Chapter 10 - Steadfast

that is

A Short Tale of Faith, Story Telling, A Baby, Consequences, and the Price of Honor

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Nuada returned every night as the moon began to rise for more of Spindle's End. Dylan always made sure to have fresh fruit and bread ready for the prince's arrival. At the start of the book, she hadn't quite figured out whether, as an Elf, Nuada ate meat or not, so she didn't worry about it. It wasn't until they'd finished the "Sleeping Beauty" story, a little more than a full moon from Nuada's first nocturnal visit, that Dylan discovered that Elves, like most of the Fair Ones, were omnivorous.

Late summer rain drummed softly, musically against the cottage's shingled roof. The wind sang against the eaves. Warmth from the hearth and the cheery light of the sweet-smelling beeswax candles pushed any of the dreariness away. The cottage was a safe haven against the elements and the late July night. Seated on the wooden, cushioned stool before the crackling fire, candle-glow and firelight caressing her face, Dylan stared at the flames with her chin cupped in both hands. Amber flames reminded her of half-feral amber eyes. With the book finished, the story ended, would the prince come back again?

In the silence in the warm cottage, Dylan's ears managed to catch a rustling sound outside the brass-bound granite door. A sliver of fear pierced her heart. She turned slowly. Her fingers groped for her cane lying beside the hearth stones. Why didn't she own a weapon, even after all this? Because she couldn't bring a gun into the house. The iron and lead could hurt the brownie who took care of her things and any other of the lesser Fair Folk who came to her when they needed a sanctuary away from the human metals and poisons of the city. Tasers were expensive, and besides that, she didn't know how to use one. And the metal and plastic might also be too toxic for the Wee Folk. She had pepper spray, but it was in the bag hanging from a hook by the door. Why didn't she have a knife, a dagger, anything? Because she was confident that the Kindly Ones would protect her. What did that say about her? That she would allow the Little People to sacrifice themselves for her safety.

The mortal resolved then to learn how to fight with a knife. She could get a ceramic one or something, so the brownie wouldn't be hurt by the steel.

If she lived long enough to get her hands on one. Since the person – or creature – on the other side of the door might be something intent on killing her, she wasn't too certain about survival.

The courteous knock on the door made her jump. For a moment she smelled the sweet, crisp scent of wildness and forests, and the sudden pang of fear just as suddenly faded away. Nuada. She knew it was the crown prince of Bethmoora the moment his knuckles touched the stone door. At once any uneasiness fled. It still startled her, that she felt so safe with someone – a member of the dangerous species known as male, and one of the fickle and oftentimes murderous Fayre – who could kill her without breaking a sweat. But she did.

Heaving herself up, Dylan limped to the door and opened it.

Feral eyes like pale, living gold searched the upturned face and Nuada frowned. The human looked pale, her face pinched. There were the faintest traces of bruising under her eyes, as if from tiredness. Didn't mortals know how to take care of themselves?

"Hail and well met, Prince Nuada. You honor me with your presence." Her bad leg made curtsying awkward, so she bowed.

The Elf prince brought two gutted, cleaned and plucked pigeons wrapped in a shimmering cloth that seemed to repel dirt and blood and prevented the usual stink of blood or the spread of gore. The two birds were spitted and placed over Dylan's crackling hearth. As the juices sizzled and the skins crisped, the mortal realized this was the amber-eyed prince's way of saying, "thank you," for the story.

Not that he'd ever admit to such a thing.

With glacial topaz eyes studying her, the mortal picked daintily at the meat. It took everything in her not to tear at it. She'd never tasted anything so juicy or delicious. These weren't New York pigeons, or if they were, not the rangy, disease-riddled ones in Central Park and the surrounding city. But of course they weren't. Nuada wouldn't eat something like that. For one thing, the iron in the blood (while it wouldn't make him sick) probably made the meat taste bad to him. Which meant these birds were magical and probably came from a faery market - the Troll Market in Brooklyn, maybe, or the Floating Night Market in Manhattan.

The pigeons were cooked just so, that even without seasoning or even salt the meat almost seemed to melt in her mouth. Dylan focused on eating with all the manners her mother had taught her as a child before she'd abandoned etiquette in the sterile darkness of the institution.

Unlike Nuada, who wrapped the bones inside the shimmery, glass-colored cloth and stowed it somewhere when she wasn't looking, Dylan fed the bones to the fire. She knew from experience that calcium – and bones, if they were small enough to burn properly – made pretty colors in the flames.

The awkward silence that stretched between the mortal women and the regal Elf prince tightened his shoulders with tension. With the story now over, they had nothing more to talk about. Watching the flickering, tinted flames with distant blue eyes, Dylan drew Nuada's gaze again, though she did nothing but stare at the fire, a gentle and almost affectionate smile on her silvery-scarred face while she stroked the purring black kitten stretched out near her feet. Any unease remained hidden.

This human never failed to send a surge of confusion and, oftentimes, irritation through his blood. What mortal could gaze so lovingly at the beauty of a well-laid fire, at least without the sort of broken mind that exalted in setting fire to innocent animals and homes? But there was nothing broken or evil in Dylan's mind. The Elf prince knew that. There was only the simple enjoyment in the warmth, the light, the dancing flames.

"What do you do during the day?" Nuada demanded suddenly. His thoughts left a distinctly uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his belly. The human woman turned her dreamy eyes on the Elf prince. "Do you spend all your time reading fairy tales?" Part of him bristled at the thought of such laziness in her. And deceit, as the mortal gave the impression of industry and dedication to hard work. But a smaller, quieter voice inside him reminded him of flagstones scrubbed clean of iron-laced blood, torn and bloody shirts washed and carefully mended. Laziness seemed so far removed from the human woman Nuada almost felt foolish for suspecting her of it.

Almost.

But Dylan shook her head. "I'm a youth psychiatrist. Been doing it for almost five years now. If a young person between eleven and twenty has a cracked or broken mind or heart – or if their parents think so – they come to me for soul and heart healing."

Eying her suspiciously, he demanded. "And how do you heal them?"

"Sometimes things are very bad," the mortal murmured. Sorrow crept into her eyes, but it wasn't the heavy sadness for a lost race. This was almost a maternal melancholy, a mother's worry for her children. It, too, sent a shaft of discomfort through the prince. Humans should not have been able to feel such emotion. How could she?

Dylan added, "The chemicals in the body – they called them humors in the Old World, in olden times – can sometimes become unbalanced. There are certain things the brain is supposed to spread in the body, to make the mind work right. Often in young people, those chemicals aren't in balance and their parents think they need medicines to balance them back. Sometimes they do, but I try very hard to keep that from happening. Medicines for the brain can be hard on the young. Because the body and the mind are changing as one grows up, those chemicals aren't balanced anyway, and the medicines can do more harm than good. It's hard to figure out if there's a real problem, or just the side-effects of growing up."

"And if you can do it without the medicines?" The thought of anyone being forced to take the noxious, poisonous chemicals most humans considered "medicine" made his belly churn.

"Then I talk to them. I try to help them discern what it is that's making them so sad or frustrated or angry. It is very hard to be young, Your Highness, no matter what your species. Fae or human, I doubt the change from child to adult, coming into a world that in some ways is so similar and yet so very different from the one you've been living in as a child, is easy. Taking some drug that sends your emotions into a tailspin can't possibly be helpful."

Dylan thought of the nasty, chemical undertaste of drugged food, the sting of poisonous, lying needles in her veins, and fought a shiver of memory, an echo of fear. She wasn't a little girl anymore. She wasn't a teenager anymore. No one could make her go back to that place ever again. She'd beaten her addictions long ago. All of them. "Growing up is the hardest of alchemical transformations."

How often had he thought the same thing? An adult for countless centuries now, he still remembered the hopelessness and great expectations of his youth. The need to fight and defend. The desperation to love and be loved. The undying quest to protect his people, the court of Bethmoora, his family, his sister, and to honor the memory of his mother, to earn his father's approval and the approval of his father's friends... even the approval of a burly silver cave troll who'd rescued a terrified Elvish princess and princeling from mortal monsters... all these things had seemed to fill him up until his heart almost burst and his skull threatened to fragment.

It had seemed that very few of the Fayre had understood this feeling. Nuala had. Their empathic and telepathic connection, the bond of twinship between them, guaranteed that. Mr. Wink, though already fully grown at the time, had also understood. Who would have thought that a human woman could understand it as well? It made no sense. And yet he could see the acceptance, the knowledge, in those silver-washed eyes.

After swallowing once, gaze never leaving her face, he asked yet again, "Are you certain you are human?"

The wry grin that spread across the scarred face was slow to unfurl, but warm and self-deprecating. "I'm very sorry, my prince, but I am of Adam's flesh and Adam's bone, a daughter of Eve and a child of the High King of the World," Dylan replied, with a shallow lift of one shoulder in an oddly graceful shrug. "Which is good, because this way, as a human, I can make a haven for your people when they're in danger of fading. You might be surprised at how expensive it is to live plainly in this modern world, in this city, but that's where most of my money goes. You'd like the Amish, I think. They manage to live free of most of the modern poisons and machines, but it's hard for us normal folks."

