed, who chooses to look like a horse most of the time. He can look like anything, I suppose, but since the elvensteeds' purpose in life seems to be to serve us as our friends and means of transportation, a horse is the best form to wear."
Protest against a place where anything could look like anything else, where the park was flooded with light without sun or moon, where the weather suited the clothes worn by each person—who was not a person but something else—rose to Elizabeth's lips. She did not voice that protest, however. Just ahead was a . . . no, it did not matter what Denno said; what she was seeing was a castle out of some mad artist's dream. Exquisite, yes, but utterly impossible.
"That cannot be real," she said. "It is just like a painting on the scene of a masque, an illumination, or a design for a tapestry. No one could build a spire like that. It would fall down. Denno, I am dreaming. That palace cannot be real."
The palace was far in the distance, yet by the time she finished speaking, Miralys had stopped by the wide marble stairs that led up to a portico which stretched all along the front of the building. Denno dismounted and lifted her down. The steps and portico were of the same brilliantly white, blue-veined marble as the platform on which they had arrived. The platform, although large, had not used enough marble to be out-of-sight costly, but this portico . . .
She remembered hearing a discussion of the cost of repairing a plain stone landing at Hertford Palace. She could not even guess the price of a marble porch of this size. Worse, before her were the most immense brazen doors she had ever seen. Surely doors of that size were either far too heavy to move or be supported by hinges or were so thin that the metal would crumple like paper. They were ten times man height, brilliantly polished, and elaborately worked in scenes she had no time really to see.
Elizabeth's disbelief startled Denoriel as did her expression of rejection, almost anger. Remembering what Titania had said to Aleneil about a reigning queen deciding the wealth of Underhill would solve her financial problems and bringing a horde of steel-armed mortals to raid, Denoriel felt he had better use that rejection.
"It is real Underhill," he said, "but if you take anything made by magic from Underhill into your world, it either vanishes away or turns to dross. Just as in the tales of King Arthur's sister, Morgana, and the palaces she would build in the wilderness which would vanish when morning came."
"Ah!" Elizabeth breathed out a satisfied sigh.
She had been growing more and more frightened by the idea of the wealth and skill that could build such a palace, such a landing place, out of such materials. Why should such people not rise up and overwhelm all England, take all of the people as slaves?
"You mean it is all held together by magic, and would not last where there is no magic?" she asked, seeking confirmation of her hope.
"Your world—we call it the World Above, or Overhill, or the mortal world—has magic. All people have magic, and I have brought you here to see if you could learn to use your magic to protect yourself." He looked down at her with no sign that he was humoring her, which was a comfort. "But Overhill magic is of a different kind than that of Underhill, a kind my people cannot use, and it does not lend itself to making things, or at least, not large things like a house. In your world, we are quickly depleted of our inner magic and become weak." He chuckled. "That is why my folk do not much care to live in the World Above."
"Ah," Elizabeth said again, no longer feeling like a poor relation allowed to live only on the sufferance of some infinitely more powerful being—a feeling with which she was too familiar. Now she began looking around her with bright interest.
They had climbed the steps to the portico. Elizabeth was just wondering how Denno would knock on the great doors when he led her aside to a human-sized portal. There he put his arm tight around her and drew her through what seemed like a short open passage. An icy chill ran down her from head to toe, but Denno marched her through it without allowing her to hesitate.
On the other side of the portal was a short corridor as high and wide as the great doors. It was, Elizabeth thought, larger even than the great hall of the Tower, and at the end was a pair of silver doors, also closed. Again she had no time to make sense of the scenes worked into the doors; Denno led her into a side corridor of normal size where the walls glowed softly in opalescent mother-of-pearl colors.
Elizabeth looked at them without envy. It was all very pretty, but so were the masques that players presented to her. From where she sat a masque looked so wonderful, so perfect, but when she had called a player close, it was plain that the brilliant gown he wore (for it was a boy playing the role of a woman) was made of cheap, painted cloth, and when she had been taken to look at the scenery, the impressive mountains became just purple and blue daubs on canvas. So although this might look beautiful, it was not real in the sense that it could exist in her world. And if it could not exist in her world, it did not matter. Already in her short life, Elizabeth had learned to dismiss from her mind those things that could not affect her, for there was far too much to worry about already.
