Chapter 14 - In the Hall of the Mountain King

that is

A Short Tale of Worry, Spies, Presentation, Commandments, Obedience, and the Bane of Life That Is Gossip

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All right, that was it. He had had enough. That fainting spell three nights ago Thursday had been the last straw. He and Dylan were going to have a talk, and they were going to have it tonight.

John parked his beat-up red Mustang as close to the gates of Central Park as he could manage without getting a ticket and lurched out of the cramped driver's seat. Frustration sizzled in every line of his body. She couldn't keep doing this to him! Something had to give. The icy winter wind and the frigid drizzle soaking him as he walked only amped up his anger. How was he supposed to get a decent shot at anything other than cruddy security assignments instead of the important stuff when random crap kept happening to him at bizarre moments because of his whacked-out telepathic connection to his twin? With a spine nearly ramrod straight and clenched fists, he marched up the steps to her little cottage and pounded on the door.

"Dylan! Open up!" Hunching his shoulders inside his raincoat didn't keep the chilly wind from slipping inside the coat collar and leeching the heat from his skin. Gritting his teeth, he banged again. "Dylan! Come on, come out! We gotta talk."

And what, exactly, did they need to talk about? About the fact that he accidentally shot a guy in the back of the leg because of whatever had been going on with her at the time. He hadn't gotten the job at MIB, needless to say. Maybe Sector Seven was hiring. Or Roswell. Or maybe Warehouse Thirteen. Although he hadn't heard anything about Sector Seven employing psychics, Roswell and Warehouse Thirteen usually did. And they were probably the only government agencies who wouldn't care that he'd shot someone while his psychic powers – if they could even be called powers – were on the fritz. Especially at the Warehouse, as they didn't use guns. And if he got desperate, he could always put in for the liaison position to Torchwood. They didn't use guns very often, either.

But he shouldn't have been desperate, darn it. After that little escapade in the alternate-dimensional black hole as a kid, the government had been very interested in his life and education. He'd been their golden boy. Or future golden boy, since he'd only been twelve at the time. Whatever. John Thaddeus Myers shouldn't have had trouble finding a government job, since Uncle Sam had paid his and his sister's way through college to bribe him into working for the government. But now, thanks to his sister, he'd lost out on the opening in MIB. What else would he lose out on if they didn't fix this?

"Come on, Sis!" He called. The rain was starting to pick up. Now it became icy needles driving into his skin. He shivered as frigid rain water rolled in fat, shiver-inducing drops down the back of his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt. "We need to talk!"

A sliver of unease now. Dylan wouldn't just not answer her door, he knew. She'd check the peep hole, and even on those rare occasions where they'd wanted to practically kill each other, she'd never left him on her doorstep in inclement weather. Which meant she wasn't home.

But Dylan was always home at night. She didn't like being out alone after dark. After a couple weeks of feeling his sister's terror shivering through his veins after her return in February, John had finally set it up so that either he or his sister's secretary, Ariel, drove her home after dark. And he or Ariel always drove her to work, since taking the subway had led to her attack almost eleven months ago. But Ariel reported that Dylan hadn't been to the office since Thursday. That was just fine, since she had a couple weeks' vacation due, and his twin sometimes took Fridays off to do service projects with her church or other goody-goody things like that.

Except that she should be at home now. The first Sunday of November was tomorrow, and he and Dylan were supposed to hash out their plans for attending the Singles' Ward Break-the-Fast at her church, since he'd finally agreed to go (on the condition that she went with him, even though it wasn't actually her ward). How were they supposed to finalize their plans if she wasn't even here?

She's always home at night, he repeated silently. Always. Even when the faires and festivals are up. Why won't she answer? With fingers numbed by the cold despite his gloves, John pulled out his cell phone and pressed 3 – his sister's cellular speed dial. It went straight to voicemail. Either turned off, or dead. Great.

"Dylan, I'm coming in, okay?" John called, just in case. With a trembling hand he pulled out his linked rings of keys and found the ring that held the eight keys for her door – one key for the knob, seven for the dead bolts. After turning all eight keys in their locks, he pushed the heavy granite door open. It swung easily on its oiled brass hinges and the government agent stepped into the dimly lit entryway. Only the night-dimmed faerie lights illuminated the floor. And as soon as he walked in, shutting the door behind him with a click that echoed down the hall, he knew his sister hadn't been here in at least a couple days.

