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A Short Tale of Spies, a King's Command, a Maiden's Heartache, and a Prince's Envoy
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Nuada slipped back into the salle, his lance clenched tightly in one fist. With a wave of his hand he lit the faerie lights that hung from the ceiling. Then he spun the shortened lance once, twice, and let himself flow into a lethal training dance.
Silver eyes slit like a cat's watched from the end of one of the entry-halls to the salle, studying the Elf prince as he flipped and spun, twisted and thrust with the lance. The eerie glow of faerie lights burned along the edges of the lance-blade like the light of rush-fires. Oh, but Bethmoora's crown prince was out of sorts this afternoon. Pale lips quirked into a cruel smile as Elven magic tasted Nuada's thoughts. So, he was worried about the human. Worried that the dark Elf known as Eamonn would find her and destroy her. That he, the mighty Silverlance, would not be enough to protect her. How very sweet.
If only you knew that Eamonn was not your biggest problem, Your Highness, the silver-eyed Elf thought, and grinned. A cat with a bowl of cream and canary blood would have worn such a grin. Nor is his master. Your greatest threat comes from within the walls of Findias. Father, sister... and others. My master, and his followers.
Did you think you could betray so many of your people with impunity? You would do well to fear them all - even, if Eamonn and the Fomorian prince have their way, yourself. Even you are not immune to all glamor and illusion. What will you do, Crown Prince, if the mortal dies at your own hand? If she dies beneath your fists and your blade, begging you to stop? Begging for her life? If her so-called innocent human blood stains your hands? Will it break your heart and drive you mad?
My master and his allies thinks so. And once the mortal who cannot be glamored is gone from Findias, there is nothing to stop you from wiping out the ravenous, devouring humans... or Prince Bres from wedding the princess, and seizing control of the Golden Army. Whichever comes first.
But the prince did not hear. Did not sense the eyes on him. He only threw himself behind every thrust of the silver spear, grunting with exertion, desperate to purge himself of the twisted fantasies Eamonn had placed inside his mind. Nuada did not see the cat-eyed Elf turn and glide silently away.
With a grunt of effort, Nuada somersaulted through the air, kicked off one wall of the salle, and landed in a crouch. The glow of avidly fascinated will-o-the-wisps and the umber light of the late afternoon sun edged the silver-tipped spear with fire as it sliced through the air. Sweat dampened long blond hair. His breath was slightly strained as the effort to push himself began to take a toll on his sore muscles. Even after three days, the poison had not completely faded from his blood. Eamonn had chosen his tools well.
The traitor ought to be horse-whipped, the prince growled to himself. His back twinged, protesting the strenuous twists and flips after a night spent sitting on a cold stone floor. He ignored it.
He had not returned to sleep once Nuala left his room. After an hour of restless tossing and turning, he had come to the salle to flog his body into exhaustion so that he might find some peace and thus return to sleep, only to be thwarted by his sister and the human. Now that he finally had that long-desired peace, he found himself too awake to take some rest. Very well; he would resume training.
Nuada swept into one of the swift, sharp taolu of Táng-Láng-Quán. The whip-like defensive moves made his shoulders ache. His breathing was harsh in his own ears. But the burn of fatigue helped push away thoughts of Dylan, thoughts of his sister, and thoughts of the situation his father had trapped him into. Memories of the night before.
If I am not careful, I will do something I shall regret, the prince thought. One hand lashed out in a swift strike that, had it connected with a human's carotid, would have been fatal. Already the strain of this farcical "courtship" has made me look like a fool. And what else could he look like, escorting the mortal to church with that sickeningly tender smile plastered on his face? Dylan had apologized profusely through the telepathic connection they had maintained. Insisted he did not need to keep hold of her arm. She could find the way to the chapel, she said. He did not have to embarrass himself by being seen with her more than was necessary for their charade. Always the human tried to be so considerate of him. Whereas he usually appreciated her consideration, now it only served to infuriate him.
