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A Short Tale of Self-Doubt, the Best Gift, a Warning of Danger, and the Love Talkers
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"I trust all was satisfactory?" Nuada demanded coldly the moment his sister walked into the salle. He had only just begun the first taolu of one of his favorite early-morning fighting styles, Shí Hè Quán. He could feel his sister's eyes on him as he glided through the taolu, but other than his initial question, he did not acknowledge her scrutiny. The prince could pretend that the tightly-controlled moves of the Taiwanese martial art required all of his attention, though in truth the Elven warrior had mastered Morning Crane, as the style was called in English, some centuries ago. He did not wish to even think about last night if it could be avoided. What had he been thinking? Cuddling against her as if she were… as if the human were his truelove, and not merely a useful ally. The idea revolted him. How had he grown so... weak?
But she was so afraid, he remembered, then cursed silently. It did not matter if she had been terrified for her life. It was embarrassing that it had even happened, much less that his sister knew of it. If it had to happen again (as his honor unfortunately demanded), he would do a better job at keeping his distance, and keeping the knowledge of such meetings from Nuala. At least she did not know about the lullaby.
"Why did you not tell me you sang to her?"
He froze in mid-form, eyes wide. How had Nuala found out about that?
But of course, Dylan told her. The human will only use subterfuge if absolutely necessary, the prince recalled. He resumed training, though his movements were no longer as smoothe or controlled. Wonderful. The rare time when a sly, lying human might have actually been useful.
Aloud, all he said was, "I do not wish to speak of it."
He would never speak of it. To anyone. If Nuala spread it around... The amber-eyed warrior did not understand why the thought irritated him. Perhaps because the song was, in truth, rather silly. But he had only been between his ninth and tenth century when he wrote it! Again he wondered what in the name of Danu he had been thinking, going to the human that way?
"Was that what you came to speak to me about?" He demanded, voice rough with annoyance.
"I..." In truth, it had been, but she could tell from her brother's tone that he would say nothing more on that subject. "When I spoke with Dylan, she seemed melancholy. Would you perhaps know why?"
"Most likely because this is the day of worship for the Star Kindler's people, and she has no means of going to their place of prayer."
I go when you go. Words of loyalty from a mortal tongue. His honor pricked him as if with a needle, reminding him that Dylan's faith was important to her. Was, in fact, probably the thing that kept her going from day to day under hardship and the pain of her memories. And his honor reminded him that it was due to his being under what amounted to house arrest that she could not attend her worship. She could not even go to the Star Kindler's hall in Findias' township. She refused to leave the palace without the prince. And for good reason, curse it.
Snarling profanity in his mind, he added aloud, "I know of such a place, however. If she is truly that unhappy, I will escort her there when I am finished training."
And what a joy that will be, the prince thought sarcastically. After realizing just how intimate he had been with the mortal (a mortal! In his arms, her face pressed to his chest! Clinging to him like a gargantuan leech. The idea put an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach), the last thing he wanted to do was be alone with her again. Or be with her at all. What if some other flight of stupidity decided to make its presence known? He would make an imbecile of himself. Again.
But Nuada knew he owed Dylan much: his life, his freedom, and the clearing of his honor before Bethmoora. And if she wished to attend her spiritual meeting, then it was his duty to ensure it happened (even if he loathed the prospect of spending one more idiocy-fraught moment with the human; what if he embarrassed himself? Because that was exactly what he had inexplicably done last night. Only what if it happened in public? He suppressed a shudder).
Still, the prince would not tell his twin that the little chapel he knew of for the Star Kindler's followers was in the servants' part of Findias. Even some of the Shining Ones followed the High King of the World, especially among the lower classes. No, he would not tell his sister that Dylan would be attending church in the humble chapel near the stables. If Nuala's reaction to Dylan being in the servants' area last time was any indication, the princess would forbid such a thing.
Stunned, his sister stared at him. He could clearly sense her disbelief through their bond. The prince knew she wondered if he had suffered a blow to the head or some other injury, that he was behaving so uncharacteristically now toward the mortal.