There were no signs of struggle, and the doors had been locked, which meant that she'd at least left willingly. Probably. Unless she'd been held at gunpoint. But that didn't feel right. Wouldn't he have felt her fear, seen something to give him a clue? All he'd seen was the Hunter. Maybe she'd gone on a walk and run into one. Maybe it had attacked her! But that didn't feel right, either.

A white square on the floor with tiny black shapes on it caught his eye. He knelt down and picked up an unsealed envelope from the floor. His name in black ink stared back at him. John flipped open the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. Recognizing a page from Dylan's memo book, he murmured the words to brighten the enchanted hall light and scanned the words scribbled in purple gel ink in the dim glow.

John-Boy,

Don't panic if I'm not home. I had to go help one of our neighbors, and I
had to do it in a hurry. I'm probably okay, though. Call in for me at work
if you have to – tell them whatever. If I'm not back in a week, call the
cops, because I'm probably dead, but I'm pretty sure I'll be back
by then.

The guy who helped me back in December needed a friend. He'll
keep me safe. Please feed Bat and leave cream and stuff out for our
other neighbors.

And drop off my lesson stuff at the home ward tomorrow by 8:30.
Sister Johnston is expecting it. It's on the coffee table underneath
the green book, Spindle's End. And my cell phone's dead - can you
plug it in for me? I love you.

Zimmie-D

PS – If I'm gone on Sunday, even if you don't go to
Break-the-Fast, please drop off the Jello things I made.
They're in the fridge. No, you can't have any if you don't
go to Break-the-Fast. And yes, I expect you to fast
if you're going to eat there. Don't be a wimp. Love you.

One of "our neighbors." He knew exactly what that meant – a faerie. The one that had saved her and brought her to the hospital all those months ago had... how had she put it? Needed a friend. What the heck did that mean?

But she'd signed it Zimmie-D, which meant everything was okay and she hadn't had to write this note under duress. John actually smiled when he thought of how much she'd hated it as a kid when he'd called her Zimmie-D. Zimmie was one of Bob Dylan's nicknames, since his real name had been Robert Zimmerman. Since his name had been Robert, however, and hers had been Dylan, a five-year-old John had always added a D at the end. She kind of hated that name. But it was also one of their code words growing up, a sign that everything was okay with her, just like he'd always let her call him John-Boy, even though he absolutely loathed the Waltons, and signed any of his okay-notes the same way. If something was wrong, he'd always signed their notes "John" or "Johnny" instead of his usual "J," and she'd sign "Dylan" instead of just "D." So she was all right. He could relax.

Well, he grumbled silently, staring at the memo paper, at least I'll get to pig out tomorrow. And I'm eating at least two helpings of all those Jello thingies. His sister made some pretty rockin' Jello.

.

I could slay him now, and he would never see it coming, Eamonn thought, silver eyes burning with a sudden thrill of anticipation. Inside the cottage, the human slut's kin scanned a piece of paper. A letter, no doubt. And I could leave his corpse there for her to find. And when she found him, I could come upon her while she was yet unaware, and break into her mind again, and then Nuada would–

"Calm yourself, Eamonn," a cold voice ordered, and the silver-eyed Elf shot a scathing look at the dark-eyed warrior at his side. If not for the silver chain around the other Fayre's throat, the dark Elf would have likely slain his companion long ago. But even for the favorite lieutenant of the one Eamonn called liege, killing the favored lieutenant of the the fae lord known as the Dark Hunter would have been unwise. Eamonn loathed Iolo, Master of Cŵn Annwn, nearly as much as he loathed the hypocritical Silverlance (though for vastly different reasons). "We are not here to indulge your twisted fantasies," Iolo continued. "We are here only to see if the mortal returns to her home this night. If she does not, we are to report back to our respective masters. Report and nothing more."

"I do not need a lowly Welshman to give me orders," Eamonn snarled. "My king is foolish enough to trust your master, but I am not so blinded. Do not think I have forgotten he betrays his own king with this alliance, and so do you."

"Why are you so obsessed with the mortal at all, Eamonn?" Iolo taunted, arching a provoking brow. "One would fancy you in love with her as well, and mad with your own jealousy."

"It is Silverlance who occupies my thoughts," the dark Elf hissed. He spoke Nuada's title as if it were an obscenity. "Silverlance, that pathetic whelp, and the best way to break him. Believe me, I have thought of every possible thing I could do to bring that baseborn scut to his knees. And the human is the key to it. Hurt the princess, and he will die when she does. It would be over too quickly. His father? The Silver Lance will mourn, but it will only serve to fire his vengeance. But the mortal... to lose her... to lose the woman you love would steal the heart and soul even from you, Iolo, if you had either. Once I end her, Silverlance's heart will shatter. Then I can take my time with the old fool of a king and his whore of a daughter. More knives in his heart. In the end, Silverlance will beg me to end his pitiful existence. I dream of the day when I can rip out his heart with my bare hands."

