Chapter 71 - I Put a Spell on You

that is

A Short Tale of Turnabout, Service and Power, Royals, a Banquet, the Seed of Evil, a Waltz Under the Stars, Fire in the Heart, Memories, and a Realization

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Balor pulled Nuada aside just as he, Dylan, and their entourage of guards came into the king's formal dining hall, currently still empty but for the king's household. The king wore a plush velvet tunic, shirt, and trews in Bethmoora's colors, rich antique gold and red ranging from crimson to a deep burgundy. Something gleamed golden against his wide brown leather belt. Dylan barely got a glimpse of it as the king motioned Nuada away from her. His guards did not accompany him.

Sétanta, the hound chosen to stay with Dylan for the banquet, would have pressed against her legs, but Master had warned him before Master's lady had stepped out of the bathtub room that she would be in velvet, and not to get too close or she would get his fur on her. Instead, the night-black hound stretched out his neck to bump his nose against Dylan's fingers.

*Master's sire is angry,* the hound whispered, careful to keep his words so that only his person could hear him. *He smells like smoke and snakeskin.*

Dylan glanced down at the dog. Ice-blue eyes peered up at her. As softly as she could manage, hoping neither Tsu's'di nor the Butchers could hear, she whispered, "What do you mean, Sétanta?"

*I do not know exactly,* the dog said. *He smells angry, like woodsmoke and embers when they sleep beneath the ashes. It can go out, or it can flare up, and then it's dangerous and can cause a fire. And there is another smell under that. Snakeskin and old wood that is starting to rot. Loam beneath fallen logs. Dying forests. Ashes. I think...* He bumped her fingers with his cool nose again. She laid her hand atop his silky black head. *I think the king is sick.*

Her eyes jerked from Sétanta's face to the two royal Elves conversing in heated whispers some twenty feet away beneath one of the banquet hall's chandeliers. She narrowed her eyes and tried to study the king without prejudice getting in her way.

Did the king look a little pale, even for an Elf? Dylan had learned during her time in Nuada's sanctuary months ago that Bethmooran Elves, at least, turned gray instead of bleaching white when they became "pale." If things were truly bad, they would even get faint blue highlights to their skin.

Nuada had had that bluish tinge to his skin in the subway that night, thanks to the dipsa poison coursing through his veins. Did the king have it?

King Balor wasn't blue yet, but his skin did seem a bit grayer than it should have. Nuala's face had a healthy, sort of softly aurulent blush to it. Nuada's skin, in good light, had a very faint yellow cast. Balor's didn't.

Had he looked that gray when she'd been in Findias the first time? Dylan didn't think so. She frowned. Did the king look thinner than he had that night in October? Or was it simply the cut of his clothes?

A sharp movement from Nuada broke her concentration. The prince practically ripped the sheathed lance from his back. The king's guards' hands went at once to the hilts of their massive claymores. But Nuada merely flipped the blade in an elegant movement and presented the weapon to his father.

Balor yanked it out of his hand and gave it over to the chamberlain standing at his side. Lord Box-Head of the Creepy Fingers gave a flourishing bow before scuttling back and away through one of the archways decorated with pine boughs.

Nuada turned his back on his father and strode to Dylan's side. Moving slowly, giving him time to protest, the mortal took his hand and laced her fingers with his. What happened?

I am back under house-arrest, the prince snarled through the link. My father claims he has fulfilled his duty in granting A'du'la'di's boon and now it is high time I was punished for breaking the original terms of my previous house-arrest. For absconding with you to the orchards and forsaking my guards, for using A'du'la'di as a so-called pawn to get my privileges back, I am under house-arrest and forbidden the Silver Lance until Lithe, the summer solstice.

"What?" Dylan hissed, then gritted her teeth. Silently, she demanded, What?

You heard me.

You have got to be kidding me, the mortal grumbled. Oh, my gosh! I hate your dad. I... I really hate your dad. Is he just being a jerk on purpose or does he actually think you deserve this? Because if it's the former, I'm gonna kick his butt. And if it's the latter, he needs his head examined.