"Amish?"

Dylan explained to the prince about those mortals who, in devotion to their Christian God, lived with horse-drawn buggies and candlelight and homegrown food, eschewing machinery and processed food and electricity. How they delighted in hard work and good, tilled earth. How even the mortal's own religious leaders told their followers to emulate the Amish in their precepts of industriousness, forgiveness, charity, and unconditional love.

Nuada frowned. Why had he not heard of these mortals before? Were they anything like this woman who refused to pollute her home with human metals and toxins and chemicals? Was anyone like this human? And what kind of mortal leaders told their followers to be forgiving, to love unconditionally? The blond warrior could not remember ever hearing such things from men of power and standing in the mortal world. But he knew that Dylan was not lying about this.

"Is it that you are... what was it you said? Mormon? One of the Star Kindler's people?" He asked, and she nodded. "Is that why you care so much for such things? Helping my people?" If a mortal could be good, Dylan would have been. It was truly a shame that she possessed the curse of humanity – greed, cruelty, evil. Even if she'd succeeded in burying it deep inside where it would never take strong root, which it seemed she had, it was still there. But was she that way because of her devotion to the High King of the World? Or because of the torments her parents had inflicted on her as a child?

"I think... I think because I'm a convert to the Church, and because I converted as a teenager – I was fifteen – I think about things relevant to its precepts more than some other Church members who were born into it. And part of that..." She trailed off, staring into the flames. Nuada throttled back the urge to shake the rest of it from her. The prince hung on her words because she chose them with such thoughtfulness and care, but that made the waiting all the more frustrating. "Part of that means that I understand... I know that God gave me the Sight for a good reason. He only gives us gifts if they are needed to bless others. Which means I don't have the right to refuse to use it. I have to use it. I'm supposed to do something with the Sight. The only thing I can think of, is that God gave me the Sight because the Fae need me, need the place I can create for them. It might just be one faerie, or a hundred, or a thousand over the years before I die of old age or murder or whatever will kill me. But if God wants me to do it, then no matter how difficult it is, it's doable, and I am honor-bound to do it. Obeying His will became my duty when I decided to convert. I keep my promises, Your Highness."

"How do you know?" Nuada demanded. Hearing the mortal woman speak of honor, of duty, with none of the defiance or sullenness exhibited by humans fulfilling an oath, made the blood hum under his skin. She only sounded... content. Accepting. The quiet joy beneath her words confused and irritated him. Why did this human never do what the Children of Mud were supposed to do? "How do you know if a thing is doable, just because your Christian God wants you to do it?"

"'And it came to pass that I, Nephi, said unto my father: I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them,'" the mortal said with the resonance of someone quoting something. The dreaminess was gone from her eyes, the trace of self-mockery from her lips. Instead there was a calm, quiet acceptance in her expression.

With another of those slow, slight lifts of one shoulder, she added, "Nephi was only a boy, maybe about seventeen years old, when he said that. He risked torture, death, and betrayal to obey the Lord. He didn't know how he was going to accomplish what God had set for him to do, but he knew that it was possible. There had to be a way, or the Lord wouldn't have commanded it. Ever since I first learned about the Church, I've wanted that kind of faith and strength. He was a kid, just like I was when I first read that scripture," she said, and there was wonder in her voice. "How can I not be as brave as that, especially now that I'm older? I'm not going to be shown up by a kid." The wry smile was back. "And since I've managed what I've managed," here Dylan gestured to the house, without a scrap of steel, chrome, lead, or iron, "I'm obviously doing something right."

For a long moment, there was a soft silence, touched only by the crackling of the hearth fire. Nuada stared at her. Faith in her Christian God. A desire to be truly good, to overcome her evil human nature and be something more. She could not be entirely human. She couldn't be. No human understood and accepted the truth of the unfillable hole in their hearts, much less strove to conquer the curse of it. How could she be human? And yet the stench of iron in her blood told him it was so.

Then the mortal broke the silence by asking, "Would you like to start another book, Your Highness? I know another story you might like."

She met his eyes. Soft, misty dreaminess turned blue-gray eyes into twin pools of silvered glass. Nuada tilted his head, that slightly feral movement Dylan had seen him do when he was thinking strange things about her. Firelight danced across one knife-sharp cheekbone, the thin scar across his face, the star-gold hair. Time suspended. She wondered what the prince was thinking. The prince could not seem to grasp the thoughts pushing through his mind. There was only a willingness to let go of those thoughts and study that silver-scarred, blue-eyed face in the still and silent timelessness.

A knot in the burning wood made the fire crack sharply. Neither of them jumped, but Dylan realized she hadn't blinked for a while. She let her eyes close. They stung from lack of moisture. Nuada found his thoughts slowing, returning to normal. He blinked. The human woman no longer smiled, but there was nothing in her expression that spoke of fear or disquiet. Only a calmness, a quietness.

"Fetch the book, then," the Elf prince commanded. Unease slid icily through his belly. What had just happened here? "Read me another story." He toyed briefly with the notion of saying "please" and dismissed it. She was only a human, strangely fey-like or not. Such trivial courtesies mattered not.

The leather-bound book Dylan plucked from the tall, black shelves was small, thin and short, with the image of a muscled warrior in fur and armor holding a massive sword aloft, the image pieced together from bits of different-colored woods, metals and furs. A woman in slender, beautiful armor knelt beside him, looking up at the hero, made from the same materials. Then Dylan pulled open the book and caressed the yellowed page with a gentle, loving fingertip. She gave a swift glance at the Elf prince, smiled, and then began to read.

"Know, O Prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars. And thither came Conan, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth beneath his sandaled feet.

"And know yet further, O Prince, that in that half-forgotten age, the proudest kingdom in the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming West. And this same Conan ruled from the throne of Aquilonia as Conan the Great, the mightiest lord of his day. And many were the tales spun about him as he was in his youth, wherefore it is now difficult to perceive the truth amid the many legends."

Nuada grinned. This was almost – not quite, but almost – like hearing the first-year student-bards telling their epic tales in his father's court as a boy. First-years would never be allowed to perform for the king without possessing musical or bardic genius, but for the amusement of the prince and princess? Absolutely. Now, Dylan's voice painted images of glittering cities, gleaming glass spires, mighty warriors in fur and boots wielding wide-bladed swords, and a world as yet unpolluted by the filth of modern humanity. It was almost as if the mortal woman had been in those distant days. Her eyes devoured the words even as her lips lovingly shaped them.

"Privileged was I, Kallias of Shamar, above all my brethren amongst the scribes of Aquilonia, to have heard from the lips of my king, Conan the Great, the story of his travails and the high adventures that befell him along the way to the summit of his greatness. Here is the tale as he told it to me in the later days of his reign, when age had laid its fell hand upon him, albeit lightly..."

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(Three weeks later...)

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Dylan staggered at a run through the subway, fear turning her sweat and breath to ice. Horror coiled sickly in her belly with every jarring step. She'd left her cane, how could she have left her cane? Bolts of pain shot through her bad leg as she stumbled forward. In her arms, the baby fretted and twisted. Probably trying to get away from this woman with iron-laced blood smearing her skin, Dylan thought sympathetically. Poor thing. But she couldn't afford to stop and shush the child, didn't have time to really comfort it. She didn't know if the Elf spattered with blood had seen her or not, but if he had, she couldn't stop until she found Nuada.

But the mortal woman had to stop when she reached a patch of concrete stained dark with old blood. Images, sensations, and emotions pressed down on Dylan like groping, squeezing hands, and for a moment – for an eternity – she felt a huge, immovable weight pressing against her and something tearing inside her as icy cement burned her back and blood ran down her throat, choking her...

"No!" She yelled, shaking her head. The baby shrieked in her arms and began wailing pitifully. Panic stabbed at Dylan, but she shoved it aside; looked around at anything other than that dark stain of blood on cement and jiggled the baby as she struggled to keep moving. "It's okay," she whispered against its tiny, delicately-pointed ear. "It's all right. Hush now."

Nuada, she thought as desperation spiked her pulse. Nuada, where are you? Heavenly Father, I have to find him!

The hair on the nape of her neck suddenly prickled and she whirled to stare back the way she had come. Her heart struggled to beat. Fear slid icily through her veins like poison. A brief warmth flared in her chest as cold spread down her back. Without understanding quite why, Dylan knew she had to get out of sight. Right now.

With a silent prayer, she climbed down onto the subway tracks, choking on the rising edge of hysteria. Where to go now? Whatever was coming couldn't see her now, but if it decided to peer over the edge, it would be all over. A tear managed to squeeze out when she thought of what would happen if the thing stalking her found her. What was it? Why did it want her? Could it be... the Elf she'd seen?

There had been so much blood and the stench and taste of death had grabbed her by the throat, choking her. But she had seen the dark-haired Elf as he drove a glittering blade deep into a pregnant human's body. Not Nuada, she thought as she crept along the edge of the tracks. Thank heaven, not Nuada. But the crest embossed on the Elf's chest, the three stars around a flaming sun, smeared with blood, had tugged at her memory. Uncovered enough that she knew he had rank, court connections, power. With realization had come a desire so strong she'd nearly staggered with it - a desire to see Nuada, to slip back into the sanctuary with the weeping infant in her arms and stay there until he told her what to do. She'd never had to deal with a Fae that killed humans for pleasure. And it had surely been for pleasure, because before the woman... before the knife plunged into that belly ripe with child...