But Nuada remembered a sad voice whispering in the dark, I consider you my only friend, even though you hate me.
He did not. He would not let her think that he did. If the Elf prince were being (albeit silently) honest with himself, hate was not the emotion that filled him whenever Dylan was brought to mind. After all, he always wanted to smile when he saw her (even now, after making an idiot of himself). That could not be hate. And his honor precluded him from deceiving her into believing (or allowing her to continue to believe) that he felt less than he did. Mild affection for a human such as her was no great evil. It was similar to the sentiment one felt for a well-loved horse, was it not? Or a fine, well-bred hunting dog. His pride would survive, he was sure. Better mild affection than the sickening love he was forced to pretend to.
"You truly care for her," Nuala whispered, breaking him from his thoughts. The words should have filled him with revulsion and loathing... but they did not. They were simply not true (mild affection was not "caring," as his sister put it). He knew Nuala meant that he loved Dylan. The very idea was laughable. Special - for a human - she might be; honorable she might be. But the woman was mortal. Love... no. Never.
Nuada continued the flowing moves and refused to glance at his twin, much less answer her ludicrous accusation. Then the sound of a boot tread touched his ears. He recognized the stiff, somewhat awkward gait of the mortal in question. It was only an hour after dawn; she had slept perhaps three hours total. What was she doing up after so little sleep? Had she suffered another nightmare?
A flush of anger washed over him. It was Eamonn's doing if she had. Traitor. Monster. Dead man walking, Nuada snarled silently, and the grim thought made his mouth curve in a vicious smile.
"Brother, answer me." Nuala eyed her brother as he continued to move so very gracefully through the taolu. Sudden fury from him made her stomach roll. The princess pressed a hand to her belly. Perhaps it was best she had not eaten recently, or she might have been ill from the sudden surge of violent emotion. Despite the rage, she pressed, "You care for Dylan, don't you?"
As the prince transitioned from Shí Hè Quán to the easier kata for Battōjutsu Iaido, drawing his sword from its sheath at his hip, he replied with only the slightest strain, "Would it surprise you to learn if I did?" Any roughness to his voice, the prince hoped Nuala would assume came from the strain of training.
And it was not, exactly, an answer. The Daione Maithe were very good at answering a question with another question. Even though he could admit to himself that Dylan was... tolerable as an ally and companion, he would never say such to Nuala. For one thing, it might encourage her and Balor to press Nuada further in regards to asking for the mortal's hand. And for another... he did not wish to deal with his sister's suspicions yet again. Admitting that he could feel anything but disgust and loathing for a human was simply asking for more heartache in that corner.
"Are you in love with her?" Nuala asked, and nearly swallowed her tongue at the burst of emotion that flashed through to her through their connection. Shock. Denial. Irritation at being questioned. Sharp hurt that his sister kept prodding him and demanding answers he was loath to give to questions he did not wish to consider. Incredulity at the very idea.
But, the princess noticed with startlement, there was absolutely no revulsion, no disgust. No sense that the idea of loving the mortal was in any way repulsive to him. There was only denial that he loved anyone he had not always loved. Denial that he felt anything other than distant affection for the human. But just yesterday, he swore he did not care for her in any way. What is going on with him?
"Your Highness, please don't torment the prince like that," a familiar voice said, laughing a little. Nuala turned to see Dylan leaning against the door frame. The mortal, in the bright daylight shining through the salle's high windows, looked positively resplendant in the fawn-colored shift and amber gown. Only the scars on her face stood out starkly in the strong sunlight. Against the beauty of the gown, hopefully no one would notice her face. But, the princess saw with some disparity, she had eschewed the slippers normally worn with such clothes and stood in pale brown leather boots. The golden laces sparkled in the light. The human continued, "Don't ask him that kind of thing. You'll make him sick. Iaido?" She added to Nuada. The prince paused in his sword-thrust and eyed her.