A little way down the corridor, Denno stopped before an open door leading to a meadow with a manor house, backed by a dense wood, in the distance. Again Denno put his arm around her and pulled her close. She heard him say a few words in a strange language, and they stepped through the doorway into a small, square hallway with open arches right and left.
"Where is the meadow and the manor house?" she asked, amazed.
"That is only an illusion—" Denno began, then hesitated and said, "You saw the illusion?"
"Yes, but did you not say that Underhill illusion is real?" she asked, now thoroughly puzzled. "I saw a wide meadow with a manor house and a wood in the distance. Is the palace we entered also an illusion?"
"No. Llachar Lle is real. But what you might see through the windows here is often an illusion," he replied, absently. "Hmmm. So—in the World Above you can see through illusion, but not here." He grimaced, so quickly she almost missed it. "Well. Since you cannot see through illusion Underhill, you must be extra careful not to trust too easily or quickly. Do not believe what you see, unless I tell you it is as it seems, or you have confirmation some other way."
That warning was frightening, but before Elizabeth could ask for reassurance, a shadow fell across the archway to the left.
"Is that you, Denno?"
The voice was familiar and Lady Alana stepped out of the arch leading to what was plainly a reception room. The back wall was a huge glass window, the glass smooth and clear as air, nothing like the small, uneven, faintly greenish panes in the windows at home. Through the window, Elizabeth could again see the wide meadow and the forest-backed manor house. She blinked, concentrated on looking through the house and field, but they did not grow shadowy and show what was underneath.
"Ah, my lady," Alana said, dropping a curtsey. "I am so glad that you agreed to come and arrived safely."
"Are you the great lady we have come to see?" Elizabeth asked, somewhat offended.
Alana laughed. "Oh, no, no indeed. The great lady is Queen Titania. I am of very little importance here, only Lady Alana. However, the Queen has not sent a message yet."
"Good," Elizabeth said, greatly relieved that she was not to meet a queen in her nightdress. "Then we will have time for Denno to provide court clothing for me as he promised."
"I will do that." Alana chuckled softly. "You don't want to present yourself in Denno's notion of what is the proper gown for someone of your slenderness and coloring. Come with me, love."
She held out her hand, but Elizabeth, warnings in mind, glanced up at Denno. He nodded and smiled approvingly. "Go with Aleneil. This apartment is well warded and there is nothing here that will hurt you, although you may see some strange things." Then he said to Lady Alana, "Don't take too long, Aleneil. I promised Blanche that you would divert Mistress Champernowne so she does not notice that Elizabeth is missing. And on your way, would you leave a message at Mwynwen's house that Elizabeth is Underhill?"
Some other message passed between them, Elizabeth guessed, but Lady Alana? Aleneil? only nodded so Elizabeth could not guess what it was. She could only follow Alana out of a door at the back of the chamber to a cross corridor from which a branching stairway rose to an upper floor.
That was impossible, Elizabeth thought, distracted from the slight fear the silent message had awakened in her. There was no room for an upper floor, but she said nothing. It was like the painted ocean of a masque in which you believed, even though you knew that the masque was being played in a palace hall very far from any water . . . except that here you could walk up the stair to the second floor.
At the top of the stair were three doors. Alana opened the first to the right, and there was a bedchamber looking a bit like her own in Hatfield. When the door was closed again Alana said, "Take off your nightdress, Lady Elizabeth," and Elizabeth did so. "Now, take your cross in its pouch, and put it in this bag—"
Alana held out a small bag made of much thicker stuff than the thin silk of its usual pouch. For a moment Elizabeth hesitated, then with a shrug, obeyed, and hung the whole around her neck. If she could not trust Denno and Alana, she was without hope anyway. She drew the drawstring tight around the encased cross. Then Alana said, "There."