The baby whimpered and sobbed. Tiny fists flailed and tiny tears leaked out. Dylan fought the urge to cover the child's mouth. What if that hurt it? But the little thing had to be silent or the monster slowly making its way toward them would hear its cries and then... then it would be over.

Heavenly Father, help me! She prayed desperately, fighting back hysterical tears. I've never had a child, I don't know what to do! I've only been in Nursery a few months and I...

Nursery.

How did she make the children in her Nursery class grow calm? Calm enough to listen, calm enough to pay attention to her lessons? Music. Even though she struggled with keeping in tune, anytime she sang the kids in her Nursery class would fall silent and listen, sometimes even sing along. Some would even snuggle up to her. Even the shyer, more high-strung children responded well to the music. Their own mothers sang them the same songs.

"I am a child of God," Dylan sang on a voice that was barely a whisper. The baby subsided its weak wailing and sniffled. Its warm little body was limp with exhaustion. "And He has sent me here; has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear..."

Nuada, she thought as she crept along, where are you? How do I find you? Help me. As she hurried along the tunnels, panic threatening to send her into cardiac arrest, she prayed, Heavenly Father, please help me find him.

And above, not far behind, something hunted her.

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"Your Highness! Your Highness!"

Nuada glanced up from his book as a brownie scuttled across the threshold of his current room, fear radiating from the little creature like heat from a fire. The brownie's high voice quavered and tears of fright glistened in her eyes. She flung herself against the stone floor at the Elf prince's feet and sobbed desperately, trembling with shocking violence for one so small.

Wink glanced at Nuada, who frowned and laid his book on the small wooden table beside him. Kneeling, he lifted the tiny brownie with very gentle hands. The brownie covered her face with her own small hands and continued wailing. Wink grumbled about "pipsqueaks" and "caterwauling" but the prince ignored him. He held the wee fae close to his chest and murmured soothing words in Gaelic until her sobs had quieted. When she was calm, Nuada said, "There now, mo bheag amháin, my little one. You are safe here. What is it? What has frightened you so? I vow no harm will come to you while you remain in this chamber."

"A human," the brownie choked out. "She stinks of death and violence. Blood smears her skin and marks her footsteps – human and the blood of a greenman. She carries a halfling child through the tunnels. She is running away with the babe."

Rage, usually kept banked, flared to life in Nuada's breast. Had the disgusting Mud Woman, whoever she was, butchered the wood faerie and taken his child? Nuada's hand was laid alongside the hilt of his lance before the brownie had time to see the fury and hate darkening the usually pale yellow eyes to red-tinged molten bronze.

Nuada carefully laid the little faerie on his table. "Where is this human?"

The brownie told him. Nuada rose to his feet and laid his lance across one shoulder. The Elven warrior stalked toward the lair's entrance, rage in every line of his body. Before stepping across the threshold into the human realm of subway tunnels and concrete mazes, he turned back.

"Take care of our little friend, Mr. Wink. See she is fed and given something to drink. I shall return shortly."

As the prince sprinted into the tunnels, Wink sighed. He'd have to draw the prince a bath, then, or the regal Elf would track blood all over the place when he came back.

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It was near. The monster hunting her was closing in. Dylan was limping badly now, every step an agony. Her knee throbbed and screamed. Blood patched the ice cold concrete every time she put her feet down, though she didn't know it. If not for the baby, snuggled against her breast, she might have simply lain down and given up, let the monster take her. But if she did...

For your mortal spawn, the blood-spattered Elf had hissed, hacking at the tall, antlered man who'd yelled at the pregnant woman to run. Blood fountaining up into the dark, the stinking death-blood slick and dark under the moonlight, and the Elf had snarled, For your filthy, half-breed abominations.

Don't think about it, Dylan commanded herself. Don't think about it. With a Herculean effort, she forced herself onward. Her arms ached. She wasn't used to holding anything this heavy for this long. Her feet hurt – she'd raced out of her cottage like an idiot, without defensive spray or even shoes, to the sound of screams and the bellowing of an angry stag. Her feet had to be bleeding by now. Still she strove to ignore the pain as adrenaline pumped and terrified desperation drove her on.

Nuada saw her stumble, bang her bad knee against the concrete at the edge of the track. Saw the teeth sink into her lip to hold back the cry of pain. Saw tears leaving tracks through the blood and grime on her face.

Saw how she cradled the tiny babe in her arms, protecting it from any damage when she fell. Because of that, she scraped her arm against the rough cement. More blood smeared her skin, soaked her linen shirt. The Elf prince realized it was the one he himself had given her to sleep in when she had been staying at the sanctuary. The loose white shirt was stained with patches of crimson and maroon now, as was the pale blue skirt tangling around her calves. There were even smears of blood on the baby's face.

But the child was unhurt. The rage simmered, but it was no longer a hot spear prodding him onward. He was calm again, calculating. Had Dylan finally shown her true colors? Was she all that he had originally believed her to be? Let him show himself to her, and let her show him the truth.

When the Elf stepped in front of Dylan, it was all she could do to stifle her scream. For just a moment she'd seen long black hair, silver cat-slit eyes, moonbeam skin glowing with a sickly bone-white light as the knife drove down and wrenched up and ripped down again...

Then the familiar firegold eyes pierced the moment of terror. Dylan's eyes took in the long hair like palest gold, the thin scar across the bridge of the nose and slicing across the sharp cheekbones. Fey-pale skin and black lips, scarlet-rimmed amber eyes and the silver-tipped black lance. Her heart slowed its racing and her fear vanished as, without thinking, she shifted the child and threw her free arm around Nuada, burying her blood-smeared face into his broad chest and breaking into wild sobs of relief.

Nuada was so stunned by Dylan's embrace – a human! A human touching him! Embracing him! – that at first he didn't register her words. There was only the weight of her against his chest, the heat of her tears soaking his shirt, the shackle of her arm around his body. He smelled her humanity, the blood on her skin and above that, the stench of woman's fear. Beneath it all, there was the scent of lilies and roses. Perfume? No, her shampoo. Then Dylan's words pierced his astonishment.

"I was so scared, there was so much blood, I didn't know what to do, I don't know what to do, he was going to kill the baby, he killed them, oh, Nuada, he killed them and I couldn't stop him, I was so scared, I thought he was going to kill us both, I tried to find you but I didn't know where you were, and something's after us–"

His heart thudding fiercely against the cage of his chest, hands shaking and eyes wide, he gripped Dylan by her narrow shoulders and jerked her away from him. The wild, tumbling curls of her hair slid against his knuckles like warm silk. He fought back a shudder. A human embracing him! He pressed down on the riot of emotions churning in his belly and stared at the mortal who'd had the audacity to lay hands on him without permission. What he saw disturbed him.

He'd only seen Dylan truly weep once before, though she had shed a tear for his pain at other times. But once before, only once, he had seen how she sobbed, not because he had shouted at her, not because of the pain of her wounds, but because his words had reopened old emotional scars barely healed. Yet even then, raw hysteria had never edged her sobs, never roughened her voice and sent her heart racing. And even her worst nightmares of what had inflicted those emotional scars only ever set her to a bout of quiet crying. Never this terrified weeping. What was this, then? Cowardice? Or justified fear?

An idiot wouldn't have missed the desperation in her silvery blue eyes. They roved over his face, searching his expression. Probably she wondered why he'd forced her away from him. Her arm curled protectively around the sleeping halfling child, which snuggled against her breast, one tiny fist curled against her heart. The sight sent a pang through him, though he could not have said why. Memories of his mother, perhaps? Half-thoughts of Nuala with a child of her own? Dylan held this babe as if it were her own, one hand now curling around to cradle the fragile skull, and that sent an odd unknown feeling coiling in his belly.

Before his thoughts could confuse him further, he tightened his grip on Dylan's shoulders, fingers biting into the flesh until a tiny flash of pain flickered in her eyes. Good. She would know he was deadly serious.

"Where did you get the child?" He demanded in a low voice. The mortal swallowed and swiped at the tears and blood on her cheeks. "Answer me," he commanded. Fought not to shake her. "Where did you get it?"

Dylan took a gulp of air, closed her eyes. Images of a dying man and a screaming pregnant woman flashed across the backs of her eyelids. Blood spilling. Soaking the silk beneath the Elf's armor. So many sounds in her head. A baby crying. A madman's laughter. A woman's pleas to spare her child. The bellowing of angry deer in the woods and the howling of trees caged by concrete and iron.

"I'd just come home from work," she said softly. "I heard screams, a man shouting. The cries of..." She looked into Nuada's eyes, saw the suspicion there. Was surprised by the flicker of hurt it put in her chest. "My phone was dead, so I couldn't call anyone. I... I ran to see what it was. A woman was crawling toward a basket on the path, near the trees I was coming through. A man wrestled with another man. One had long, black hair and the other had curly, red hair with antlers. A, a greenman, I th-think, or a woses. The moon was full so I could see okay. And I saw the knife and..." Dylan choked, clutched the child to her. The sleeping baby stirred, and pressed more firmly against the human woman. "The other man killed the greenman. There was... blood. A lot of blood. Then he killed the woman. While he was busy with the woman, I grabbed the baby and ran."