"Yes." He studied her face. There were faint traces of fatigue, but none of the frigid terror that had haunted him from the depths of her eyes last night. No nightmares, then. She had merely woken to the rising of the sun. The strange sense of relief made him speak sharply. "Why are you here, human? Do you intend to harass me about training too hard after being only barely recovered from Eamonn's poison?"
Oddly, she grinned. "Could've sworn I've done that before, and you didn't listen. But I can do it again if you want." Dylan saw the corner of the Elf warrior's dark mouth curve slightly. Good. If he could smile, Nuala wasn't being too mean to him, then. "Although actually, my prince, I came to rescue you."
"Again?" With a final sharp move, he shortened his sword back to a lance and sheathed it. "I would think you too weary after all that occurred last night. It was most taxing, was it not? I am yet weary from it."
Nuala choked. Dylan grinned and approached him, sliding her fingers around his hand to brush them against his palm. In his mind, he heard her say, You are so mean. Don't you torment Nuala, either. She's going to think we're doing something bad. I told her this morning you didn't do anything to make me uncomfortable.
Nuada, surprised he was capable of it, grinned at her.
Forgive me. I would never wish my sister to think ill of us. Clearly she overestimates your comfort levels. His sarcasm made her smile, and he found that her expression eased some of the sting of Nuala's anger from that morning. But I thank you for desiring to rescue me from the sharp side of her tongue. Aloud he added, "If you but give me half an hour to bathe and dress, Dylan, I will take you to church." His grin widened at her surprised look. In her head he murmured, Do you think me oblivious? I know that today, the day of the Sun, is the day of worship for those who call the Holy One of the Lost Tribes, "Lord." If we are to pull off this charade before my father and buy us time to find an escape, you will need as much help as can be had.
Why me and not you?
Because you are human, he replied. Did not add, Of course, but he knew that he did not have to, either. And the help you need includes any aid to be gotten from your divine Master. I plan on petitioning all the gods on your behalf.
Thanks a lot. So you're looking at it strictly from a mercenary point of view. Her delighted grin was infectious. Well, whatever works.
Serious now, she tightened her grip on his hand. The smile she gave him now had none of the amusement from before. There was only gratitude. The prince could feel that what he had just offered her was a thing that would have won her loyalty if she had not already bestowed it on him. He suddenly caught the sweet scent of lotus and camellia clinging to the human woman. Frowned at the odd feeling in his belly when he recognized the perfume.
But Dylan broke his concentration with, But thank you, Nuada. This means the world to me. I hate missing church. So thank you, so much. I won't forget this.
With a smile that Nuala marveled at, the Elf prince walked with Dylan out of the salle. I was right, the princess thought, watching the pair disappear. He truly cares for her. My brother cares for a human. But how deeply? I must speak to Father.
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Becan hung the last of the heavy velvet drapes, then sat down with a sigh. Fortunately his mistress kept a clean cottage, or going back and forth between Findias and the little house to clean would have been impossible. Now the brownie allowed himself to luxuriate in the sense of a job well done. Not only had he pulled all of the winter drapes out of storage, but he had cleaned them and put them up over Dylan's thin, linen summer curtains. The house would soon be ready for the frigid weather New York City boasted of in deep winter.
The old-fashioned telephone shrilled, but he ignored it. Answering phones and taking messages was for humans, not Wee Folk. After a moment to rest, he'd return to Findias to look after Lady Dylan as was his duty.
His mistress's answering machine clicked on. A man's gruff voice snapped out over the phone. "Dr. Myers, this is Sergeant Donovan. I'm calling regarding your patient, Lisa Ramirez. We need to speak with you as soon as possible, Doc. Please call me back at 555-9438 right away."