The mortal is at fault in this as well, Nuada growled silently. If she were not so... so fey-like, so different from other humans, this would not be so hard. But always she succeeds in making me forget that there is iron in her blood. One wicked slice of the spear severed the arm of a wooden practice dummy. It hit the floor with a hollow clatter. Otherwise I would not have been so... so comfortable with her. Just the thought of how he had cradled Dylan to his chest made Nuada grit his teeth. The demands of his honor had forced him to the mortal's side last night, it was true, but he had not needed to pet and cosset her like some... some prized poodle.
A series of knife-sharp, lightning-strike kicks actually decapitated another set of practice dummies. His boots slapped against the floor as he leapt and twisted. Gritting his teeth, the bronze-eyed warrior shortened the spear until he could comfortably spin the half-spear, using it conjunction with his sword. With a low snarl, he turned and lunged at an imaginary opponent, battling against an Elf one minute, a troll another minute, and a fuath the next. And despite the ache in his muscles and the fatigue burning in him, he could not forget Dylan's grateful smile when he'd left her at the chapel door earlier that day.
What is the matter with me? The prince demanded, replacing the sword on the weapons' rack. He grabbed a pair of small war axes (one of the current banes of my existence, he thought with a brief flash of bitterness) and began to spin them, adjusting to their weight. What is the matter with me? He repeated. Why do I find myself smiling at her when I want nothing to do with her right now? If we were elsewhere, perhaps it would be different.
Different. As it all had been different when Dylan had sat perched on a velvet-covered stool in front of the fire in her little cottage, reading tales of mighty warriors and hidden princesses. Things had been simple enough then. A sharp longing for those brief weeks hit him hard. Nuada shoved it away.
Things are not different, he reminded himself, twisting and dodging away from an imaginary opponent. And with everyone watching our every move like vultures, she quickly becomes an irritant. Everyone sees how I am forced to act around her to continue this imbecilic charade. The court believes me to be besotted with her. With a human!
And he had not yet heard from his court supporters. Just this afternoon, returning from escorting Dylan, he had been publicly snubbed by Lord Galen and Lord Finbar, two Elves who had once been some of his most loyal and reliable agents at court during his exile. Both had pointedly turned on their heels and strode away when they saw him coming toward them. When the silence was finally broken, what would they - and others - have to say about the situation with the human? The prince knew that that had the potential to become very, very dangerous - for both himself and for Dylan.
And if she has another nightmare, I will be forced to go to her again. If I am seen by anyone, rumors will run rampant through the court. Well, Nuada added, grimacing at the burning in his arms from the heavy axes. At least Nuala will not slap me again. That is one thing I can thank Dylan for.
But I should not have to thank her for anything, at all, he suddenly remembered, and snarled. With a swift throw, the pain-bright axe blade imbedded itself in the wall. The mortal is turning into a problem. It must be dealt with before she drives me mad. I cannot stay here much longer, if I am to be forced to act like a love-besotted fool to anyone, much less a human woman.
"You are still a skilled fighter, my son," a calm voice like the creaking of ancient oak trees called from the doorway of the salle. "I am impressed."
Nuada froze. Did not dare breathe. For just a moment he let himself feel joy that his father had sought him out. And he had only been in Findias for four days. The last time he had ventured to break his self-imposed exile to see his family, to show them he was well, his father had refused to see him for the first couple of weeks. It had been two weeks of haunting Findias' training halls, seeing to what few responsibilities he could not give over to Wink or his other trusted servants, seeking Nuala's reluctant company and passing messages through her to King Balor that he wished to see the king before he had to leave again. Only on the last day had his father agreed to walk with him through the royal gardens. That visit still left a bitter taste in Nuada's mouth.
"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," the prince replied hesitantly. Memories of that final walk in the gardens tempered his happiness, diluted it with caution and sorrow. Still, feeling a bit reckless, he added, "I am glad to see you."
Balor smiled, but did not return the sentiment. Nuada looked away from his father's weathered features, desperate to see anything but the king's eyes. When had those eyes changed toward him? Before or after the first moons of his self-imposed exile? The amber-eyed warrior could not recall when he had first noticed that his father no longer watched him with the same pride and glowing love that had followed the prince through his childhood. Nothing was the same between them anymore. He does not want me here, Nuada reminded himself. My father does not want me.