"You grabbed the babe and ran... here?" Nuada demanded, incredulous. "Why?"

Dylan's eyes glistened – fear? Hurt? Disbelief that he did not understand? Tears? – as she met his gaze and said, "I was running to you."

"To me?" He echoed.

"I knew she would," a coldly amused voice called. Nuada instinctively hauled Dylan behind him and raised his lance as Eamonn, soaked in blood both fey and mortal, hopped down from the concrete lip overhanging the subway tracks. Crimson soaked the white silk of his shirt and stained the gray leather trousers and vest he wore. The stench of death rolled off of him in noxious waves. When the glaring overhead lights glinted off the blood-smeared crest on the Elf's breast, a crest of three stars surrounding a rayed sun, Dylan yelled, "It was him! Nu– Your Highness, he was the man who killed the baby's parents!"

"Very true." Triumph sparkled in the silver-shined eyes as Eamonn approached and bowed mockingly to Nuada. "An acceptable loss so that I could be sure of the truth." With a bitter smile, he added, "I must say, I was surprised you of all people would take a mortal lover, Your Highness."

The crown prince of Bethmoora choked on insult and fury. Dylan sputtered, "L-l-lover?"

That's what the leanashe said, she remembered. She accused Nuada of sleeping with me. Was Eamonn the one she had called "master?" Why did the accusation keep coming up? And why would it matter if he had been doing – what did John call it? The sweaty pretzel – doing the sweaty pretzel with her? She'd talked to tons of Kindly Ones who had more orgiastic one-night stands to their names than Lady Gaga. Having lovers wasn't against Faerie law – even human lovers. If anyone ought to be objecting, Dylan thought, feeling the weight of the golden medallion around her neck, it should be me.

One of Eamonn's razor-thin black brows arched. "Do not try to tell me you are not the prince's latest whore, human. I saw the way you threw yourself at him moments ago, even covered in gore as you were. You simply could not wait for him to bed you. At least the prince," he said prince like a foul word, "had the decency not to take you while you reeked of the dead."

Dylan fought for words, for something - anything - to say, but all she managed to get out was, "Ew."

"Eamonn," Nuada growled, his grip on the black haft of the lance tightening until his knuckles bleached white as bone. "You go too far."

"Actually, I haven't gone far enough. My spies already know about your little..." The dark-haired Elf curled his lip in disgust. "Dalliance. Even if you killed me, which would be a very stupid move politically speaking, news of this would reach the court of Bethmoora. It would most certainly reach the king and princess, if it has not already. While there is no law per se against dallying with mortals, this would not look good to your supporters, would it? You claim to fight for the lives and livelihood of our kind, then see fit to sport with one of our enemies. A common-born mortal slut. You are sickening!"

Nuada did not speak. Everything had become clear. He didn't doubt that Dylan spoke the truth – Eamonn had killed a woodman and his mortal woman in an effort to catch him and Dylan out. Probably frustrated that the only thing the prince did in her home was eat and listen to her read, Eamonn had set this up to get so-called proof – and witnesses – of their supposed dalliance. And Nuada didn't doubt that there were so-called "witnesses," who could twist the truth to suit them, and to slander him. While there was nothing to Eamonn's accusations, the dark Elf was absolutely right – it would be a serious issue for the crown prince of Bethmoora. Especially because his father would summon him back to Bethmoora for an explanation. And he would have to explain that he had only been protecting the mortal woman from the pack of human wolves intent on hurting her. Dallying with humans, associating with them, was not against Faerie law – but killing humans without severe provocation was, and Nuada had killed the men who had raped Dylan.

And he could say nothing. His honor forbade him from revealing Dylan's ravishment to anyone. A gentleman never tells, wasn't that the human proverb? In Faerie it was considered dishonorable to reveal that sort of trauma, something so disfiguring and horrifying, without permission. In the Twilight Realm revealing such weaknesses was dangerous at best, and oftentimes fatal. So he could say they'd meant to attack her, that he had known they would do her harm, but his father would not believe him for the very same reason he would summon Nuada in the first place – Balor knew his son despised mortals and wanted to see them all slaughtered. Under normal circumstances, he would never have rescued a human from mortal attackers.

While it was true that most Fae could not tell lies, that did not necessarily hold true for the older, stronger Fair Folk, especially royalty, and Balor knew that. The King of Elfland refused to see that his only son would never sully himself by speaking falsely, and thus would expect Nuada to be lying about his reasons for associating with Dylan. His father would consider the butchering of those human wolves an act of war, a break in the treaty between the Shining Ones and mortals. Nuada would be punished, perhaps even killed for what he had done in defending a human.

One life for several, he thought bitterly, lowering the lance. Eamonn did not mean to fight him this night. The Elf of Zwezda had already won this battle. And fighting him now, with Dylan and the babe so near, could prove very dangerous. Eamonn was nearly equal to the warrior prince in fighting skill.

"Wait," Dylan said slowly. Nuada shifted to keep her behind him, shielded from the other Elf, but the infuriating mortal managed to shove past him to stare at Eamonn. Since Eamonn made no move toward her, Nuada remained still. Any protective moves he made would simply give his enemies more to report – or provoke the dark-haired Elf to attack. "You butchered a man and his pregnant wife..." Dylan choked on her fury, on the sudden spill of hate and horror roiling in her gut. "To get Nuada in trouble with his dad? What is wrong with you?"

Suddenly Eamonn, moving with preternatural speed and grace, stood in front of her. Dylan turned to shield the baby from him as Nuada whipped his lance up to press the lethal point beneath the other Elf's chin. Politically savvy or not, he still owed Dylan a debt for saving the babe. "Stay away from them. Both of them," the prince snarled when Eamonn reached out to touch Dylan's neck. Dylan shifted away from Eamonn, backed up behind Nuada until the reek of death no longer clawed at her throat. The dark Elf's silver eyes locked with Nuada's bronze ones.

"Let me look at the human, Silverlance, and I might hold back my spies."

A fresh wave of rage washed over the Elf prince. Eamonn was acting like a mortal. Let him get closer to Dylan? He probably meant to slay her then and there to silence her. Slay the unarmed human woman like the cowardly dog he was. Besides, the prince had no doubt the other Elf was lying. Another petty human trick. Through gritted teeth, Nuada snarled, "You can see her just fine from where you are."

Eamonn's slow smile curdled Nuada's belly. The dark Elf murmured, "I want to touch her. I promise I will not damage her."

"And I promise," Dylan muttered, "that if you keep talking about me like I'm not here, I'll make the prince hold the baby while I put my foot up your butt."

To both of their surprise, Eamonn laughed. The sound was low and violating as it slid over Dylan's skin. Nuada, seeing the revolted look on her face, tensed, ready to drive the lance through the other Elf's throat if he moved. But Eamonn held up his hands in a gesture of no-harm and stepped back, still laughing. "She has spirit, I'll grant you that much. I can easily see why some might want her in their bed, even if she is a Mud Child. Let me examine your whore, Prince of Bethmoora, and I may keep what I have discovered to myself. I will not damage her or the babe in any way this night, I swear by the Darkness That Eats All Things."

Before Nuada could say anything, Dylan had shifted the baby so she held it upright against her side with one arm. With her free hand she pushed the spear's glittering tip away from Eamonn's throat. Defiance burning in her eyes, she tilted her chin and glared at the dark-haired Elf. She knew about the Darkness That Eats All Things. Hadn't she, terrified the powerful Elf prince would kill her, made Nuada take that oath once before? Hadn't she herself made that vow when the pale Elven warrior had left her on the hospital gurney five months ago? She knew it was the strongest vow a Faerie could make. Forswearing it could – would – get you killed.

He won't hurt me, she reminded herself. He swore it on the Darkness. And even if he hadn't, he couldn't hurt me if he wanted to. Nuada would kill him first. Of this, the mortal woman had no doubt whatsoever.

Eamonn stepped forward and gripped the human woman's chin hard enough that whiteness stood out against the flesh around his fingers. She didn't so much as flinch or even look away. Blue eyes like rain-swept lakes bore into Eamonn's. Yes, he could see why Silverlance, weak-willed and pathetic as he was, had succumbed to this human's wiles. There was a fey quality to her eyes that belied the stench of humanity oozing from her. But despite the eyes, the humanity remained. And her face! It looked like a man's back after a flogging. Thin, ridged scars crisscrossed cheeks, chin, lips, forehead, even her crooked nose. Some of the scars were thick and dark, some slender and pale. They twisted her features, dragging at the corner of one eye, the opposite corner of her mouth. By all the gods, how could the prince stand it? How could he stand bedding this... this thing?

The revulsion was strong enough that he was not gentle about turning her head from side to side. She made no sound of pain, though. Only the tiny, tiny lines at the corners of her eyes crinkled in the slightest wince. He was hurting her... but not damaging her. A very fine line. A faery lie.