The machine beeped, ending the message. Becan glanced at the flickering light and felt a small flicker of apprehension. Lisa Ramirez. The brownie knew the girl – she came every other Saturday for special sessions with Dylan, unless something came up. Lisa was fourteen and possessed the Sight. Her older brother belonged to the gang known as the Rojos; members of that gang had attacked Lady Dylan this past December. Lisa always made sure to put some extra sugar in the porridge Becan's mistress left out for him. She always left him tiny packets of candied green chilis, Lucas salt, and the Mexican peanut coins stamped with embossed roses. Dylan always made faces about that (said the candies were too spicy/sour/sweet for her taste), but the brownie loved the exotic candy.
And now the police were interested in her. Very interested, by the tone of Sergeant Donovan's voice.
Shrill ringing snatched his thoughts from his head and he glanced at the phone for the second time. It rang again and again, then switched over to the answering machine once more.
"Dylan!" John's voice came through the speakers, strident and frantic. "I just saw channel four! There's a girl with a gun on the roof of the Hudson Mall! I think it's Lisa! You've got to get down there before she does something insane! Hello? Dylan, pick up your phone! Where are you? I can't believe you're not home yet! Forget the fey for five stinking minutes; you have responsibilities-" And the machine clicked off as it ran out of time.
Wide-eyed, Becan scooted off his perch and raced for the door. He had to tell his mistress, and he had to tell her now.
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"Ouch." Bres turned to calmly regard the diminutive maid that had seconds ago pulled his hair while running the silver brush through the shoulder-length blond locks. The little hob flinched and looked down, bobbing curtsies and mumbling stuttered apologies. "Shut up and finish," the Fomorian prince snarled in disgust. The hob flinched again and obeyed. He could feel the way she trembled. Better to let her think she had escaped punishment for now. Perhaps if she managed to get through a single task without mishap, he would actually forget about her punishment and send her on her way. But then again, he thought as another hair was plucked painfully, maybe I won't.
When the little creature was finally finished, she curtsied and began to scoot away. She froze, eyes wide, heart humming like a frightened mouse's, when Bres said, "Come here, Hob." The tiny fae approached warily. Nerves vibrated through her entire body. "Twice you pulled my hair."
"F-f-forgive m-me, m-m-my prince," she quavered. "I n-n-never m-meant-"
"Be quiet," Bres said. Then his gaze shifted to the door behind her; the door to freedom, and at least temporary safety. But she didn't dare try to leave without the prince's permission. A creak told the hob - whose name was Assa - that someone had just come into the room. The prince of the Fomori grinned. "Ah. Ciaran. Dierdre. So good of you to come."
Assa felt the blood drain from her face. Ciaran and Dierdre. Lord Bres' two favorites among the king's torturers. They were Prince Bres' gancanaugh. Dierdre was the prince's mistress, Ciaran his shield-brother and friend. What were they doing in this room? With the likes of her here? She was only a hob chambermaid! Surely she should have been dismissed already. Unless...
I cannae' let Ciaran touch me, she realized as the soft sound of bare feet padding on lush carpet reached her ears. Her heart smashed hard against her tiny ribs. If he touches me... I'll die. Mayhap no' t'day, but soon. The gancanaugh's poison will kill me. He cannae' touch me.
"Dierdre, my sweet. Ciaran, old friend. I have a request. My father has already approved it, but out of respect, I will ask and not command your acquiescence. I would like the two of you to come with me to Findias. I believe the envoy could make use of your considerable... charms and talents."
Dierdre tittered at the prince's words. Assa flinched. Gancanaugh only had one talent of use to Prince Bres: the ability to make Aengus' Sweat, that devilish brew also called the Tears of Branwen. That evil poison that transformed love into a double-edged knife, and lust into a killing sword.
"I will need both of you," the Fomorian prince added, "as we are dealing not only with Nuala, but with her brother and his new mortal toy. And Ciaran... I will need your help in wooing the princess, if I am to have any hope of using her to steal the Golden Crown of Bethmoora."
"I don't see why you don't just take the Golden Crown yourself, Bres," Dierdre said with a sigh. "You'll make me jealous, dallying with Nuala. Must you wed her to gain future control of the Golden Army? She's ugly. And pale as a dead fish. And the mighty Silverlance will run you through, old friendship or no, if he discovers you mean to woo his sister."