Elizabeth looked down at herself and a squeak of protest forced itself through her lips. In spite of all the wonders she had seen since she walked through the black space in the wall, she could not believe this. Yet she was fully and most exquisitely dressed.
She could feel underclothes, linen drawers, silken chemise, a farthingale with its stiffened hoops. How had they found their way over her body? There was her nightdress at the edge of the bed still sliding down to the floor. Lady Alana put out a casual hand and caught the heavy silken garment; with the other hand, she turned Elizabeth so that she could see herself in a handsome cheval mirror.
The gown was breathtaking, in the most glorious colors of silver and scarlet, with a wide, square neck above which the snowy white chemise barely peeked. Around her neck was a thick gold chain set with brilliant rubies supporting an oval brooch, also of gold with four oval rubies in the center and huge teardrop pearls hanging from the base. The upper sleeves of the silver gown were tight to about the middle of her upper arm, and folded back over the upper sleeve, from just below the elbow, were huge fur cuffs of a silver fur Elizabeth could not identify.
From those cuffs protruded a very full lower sleeve of red silk brocade, slashed to show dazzlingly white silk puffs of the chemise. The outer gown was of silver silk, brocaded with darker silver in a pattern of giant leaves, the skirt divided in front to show the second skirt of the undergown beneath. The undergown matched the lower sleeve, a dull red silk brocaded in an elaborate diamond pattern in gold.
Elizabeth gaped at herself. She had never seen so rich a dress. Not even Catherine Howard, who had adored fine dress before she sinned and was executed, had anything as grand as what Elizabeth was now wearing.
"Ohhh, it is so beautiful. Can I take it home?" she breathed.
Lady Alana laughed. "Only if you wish to step through the Gate and find yourself naked, my heart. No, love, you will have to wear your nightdress when you go back, but if you like this gown, Denoriel will save it for you and you can wear it when you come Underhill again."
"But I will have outgrown it by then," Elizabeth said, tears of disappointment rising to her eyes.
"No, love." Alana patted her cheek. "Whenever you put it on it will be the right size. But I doubt you will wish to wear it often. I think you will find it too restrictive if you wish to see the sights of Underhill. Never mind." She waved at a closed wardrobe. "You will find what you need in there, if you should come again, and I pledge you, the gowns you find there will please you just as much. Now, I must run away to keep Blanche out of trouble."
Having seen Elizabeth safely back into Denno's care, Lady Alana stepped out of the door. Denoriel did not watch his sister go but stared at Elizabeth. "God's Grace," he said, "can you walk in that?"
"Yes, certainly," Elizabeth said, making sure her back was very straight and upright, her head high. "It is really very light, because the skirt is supported by a farthingale instead of layers of petticoats. The fur . . ." she lifted her arms. "No, the fur is very light too. Denno, why does Lady Alana call you Denoriel, and I heard you call her Aleneil?" Anxiety tightened her mouth. "Are you really my Denno?"
"Yes, I am," he said, and took her hand and squeezed it gently. "Aleneil and Denoriel are our names Underhill. Denno and Alana are what we called each other when we were too little to say our full names."
"Oh." Elizabeth was relieved. "The way Edward called me Bess when I first came to Hertford. He could say Elizabeth but only very slowly, so I let him call me Bess."
"Exactly. We are the same people. But you had better still call us Denno and Alana in your world." She began to think that she liked this Denno better than the one in her world, even though his eyes and ears were so odd, and there was no illusion of humanity to concentrate on—he smiled a great deal more. "Are you hungry? Can you eat with those sleeves on your arms?"
Elizabeth laughed. "Yes to both."
"Then come into the other room," Denno said, snapping his fingers at the empty air.
They entered the dining room in time to see plates settle themselves noiselessly on the polished surface of the table. Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath as soup was ladled from a serving bowl hanging midair into eating bowls at each place and a breadbasket seemed to float through the air and set itself between the places.