With just a subtle bite of sarcasm, the Welsh faerie replied, "How charming."

Infuriated, Eamon turned on Iolo and growled, "Welsh dog-"

"Enough of this ridiculous bickering," another voice demanded, sounding almost bored with the situation. The dark-haired Elf subsided as eyes like the summer sky glanced laconically at him. Even he knew not to push the son of his master. The Elves of Cíocal were not known for their patience. "We have the information my father wanted," the blue-eyed faerie prince added. "The human is staying at Findias. Well and good. Arrachd and Iolo's men will keep watch on the mortal's home. Now let us leave this filthy place. I can smell the stink of human machines from here."

As the three faeries faded into the dark recesses of the trees, Iolo turned to the third and said, "What will your father do now, Prince Bres?"

"He will send me to Findias to pay homage to Balor in the next few days," the bored voice drawled. "As a token of our 'continuing loyalty' in the face of Eamonn's treachery. The old Elf will be wondering about his allies now, especially with the mortal in his halls. And I will also go to see what can be done with that clever little human whore... and with the delectable little princess."

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Just breathe, Dylan reminded herself as she and Nuada strode forward, Nuala on her brother's other side. Every step seemed to echo hollowly through the suddenly silent hall. The distance between the entry doors and the dais where King Balor sat upon his throne seemed to span the entire world. Still, it was strangely comforting to hear the soft tread of the Elf prince's boots in time with her own footsteps. Was he walking in time with her on purpose? That was going to be hard later, when her leg started to protest the fact that she didn't have her cane with her.

Just breathe, she repeated. Don't panic. It's just playing pretend. Everything's going to be okay. And whenever doubt tried to slither down her throat and make her nauseous with sheer nerves, then she would surreptitiously glance at the stoic prince beside her and relax a little. He won't let anything bad happen to me.

When they finally stood at the foot of the dais, Balor's golden eyes peered down at them. The light glittered off the king's golden torc and belt. His antlers speared the air high over his head. Dylan's stomach did a back-flip. Should I bow? Curtsy? What do I do now?

Nuada caught her eye, and ever so slightly inclined his head toward the king. The prince shifted, and almost as if they'd practiced it, they bowed in perfect unison. Dylan knew it was only because Nuada was matching his moves to her. But the people behind them were whispering in earnest now. Dylan wished she could understand Old Gaelic better. It would've been nice to know what they were saying about her. Specifically, she would've liked to know if any of the women were plotting to poison her, or rip her hair out by the roots, or gouge out her eyes. Nuada wasn't exactly bad looking, after all. There were bound to be court ladies suckered in by the charade, and jealous as a result. And that jealousy would only be ratcheted up by the fact that this woman who came into the king's Hall on Prince Nuada's arm was mortal, and barely considered pretty even without the disfiguring scars that slashed and raked at her face.

"Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," King Balor said in ancient and flowing Gaelic, and his golden voice rang out through the enormous hall, silencing the whisperers. "You have not introduced your lady to your people... or to Us."

Though there was no anger or malice in the ancient voice, Dylan heard the steely undertone of command. She didn't miss the king's use of "your lady," or the royal plurality, either.

Translation, the human thought. Tell the court who she is right now, and make it obvious she's your girlfriend, or you're dog meat. They had to be very careful here. They were playing along, yes, but if they weren't convincing enough - or, on the flip-side, if they were too convincing - then the king would get suspicious and figure out they were planning on slipping his current leash as soon as possible.

"Your Majesty," Nuada said in that same ringing, courteous voice. "I beg your royal leave to present my lady," and here he shifted so that he could take Dylan's hand in his and bow slightly toward her. "Lady Dylan of Central Park." And in her head, she heard Nuada say, Bow to him again, perfunctorily. She obeyed.

"You are most welcome in Bethmoora, and in the halls of Findias, Lady Dylan," the king said, and even though he didn't emphasize the word "you," Dylan knew he was implying that though she was welcome, Nuada most certainly wasn't. The first flicker of irritation bubbled up in her stomach. She quashed it and inclined her head regally. At least she hoped it looked regal, and not like she had gas.