Nuada suddenly wished for Dylan - Dylan, so fey-like despite her mortal blood; Dylan, who had begged him to stay with her. Then he cursed himself for a fool. He was the legendary Silverlance! He did not need a mortal, even an exceptional one, for any reason. But at least when the king's disapprobation hung like a death sentence over Nuada's head, the mortal's sharp humor had kept the hurt of it away. Her cool disregard for the One-Armed King's opinions had soothed him the night before at court. And there was never a question as to whether the human wanted the Elf prince around or not.
"You train with war axes? Are they not somewhat... obsolete?"
The reproof was subtle, but Nuada felt it like the bite of a whip. His father had always tried to discourage the intensity of Nuada's training once the prince realized a war with the humans was inevitable. But the prince would not rise to the bait.
"It was my lack of skill with war axes that led to my lady having to save my life the night we met," Nuada replied instead. He strode over to the axe imbedded in the wall, grasped the leather-wrapped ebony handle, and yanked. The faerie metal slid from the wall as if the wood were water. "As she tends to pester about my safety, I try to indulge her in making sure I do not sustain injury."
"Your sister tells me that you care for Lady Dylan."
Nuada clenched his jaw and did not speak for a long moment. Nuala had said that, had she? There were a thousand possible undertones to that simple statement. A thousand hidden messages. Was this his father's way of bringing up the night before? The Elf prince would not talk about that unless the king literally commanded him to speak. It was... private. More private than nearly anything in his life, except the plan to retrieve the Golden Crown. He was closer to that goal than anyone but Wink knew, and both secrets possessed the power to ruin everything if they were found out.
When he had control of his voice, Nuada replied, "The human is my ally. If I did not trust her at least a little, it would not be so. But ally is all she is."
"Be grateful for your allies, my son, for they grow few," the king said softly. "Your spies at court of course kept you appraised of the noblewomen vying for your hand." It was not a question, but Nuada inclined his head in agreement. Of course Balor knew about his agents at court. Of course he did. "It may interest you to know that nearly all of them have been called back to their estates by their parents - a development I am certain comes as a relief to you. Yet think on this, my son: those that stay are the most vicious of the fae women, and will stop at little in order to snare you, and those that have been called home have families whose support you once possessed in your campaign against the humans. You do not have their support any longer. You are losing this campaign, Nuada."
In a measured, deliberate tone, Nuada said, "I will not lose in this, Father. You seek to rob me of my followers; very well. Yet I have been alone for centuries, and have accomplished much in that time without the aid of those who grow sleek and fat on the toil of others. I need no one's aid to protect my people."
"You and the Lady Dylan will be betrothed, Crown Prince," Balor said, and his voice was cool now, almost icy. The words were a slap. Nuada refused to allow himself to flinch from them. "And then you will wed. You will wed the human, take her to your bed, and make her your wife in all ways. Do you understand?"
"I will not." Nuada met his father's eyes squarely, and refused to back down. "I will not dishonor myself that way, or her. After the lifetime of service she has given to our people, she deserves better at your hands than this, Father. She has earned some peace from hardship, from the tricks and ploys of Faerie. I will pretend at courtship if I must, as your machinations will no doubt come to fruition based on that shame alone. But never will I sully myself by joining with a human. And neither will I dishonor myself by forcing a woman to my bed against her will," the prince added, a sudden flare of rage searing him, "mortal or not, wed or not, by your order or not. You are my father and my king, and I owe you my fealty, this is true. You will always have my love and loyalty, Father. But I hold my mother's memory too dear to shame her that way."
Balor flinched at the mention of Queen Cethlenn. Her name and hers alone could still bring a broken look into otherwise clear, topaz eyes. But then anger clouded the king's face. "You behave as if you hold nothing dear but your own pride, Crown Prince."