"Sorry, my lady," Denno said, smiling reassurance. "I never bothered to make my servants visible."
Elizabeth's eyes widened, but she sat down—carefully arranging her elaborate skirts—in the seat Denoriel indicated and reached for her spoon. "Then how do you know when they are finished serving?" she asked.
Denoriel grinned. "I just start to eat and they get out of the way or avoid me."
Elizabeth did not smile in response. "That cannot make for the growth of loyalty," she said. "And you cannot even see the expressions on their faces or how they hold their bodies. How can you trust them?"
He raised an eyebrow at her. "And who taught you that, little minx?"
"Kat, of course," she replied sharply. "And she is quite right. The servants adore her and would do anything for her . . . except Dunstan. He would do anything for me! But you haven't answered me. I would not like to have servants I could not see. One could creep up behind you and . . ."
"Not these servants. They are constructs, not people." He sucked on his lower lip a little, trying to think how to make her understand. "They are made, like the automata you have been shown from time to time. They have no more mind than a clockwork. They can do perfectly what they are designed to do, but they do not really think or feel."
Denoriel was a little surprised to see Elizabeth shiver. He remembered how amused Harry had been at being cared for by the invisible servants, how totally delighted and thrilled he had been by the beauties of Underhill. How Harry had longed, even after their disastrous arrival, to stay. Plainly Elizabeth did not feel that way.
That was just as well, Denoriel told himself, although he felt a little hurt at her lack of appreciation of the wonders and beauties of his world. She was immune, it seemed, from the danger that mortals who were brought Underhill often fell prey to. Even when their memories of the time spent here were removed, they would retain a sense of something wonderful that had been lost, and would go through their lives searching for they knew not what. He thought, watching Elizabeth's expression as her soup bowl was removed and replaced with a plate of cold meats and fresh vegetables, that she looked more disapproving than enthralled.
Her expression brought an odd little skipped beat to his heart, but under and beyond his disappointment in her lack of appreciation was a deep admiration. She was so much cleverer than Harry, so much more imaginative—not that he loved Harry less; Harry was a still pool of peace, a strong bulwark of solid affection. But Elizabeth challenged him. There was little peace in her presence. One had to be always on guard, and aware of every word.
Teasingly, because of her frown, he asked if she did not like her nuncheon. She looked at him, almost blankly, then smiled and said she liked it very well, but her remark was plainly made with more absent politeness than real attention. However, she ate well enough to show her words were true.
Still, when they were finished, went back into the sitting room, and sat down on the settle before the hearth, she looked at the multicolored flames leaping over and around the crystal logs and shook her head. "Denno, why waste magic on a fire when the temperature is always comfortable?"
Denoriel explained that there was magic enough and more than enough Underhill, that use was a matter of the Talent of the user rather than how much or how strong the ambient magic was. He had a strong Talent, and the fire was for ornament rather than for usefulness. "As one would set a fountain in the garden—one does not need a fountain to bring water to the plants, but it is a pleasant thing to see and hear." Elizabeth nodded understanding but disapproval was again in her face.
"You can make anything you want out of thin air and magic, can you not? If I asked for a garden, doubtless there would be one outside the window in the double-shake of a lamb's tail."
"Outside my window, I could provide the illusion of a garden, yes."
Elizabeth sighed and shook her head again. "Everything is too easy here. You want food, you wave a hand. You want fine clothing . . . I did not even see Lady Alana make a gesture and I was dressed from the skin out in far greater grandeur than I could afford at home. What do you people do after you have made two gestures?"
Denoriel laughed heartily. "What do you do? Learn. Read. Hunt and play at games. Sing. Dance. Court a fair lady."
"Gossip. Speak ill of each other." She shook her head impatiently. "Yes, I know all about that!"