"I thank you, Your Majesty. His Highness has told me of Bethmoora, of both its splendor and of its king. I find that he did not exaggerate in his estimation of either." So take that, creep. At Nuada, she thought, Findias?

The name of this palace, Nuada said in her mind. His voice threatened to give her brain-freeze. Why did he sound so cold to her? Well, probably because he was pissed as heck and trying not to show it to anyone. At least he'd smiled at her before leading her before the king. The Elf prince said, "My king, I would ask... all know it is a crime punishable by death to appear before you without royal leave. Yet my lady has done so. I would know, Sire, if she is to be punished for saving my life when the traitor Eamonn sought to murder me."

There's that "my lady" thing again, Dylan thought, and tried to suppress the shiver the words sent down her spine. She knew Nuada was just pretending, but did he have to sound so... so tender when he said "my lady?" It made her feel bizarre, even though it was certainly just a simple facade for the courtship charade. And just the thought of Eamonn sent a frisson of fury and icy terror sizzling under her skin.

"We have said she is welcome here. No doubt her actions were inspired by the love that she bears for you, Crown Prince. Mortals love fiercely, and are sometimes... injudicious in how their love can influence them. It would make me a cruel king indeed, to punish such loving devotion."

Oh, ouch, Dylan thought dryly, fighting not to roll her eyes. Like that wasn't loud and clear. Translation: She's an idiot for loving a creep like you, but it's not her fault, it's yours. Jeez, what a jerk.

Could you cease the commentary? Nuada replied without taking his eyes from his father's face. You are making it difficult not to smile.

So look at me and smile, she said. Make it all gushy and saccharine. That should convince them. Which was exactly what the amber-eyed Elf prince did, turning to her and lightly brushing his callused knuckles along one of the thicker scars than ran down her cheek. Dylan suddenly forgot how to breathe as her knees went weak and her stomach fluttered. A frisson of fear shivered up her spine as she remembered the last time anyone had touched her face like that. Whoa. The sensitive scar tissue tingled from the contact. Um... okay, don't do that. Please, Your Highness. That feels... funny.

My apologies, he said silently, while aloud he spoke as if to her (though it was clear he meant for everyone to hear him). "I strive every day to be worthy of such devotion. As she stands always at my side, I have hope that I yet succeed."

Dylan fought not to choke on the snort that threatened. Where had that sap-sucking pick-up line come from? He didn't really use lines like that to get girls, did he? Hopefully everyone would think her smile and the blush burning in her face were due to being weak-kneed at the prince's "devotion," and not because she was struggling not to laugh. Crud, I can't even take that line seriously, it's so cheesy.

But in her head, the prince added soberly, Translation: I am not the monster he thinks I am, or you would not be here.

Darn right, I wouldn't. What kind of girl does he think I am? She was trying to make him smile, and it worked. Dark lips stretched into a smile, a real one that reached his firegold eyes, one that made Dylan grin back without having to even think about it. The whispering from the court increased. Your Highness, what are they saying?

Surprisingly, Nuada leaned in until his lips were pressed against her ear. She could smell the foresty scent that seemed to always cling to him, as well as the warm familiar smell of leather and a faint undercurrent of old blood. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she thought, Oh, too close, way too close. Fear seemed to shiver along her skin, but hopefully the faeries of Balor's court just thought her eyes went wide and her breathing hitched because of the prince's closeness and any romantic effect it might have had on her. "I will tell you something very interesting later... my lady." This time she couldn't stop the shiver, and it wasn't just a shiver of fear.

Whoa. Are my eyes crossed?

No, he said silently as he pulled back. Why?

Never mind, she said softly, absently. Now the whispering had turned to a dull roar - or was that the blood rushing to her head? Dylan knew Nuada had done the sexy-whisper-thing to give the court gossipmongers something to talk about - they'd probably been able to hear what he said, too - and to keep up the charade, but jeez. It felt like she was having a heart attack.

And as her heart began to pound, any breath of excitement disappeared, to be replaced by ice cold fear. Dylan had to fight against the sudden, cold slither of phantom-terror down her spine as memory tried to wrench her from the present and shove her back into the horrifying past.

Nuada! I... Flickers of memory, the feel of Eamonn's mouth against her ear whispering hideous promises, threatened to choke her. The sound of weeping, of screams, hammered against her skull. Suddenly she tasted the phantom copper tang of blood. For just a moment she felt Eamonn's hands on her body, touching her, violent and violating caresses. Teeth in her throat. Panic was a gaping abyss stretching before her feet. Nuada, I'm going to fall, she cried, not knowing where the words came from, but knowing they were hideously true. Help me....