His grin was malicious and taunting when he asked, "What is it like, human, to bed one of the Fae?" He called her human the way another might say "cur."

Dylan's eyes were cold and, she hoped, regal as she stared the dark Elf down. She slowly lifted her left hand and tapped the golden medallion around her neck. "Do you know what this is?"

"It marks you as a child of the High King of the World," Eamonn replied. "One of the Star Kindler's get."

Now Dylan splayed the fingers of her left hand. In icy, deliberate words she demanded, "Do you see a wedding ring on my finger?"

"No." He frowned. "What has that to do with anything?"

"'For I, the Lord God, delight in the chastity of women,'" Dylan spat. Nuada watched her, stunned. Was she not afraid? He would have said no if he did not know her better, had not seen her in similar situations before. Her voice was strong as she recited the words from memory. Incredulity made her gaze burn hot as she raked her eyes over Eamonn's face, studying him as she demanded, "Do you honestly think I would break one of God's highest laws, prince or no? If I ever willingly lie with anyone, it will be after I've been sealed to my husband for time and all eternity in the Temple of the Star Kindler by the power of His priesthood." There was a burning in her chest, hot and strong, pushing the words out of her mouth. "You insult me, you insult His Highness, and you show your own ignorance and disgrace yourself with your words. How dare you try to entrap Prince Nuada? You will never be a tenth the Elf he is." Icily now, she said, "At least he understands the concept of honor."

Eamonn's grip on Dylan's chin tightened until her eyes were wide and shining with unshed tears of pain. Still she did not cry out, and Nuada did not move, only watched them both with enraged feral eyes. Finally, Eamonn released her and stepped back. He made a big show of wiping his hand on his blood-soaked trousers as if he'd touched something filthy.

"I would not say such things if I were you, little human pet. None of Adam's blood understands honor. The hole in your hearts can never be filled. Neither does the crown prince of Bethmoora understand honor, or he would not choose so lowly and vile a bedmate." To Nuada he said, "I make no assurances as to whether the king learns of your deviancy, Your Highness." The acid in the other Elf's voice as he addressed the prince could have stripped paint. "I find I am not pleased by your whore."

"I'm not pleased by you, either," Dylan snapped. Cruelty edged Eamonn's smile as he inclined his head toward her in a mocking gesture and she held the baby a bit tighter. The human woman's grip jolted the baby from sleep with a miserable wail.

"Take care of the child while you have her. And perhaps I shall visit your little cottage amidst the green some night, little human," Eamonn said, and he reached up to trail leather-gloved fingers over Dylan's vulnerable throat before dropping them to the gold medallion around her neck. She jerked back, making the baby cry louder. The simmer of fear and loathing in her gaze made the dark Elf smile. "Perhaps I shall endeavor to learn what the Silver Lance sees in bedding a loathsome mortal woman... for the sake of curiosity." With a sardonic bow towards the Elf prince, Eamonn turned on his heel and sprinted away.

Nuada's low, feral growl shuddered over Dylan's skin. She turned to him with wide, beseeching eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, and bowed her head. "I didn't know you would get in trouble for... I didn't know I'd get you into trouble or I would have thought of something else, I swear. I'm sorry, Your Highness."

"He hurt you," the prince growled. Dylan's head flew up and she stared at him, confused. "When he grabbed you, he hurt you. I could see it in your face, but you said nothing. Why?"

"What would you have done if I'd said something?"

Only an idiot would have called Nuada's expression a smile. "Gutted him."

"Well, I appreciate that," and strangely, she actually did. It gave her the oddest urge to laugh against the shuddery relief rippling under her skin and stealing her breath. "But I don't want you committing murder because some Elf boy grabs my face too hard. Even if he did threaten to rape me." Let him try. She'd gut him herself. No man would ever touch her against her will again. Never again. Ever. "But what about you?" She frowned, jiggled the baby to soothe it. It kept crying, though the volume died a bit. The Crown Prince watched the human woman and the halfling child with a strange feeling in his belly. "Are you really going to get into trouble for this?" Dylan asked.

Nuada shrugged, shortened his lance and sheathed it across his back. "Many of the Bright Ones who support my... dislike of humans–"

"Oh, you can say, 'hate,' Your Highness," Dylan informed him with a just the barest hint of sass and a quirk of her lips. If she could speak to him that way, she was not horrendously traumatized by Eamonn, then. Nuada found the thought both relieved and pleased him. With a sardonic lift of one eyebrow, she added, "I can tell how you really feel."

"Clearly I do not loathe all humans entirely, or you would certainly be dead now." Why was she smiling at his words? They had held undercurrents of jest, of self-mockery, but not for her ears. Only for his own. Perhaps she heard him better than he'd thought. "But many of my supporters will consider this a betrayal. They will not understand what has happened..." The baby's wails picked up, and the Elf prince sighed and held out his arms. "Give me the child."

Dylan blinked. "What?"

"Give her to me," Nuada said impatiently. Dylan quickly handed the halfling baby over to the prince, who cradled the infant in suddenly gentle arms and looked into the little red face scrunched in discontentment. He murmured softly to the child in Old Gaelic, the words flowing off his tongue like liquid silver. Dylan found she could only understand snatches of the monologue, but it was enough to warm her heart: poor child... your family will not die in vain... do not weep... find rest in Bethmoora... it will be a haven for you... I will protect you until you find sanctuary... But it wasn't just the words. There was a tenderness on the Elf's face that made Dylan wonder suddenly if Nuada had children of his own. A wife, perhaps. Or even just a fey woman who loved him, since marrying a prince might be dangerous in the Faerie Realm. It was certainly dangerous enough in the human world.

"You know babies," she said wonderingly, though there was a strain in her voice that had Nuada glancing up at her. Dylan sank down to the concrete ledge beside the tracks, stretching out her bad leg. The Elf grimaced inwardly at the sight of the damaged knee swollen to twice its normal size. Dylan began kneading it with firm presses of her fingers. Her lips twisted in pain, but she didn't stop. "I don't know why I'm surprised about that," the mortal added. "It's not like I know you're a childless bachelor or anything."

"Stand up," he ordered, ignoring her words. She gave him a pitiful look, but obeyed, leaning heavily against the wall. He gave the infant back to her, murmuring, "Do not drop her, or I shall be very displeased."

"I wouldn't–" She began, then gasped when the prince scooped her up in his arms. "Whoa. Um... what are you doing?" She asked. Nuada was surprised by the lack of vehemence in her voice. If anything, she sounded half-asleep. He could feel her weariness pushing at him. "I can walk," she protested.

"You are tired. And walking on that knee could damage it even further," Nuada said. Dylan was warm and limp with exhaustion in his arms. Her head lolled onto his shoulder and he found, much to his surprise, that the warm breath tickling the side of his neck and jaw did not reek of rotting meat and chemicals like most humans. Instead he smelled the cool sharp scent of cinnamon mingling with the sweet crispness of parsley on her breath. Her head was a gently warm, almost reassuring weight on his shoulder. Very much like a sleeping babe, he thought. Aloud he said, "Come, we visit my sanctuary so that we may clean the child. Then we will return to your home. After, I shall find someone to care for the little one, someone who can take her to my father's hall."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Dylan mumbled. "I'm sorry I'm so tired. I ran as fast as I could to get here and I'm not used to carrying babies." One hand caressed the cap of thin, silky curls on the baby's head. The infant was cradled in the cup of Dylan's body made by the way the Elf carried her. "And I'm sorry my leg's busted," she added. She knew she was babbling and couldn't seem to stop herself. She'd been up since dawn, woken by nightmares, and it was now well past midnight. The events of the evening only added to the exhaustion. "Shouldn't hafta carry me. Sorry. We have to stop meeting like this – danger lurking and blood everywhere. And sorry I got you in trouble."

"Eamonn has been looking for a way to 'get me in trouble' for several centuries," Nuada grumbled. Despite the grumble, however, a smile teased the corners of his mouth. Did the human know she sounded half-drunk when she was coming down off a cresting wave of fear and adrenaline? "At least this way I need not worry about hiding my connection to you. He never meant it when he said he would reconsider spreading the word around."

"Oh." A wealth of sourness in a single syllable. Had she truly believed he would? No human could have such faith in the word of another... could they? Yet Dylan had such faith in him, to run so far in search of him when danger threatened.

"Dylan. What you did. It was..." What to say? Brave? A human did not understand bravery. Commendable? Also inapplicable to humans. What, then? "It was well meant. I... was..." His jaw tightened. He could not say grateful. He could not express gratitude to a mortal. He could not feel gratitude toward a human.

"I'm sorry it didn't work," Dylan murmured dejectedly, saving him. "I should've made him swear to keep quiet. Sorry."

They walked through the tunnels in silence, veiled by glamour as the night passed. After a long time, Nuada whispered, "No need." But by then, Dylan and the baby were both sound asleep in his arms.

.

Wink stared when the prince he had known since Nuada's childhood strode in carrying a sleeping mortal spattered with blood, who served as a living cradle for a halfling baby that burbled in sleep. The brownie cheeped like a small bird and ducked behind the troll's leg as Nuada came in and laid the slumbering woman on his own bed, despite the blood smeared across her skin and the reek of iron and humanity seeping from her body.