Denoriel laughed even harder, but he did not want Elizabeth to think too ill of Underhill and he said, "No, truly. Our lives are not so different from yours. We cannot learn things by magic; magic does not make the words fly from a page into one's memory. An artist still must wield his brushes and chisels to make a painting or a statue. A musician must practice and take instruction from a master in order to play. Real things, real for Underhill, I mean, can be made here also. That takes much more effort than a gesture to call servants or make an illusion. Real things, like the palace of Llachar Lle, are created by the exertion of will in an Unformed land. Only King Oberon could have created Llachar Lle, I think."
"Will I see King Oberon?" she asked with interest.
"I hope not!" Denoriel exclaimed. "He likes little mortal girls. I am afraid you might be too fascinating for him to resist and he might wish to keep you here."
"No," Elizabeth said, and then clamped her lips tight over the reason for her denial.
Even to Denno she would not admit that she dreamed of being queen. It was treason for her to dream such a dream; one hint of such a thought and she would be executed. Besides that, she loved Edward and wished him ho harm. She wanted him to live long and be crowned. Sometimes she told herself that her dream of being queen was connected with marriage, that she would marry a king or a prince who would come to the throne. But her heart knew she ruled England.
"No, indeed," Denno said. "Did I not promise to bring you home before the evening meal?"
Elizabeth let herself smile, but she had lost her interest in King Oberon. Another idea was more enticing. "You say I have Talent and power," she said. "Could I create something in an Unformed place?"
"I hope not." Denno grinned at her. "You are quite willful enough without practicing on a poor Unformed land in Underhill. No, seriously love, creation of real life is so difficult that Sidhe have died trying. However, some have succeeded. I am sure a real garden could be created and if you really want one, I will try."
She shook her head and said correctly, "I would not want you to endanger yourself," but the idea of creating something herself, or even seeing Denno make something that would live and grow made her sigh a little.
To distract her Denoriel said, "There is a place I call Shepherd's Paradise that I would love to show you. As far as I can tell, it was created for no other purpose than to hold a small herd of sheep, which seem to believe that they are in a sheep's version of heaven." Then, thinking of the contented animals—even Miralys and Lady Aeron seemed especially at peace there—Denoriel's tongue slipped and he added, "It's where Harry and I go when we want a quiet place to talk."
There was a sudden tense silence, then Elizabeth said slowly, voice trembling, "Is he coming? Is my Da coming? Is that where we will meet him?"
Furious at himself for having reminded her, Denoriel opened his mouth to say again that he did not know—and was saved. In the air between them appeared a sparkling figure, about the size of one of Elizabeth's hands, sporting iridescent butterfly wings, a tiny, bright purple cap, the sort that fools wore, and shiny black shoes with pointed toes. Other clothing seemed unnecessary as the little creature had skin all over smooth as glass and no sexual organs at all.
"You are summoned," the faery sang in a tinkling voice.
"We are ready," Denoriel said.
Elizabeth's lips parted to object. She wanted her question answered first . . . but she swallowed her words. She had been rigidly trained in court protocol. When the king demanded anyone's presence, that person came at once, even she, regardless of the fact that she was his daughter. Here she did not even have that advantage.
Denno had risen when the messenger spoke, as did Elizabeth, and he went to stand beside her, passing his hand down along his body and ending with as full and elaborate a male version of court dress as Elizabeth wore. A little rod appeared in the faery's hand and was shaken over Denoriel and Elizabeth, releasing a shower of brilliant sparks.
Elizabeth blinked at the brightness and when she opened her eyes she was someplace quite different. Denno was still beside her, but this room was empty of the chairs and settles and tables in his reception room. She was still facing a large window, but beyond it was a completely different scene. Here, rather than a rough meadow, was a smooth-mown lawn graced with large trees.
Beneath one tree, quite close to the window, was a group of children, all apparently human, all perfect, except for one smudged and tattered little boy. The children were playing happily under the eyes of two tall people who had long, pointed ears and eyes with long pupils like Denno and Alana. But had not Denno said that children were rare among his people?
Oh but—weren't those ordinary children?
She never thought further than the question. A slight sound drew Elizabeth to turn her head toward the top of the room. Her mouth dropped open. Her breath drew in. On a dais, on a graceful chair seemingly carved out of a single pearl, was a woman so beautiful that Elizabeth's heart seemed to stop.