My father believes I deserve many things, the prince replied. None of them good.

Then Nuada's mental voice dwindled to vicious snarling curses. Dylan gently extricated her hand from his grip and instead hooked her index finger around his little finger. After several moments of mental silence, the tension seeped out of Nuada's body. His eyes faded from furious bronze to topaz.

"Let us take our seats, mo mhuire." Nuada's voice was toneless, empty. There was nothing to indicate how upset he'd been only moments before. But from the corner of her eye, Dylan glimpsed Nuala watching her twin with narrowed golden eyes from her place at the king's long hawthorn table.

Nuada must have felt his sister's gaze, because he suddenly stiffened. Dylan glanced at Nuala. Then, she took Nuada's arm and gave it a light tug. His eyes slid to her upturned face.

She whispered, "Sorry to interrupt what might be a riveting mental narrative from the princess, but my knee's bothering me a bit. I think it's going to snow soon. So would it be okay if we sit?"

The prince gave himself a mental shake. "Of course, milady. Forgive me. If you will allow me the honor of escorting you." He shifted her grip on his arm to that of a formal escort's stance. Dylan gave him a bright smile.

It was strange, sitting at the king's table after everything that had happened. Nuada pulled out her chair for her, and she sank into it with a smile. He took the seat between hers and Balor's. Nuala had already taken the seat on Dylan's other side. Because the envoys weren't going to come in for another ten minutes or so, the rest of the chairs arrayed up and down the king's table were empty.

Nuada touched Dylan's palm with the very tips of his fingers beneath the table to get her attention. May I ask you something?

Our bargain from last night would say so, she said with a smile. What's up?

I know that most mortal women find the idea of chivalry insulting in this so-called "modern" age. Puzzlement echoed down the link between them. I have heard it said that human women believe it is indicative of a man thinking them weak or deficient in some way. Yet you allow me such things. Why?

She blinked at him. Why not? I don't think it's insulting at all. It's just... polite. I mean, I've heard that before, that some people think it's rude to get a door for someone or something because it supposedly means a guy thinks I can't get the door myself because I'm too weak or too stupid or something, but I know that's not what it's about.

Well, most of the time. Some guys are just jerks and they really think that's why chivalry exists, because we poor weak females can't fend for ourselves. But that's not what it means. You know that, and I know that, so why get upset?

Nuada asked, And what do you think chivalry means?

Chivalry, as we are talking about it - getting the door or my chair or whatever - is... it's a physical outlet for an emotional bond. Men defend and protect. Or they should. Not that women are necessarily weaker. But we have different strengths. Different things we're good at. That just makes sense; we're physically wired differently. So men have one set of strengths and women have another - neither one is better or lesser; they're equal, but different.

And men... they're dominant, in that they have that alpha male thing going on. You do it all the time, actually. And that's fine. The little things you do, though, like getting my chair for me, those little things indicate that while you may be a strong, dominant male, you hold me as an equal. You are willing to... submit, I guess, to seeing to my comfort and my needs instead of focusing on your own, therefore acknowledging that I am just as important as you are, that what I want or need is just as important as what you want or need. It's a sort of willing servitude that men are allowed to have with women. Does that make sense?

Nuada's expression was a mixture of surprise and looking impressed. How is it you know this, and yet no other mortal seems to?

Actually, lots of mortals know it. One of my patients was actually talking to me about that a few months ago. She'd recently read what was basically a shorter version of what I just said in a book and wanted my opinion on the idea. And they teach about it in church.

His eyebrows rose. Really?

Yeah. It's one of the things I liked about what I learned while I was in the institution - that the genders are different, but equal. What I learned in med school and while getting my psychiatry degree certainly backed up the different part. It made sense to me, though, that just because someone is different doesn't mean they're necessarily weaker or anything. Women and men are equal; we just are sometimes better at different things because of how our brains are wired.

Yet women cannot hold the Star Kindler's priesthood. That does not seem quite as equal as you seem to think.

