Free This Scepter'd Isle by Mercedes Lackey, Roberta Gellis

account."
    "He will not come to rule?"
    Aleneil shook her head. "I do not believe so, and if he should, it will be for only a few years and will not affect the rule of the red-haired child. There is a boy of his seeming who will rule, but . . . but he seems to be much younger than FitzRoy, although in a Seeing, time . . ."
    She sighed and walked back into the living quarters to seat herself on the lounge. Denoriel followed and sank into one of the red-silk-covered adjoining chairs. There was no fire in the hearth; of course, there was no need for one, except as a decorative effect. The temperature everywhere in Llachar Lle was comfortable.
    Denoriel wanted to let himself rest. The channels in his body still burned slightly and those that did not ached. But he could barely lie back in his chair although he knew there was no hurry; he could return to Windsor and arrive at any time he desired. Then he realized it was Aleneil, who usually was a pool of serenity, that was transmitting tension to him.
    "You must save FitzRoy," she said.
    "Of course I will," Denoriel assured her irritably. "I got into his apartment last night to make sure all was well with him—and it was. It was no changeling in his bed. Then I watched by his door to make sure no one entered or left. He is safe now with his friends and teachers."
    "But the danger comes soon," Aleneil insisted, her face creased with anxiety. "Perhaps it is already there or on its way. I feel it pounding within me like the beat of my heart. I do not know why, but if FitzRoy dies, the red-haired child will never rule and we . . . we will go down the same path as Alhambra and Eldorado."
    Denoriel repressed a shudder and stood up. Mwynwen had showed him those two, sad realms herself, and told him in great detail what had happened to them. He could not bear for such a fate to come upon his own home. "Comes from within? From among his friends? Those who are supposed to be his guardians? Comes from without?" His voice was higher than usual. Fear was so unaccustomed an emotion to him that he did not recognize it and covered it with anger.
    "I don't know!" Aleneil wailed, and then, suddenly her breath was coming quick and short and she whispered, "Now! Go now, Denoriel."
    Considering the emotions that had been generated in his chambers, Denoriel was not surprised to find Miralys waiting. He flung himself into the saddle and less than a quarter hour later out of it in the copse across from the magicked gate. There was no one in the road. Denoriel ran across, ran in through the gate . . . and realized that he had not willed his time of arrival to be the same as that when he left.
    He heard a child's shrill cry of shock and fear, and he ran as he had never run before, tearing his sword from its scabbard, bellowing "Harry! Harry!"
    He burst through the hedge that surrounded the pond and saw two men, one standing guard, the other leaning over the water, cursing, reaching for FitzRoy. The boy had apparently torn himself out of his attacker's grasp when it loosened at Denoriel's shout. But Denoriel could only hope FitzRoy could keep out of reach because the man standing guard had drawn his sword and struck at Denoriel's lighter blade.
    Denoriel twisted his wrist, rolling his blade along and around his opponent's. He was trying to catch the other sword and tear it loose, but the ruse failed—in fact, he almost lost his own weapon as an icy, burning chill ran up his sword and his arm, spread across his chest. He was not as resistant to steel as he had believed; at least not when he actually touched it through his silver blade.
    It was his opponent who saved him because he disengaged to feint high and thrust low. Denoriel parried, gasping, realizing that this was a more skilled swordsman than the noble-born dilettantes with whom he had practiced. Desperate not to touch the other's blade, Denoriel slashed right and left, advancing on his opponent, smashing his blade down on the