"Who is that?" It was all Wink could think to say. He knew what it was, and the why of her presence seemed to hinge on her identity. He noted with almost scientific approval that she curved her arms to support the sleeping bairn and cradle her close to the human's breast.

"Dylan," Nuada murmured.

The great, silver troll blinked and looked at the mortal with new eyes. This blood-splashed, injured woman was the one to bring the crown prince of Bethmoora back from the brink of death, using human medicines? Somehow he'd expected her to be... taller. Prettier. Less scarred. Less human looking. Stupid, he knew... but he'd never seen a healer with a face like a traitor's bare back after a flogging. Little wonder, then, why Nuada had felt compelled to save her. Was the babe hers? But no, the brownie had said she was running away with the bairn.

The crown prince caught the troll's eye, then knelt before the brownie. "My thanks, madoigna, for the information that this human wandered our tunnels. I am most grateful. She shall be attended to shortly. Do you have a safe place to go?"

"Yes, Your Highness." The brownie bobbed curtsies to the golden-haired prince as she stepped back. She knew a dismissal when she heard it. "My nest is not far. My thanks to you." And she scurried away almost as quickly as she'd come. But Nuada was turning back to the sleeping human before the tiny faerie had disappeared from sight.

"What is it the Fates want me to do with you?" He said softly, gazing down at her. At the way she cradled the burbling, oblivious baby in her arms, though she slumbered too. Fear and the ebb of adrenaline, relief and the fresh spike of terror at Eamonn's appearance and words and threats – it had all been too much for Dylan, especially after she had worked all day. Nuada knew most humans attended their places of employment at least eight hours a day. The prince had a feeling that this particular mortal spent much longer healing the broken minds and hearts of her people's young ones. "The Fates... or the gods... or the Highest of all gods... what is it they want of me? What does He want of me?"

"My prince?" Wink grunted. The prince did not hear or, if he did, did not acknowledge the troll. Instead, he brooded. About Eamonn – nothing to be done there. Only to wait for the summons from his father, and to pray. He almost scoffed. As if prayer would do anyone any good. And he brooded about the child – where to take it. To Nuala, who knew many of the ladies at court and many of the common women. Nuala would know what to do with the bairn. But Nuada knew his twin sister would not be happy to see him. She was never happy to see him anymore. Had not been since before his exile.

And he brooded about Dylan. About the way relief had flared in her eyes when she had recognized him tonight. The way she'd thrown her free arm around him, sobbing. Her tears had seemed to burn his skin. His hands had trembled at the shock of her embrace. Revulsion... and yet... if revulsion, why had he not struck her? Thrust her more strongly away? Something other than firmly but carefully place her away from him. What emotion had gripped his belly as her scalding tears soaked his shirt and her sobbing breath warmed his skin? Not disgust. Not hatred. Shock, yes, but more than shock. Something fierce and burning inside him.

The need to protect her. She had been in fear for her life, for the life of the halfling child. That fear had been hot enough to make her relieved tears burn. Sharp enough to cut away all of her common sense and let her throw her arms around him. Actually embrace him. Even as they'd trudged through the tunnels, both of them bleeding and a kiss from death that first night of meeting, she had not been that afraid.

"Or maybe she had," he said aloud, "and hidden it. Then why show it now? Why let me see her fear instead of hiding it from me?"

"Because something has changed," Wink said, startling the prince from his thoughts. "She must trust you now. More than she did before, at least. Else she would not show weakness to you now, unless the fear was greater this time. Was it?"

"No," Nuada said slowly. "Equal, but no greater. I would almost say less. As if... as if she knew there was danger, but that she would be all right, no matter what happened to her."

"She trusts you, then."

Trusts me. Why? The Elf prince wondered. Shook his head. Now was not the time for this. "Wink, fill a bowl with water and bring me a cloth. The child is filthy and needs to be cleaned at least a little. The human blood might make her ill. And summon a will-o-the-wisp to me. I wish to send a message to my sister."

"I will clean the baby," the burly troll mumbled, approaching the recumbent form of the sleeping mortal. "I still remember what it takes to bathe a bairn." But when the troll tried to scoop up the infant from the slumbering arms, Dylan's grip tightened and she made a soft sound of distress. Upset marred the usually sleep-smoothed features. "My prince. She won't release the child."

Nuada's gaze caught a flicker of motion the moment before Dylan's eyelashes fluttered and her eyes opened. Silvery blue eyes like the sea after a storm zeroed in on Wink's whiskery, tusked face of pale blue, leathery flesh. Nuada tensed, waiting for the human to scream or attempt to get away from Wink. Would she hurt the baby in her panic?

Instead, Dylan sat up slowly, shifting the child in her arms. She peered up at Wink with calm eyes and made a series of harsh, almost boar-like grunting sounds. Wink's jaw dropped in astonishment. Then the troll threw back his head and laughed. Nuada had understood what Dylan had said in the gruff, though strangely formal language of the cave trolls. Although it had been with much more flowery words, as Trollish was often very verbose, she'd basically pleaded, "Please don't eat me."

"You neglected to tell me your human spoke the Troll tongue, my prince," Wink said, thick chest still rumbling with amusement.

"I did not know," the prince said softly. To Dylan he added, "Where did you learn to speak Troll?"

"I can't speak Troll. 'Don't eat me' is about the only thing I can say besides making a rude comment about your friend's tusks and trollhood, and I don't want to do that. I like living." Dylan didn't flinch when Wink bellowed another laugh, but Nuada saw her blink rapidly several times. Then the giant faerie clapped the mortal on the shoulder, albeit more gently than he would have done to his prince.

"Are you certain she is human?" Wink asked. "I almost half like her."

"Sometimes I wonder," Nuada muttered. "Give the child to Wink. He will care for her until I return."

"Where are you going?" Dylan couldn't repress the spike of fear that shot through her at the thought of Nuada leaving her here. She wasn't afraid of the troll. She just didn't like being without the Elf prince in any of his magical homes. The mortal had always felt safest when the prince was in the sanctuary with her. Safest, seated before her fire reading tales to him.

"I am taking you home."

.

He left the cottage without a word, a silver-edged shadow in the night. Dylan stared at the open doorway where only a moment before the tall warrior had stood. The prince had been unwilling – unable? – to meet her eyes before vanishing. The mortal couldn't stop the frisson of fear that shivered up her spine as she wondered if there were things about tonight that Nuada wasn't telling her.

Bat stretched up on his hind legs, put his front paws on her good knee, and meowed loudly, startling her. Darn it, the wind was getting in while she stood woolgathering. The mortal shook her head and forced her feet to move. Dylan carefully shut the heavy granite door. As the latch clicked, as she bolted the many locks, only two thoughts pulsed through her mind: Be careful, Nuada.

Heavenly Father... what do I do now?

.

When the summons came, nearly three moons later, the Elf prince was almost grateful. For nearly three months he had stayed away from Dylan, even though she had promised to read him something called Once Upon a Winter's Night. The tale had sounded interesting, and the mortal's enthusiasm and affection for it had tempted him. But if King Balor's messenger were to find Nuada in the home of the woman he supposedly sported with, it would only cause problems for him. Instead, he spent the now-empty nights training. He went through the various kata and taolu he'd learned over the centuries, as well as other fighting forms, and practiced against Wink with swords and lances and – at Wink's insistence – war axes. It had been his lack of skill with the heavy weapons that had gotten him into this mess in the first place, the troll had pointed out, and Nuada had been forced to accede his point.

Finally, only a few days ere Samhain, as he and Wink bowed to each other, sweat dampening flesh and silvery blond hair, the summons came.

"Crown Prince Nuada, Heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, Exiled One, Eldest Scion of the One-Armed King of Elfland." The voice that addressed the Elf warrior could have frosted glass with its iciness.

Nuada turned toward the speaker and cocked his head. Wink knew that if Nuada's human saw the prince's face at that moment, she would have described him as feral, alien. And, the troll thought, if I don't miss my mark, beautiful. He knew the mortal was of the rare sort to appreciate the unearthly beauty of the Kindly Folk.

"Who are you?" Nuada demanded, though he already knew. "What is it you want?"

It was one of the rare black centaurs from the desert plains of the continent the humans called Africa, the Elven kingdom the fae called Nyame. The warm firelight from the hearth flickered and danced over flesh like polished ebony and a black-striped white hide. When the centaur smiled, light glinted off of strangely sharp teeth. He carried no sword, only twin long-axes across his back and crossed, white leather bandoleers sporting small throwing daggers over his chest. He clapped a fist to his heart and bowed at the waist to the prince.

"I am Enitan MacBrannagh, King's Messenger. I hereby summon the Exiled Prince to return to Bethmoora, to the Golden Throne of Balor, the One-Armed King of Elfland, for trial on the charges of deviant cruelty toward, and the violent murder of mortals, as well the rapine of and conspiracy to murder another mortal."

Nuada fought the shock of pain that burned through him, fought to shove it down into the dark where none could feel it or find it, not even Nuala. But Wink saw, just for an instant, the vicious hurt and the utter shock that Balor could accuse his son of such crimes. Then there was nothing but cold acceptance in cold eyes of the seemingly-indifferent Elf prince.