Dylan smiled. Nudged a bit of decorative greenery on the table with a fingertip. Well, it wouldn't be fair if women got both of Heavenly Father's greatest powers and men only got one. That's a bit sexist, wouldn't you say?

So men receive the priesthood and women receive what?

Women don't "receive" anything. We're born with our power - the power of creation. The power to carry life. The gift of motherhood. Even women who aren't physically capable of having children can adopt or be mothers to those who need one.

We have the gift of nurturing and caring for the next generation. Shaping them. There's an old saying about that. Something like, "The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the world." Or something. The bond between a mother and child is - usually - stronger than any other bond.

There are exceptions, of course, but the general rule stands. And then men get the priesthood. Just as important, but different. Dylan's smile widened. Although you ask almost any male missionary and they'll tell you they'd rather have what we've got than what they've got. Apparently it's more impressive in their eyes.

She shrugged at that. I'm content with my skill set. And, random fact, a man cannot attain the highest level of the priesthood without first getting married in the Star Kindler's temple. Whereas we can have babies whenever. Not that we should, but we can.

And a man can have the priesthood taken away from him if he becomes unworthy of it. That knowledge helps guys stick to their morals and not mess up too often. It's why the priesthood is often called "a restraining influence."

Who has the power to take such a thing away? Nuada asked. Dylan's brows shot up.

Um... God. Who else?

You truly believe the Star Kindler takes such an active role in your life? In the lives of any of His followers?

Dylan nodded. A good king cares about his people. He wants them to be healthy and happy, wants what is best for them. If Heavenly Father didn't want that for us, if He didn't care, what kind of God would He be?

Yet He would punish you for pursuing the happiness you claim He wishes you to have? He would punish you for marrying me?

Surprised at the sharp edge of bitterness to Nuada's voice, she shifted her hand so that she could rub her thumb across his knuckles. Hey. I thought we were okay. What's the matter? He said nothing. Only pressed her fingers in reassurance that he wasn't angry. At least not with her. Nuada? Come on. Talk to me. We've still got a couple minutes. What's wrong?

Later, the prince murmured. We can discuss it later. Forgive me for snapping at you. You did not deserve it. We are, as you say, "okay." It is nothing important.

She arched a brow in perfect imitation of him. What happened to our bargain?

Nuada bit back a sigh. Very well. It is simply that... I was thinking to myself how much I wished the night to be over, so that we could return to our rooms, to bed, so that I might simply hold you to me and forget the world for a time. Then I remembered that, because of your rules, I cannot.

I see.

Dylan was quiet for a long moment. Nuada wondered if he'd upset her. She did not feel upset, but then again, she was more skilled at shielding her stray thoughts and emotions than anyone he knew who'd never received training. He knew it was from her time in the institution, where she'd learned to keep her innermost self apart from anyone and everyone around her.

Then Dylan said, Well, the banquet's about to start, I think, so I'll make this quick. Your Highness, would you perhaps be willing, after all of this craziness tonight, to go for a walk with me somewhere we can find a secluded place to cuddle? It's not quite what you were hoping for, but I personally love snuggling you, especially when it's cold, and you can hold me standing up. Lots of holding. Sound good?

He smiled with a warmth that mellowed topaz eyes to honeyed gold. Bringing her hand to his mouth, he pressed a soft kiss to each of her knuckles. It does, he said through their link, and aloud, he murmured in a voice like a velvet caress, "Mo duinne."

A very soft, very feminine gagging sound issued from behind Dylan. She turned to see Nuala looking far too innocent, studying the vaulted ceiling decorated with winter greenery, crimson banners, and golden candlelight with prim concentration. Dylan felt Nuada's amusement - mingled with irritation and more than a little hurt - through their linked hands.

"Better have a care, my sister," Nuada cautioned his twin. "Father has informed me that soon I might have the opportunity to tease you just as mercilessly."