Do not be afraid, the prince whispered in her mind. His grip on her fingers tightened. The reassuring pressure - and, she didn't doubt, a little magic - pushed back the fear until she could focus on the fact that she stood beside Nuada, her hand in his. Familiar golden eyes kept her from slipping back into memory. I will not let you fall, Dylan. Do not fear.

Thank you, she whispered. The only outward indication of her panic was suddenly stinging eyes, but she blinked back any tears. I'm sorry for panicking. Thank you.

All is well, he replied. So long as I am with you, you need not be afraid in this place. My honor demands I protect you, and I will. Do not fear. And I shall be more careful of your memories next time.

Thanks.

"I am overjoyed that you have found such happiness and peace, my son," Kind Balor was saying. "This is surely a cause for much celebration. Chamberlain, see that preparations are begun for a feast in honor of the crown prince and his lady." By now, Dylan had managed to entrench her mind firmly back in the present. Unfortunately, the heart-stopping terror of a flashback was replaced by a stab of panic that lanced her breast now that she stood confronted with the idea of a "celebration feast."

You gotta be kidding me, she thought helplessly. Why doesn't he shoot me and get it over with?

It is only a banquet, Nuada said, surprised that the idea would upset her so much. True, she was used to her little cottage amidst the woodland green, and seemed to dislike large gatherings and parties, unlike most mortals. And he knew she disliked dressing in court clothes. He'd been able to taste Nuala's irritation at trying to get Dylan ready for this court summons, even all the way in the salle. The princess had been especially exasperated by the mortal's hair. Only the potion-qualities of Elven shampoo had managed to tame the riotous brown curls that the mortal often despaired of. Yet as long as Dylan could manage her hair (and if his sister had anything to say about it, she would), there was nothing to inspire this panic in her. And as for her hair, when had she become such a vain thing?

Did you just call me "vain?" She demanded, and he nearly started in surprise. He had not been projecting to her. How had the mortal heard his thoughts? I'm not vain, Your Highness, she added, and he could tell that if she had been able to, she would have scowled at him. It's not my hair, or the clothes. I hate crowds of faeries. Being helpless and mortal, they kinda freak me out, considering they could all blink at me and I'd keel over dead if they wanted. Although I'm not fond of crowds of humans, either. Add the hair and clothes on top of that, and yes, I'm a little unhappy about the fact that your dad wants to throw us a party. And, Dylan added, and Nuada could feel the sudden surge of dread. There's going to be alcohol there, isn't there?

Yes, he replied slowly. This upsets you. Why?

I'm not allowed to drink alcohol. Ever. This is why I don't even like going to the fancy charity dinners they do in the medical and psychiatric fields in this stupid city. They never make soda or juice or sparkling cider or, I dunno, just plain tap water available without me having to ask for it. It's always wine or champagne. And then people always give me dirty looks, which doesn't make me feel bad about abstaining since I'm making God happy, except that then everyone assumes I'm a recovering alcoholic or something and that that's why I don't drink. Which is nothing to be ashamed of. It's just that it's not true, and now I'm babbling and we should probably be paying attention, Your Highness. We can talk about this later.

Unfortunately, the mortal had advised him to pay attention at precisely the worst moment possible. King Balor asked, "Pray, tell Us, Prince Nuada - have you asked for the Lady Dylan's hand?"

"I-" Nuada began, and could think of nothing to say. The panic that had so recently vacated the human at his side seemed to now have taken up residence inside him, choking back any excuses he might attempt to make. Wed Dylan? Wed anyone? The thought of marrying, when war loomed on the horizon like black smoke, felt like someone had punched him in the chest.

A wife was nothing but a weakness in war. A potential hostage. And if he got his hypothetical wife with child... another potential hostage. Another weakness. And to marry a human, when they were the ones who threatened everything he held dear? But if he said that, if he spoke of war here, now, his father would-

Dylan, warmth blooming in her chest, broke in at the last possible moment with, "We've discussed it, but... a lot would have to happen first. You see, Your Majesty, I am a Latter-Day Saint, a follower of the High King of the World. My God has commanded His followers to wed only those who follow Him in turn. And though I may love Prince Nuada with everything I am, I have loved and will always love my God more than any other, and strive always to obey His laws and edicts. His Highness and I have talked often of the Star Kindler and of faith, but he has not covenanted with the High King to follow Him. I know that my God would not wish the prince to be forced to become a Latter-Day Saint - in truth, such a thing would offend Him. But until His Highness chooses of his own free will to follow the High King, marriage to him is something I cannot consider agreeing to, even if all the kings of this world were to command it. I am loyal to my God first.