Of course the king would see it that way. Nuada understood that. Glamoring a human or even another faerie into submitting to him and allowing him to bed her was rape according to the laws of the Fayre, and of course that could be the only way he would choose to bring a mortal to his bed – by trickery and deceit. And because he must, of course, have some sort of vile plan for this human that involved pain, torture, emotion distress, and eventually a bloody and agonizing death, that fell under "deviant cruelty" and "plotting to murder."

Will you never think well of me, Father? The words brought a cold fist of soul-pain slamming deep into his belly, though he gave no outward sign of it. He only stared unblinkingly at the messenger.

"I will come tonight, at full moon-rise." Now the prince smiled. There was no amusement in it. "If I am to be slandered and abused by my father's court, I should look the part of the Exiled Prince, should I not?"

Enitan fought the urge to back away from the prince. Though the words seemed to be nothing but the resignation of a man giving himself up to justice, there was something in the Elf's eyes that raised the hair on the centaur's back. He knew, suddenly, that nothing he did would make the Elf arrive sooner than he had agreed to. Trying to force the issue would only get him killed.

"I will give the king your answer," Enitan murmured. With his fist still pressed against his heart, he bowed and backed up until he could turn around and gallop away, eager to escape the icy hatred in the prince's gaze.

"My prince," Wink began, but one look from the Elf warrior silenced the burly troll.

"They will not kill me for this, Wink," the prince replied after a moment of tense silence. "Try to break me, yes. But they have tried before, and always they fail. I do not fear this trial."

"You need only tell them the truth–"

"The truth will avail me nothing," Nuada spat suddenly, and the nearly-mad fire of pain in his eyes burned like the molten gold heart of a star. "Nothing. I need only endure. It has always been enough. It will be enough now."

The Elf prince did not see the brownie that had stood near the entryway skitter off. But Wink did, and wondered why she had come and where she was going now.

.

Dylan fought against the urge to pace as she tried to pore over Esther in the Old Testament. It was one of her favorite stories, and she had to read it for one of her Integrity Value Experiences. Usually she felt comforted by the profoundly moving story of a young girl – based on the historical setting, she couldn't have been more than sixteen or so – who risked death to protect her people. A comforting tale, like a favorite bedtime story pulled from the shelf and dusted off, to be heard one more time. But not tonight. Despite the purple colored pencil and gel pen beside her, ready to highlight and box important or relevant bits, she couldn't seem to focus.

It's nearly time for Nuada to come, she thought, then reminded herself that the Elf prince wouldn't be coming tonight. It had been more than two months (almost three, as October was nearly done) since that headlong race to find the prince amid the subway tunnels, a blood-spattered madman on her heels and an orphaned baby in her arms. Despite herself, the mortal found herself wishing Nuada would come just to show her he was all right. Had that bloodthirsty Elf – what was his name? Eamonn? – managed to hurt him? Was everything okay?

Maybe doing the write-up for the experience in her journal would help. With an edgy sigh and a shove at the unrestrained curls falling into her face, she pulled out the four-inch black binder that served as her current journal (her last one being a gray binder of the same size) and flicked the rings open so she could pull out the paper. Somehow, writing with a gel pen on the first page of a stack of paper gave her a strange sense of peace. The soft scritching of pen nib on paper, the scent of ink, and the cushioning of the stack usually soothed her. Dylan shuffled the papers until they were even with each other. Pushing at her hair again, she clicked her pen.

Bat took a casual kitten-swipe at it, and she bapped him lightly on the nose. The black kitten flopped over on his back and waved his little paws in the air, desperate to take down this heinous offender. Dylan laughed and poked him in his pudgy belly. The cat mewed in outrage, baring tiny white teeth as sharp as needles. He squirmed and wriggled, trying to catch hold of the pen, until his gyrations rolled him off the table and onto the floor with a plop. Bat glared up at Dylan before rolling into a ball and closing his eyes in disgust.

Her momentary distraction gone, Dylan began to write in her journal.

"In the Book of Esther, Esther's uncle (actually he's her cousin) Mordecai shows his integrity when he refuses to worship Haman, even though the King has made it the law that everyone has to bow down and worship this guy. Because Mordecai is a Jew, he cannot worship any gods but Yahweh. He's standing up for his beliefs as well as the law he has promised to obey before he agreed to serve the King.

"Integrity and honor are important because if you don't have them, how can anyone trust you? Although honor and integrity are not the same thing, they're closely linked. Integrity is a part of honor. If you lack honor, why should you choose to speak truthfully? And if you speak falsely, you dishonor yourself. Lying is considered dishonorable. And without integrity, if you vow to stand for something, why should anyone take you seriously? They won't say, 'Your honor prevents you from speaking falsely.' They'd be like, 'You're a big, fat coward who wouldn't know honor if it jumped up and bit you on the butt. We don't trust you as far as we can spit.'"

Ugh. It wasn't working. If anything, all the thinking about integrity and honor made her think about Nuada even more. She remembered Nuada deliberating as to whether to kill her, thinking and testing her by her words. What had she said to him?

A prince without personal honor cannot hope to be an honorable ruler to his people and a dishonorable ruler brings shame to his kingdom.

Rapid tapping at the window wrenched her rudely from her thoughts. Frowning, she pushed up from the table and limped toward the window. A tiny form pounded small fists against the panes of glass. When Dylan drew close enough to discern the shape, she realized it was a very upset brownie.

She flicked the three locks on the windows and drew them open. "Come in, madoigna, if you mean me no harm, and be welcome."

The diminutive creature, draped in flashy scraps of fabric she'd probably scored from the local streetwalkers, scurried inside and began chattering agitatedly in Old Gaelic. Dylan struggled to keep up, but the little thing was chirping and squeaking so fast she grasped maybe one word out of six. Finally she threw up both hands and cried, "Wait, wait! Hold on. Slower."

"She says the Exiled Prince is in danger," a soft, lisping voice said from Dylan's elbow. She squeaked and tried to whirl to see who was speaking, but her bad leg buckled. Only the wall's presence kept her from collapsing. As she blinked and tried to right herself, the mortal saw another brownie, this one clad in a simple brown homespun shirt and trews, push back a tangled mop of black curls and blink pupil-less black eyes at Dylan. "I am Becan, your hearth sprite. And the prince, the one who used to visit – he is in trouble."

Dylan stared at the two small fae for a long moment before letting herself sink to the floor, where she could get a little more comfortable. Fear was a living, breathing animal in her stomach, in her chest. The mortal couldn't let it have control. Taking a deep breath, she looked to the little creature that had slipped in through her window.

"Tell me everything you know."

.

Wink paused outside the corridor that would lead to Balor's hall. He glanced once at the strangely silent Elf prince at his side. Nuada only stared straight ahead, glacial topaz eyes locked on the vast double doors shrouded in shadow. Between the two warriors and the doors were several hidden Butcher Guards and, more than likely, that sycophantic little toad, the court Chamberlain.

"Both my heart and my feet are heavy at this parting, my prince," Wink grunted in Trollish. He knew the Court toadies would not stoop so low as to learn the tongue of the silver trolls. "Every instinct warns me of danger and hidden treachery."

"I know it," the prince replied in the same tongue. "Eamonn will do his best to see me shamed this night. I am prepared for him."

"Should we not have told... the human woman?" Something in the Elf's gaze told Wink not to use the mortal's name. "Surely she would come and defend you from these charges. She would tell your father the truth."

"The truth avails nothing in Balor's court anymore. Humanity's poison has oozed too deeply into our world and our people. And even if she did come..." But no human would ever do such a foolish thing. Not for one his people. Not even Dylan. And if she did... "They would say, as they have already said, that I use my Elf magic to beguile her, to enchant and deceive her. They would not believe her to be in her right mind. And besides, I was not given leave to bring her. To come before the King of Elfland without summons can be a death sentence, with no respect to mortality or magic, rank or status, unless the king gives his pardon. My honor prevents me from endangering her thus."

With a sigh, the burly troll glanced toward the moon cresting the horizon. As the last sliver of iridescent celestial orb glided above the horizon line, something icy settled over Nuada and he let out a breath.

"It's time. Goodbye, my friend. Wait for me as agreed."

Wink fought against the steps he wanted to take after Nuada, who strode slowly toward the double doors and the silent, waiting Butchers. Instead of following after his prince, he turned away and trudged back to the corridor where those not summoned who had an interest in the Court proceedings were ordered to wait.

.

Dylan limped through the dense forests of Central Park, scanning the night-shadowed brush for the one she sought. Becan and the other little brownie, Brighid, scurried after her. The mortal knew there were Hunters in the Park. She just had to find them. And once she did, she had to convince them that it was in their best interest to help her.

Nuada, you moron, she thought as rose thorns lashed her arms. The small fae following her had no trouble dodging and crawling through the small openings in the brambles. Why didn't you tell me you'd need an advocate? You absolute and complete moron!