"There are many things I treasure, Your Majesty," Nuada said just as coldly. He would not show his grief to his king. "The lives and livelihood of my people. My sister's happiness, if it is in my power to grant. My birthright as a prince of Bethmoora. My honor. The legends of you, Father, and your courage, your honor, your skill on the battlefield." Legends only, now. What had happened to his father? To the proud warrior who had rejoiced in calling Nuada his son? When had he disappeared from the prince's life? "And," the Elven warrior added, fighting the heat of rage flaring beneath his cheeks, "I value Dylan's regard." After all, hers and Wink's were the only ones guaranteed him. Even in his exile, he had always had Wink. Now he had Dylan's care as well. Mortal she might be, but value that regard he most certainly did. "So if you believe that I will betray her, my own honor, and the alliance between us, you are sorely mistaken."
They locked eyes, liquid bronze and dark topaz. Nuada did not let his gaze waver. Balor did not look away. After a long moment, where it became obvious to both that neither would back down, the One-Armed King of Elfland said, "You have heard Our command. Court her in earnest. Do what you must so that when you ask for her hand, she accepts. Then wed her and have done, or face Our displeasure. We will never allow you to reawaken the Golden Army, my son. If you believe otherwise, then you are the one who is mistaken." And the proud Elven king strode from the salle, leaving Nuada staring after him with pale topaz eyes.
"I pray I am not mistaken, Father," the prince murmured, turning away. "I pray not."
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The wind screamed, bringing tears to her eyes. Her cellphone, a mockingly bright pink studded with rhinestones, seemed to taunt her from where she'd laid it on the ground next to her foot. Icy November air dug its teeth into her bones through the thin denim of her jeans and her tatty windbreaker. The cold made the black bruise under her eye throb.
She wanted Dylan, because Dylan understood. Even though she was white, and old, and part of the system, Dylan somehow understood everything.
But Lisa knew she couldn't have Dylan. At least not yet. Dylan hadn't answered when she'd phoned the house. When she'd called Mr. Myers, Dylan's brother, to find out where the older woman was, he'd said, "She's out of town, visiting a friend." When she'd asked when Dylan would come back, he'd said he didn't know.
So she'd tried to hold on. Tried to keep from screaming or running into the street with tears scalding her eyes. Tried not to look at the picture in its pretty frame on her nightstand, covered by shards of broken glass and black-tinged mascara tears and a few drops of blood like heartbroken roses. She'd known that if Dylan called, told the fourteen-year-old to meet her somewhere, anywhere, then she could handle looking at that picture. But only then.
Now her hot tears practically steamed in the cold of a November afternoon. Frigid wind swirled rotting leaves and debris across the concrete roof of the mall where she huddled against a freezing cinderblock wall. And the gun was like icy death in her hand.
If you're going to kill yourself, make sure you get it right, Dylan had told her.
That was why she liked Doctor Dylan. She didn't BS around like most of the shrinks at Palo Verde. She'd been straight-up with Lisa about the fact that suicide was an option, but a really stupid one.
If you try to kill yourself, make sure of two things: that it doesn't hurt, and that it works the first time. You want to die because you're in pain. Why go out that way? And if you screw up the initial run, you'll never want to do it again. Because screwing up means capture, imprisonment, and the death of your soul. You're suffering now, but at least you're free from the people who don't care. If you try to die, and you fail, you won't even have that.
I could make it happen the first time, Lisa had said. I could shoot myself in the head. I'll be dead for sure then.
Dylan had given her a look that was pure kid, straight-up "C'mon. You sure about that?" And the then-twelve-year-old had realized that the older woman had never really grown up. Not in the way that would have made it impossible to trust her. It had been so surprising - and so surprisingly comforting - that Lisa had burst into tears. And Dylan had said, in a voice like a real mom's, You can never be sure it will work, no matter what. Not without a lot of pain. If you're running from pain, why run toward it? It's agony to feel this way, but at least it can be felt. Better to feel like your heart is being ripped out of your chest than to have no heart at all.
It's agony to feel this way, but at least it can be felt. For months and months, those words had made her hold on. Even after her brother's "friends" had attacked Dylan, cutting up her face and doing things that had made Lisa hate José for what his so-called "homies" had done. For ruining Dylan's beautiful face. For hurting a woman who had only tried to help her. And for Rafael. She had despised - I still despise, she reminded herself - her older brother for that. But in the end, it had all been too much. Even Dylan couldn't change that.