"But," and here Dylan turned to lay her palm against Nuada's chest, over his suddenly drumming heart. The court chatter went into overdrive. "Married or not, betrothed or not, my feelings for the prince remain unchanged."

Again the Elf prince had to admire the fine edge of courtly language the human managed to walk. Her lifetime of experiences in dealing with the Gentry was obvious now in the care with which she chose her words to Balor. Never lying, always speaking truthfully, but never giving away any information she desired to keep secret. Telling the king that whether he forced them into a betrothal or not, he could not make her fall in love with Nuada, while giving the illusion that even if they could never be together (disgusting thought, the two of them "together" in that way) she would always love him.

And she had made certain the One-Armed King understood that his son would have to follow the Star Kindler of his own volition, and that no commandment from King Balor would change Dylan's stance on the matter, or affect Nuada's stance toward the High King of the World.

But - and it was a very large "but" - the human was touching him. In front of witnesses. The reality of that fact washed away almost all of his admiration in an instant. Still, she was only playing to the crowd, and to his father. Just as he ought to be doing. Mindful of the fact that Dylan had laid her hand very slowly against his chest, giving him time to protest, Nuada fought the churning sensation in his belly and covered her hand with his own. Closing his eyes, he murmured in Gaelic, "A thaisce." He touched his forehead to hers, and added, "A ghrá geal, a stór, a mhuirnín."

Dylan's breathing hitched again as her eyes widened. My treasure. My bright love, my darling, my dearest. No one had ever said that about her before, not even John. But he's not talking about me, she reminded herself as she fought to regulate her breathing. He's probably thinking about... someone else. I'm mortal, and he hates mortals. Relax already.

But then, with a crooked smile that sent an odd thrill through Dylan's stomach, Nuada added, "Mo duinne." And Dylan couldn't fight her delighted grin. No one could have thought he meant anyone else in the court when he'd said, "My brown one." The Bethmoora Elves were about as brown as the full moon.

"Such love is truly a beautiful thing," a smooth, oily voice said, shattering the moment.

When Nuada's eyes flew open, Dylan had to fight not to step back. Red as dark as blood melted into the deep bronze of sheer rage in his gaze. It took her a minute to realize he wasn't looking at her, but over her head. She turned to see the box-headed faerie with the long, creepy fingers; the same one that had argued with her the night she came to save Nuada. Instinctively, Dylan backed up, stepping closer to the prince, and barely managed to hide her surprise when one arm came around her. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder and his chin came to rest atop her head. Dylan could feel his throat working convulsively against the back of her head, as if he were trying to refrain from throwing up, and she laid her hand on his in sympathy. His grip tightened fractionally.

Box-Head continued, "I would very much like to see a demonstration of such tender feelings. As would the entire court, I think." Murmurs of assent flitted amongst the crowd and Dylan fought against slapping her forehead with her palm.

"Chamberlain," Nuada said with an icy calm that made her shiver. "I see you have not changed, even in two thousand years. Yet you seem to forget your place. I am not your dancing bear. Play a tune if you wish, but I shall not be moved, and neither shall my lady."

Obviously you don't like him. What exactly does he want? Dylan asked.

He suspects this is a sham, and wants me to kiss you. The revulsion and fury burning in his voice was unmistakable. Dylan hid her wince. She would not have been the Box-Head for all the tea in China, if Nuada hated him as much as he seemed to. The prince's next words confirmed her suspicions. As for liking... loathing would be a more apt description as to my feelings for the Chamberlain.

Oh. Well, then. Dylan lifted Nuada's arm so that she could turn and face him. The crimson and molten bronze still held sway in his infuriated gaze. With a deliberately light laugh and a coquettish smile, Dylan said coaxingly, "Gean gáire, a ghrá." Smile, my love. And as she shifted her grip on his hand, without changing from the flirtatious expression she asked in his mind, My prince, do you trust me?

He blinked at her. Did he trust her? Did he, Nuada Silverlance, trust a human? Why would she ask that? The answer was obviously to the negative. And yet... this was Dylan who asked. Dylan, who had yet to betray him, and had done everything in her power to stand by him honorably. Eleven moons was a long time for her to lie in wait like a poisonous serpent intent on striking. Eleven moons of tentative bonds forging. Still, to trust a mortal... If I said yes, what would you say?