"And that is where his potential disgrace with the mortal comes into play. He will be in no position to do anything to me, sweet Dierdre, if you and Ciaran take care of Nuada and his little human pet on this first trip. Once he is disgraced - and hopefully exiled or imprisoned for the crimes you will make him commit - then nothing will stand between me and the Golden Crown save the frail health of a fading king. It is so easy for accidents to happen to the very old, isn't it?"
"A human?" Ciaran, a faceless shadow behind Assa, was grinning. She could tell by the sound of his voice, by the undercurrent of intrigue and unholy glee. Tears stung the little hob's eyes. "I do love mortals, old friend. Even more than I love the Wee Folk."
"And well I know it," Bres replied, and the smile that stretched across his coldly beautiful face turned Assa's insides to water. "I would like to see what you can do with the human, or the princess... or the human with the prince."
"We could lock them in a room together," Dierdre said thoughtfully. The hob shivered and hunched in on herself, trying in vain to disappear. Why was she here? Why was she in this room where three great faerie nobles spoke of death and torment? She just wanted to go and finish her chores, then return below stairs and hide for a very long time. "The Bethmoora prince and his human would be most amusing," the female gancanaugh added. "I could work my magic on the prince, and afterward turn him loose on the little mortal. Even Nuada's precious honor would shatter under the influence of Branwen's Tears. If they do not meet in lust, they will still meet in violence. In fact, knowing the prince, he will most likely purge himself of such abominable desire in bloodshed, I am almost certain."
"Will the human survive such an encounter with the prince?" Bres asked. He thought of Elven strength pitted against human, and a woman's weakness under a warrior's power. Could almost hear the symphony of snapping bone and flesh bruising under fists; the singing of Elven silver piercing a human heart.
Dierdre arched one slender, black brow and grinned at her lord. "Do you care?"
"Not especially," the prince replied, and grinned back. His teeth tapered down into wicked points. Ice blue eyes burned in anticipation. "In fact, it may be better for her if she did not. Because if Nuada does not kill her after you charm him, my lovely Dierdre, then that madman Eamonn most certainly will."
"Oh, dear," drawled the gancanaugh with sickly-sweet false sincerity. "That would be such a shame. But I agree, she would most likely rather die beneath Nuada's... spear," and Dierdre grinned, "then Eamonn's. I know I would."
"Careful, my darling. You'll make me envious." Bres smiled at Dierdre, who tilted her head coquetishly and batted her dark lashes. "But I care little for the human, save as a means to bring Nuada low. My focus for now is to woo the lovely princess, and to remind Silverlance that we were allies and comrades once. Brothers-in-arms. I want, and need, his trust before our plan can truly succeed. Of course, there's also the matter of the dream spells I asked you for this morning, Dierdre-sweeting. Are they finished?"
"Of course, Your Highness."
"Bres, the hob," Ciaran said suddenly, and Assa could not stop the whimper that crawled out of her mouth. "Why is it here?"
Assa looked beseechingly up at her prince. Tears welled up in her eyes and overflowed. The tiny heart slammed hard against her ribs as terror grabbed her like a terrier with a rat and shook her. For a moment the ice-eyed prince put a gentle hand on Assa's shoulder and smiled. Her heart lurched sideways in her chest. Was he going to send her away now? Let her leave so she could go back to doing her chores?
The king's son grinned, showing those wicked teeth again, and said softly, "Why, Ciaran, she is a present for you... if you and Dierdre agree to come with me."
The hob gasped and fell to her knees, grasping at the hem of Bres' trousers. "No, Highness!" She sobbed, voice rising in pitch with every word. "Please! Please, I'm sorry, dinnae' send me ta him! I beg ye, mercy! Please!"
But the prince only smiled. And Ciaran laid a hand - his bare hand, slick with Branwen's Tears - on Assa's arm. The poison seeped into her skin, and she began to scream and sob as the fire took root inside her. And Ciaran whispered, "I do so love the Wee Folk."
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