Dylan blinked. "Huh?" She fixed Nuala with her best "girl stare," as Francesca called them. "You have a boyfriend? Or a truelove? Whatever. You've got a guy? Really?" The princess nodded. A tiny smile played about her mouth. "That's great. Who is it?"

"Prince Bres," Nuala murmured. Her eyes lit up as she said the prince's name.

The mortal felt her stomach sink. "Oh. Um... that's... great." No, it wasn't. "He's nice to you and everything?"

Nuala smiled. Dylan wondered if she looked that lovesick whenever people asked her about Nuada. "Oh, he is wonderful. Such a thoughtful man. And so gentle. He takes such care to be gentle with me. He has never spoken sharply to me, or raised his voice to me even once." Those golden eyes flicked to Nuada, then away. "Bres is... he is simply wonderful. I like him very much."

"You like him," Dylan echoed. "You're not... in love with him?"

"If you mean am I as besotted with him as you are with my brother, then no, I am not," Nuala teased. "We have not been courting so long as you and Nuada. But I think I could fall in love with him," the princess added in a whisper, so that only Dylan and the prince could hear. "I really do."

"That's... great," Dylan said. "Really great. That you're... happy."

"Oh?" Nuada gave her a bland look. "I thought you did not like Prince Bres."

Dylan gave him her best innocent look. "I don't like or dislike him. I don't know him. He just scares me."

She shrugged, though the look she was giving him beneath her innocent look said clearly not to push her on the subject of the Fomorian prince right then.

"You scared me to death when I first met you. Then I learned the truth."

He cocked his head. "The truth?"

"That you're sort of like a cake."

"Excuse me?" Nuada asked while his twin fought back a surprised giggle.

"You're all white and kind of stiff on the outside, like really elaborate frosting, but all it does is hide the fact that you're really warm and sweet and squishy on the inside. Much like a cake."

Nuala snorted, then covered her mouth with her hand. The legendary Silverlance merely sighed. "Any other pastries you wish to compare me to, my lady?"

She shot him a mischievous look. "Sometimes when I talk about you to my friends, I call you my love muffin."

And so was that when the first of the envoys entered the king's formal dining hall, it was to the sound of the crown prince of Bethmoora laughing, looking quite happy with the scarred mortal woman seated at his side.

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To avoid slighting anyone, the chamberlain had arranged it so that each envoy was brought before the king's table in alphabetical order. That way it couldn't be said that Bethmoora offered favor to any country above another. Dylan tried to hide how absolutely fascinated she was by the proceedings.

Each envoy would bring forth whatever royalty or nobility existed among its ranks. Those royals or nobles would approach the king's table and either bow or curtsy while a Bethmooran herald introduced them. The king would welcome them, then those chosen to sit with the king would take their places while the rest of the envoy found other seats or - in the case of royal children - were sent to bed.

First came the lion-maned narasimha lord, Yatesh, from the east-Asian kingdom of Alaka, representing the padishah empress of that kingdom. Dylan had seen leonine fae before, but she'd never seen one so big. Lord Yatesh was easily taller than Nuada and twice as broad as Dylan. When he smiled, she saw the razored incisors common in jungle cats.

Next came Álfheim, the Viking-like Elven kingdom to the far north. First to be introduced was the midnight-haired, garnet-eyed Crown Prince Günther Wolfjarl Wielandson, heir to the Wolf Throne, and his dökkálfr wife, Princess Eir.

Prince Günther was a massive Elven man with the thick arms of a blacksmith. His dark red eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth. He wore no armor, only a finely-made russet leather tunic over a white shirt and leather trews with gray boots. His dark hair was silvered at the temples.

Princess Eir was tall and slim as sword. Unlike most of the women assembled to greet the king, she wore leather trousers and a tunic like her husband's over a white shirt embroidered with silver wolves. What surprised Dylan about the dark-haired Nordic princess were two things: that she bore a decorative, purely ornamental sword at her hip sheathed in silver-stamped white leather... and that she looked to be about five months pregnant.