Lisa stared up at the boiling sky. Fitting, wasn't it, that the day she chose to end things reflected the grief inside her? Her heart throbbed like a wasp sting. Her eyes ached from crying. Doesn't matter, her parents had told her. He was a no-good thug. But that wasn't true. Dylan had known that.
Why don't they bring her? The fourteen-year-old wondered. She traced the ridges and lettering on the gun barrel, her fingers shaking. I just want to talk to her. Tell her it's not her fault. Make her understand. I can't go unless she understands. But the pain beat at her like her father's fists. Screamed like her mother's shrill, disonant voice in her mind. If the police didn't bring Dylan soon... could she last? Could she keep holding on until Dylan came?
"I want to go home," she whispered, shivering with the biting cold. "I just want to go home."
But home wasn't the little ghetto apartment building with its taped-up jagged windows and peeling door with the broken lock. It wasn't her father's hand cracking against the side of her face when he found the poem under her pillow, or her mother shrieking at her that she'd end up pregnant before she managed to graduate high school as long as she kept seeing "that punk."
Home was Dylan's little cottage on the edge of Central Park. Home was the brownie setting out ice-cold cherry lemonade or warm hot cocoa for both Lisa and Dylan (always remembering to put tiny, vanilla and caramel marshmallows in Lisa's cup). It was talking with her shrink about anything and everything that needed to be talked about while a fire blazed and they sipped warm, liquid chocolate. Borrowing books to smuggle home. Eating a real dinner instead of cold lettuce and mustard on cardboard posing as white bread. Having someone ask her about school, helping her with homework, listening to her when she asked for advice. And praying for her. Dylan always prayed for her. Sometimes the teenager had heard the woman whispering, soft and earnest, praying in the counseling room at Brooklyn Heights High School before Lisa had come in. Home was the sound of Avril Lavigne singing about waiting in the dark on a cold night and Superchic(k) singing about bravery while Dylan and Lisa just sat and watched the fire. That was home.
Home was Rafael, and the smell of Ivory soap and Old Spice. The sound of his laugh as he taught her to shoot a basket at the Park and she jumped up and down, squealing like a little kid, when she finally managed to sink the ball. His smile, flash of teeth so white against dusky skin and the laugh lines crinkling at the corners of those dark, Spanish eyes. A rose tucked inside her locker like a Christmas present come early. The music from his mix CDs crooning from his headphones about love and possibilities and what it would be like to have a real home. My love is like a red, red rose and you and me, we can ride on a star like lullabies.
It wasn't this cold roof under the rain, a gun in her hand and death on her mind. This was one stop short of Hell.
Dylan, I can't do this anymore, Lisa thought, letting her head fall back against the cinderblock wall. Exhaustion and grief made her shake. It wasn't this bad when my parents tried to stop us. It wasn't this bad when Rafael landed in the hospital. It wasn't this bad when José's friends attacked you. But Rafael is gone now. He's gone and I can't deal with this anymore. I just can't. I want to go home.
Lisa let her eyes slide over the burning-cold steel of the gun barrel. Thought about the men with their rifles trained on her in case she decided to begin emptying the clip into the crowd of people standing around the mall, or the mall security, or the TV reporters spilling her life for the cameras like arterial blood. Thought about the death waiting to rip away her pain. All she had to do was hold out until Dylan came and she could tell her. Explain that it had been the worst - and the best - part of her life, those biweekly sessions in the older woman's house. Because it had been hope and safety, but it had always ended with her going back to that stupid apartment in the Bronx. Lisa had to explain how only the shrink had had the guts and the heart to keep her around this long, and she loved the older woman for that.
"I'm sorry, Dylan," she whispered, curling her finger around the trigger. She made sure not to point it anywhere but the roof's rough floor for now. When the time came, when she lifted the gun and pointed it at the crowd, then it would be over. Lisa knew the cops would never let her hurt anyone. They'd bring her down with a sniper shot to the head, maybe the heart as well. And that was fitting, too.