Beautiful, but not human. Far more than in the case of Denno and Alana, this woman was Other. Denno's ears were a bit pointed and a little longer than a human's, the queen's—for she must be the Queen, Elizabeth thought; power shimmered around her—ears were quite pointed, and carefully exposed through her elaborate coils and braids of hair. The hair itself was beyond human; it glistened and glowed like threads of true gold metal. Her eyes . . . Elizabeth stopped thinking.
"This is the child?" the woman asked in so musical a voice that it raised a craving to hear her speak again.
Denoriel swept a deep bow. "Yes, Your Majesty. This is Lady Elizabeth, daughter of King Henry, the eighth of that name, of England in the World Above."
Elizabeth promptly dropped a formal curtsey, right down to the ground with head bent almost to her knee. Denoriel saw the Queen begin to smile.
"Rise, child," Titania said.
Elizabeth straightened and stood with head demurely lowered, hands folded before her, but Denoriel could see that she was looking up at Titania through her lashes.
"Come closer," the Queen ordered, and held out her hand. And when Elizabeth, urged again by an unmistakable order disguised as an inviting gesture, had stepped up on the dais and taken the Queen's hand, Titania asked, "What do you think of Underhill, Lady Elizabeth?"
"It is very, very beautiful," Elizabeth replied carefully. "And I am quite amazed by what I have seen."
"Amazed? Not enthralled, delighted, not even pleased?" There was laughter in the musical voice.
Elizabeth's hand felt gently warm and the sensation was rising up her arm, but she did not dare think about that. She had to respond to the Queen's question. And she knew she had to answer this queen's questions every bit as carefully as she answered her father's, careful of every word lest she say one that he could misunderstand and be offended. But it was not fair! She knew her father. She knew what might be offensive to him. She did not know this queen at all. Ah, but she knew from the Queen's question that she took great pride in her land.
"All of those, Your Majesty," Elizabeth breathed, "but I am only a little girl. I fear to say too much—or even too little. It is all so wonderful that I . . . I find it hard to believe in it."
"Give me your other hand, child."
Denoriel felt his whole body tighten. Titania's voice, though just as beautiful, to his practiced ear held a sharper note, possibly even a thread of stress. He stirred, drew breath to speak but did not dare when he saw that the Queen's eyes were unnaturally bright, fixed on Elizabeth's face.
"Majesty," Elizabeth said, carefully, as if she were measuring out each word, "This is a wonderful place, better than a dream. But I cannot live in a dream. Although I love to visit there, I could not live here. This place—it is not for such as me. And I think—perhaps—that is a good thing."
Denoriel's breath eased out, silently. All was well. He could not see Elizabeth's expression, because she was too close to Titania and facing her, but her body, although firmly upright, showed no extra stiffness as of resistance to pain, and the side of her cheek that he could see looked as though her mouth might be smiling.
Elizabeth had recovered quickly from the initial impact of Queen Titania's appearance, but she was deeply awed by the Queen's power. Yet she was less afraid. She felt that she had some value she did not understand to the Queen and that Titania did not wish to harm her as long as she did as she was asked.
When the Queen had taken her hand, she felt a little strange, and when Titania held both hands, even stranger, as if a stream of warmth, which she could see as sparkling light—but, somehow not with her eyes—was running up from her hands into her shoulders, and from there spreading all through her body.
It was pleasant, but when the sparkling light rose into her head it made her just a trifle dizzy. And for a moment, as she stared into the emerald eyes that bound her, it was as if a tale thousands and thousands of years old rolled out into a dream vision. Suddenly she knew that Olympus had fallen when mortals turned away from the old gods, but the gods themselves, magic intact . . .
Titania dropped her hands and the door to the long corridor of years closed. Elizabeth blinked, about to complain, but remembered where she was in time and stood silent.
"Why did you not say what she was?" Titania was saying to Denno, and her voice was thin and hard.