With them were Prince Günther's three brothers: Prince Viðarr Wolfslayer, a stocky ljósálfr who did not smile; Prince Askel, another ljósálfr, who hadn't quite finished growing into his tall, somewhat lanky frame just yet; and Prince Siegfried, who looked to be about A'du'la'di's age and had the same midnight black hair and garnet eyes as his eldest brother.

Also with them were Prince Günther's three children. Princess Friðr and Prince Guðfriðr, ljósálfar twins, were perhaps a little older than their uncle Siegfried. Princess Sassa, the Princess Royale of Álfheim, looked to be in her fourteenth century and was the spitting image of her mother, Princess Eir.

The princes Siegfried and Guðfriðr and Princess Friðr were dismissed once the introductions were over. Günther and Eir took seats at the king's table. The other two adult álfar princes took seats with the nobles of their envoy among the Bethmooran court.

If Dylan hadn't known the next envoy was supposed to be fae, she never would have guessed. The royal family of Annwn had come to pay their respects and visit the royal family of Bethmoora. Finally, Dylan was allowed to see just what King Arawn Death-Lord of Annwn, Master of the Fell Crochan, and Nuada's friend, actually looked like.

He was surprisingly ordinary-looking. Hair of dusty blond was tied back in a short horsetail with a black silk ribbon. Oddly human-looking brown eyes alighted on each of the Bethmooran Elves at Balor's table - Balor, Nuala, Nuada - before settling on Dylan. Arawn smiled. It was a surprisingly warm smile that pulled an answering smile from Dylan before she even had to think about it.

With Arawn was a statuesque woman with gleaming chestnut hair falling in styled waves down her back; Arawn's wife, Queen Penarddun ap Beli Mawr, one of the most beautiful women Dylan had ever seen. And behind the Welsh faerie king and queen were their four children.

Princess Eilonwy, the only girl, had inherited her father's blond hair and her mother's green eyes. The three princes - Crown Prince Taran Daffyd; Arawn's second youngest son, Prince Mathonwy; and the young Prince Llŷr - all favored their father.

All three princes, and Princess Eilonwy, smiled at Nuada. Prince Llŷr, who looked to be maybe a little older than Prince Siegfried of Álfheim, actually waved  at the crown prince of Bethmoora until King Arawn laid a restraining hand on his youngest son's shoulder.

Dylan knew - and for the most part ignored - the envoy of Ciocal, though she kept a smile pasted on her face. She'd already met Bres and Ciaran. Been told about Birog and Li Ban, the old woman who'd been Prince Bres's nanny and the bodach who served as both best friend and sometimes-bodyguard. One of the envoy, Arrachd, was ill and could not attend the banquet, according to the Fomorian prince.

One person Dylan had seen but not met yet was the redhaired Lady Dierdre, Ciaran's sister, during Saturday's disastrous dance lesson. A strange unease shivered through the human, as well as a sharp stab of pain at her temples.

When Lady Dierdre sank into a graceful curtsy with a rustle of skirts, Dylan caught a glimpse of silvered emerald peeking from beneath long red-amber lashes. Nuada stiffened at her side.

Hey, the mortal murmured through the link of her hand in his beneath the table. You okay? What's the matter?

Nothing, Nuada replied. Only that... well... she looks a bit like my mother.

Dylan automatically flicked a surreptitious look at the king. To her surprise, a soft smile played about Balor's mouth and there was an odd, peaceful light in the old king's eyes when he inclined his head to Lady Dierdre macAengus of Caer Ibormeith.

Nuada's possible new stepmother? The idea was kind of disgusting, considering Balor's age. Was that the source of Dylan's unease?

The mortal focused on the Fomorian woman. From what she remembered Nuada telling her about Queen Cethlenn, she could see the resemblance.

Scarlet Fomori - those Fomorians born with red hair instead of blond or brown - were rare. To see one in Bethmoora, where one had not set foot since the death of Nuada's mother... she could understand why her prince would be so tense.

Are you going to be okay? Dylan asked. A pulse of distracted acquiescence met her inquiry. Okay.