Hurry, the girl thought as the cold burned in her bones. Please come. I can't handle this anymore. Please come so I can say goodbye. After all, Dylan was the only one left for Lisa to say goodbye to.
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The assembled phooka snorted and pawed the ground, tossing their heads impatiently. They wanted warm stables, fresh honey and milk with their oats, and to get these disgustingly heavy Fomorian lords off their backs. But Prince Bres did not command the faerie horses to move forward. So they stood in the cool evening air as the gloaming deepened around them. Their breath steamed in the gathering dark. They stamped their feet and shifted restlessly, but waited obediently for their master's order to advance.
"What do we wait for?" Gwrhyr demanded, stamping a hoof. Spatters of mud squelched up and splashed Bres' boots. The Fomorian prince glanced down at his mount, who added, "We want out of this miserable, icy damp, Highness. The phooka of Cíocal serve you willingly. Will you abuse us?"
"Silence, Gwrhyr. I am merely considering. Winter comes swiftly this far north, and the dusk creeps across the sky." The Fomorian prince glanced toward the horizon. The orange sun half-peered over the tops of the trees. "Should we send a runner ahead, to tell Balor of our presence? Or should we arrive on the edge of the darkness, and let that be our first surprise to the old Elf? What do you think, Ciaran?"
"My prince, that is an unfair question." The gancanaugh brought his own phooka to stand beside Gwrhyr. "You have told me and my sister that you have a task for us at Findias, one we anxiously await, and then ask if we should delay?"
"I care not about keeping the old fool on his toes! Let us press on, Bres," Dierdre called. "I dislike the cold, and I want to catch sight of the lily-white prince before I find my bed this night."
And, she thought with a smile like moonlight on a knife blade, I want to see Nuada's reaction when his "old friend" Crown Prince Bres brings a woman with him who looks even somewhat like Nuada's dead mother - it is not as if the Scarlet Fomori are very common. How will the court of Bethmoora react to seeing one of the scarlet ones again? It has been so many years. Dierdre checked her hair, just to make sure the cloaking glamor was still in place. Even Balor will be stunned by my appearance. He might even miss the fact that it's glamor at all. That will make things even more fun. No one will look for deception and danger from a prince who fought alongside Nuada Silverlance all those centuries ago.
A gust of wind sliced through her fur-lined cloak, and she called out, "Bres! Please! I'm freezing out here!"
Bres turned to study the members of his envoy. His pair of talented gancanaugh, who would shatter the bonds between the princess, the prince, and the human; his old nurse (and his father's favorite sorceress), Biróg - a mistress of poisons and illusions even some royals could not see through; Lí Ban the bodach, King Elatha's greatest assassin; and Arrachd, the nuckelavee. Perhaps if Bres was truly, truly lucky, Prince Nuada's little human would catch sight of Arrachd and die of a heart attack. Mortals were so fragile, after all. While Biróg, Lí Ban, and his gancanaugh could easily disguise themselves as nearly anything humanoid (including Fomori), Arrachd would never pass for anything but what he was. The Fomorian prince cast an appreciative eye over the finned centaur-like faerie. If the nuckelavee did not frighten the human, Bres did not know what would. And they wanted her scared.
Only on edge, and frightened of every shadow, would Bres' plan for the mortal woman work. Before he handed her over to Ciaran, the blue-eyed prince had to make sure that he shattered the united front he had heard the crown prince of Bethmoora presented with his mortal lady, leaving Nuada vulnerable to Dierdre's brilliant schemes.
Bres knew his lovely gancanaugh's devious mind (and her fondness for poisons both subtle and all-too deadly) would serve as the best tools against the Silver Lance, as Ciaran's charm and talent for potions would be most effective against the princess. As for the king... The prince smiled fondly when he thought of what his father had in mind for the old king of Bethmoora.
"Bres!" Ciaran shifted in the saddle, breaking his train of thought. "Come! Let's get out of this cold, before Dierdre starts to whine."
"I do not whine, Brother!"
"Very well," Bres replied. Lifting his arm, he motioned the envoy and their guards forward. "On to Findias!"
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