I would tell you to lean in as if you were going to kiss me. The look he gave her could have drawn blood from a stone, even though it lasted only a split-second before turning to that calm politeness he'd shown his father. Trust me, she insisted. I promise this will work, and it will give them what they want without making either of us more miserable than we need to be.

She hoped it would work, anyway. He hadn't balked at whispering in her ear. Hopefully this wouldn't be any worse for him. She didn't exactly want a man she wasn't in love with kissing her, either.

As the prince leaned forward, an expectant hush stole over the assembled courtiers. Nuada took both of her small hands in his large ones, and as he drew closer, tightened his grip on her fingers until they ached. At the very last minute, when she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips and see the anger and panic in his eyes, she turned her head so she could look straight at King Balor, and Nuada's mouth brushed a chaste kiss over her scarred cheek. Silvery blue eyes locked with the king's golden gaze, and Balor arched an eyebrow.

Oh, yeah, she thought. He knows I'm not okay with this. And he doesn't really care. Why is that? Nuada always said his father was noble and strong and fair-minded. A great king and a proud warrior. So why is he doing this to us? Well, we'll see how just long this lasts. He doesn't care that I don't like this, and I just hate having my feelings ignored. And, directed at Nuada, she added, You okay? You're not gonna throw up, are you, Your Highness?

I will be fine. I will have to bathe with horse soap after this, and rinse my mouth with some of Caspar's strongest sour beer, but I will be fine. Now act like one of those fluff-brained court females and blush.

I can't blush on command. And why would I- Dylan began, then swallowed hard, reflexively, when Nuada brought her hand to his mouth and let his lips linger against her knuckles. The heat of his mouth sent tingles up her arm. She didn't have to force herself to blush. Fire spread through her face all on its own. Nuada's amused and almost affectionate smile wasn't forced, either, if she judged right.

"Tá mo chroí istigh ionat," he said, and her heart went into overdrive. He couldn't say stuff like that to her after doing stuff like that to her! Not in Gaelic, anyway. People said French was the language of love, but obviously they hadn't heard Gaelic spoken by a pointy-eared Irish prince before. The lyrical language with its liquid-silver vowels and resonating consonants made even the cheesiest pick-up lines sound sexy (which, in her opinion, was lame. Also unfair). After all, if someone had said "my heart is within you" in English, she'd have laughed at them. Told them to check the latest trashy romance novel for better inspiration. Or maybe looked at them askance and then sidled quickly away, pondering the nature of stalkers.

But when Nuada said it in the Old Tongue, it made her knees weak. Again. And that was simply ridiculous, because she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he didn't mean it. The words probably referred to the fact that his life (and thus the continued beating of his heart) rested within her power. That would make way more sense than if she took the sentiment at first blush. Yet still, her pulse raced.

You're killing me, here, she grumbled, feeling idiotic. Stop that.

His only response: a smug smile that held far too much male satisfaction. He might not consider her attractive (come to think of it, she realized he probably thought she was ugly at best, and a hideous mutant she-monster from the ninth circle of Hell at worst), but apparently every guy enjoyed giving a woman jelly legs. Even an Elf prince.

I wonder how many of the court bimbos got jelly legs from watching that. Nuada only quirked a brow at her. Fighting the urge to grin like an idiot at the far-too innocent expression on the prince's face (or maybe scowl, she wasn't quite sure which), Dylan wondered, Think the Chamberlain's satisfied? Or is he such a total creep that we'll have to throw down on the floor and do the sweaty pretzel? She ignored the fact that the prince nearly choked and glanced once at the assembled courtiers and Lord Box-Head of the Creepy Fingers.

Some of the fae looked enchanted, some disgusted, some amused, and others with that condescending expression she'd seen on the faces of human adults looking at their love-snared teenage offspring; the "aww, isn't that cute" look. And one, a beautiful woman with waves of dark hair tumbling around her shoulders and beautiful blue eyes, actually looked approving. The faerie lord beside her, blond with mismatched eyes of blue and green, caught Dylan's gaze and gave her a sharp-edged, albeit admiring smile, then slid his arm around the beautiful woman. The human smiled back as a familiar feeling of peace unfurled in her chest. Here, at least, were a pair of allies. She'd have to ask Nuada about them later.

But Dylan saw that not one of the Daoine Maithe staring at her and Nuada looked disbelieving. At least, not that she could see. So they'd pulled it off. Hopefully the King thought they'd capitulated, and their ploy had bought some time to figure out a way to get out of this "courtship" thing.