But no, Nuada thought. No, he wasn't certain he would be all right. He had only seen Lady Dierdre twice - at their first meeting, and during Dylan's dance lesson. He had been so distracted that morning that he hadn't felt - or hadn't noticed if he had felt - that shiver of physical yearning that had touched him when he'd first met the Fomorian noblewoman.

It was worse now. There was something about the way the candlelight slid along her wrists and up her arms, playing in the hollows at her throat and shoulders. The way one garnet-dark lock of hair curled fetchingly against her pale throat. The dark green and black silk of her gown made her hunter green eyes shine. It left her shoulders enticingly bare, in the way of Fomorian clothes. A silver and emerald broach gleamed like crystallized dryad blood just beneath her breasts.

Nuada swallowed and fought to keep his face emotionless when Dierdre straightened from her curtsy and caught his eye. She smiled, a curl of coral-painted lips. A whisper of something hot and dark brushed the length of Nuada's spine. Her smile was almost sad. It seemed to say, Perhaps if things were different, you and I could have been something. Then she and Bres were given seats at the king's table, while the rest took their places elsewhere.

The only new person Dylan didn't recognize right away in the Dilong envoy was the three-year-old girl in pale jade silk with her hair swept up with jade and gold combs, dolled up in formal Chinese rice-powder and skinpaint. She bowed to the Bethmooran king and his family. It was Her Imperial Highness Princess Ming-Xian Ti-Lung, the Jade Orchid of Dilong.

Just before she was to be handed over to the Dilong guards to be taken to bed, she lisped in halting Gaelic, "Thank you, Printh Nuada, for not killing my brother. It would've made me thad. Tho thank you very much."

Without missing a beat, the prince inclined his head to the little princess. "You are quite welcome, Your Imperial Highness."

Eathesbury, the Elven counterpart to mortal Britain, had the largest envoy - the royal family, all thirteen of them, as well as three lords of the court. King Harold the Eleventh of Eathesbury had, it turned out, twelve daughters. The eldest, Princess Royale Azalea, was in her eighteenth century. The youngest, Princess Lily, was in her fourth.

The three lords in the envoy were the betrothed of the three eldest princesses. For Princess Azalea, there was Lord John Bradford. For the second-eldest princess, with the unfathomable name of Princess Bramble, there was Lord Edward Haftenravenscher, who was actually from Gevaudan. And for Princess Clover, there was Lord Jonathon Fairweller, who looked to be at least twice her age.

Despite that, Princess Clover was obviously madly in love with the older Elven lord. Dylan wondered if she looked at Nuada the way Clover looked at Lord Fairweller. She wondered if Nuada looked at her the way Lord Fairweller looked at Princess Clover.

Dylan found herself absolutely adoring the two youngest Eathesburian princesses, Kale and Lily.

Kale, who appeared to be about six years old, started to tip over during her curtsy before the king. Her father reached for her at the same time as a furry black shape slipped out from beneath the table and set itself where Princess Kale could grab on.

It was Sétanta. Kale steadied herself by hanging onto the hound's thick, black fur. After she finished her curtsy, she stroked Sétanta's head while the dog's tail wagged back and forth.

"Nice doggy," said Kale. Her brown eyes brimmed with puppy-love. "Pretty doggy. Thank you."

*You are welcome,* Sétanta said. *I like you a lot. You give good pets. Oh, oh! Right there.* Kale obediently scratched behind his left ear. Sétanta sighed in delirious doggy joy. *That is nice. Thank you very much.*

The hound stayed put while Princess Lily made her curtsy. She hung onto him, as well, and so did not stumble. When the youngest princess straightened, she stared up at Dylan for a minute. "You are very pretty," said Princess Lily. "I like your dress."

Whispers went up among the assembled fae. Dylan ignored them and smiled at the little Elven girl. "Thank you very much, Your Highness. I like your dress, too. It's very pretty."

Lily smoothed her chubby hands down the front of her pale blue crinoline dress with its white satin sash and smiled.