Once she was deep into the woods, well off the path and far away from the garish electric lights the city lit after sunset, she stopped and took a deep breath. All around her were the scents of pine resin, crushed ferns, the musk of forest creatures, and the sweetness of night air purified by the Bright People. She took it all in on a breath, and let out her fear and irritation on another breath. She had to give herself over to what was right, and pray God's plan for her didn't involve dying that night.

Dylan closed her eyes and said, softly, in very formal Gaelic, "I am a daughter of forest and mountain, desert and plains, stars and the deeps. I follow the High King of the World, the Star Kindler; I am a follower of the Son of the King. I am the High King's daughter, and I ask a Hunter to come to me, for I have need this night. I ask not for myself, but for another, and I ask in the name of the Atoning Prince, the Holy One of the Lost Tribes. I speak truth."

Becan and Brighid stared at the mortal, surprised at the lyrical, ancient words spilling off her tongue. The words held the cadence and intonations of a prayer, and the expectation and utter serenity on Dylan's face reminded Becan of how she looked while saying her morning and evening prayers in her living room every day.

Dylan opened her eyes as the foliage ahead of her rustled softly. She held out one hand, thinking, Please, Heavenly Father, let this be a Hunter and not some kind of freaky flesh-eating forest goblin or something.

A large stag, antlers many-pronged and so tall they seemed to be brushing the sky, stepped out of the forest green and approached her sedately. Liquid gold eyes like the heart of summer captured hers and wouldn't let go. Dylan knew what the Faerie stag was searching her eyes for – the truth. If she had spoken falsely, he'd disembowel her with his rather impressive rack of antlers. If she spoke truth... well, at least he'd hear what her request was before disemboweling her with his rack.

When the golden-furred stag bowed his crowned head, Dylan lowered her hand and bowed back. When she'd straightened, there was no stag in the middle of the woods. There was only a man, with curly tawny hair tinged with streaks of green and auburn, and eyes like liquid sunlight just before sunset on midsummer. That same massive set of antlers thrust through the lion-gold curls.

"Why do you call a Hunter, mortal woman? It behooves us to answer the prayers of those with light in their hearts because of our fealty to the High King of all life. But I have done all that is required of me. What is it you wish? If it offends me, there will be a price."

He's going to rip my guts out, Dylan thought frantically. No way will he agree to this, he's going to rip my guts outs, I'm going to die, and then– shut up! She mentally slapped herself. Get a grip. Just have to make sure I speak carefully. It's not like I haven't had tons of practice with the prince.

"I require assistance in coming to the aid of Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor. What I ask is only so that I may prevent him from coming to harm." Heart pounding, fear-sweat slicking her palms, she cast the woodman a beseeching look. "I must get to the Court of Bethmoora, but I do not know the way, and I have to hurry. They're going to do something horrible to him. I owe the prince a debt. He shouldn't have to suffer because he showed me compassion."

Brighid chirped in at that point. Dylan supposed the brownie was backing her up. Heavenly Father, I hope so. The passage of time itched over the mortal woman's skin as she waited for the Hunter to speak. She hadn't actually made her request because she had to know if he even believed what she was saying. If he didn't, and she asked him what she planned, he'd literally unspool her intestines from her body before trampling her to death.

Molten gold eyes pinned her. She tried not to blink. Tried only to think of Nuada. Brighid didn't know what would happen to the Elf prince once he got to this so-called trial – she refused to take the name seriously, since the Elf warrior couldn't even take Wink with him as a witness for his side – but the brownie was married to a domovik, and had learned how to sense the emotions of the Bigger Folk. There had been a black morass of feeling and sensations swirling around Bethmoora's Crown Prince, emotions that had made the brownie fear very much for him. Something was going to happen to him, something bad. Not fatal – at least, the brownie didn't think so. But something terrible. And that was what she'd told Dylan.

"You speak truly. What is your request?"

Here we go, Dylan thought, praying silently that she wasn't about to feel the rough, dagger-sharp prongs of the golden Gentry stag. Aloud, all she said was, "I need a ride to the Golden Hall of King Balor, and your kind are the fastest things in Central Park."

Those liquid eyes flashed. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut and braced for the belly cut.

.

"What troubles you, my sister?" The Elf prince was acutely aware of Wink's absence and the Chamberlain' and guards' presence at his back as he strode down the corridor toward the doors. He deftly slaughtered the wisp of hurt in his chest when his sister refused to meet his eyes. He spoke softly, for her ears alone. "You cannot even meet my gaze."

"I do not know you," she said coolly. Her long, black skirts shushed over the stone floor as she glided forward. His sister wore black and white this night. Black for death, white for mourning. Did she expect their father to execute him tonight? What would happen to her if Balor did attempt to execute him? "It pains me to see a stranger looking out at me from my beloved brother's face, so I do not look."

Nuada could feel his sister's grief and disappointment, though she tried to shield herself from his mind. She truly thought him a monster. Thought him capable of the crimes their father suspected him of. It would have incensed him if it had not left a bleeding hole in his heart. He wondered, in a distant way, if this was the feeling that fed humans and their viciousness, their evil and greed and pride. This pain, this sense of deep loss threatening to choke and smother.

Dylan does not allow such dark feelings to infect her, Nuada thought, vaguely surprised that the thought had even occurred to him. But he let it continue to unfurl in his mind, wondering if his sister could hear the thought. She has suffered much, yet the hole in her heart is very small. How does she manage such a thing?

"You think me guilty?" He asked, giving nothing of his thoughts away. The prince already knew the answer, but there was a sudden burning in his chest, a fierce need to force Nuala to admit that she did not trust him, did not care for him or love him anymore. Thought him a vicious beast capable of rape, murder, and other atrocities. If that was what she felt, he wanted her to admit it, not dance around it like a courtier. And if she did not believe it, he wanted her to stop behaving as if she did.

For a fleeting moment she met his eyes. Winced. Looked away.

That was answer enough. She half-believed it. Almost had herself convinced of his guilt. Was even closer to convincing herself that she did not want to believe it, but he was not fooled. His sister wanted a reason to condemn him. She could not condemn his desire to protect their people, so she would find something else. And she would not look into his mind to find the truth for herself. His twin sister considered her brother's mind a filthy and loathsome trap, to be avoided at all costs. Just that knowledge had the strength to steal his iron control long enough for the pain in his chest to unfurl, just a little, before he quickly smothered it again. He would not let his beloved sister feel that kind of pain.

Before he could speak again, the doors to his father's Hall swung inward. The rich, amber light caressed Nuada's face. Sweet scents and perfumes wafted on the sudden breezes. Soft, chiming music lilted on the air. And the Elf prince could not stop the leap his heart gave when he saw his father's face, nor the way it plummeted sickeningly into his belly when he saw the condemnation, anger and despair on the noble features. In fact, he saw himself condemned in every countenance that would look on him, save one.

Eamonn's eyes glinted with smug satisfaction as he watched Nuada approach without Wink, and without weapons.

Dylan, Nuada thought, surprising himself again. She has never looked at me this way. Not even when I had her by the throat and meant to kill her. She never looked at me as if I were an animal, or a criminal. How strange that a human thinks more highly of me than my own kin.

"Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," King Balor said in a ringing voice. As a boy, that tone had been enough to make the young Elf prince's spine snap straight and his shoulders to square at attention. Now it only saddened him. "You are here to be tried for the charges of deviant cruelty toward, and the violent murder of mortals, as well the rapine of and conspiracy to murder another mortal. Do you have anything to say to these accusations?"

For just a moment, he considered explaining. His father would believe him. His father would understand. After what had happened to his mother, rape was the only thing that could ever provoke Nuada into defending a human. It was the one thing he would never stand for.

Then he thought of Dylan: shouting a warning as one of the human wolves moved to attack him; forcing him to let her aid him in getting to safety; removing the bullets and stitching his wounds even as she shivered with pain and swayed with blood loss; mending his clothes and scrubbing the bloodstained floor of his sanctuary; trying to protect him from the leanashe; toasting apple and cheese sandwiches before the fireplace; the steady sound of her voice as she read her favorite tales to him; her arm flung around him in relief and welcome and a release of terror as she sobbed into his chest, knowing she could weep now because he was there and she was safe.

The one thing that would save him was the one thing he could not say. Everything else was meaningless. To share pain, vulnerability, heartache... it was forbidden among the fae to do so without express permission. He would not dishonor Dylan thus. Would not offer up her few weaknesses as coin to buy his pardon. He could not deny the charges, though his honor chafed him, demanding justice. Demanding truth. He knew there would be neither. Neither would avail him.

"No," he said calmly, tonelessly. Revealing nothing. "I have nothing to say."

Nuada caught a flicker of grief in his father's eyes. For himself, his pain? Or for the pain that would be inflicted on his sister? Nuala stood rigidly beside him, her hands clamped tightly before her as she stared past her brother, as if he were a mirage she knew wasn't real. Then Balor stood. His voice was heavy with weariness and quiet anger when he spoke.

"Silverlance, you have broken the treaty with the humans by your actions. Even a prince may not transgress the law of kings. I will not give you death, Crown Prince, and deprive myself of both my heirs in one night. I will, however, see you punished."

The Elf warrior closed his eyes. Braced himself. The words were still like a blow to the belly.

"Two thousand lashes by iron."