Doyle must have noticed because he offered, "Do you wish a light?"
"I can conjure my own will-o'-the-wisp, thank you very much. My eyes will adjust in a minute."
He shrugged, and I could feel the movement as his arm raised in my grasp. "As you like." His voice had fallen into its usual neutral tone. Either he was having trouble finding a middle ground for his voice, or it was simply habit. I was betting the latter.
By the time Doyle stopped halfway around the mound, my eyes had adjusted to the dim, cold light of stars, and the rising moon.
Doyle stared at the earth. His magic gave a small warm breath along my body as he concentrated on the mound. I stared up at the grass-covered earth. Without some effort of concentration this grassy spot looked just like every other grassy spot.
The wind blew through the grass like fingers ruffling a box of lace. The night was full of the dry rustling of autumn grass, but faintly, oh so faintly, you could hear music on the wind. Not enough to recognize the tune or even be a hundred percent sure that you'd heard anything but the wind, but that phantom music was a hint you were standing near the entrance. Sort of like a spectral doorbell or a magical game of "hot and cold." No music meant you were cold.
Doyle drew his arm out of my hold and passed his hand over the grass of the mound. I was never sure whether the grass melted away or the door appeared over the grass and the grass was still there underneath the door in some metaphysical space. However it worked, a rounded doorway appeared in the side of the mound. The doorway was exactly the right size to admit us both. Light filled the opening. If needed, the doorway could be big enough to have a tank driven through, as if the doorway sensed how big it needed to be.
The light appeared brighter than I knew it was because my eyes were accustomed to the dark now. The light was white but not harsh, a soft white light that breathed from the doorway like a luminous fog.
"After you, my princess," Doyle said, bowing as he said it.
I wanted to come back to court, but looking at that glowing hill I was reminded that a hole in the ground is a hole in the ground whether it be a sithen or a grave. I don't know why I suddenly thought of that particular analogy. Maybe it was the assassination attempt. Maybe it was just nerves. I went through the door.
I stood in a huge stone hallway large enough for that tank to have driven through comfortably or for a small giant to pass without bumping his head. The hallway was always large no matter how small the doorway happened to be. Doyle joined me and the doorway vanished behind him. Just another grey stone wall. Just as the outside of the mound hid its entrance, so the inside did as well. If the queen wished it, the door wouldn't appear from this side at all. It was very easy to go from guest to prisoner here. The thought was less than comforting.
The white light that filled the hallway was sourceless, coming from everywhere and nowhere. The grey stone looked like granite, which means it wasn't native to St. Louis. If you want stone here it's red or reddish tan, not grey. Even our stone is imported from some alien shore.
I'm told once upon a time there were entire worlds under the ground. Meadows and orchards and a sun and moon of our very own. I've seen the dying orchards and flower gardens with a few straggling blossoms, but no underground moon or sun. The rooms are bigger and more square than they should be, and the blueprint of the interior seems to change at random, sometimes with you walking through it, like walking through a fun house made of stone instead of mirrors. But there are no meadows, or none that I've seen. I'm more than willing to believe that the others are keeping secrets from me. That wouldn't surprise me in the least, but to my knowledge there are no worlds under the ground, just stone and rooms.
Doyle offered me his arm, very formally. I took his arm lightly, out of habit mostly.
There was a sharp bend to the corridor. I heard footsteps coming toward us. Doyle pulled gently on my arm. I stopped and looked at him. "What is it?" I asked.
Doyle led me back down the corridor. I walked backward with him, and he stopped abruptly. He grabbed a handful of my dress and raised the skirt enough to bare my ankles, and the gun. "It wasn't your heels setting you off balance on the stones, Princess." He sounded angry with me.
"I'm allowed weapons."
"No guns inside the mound," he said.
"Since when?"
"Since you killed Bleddyn with one."
We looked at each other for a frozen second, then I tried to move away, but his hand closed over my wrist.
With footsteps coming ever closer, Doyle jerked me off balance so that I fell against him. He pinned me to his body with an arm across my back. He opened his mouth to speak, and the footsteps turned the corner.
We were left standing in full sight, Doyle pinning me to his body, the other hand on my wrist. It looked like an interrupted fight or the beginning of one.
The two men that stepped around the corner fanned out so that they covered as much of the corridor as possible with space to spare for fighting.
I looked up into Doyle's face and tried to put the request into one glance. I begged him with my eyes not to tell about the gun and not to take it.
He put his mouth against my cheek, and whispered, "You will not need it."
I just looked up at him. "Will you give me your oath on that?"
The anger tightened the muscles in his jaw, thrummed down his arms. "I will not give my oath on the queen's whim."
"Then let me keep the gun," I whispered.
He moved to stand between me and the other guards. He still had the grip on my arm. All the others could see was the sweep of Doyle's cape.
"What's wrong, Doyle?" one of the men asked.