"Majesty, I do not know what she is," Denno replied. "Only that she has Talent and that it must be trained if you desire the FarSeeings to be true."
"Holy Mother, I have not worked so difficult a weaving in a thousand years. She is—" Titania's voice checked and then resumed on a puzzled note "—so strong, so strong, but very different. I hope Tangwystl can reach her."
Elizabeth's lips tightened although she maintained her demure stance and her silence. It was very annoying to be talked about as if she were a pot or a cupboard.
"Strong, yes," Denno agreed. "Yet, Majesty, she was caught in the trap of a spell of dissolution and almost destroyed. And it was nothing exotic, an ordinary Unseleighe spell, so she is vulnerable to the workings of the dark Sidhe. Her strength saved her. She fought the spell for weeks, but she was near the end before I discovered what was wrong. She cannot be left unprotected."
Titania sighed. "That is true. What she carries is too valuable to lose. Her healer was careless, also. I felt the remnants of the spell tangled in her power lines. I cleared them. You will find her unimpaired."
Careless? Mwynwen? Denno swallowed. "I am sorry to hear that. Could those remnants have done her harm?"
Titania shrugged. "No physical harm, certainly. Perhaps some memories might have faded, but I did not think a faulty memory would be a good thing for this child."
"No. Not if the FarSeers are correct. Thank you, Majesty."
Unimpaired? Elizabeth thought. Denno did not tell me there was any danger of being left an idiot. A frisson of cold ran over her, and she began to tell over in her mind some of her recent lessons and even the horrible memories of her terror. While she worried that over, she missed what Denoriel and Titania were saying to each other.
The Queen's silvery laugh drew her attention just in time for Elizabeth to see her flick a sidelong glance at Denno. He shifted uneasily, to Elizabeth's surprise, and even more to her surprise he looked away from the Queen and out of the window. Very faintly, Elizabeth, who had also looked that way, heard the sound of childish laughter.
Denno's face, Elizabeth thought as she looked back at him—the children being of little interest to her—was more flushed than she had ever seen his pale skin. It was interesting, but Elizabeth had no time to think about it. Titania had leaned forward to touch her arm. Elizabeth raised her eyes and was caught once again by the Queen's brilliant emerald gaze.
"I must explain to you, Elizabeth, what I have done so you will not fear that there is anything wrong with you," Titania said. "Ordinarily humans who are brought Underhill or find their own way here are not permitted ever to return to the mortal world."
Elizabeth gasped with fear and involuntarily backed up a step. Titania caught her by the chin. Elizabeth froze.
"You need not be afraid, my dear. You belong in the mortal world and would make great trouble for us if you were not returned. Exceptions are made. You will go back when your lessons are finished." She cast a glance at the window herself, and added, softly, "And those we take to dwell here among us, are those who—sadly—are little missed, and valued even less, in the World Above. Or—once in a very great, great while, are those who would have died there."
Elizabeth breathed again.
"Usually when we send mortals back, we wipe all memory of Underhill from their minds. However, because you must be taught to protect your mind, I could not do that. You must be able to retain what Tangwystl will show you. Therefore, I have sealed your ability ever in your life, even unto your deathbed, to speak of Underhill while you are in the mortal world. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Majesty."
Elizabeth kept her voice low and respectful. If the Queen could do that to her—and Elizabeth did not doubt Titania could—she could do worse if she were annoyed. But Elizabeth felt resentful. The Queen should have trusted her. In all the years she had known them, never once had she hinted that Denno and Alana were not as others.
"You must not be afraid of this impairment of your speech. No other damage has been done to you. And what we will teach you here will help to save your life, perhaps many times."
There was another burst of childish laughter from the window. The smudged and ragged little boy was now just outside it, his hands on the pane of glass, peering in. The Queen looked that way.
"And now you may go," she said.
Elizabeth sank down to the ground in her deepest curtsey again, murmuring, "Thank you, Majesty."
But before the words were out, she was Elsewhere.