Do not be too swift to assume us safe, Nuada said in her mind. The Samhain feast is tonight, and we must attend, which means we will be in the public eye for quite some time. And behold my father's face.

When she saw the ancient Elf king's expression - coolly amused, determined, and subtly challenging - she knew they weren't out of the political woods yet. Well, Dylan replied with a sigh. Crud.

.

Wink emptied the jack of weak ale in one swallow and motioned for one of the little bierasal barmaids to refill it for him. As the barely-four-foot-high tavern sprite took the leather jack toward the bar, the silver troll scratched his belly and inspected the nearly-regrown finger on his hand of flesh. As long as he kept up this laconic, drunken pretense of disinterest, the Kindly Folk around him continued to chatter on, oblivious to the fact that the crown prince's oldest companion listened intently to their gossip.

So far, none of those who frequented the tavern - aptly named the Drunken Dweorg - had mentioned anything about Nuada, Dylan, or the failed assassination attempt and coup at Findias three nights past, except for some to say that they'd seen an Elf of Bethmoora striding through the streets, a silver cave troll at his side, the same night as when Wink knew the battle had occurred. But other than to speculate that the Elf may have been the Exiled Prince (it was no secret he kept a rather large silver troll as valet), nobody said anything about Nuada. Which, the troll knew, was nothing but good news. The knowledge that Nuada had been flogged wouldn't have bothered the prince if it got out - many of the common fae believed Balor's rule had failed and thought the prince could do no wrong - but anyone hearing about the human healer's involvement in the fiasco would cause nothing but problems.

The bierasal returned with the now-full jack. Wink took a sip and winced as he realized that he'd grown spoiled drinking the Elf liquor that Nuada - on those incredibly rare nights when, after visiting with the human, he'd returned in a very good mood - sometimes brought out and shared with the troll. Wink knew this because the weak ale in his jack reminded him quite strongly of the stench of horse urine.

Ah, it does not matter, he thought, and downed the contents in one long swallow. Such weak alcohol lacked the necessary power to intoxicate him, even though this was his fourth serving. Drink is drink, though few establishments compare to Fafner's Cave, his and Nuada's favorite tavern. But I believe I shall take my leave of this place now. There's nothing here for me to learn. Besides, it stinks of Anwnn swine here. Not surprising, as Wink noticed a Dyfed-dweller sucking down blue Cornish ale from a tin cup.

As he stood to leave, tossing a few extra coppers on the table for the little bierasal who had made sure to keep his jack full, the tavern door swung open. For a moment, the shadows turned what stood in the doorway into a strange, monstrous shape. Then a cù sìth padded in on silent paws. The beast looked fairly young; it was approximately the size of a year-old calf. Many of the otherwordly faerie dogs grew to be the size of fully grown bulls come adulthood. This one might have been a puppy, as far as the troll could tell.

On the dog's back rode a short, lean figure in burgundy and black velvet. Once the figure that perched atop the cù sìth's broad back slid down, the green-furred hound shook itself once and trotted over to the communal fireplace, where it plopped down, placed its head on its massive paws, and closed its luminous red eyes with a tired sigh. No one seemed to care that the beast's hide still sparkled with raindrops, or that it stank of wet dog. Wink only wrinkled his nose at the stench.

The faerie hound's diminutive owner climbed onto an empty table and yelled, "Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance has returned to Bethmoora! The Royal Exile has returned to Findias at last!"

Wink sank slowly back down to his bench and eyed the huge, dark green dog for a moment, ignoring the shouting clurichaun. Was the beast from the Royal Kennels? Because although the animal did not look like the thoroughbred Sluagh hounds bred by the royal family, the troll was almost positive that he recognized the clurichaun standing on the table, jabbering a mile a minute. Wasn't he one of the kennel servants beneath Miyax, the kennel-mistress?

He motioned for the bierasal, and this time took one of the heavy mason jars full of honeyed mead from the tray she kept afloat above her head. Sipping carefully at the sweet alcohol, he listened to the freshly-arrived gossipmonger.

"Me own sister tol' me not an hour ago," the clurichaun was chattering to the entranced listeners. Several of the surrounding fae were offering to pay for the imbecile's drinks in exchange for more gossip. Ridiculous, Wink grumbled silently to himself as the drunk faerie added, "Works in the Royal Kennels, she does. The Silver Lance is returned, she says, an' betrothed to a blinkin' human, to boot!"

The troll choked on his mead.