From the Irish Elven kingdom of Eirc came a few Elven nobles. The king, Rennan mac Dela, was not present, but sent his greetings to the Bethmooran royal family via his ambassadors.

From Elphame, which was broken up into many different courts ruled by many different monarchs, there were only a few.

One, of course, was King Roiben Darktithe, his consort Lady Kaye, her sister Kate, and the Ladies Val and Peri. Peri had brought her son, Bean, and Val had brought her trainee, the mortal teenager Mallory Grace. Bean and Kate waved at Dylan.

Also from Elphame came Queen Aislinn Sunfire of the Summer Court of California and King Niall Inkbane of the Dark Court of California, with their consorts Seth and Leslie. Dylan knew them, too, but tried to keep things formal under the watchful eye of the court.

Dylan finally got to see Henri, prince of Gevaudan, the French "mer-bear" who had replaced Nuada as Eilonwy's betrothed. He didn't look like a bear. He was tall and trim, and had his mother's silvery blond hair and sea-blue eyes. His sister, Crown Princess Estelle, had the same coloring.

Their father, King Ursus, did look like a bear. He was bigger even than Lord Yatesh of Alaka, and his brown hair and beard were thick and stylishly shaggy, like grizzly fur. Queen Melusine, a mermaid currently in fully humanoid form, was almost dainty beside him. The gossamer wings at her back and the glimmer of silvery scales along her brows and at her neck added to her delicate appearance.

The head of the Gevaudan guard, Lord Captain Roel, was sharp in a blood-red military coat with a ceremonial saber at his side. Despite his military-neat appearance, there was something about his yellow eyes and sharp features that made him seem almost... feral. Dangerous. Yet Dylan wasn't afraid of him.

There was the Iaran princess and her consort, who moved with the same liquid grace as a pair of jaguars, though they were clearly Elven - Itzpapalotl and Tezcatlipoca de Iara. Dusky-skinned, with shining black hair, their cat-green eyes were striking.

The king and queen of Menehune, the Elven kingdom in the Hawaiian Islands, were also there. Like Princess Eir, Queen Pele was pregnant. Unlike with Princess Eir, it was obvious that between Queen Pele and King Talu, Pele held the true ruling power.

The Mediterranean man and woman with the ten-year-old-looking boy were King Anterion, Queen Hedone, and Prince Endymion from the Grecian kingdom of Mytikas. Both Anterion and Hedone gave Dylan sharp, disapproving looks before taking their seats. A shaggy black minotaur escorted Prince Endymion back to his suite.

The crown princess of Nyame, to Dylan's surprise, bore more scars than any fae the human had ever seen. She was also missing her left eye. In its place was a mass of chocolate-brown scar tissue, shaped much like the white scars at the bends of Dylan's elbows. Around Princess Kamaria's neck was an obsidian pendant in the shape of an hourglass, as well as a double-looped necklace of copper beads, long black teeth, ivory fangs, and roughly cut pieces of lapis lazuli, sapphire, hawk's eye, aquamarine, and turquoise.

With the midnight-skinned African Elf princess were two men - the eldest prince of Nyame, Prince Farai, and Princess Kamaria's twin brother, the Prince Royale Kagiso.

Kamaria and Kagiso gave Dylan speculative glances. Farai shot the human a look of vicious loathing.

Seemingly in response, Nuada propped his elbow on the table and raised Dylan's hand, clasped firmly in his, then simply held it, a blatant declaration before the court and the visiting dignitaries.

Prince Farai narrowed his eyes at the Bethmooran prince. Nuada merely raised his eyebrows in subtle challenge.

Aside from the envoys from Elphame, only two other parties had mortals in their ranks.

One was Saami; Abigail was the spitting image of her mortal mother, Lady Cassandra, wife of the Great Nanook.

The other was Onibi. Among the black- and golden-haired, scarlet-eyed royal family of Onibi - the teenage-looking Crown Prince Emīru, his somewhat younger sister Princess Ririānu, and their little sister Shāuddo, who might have been in her seventh century - were two humans, a teenage boy and a young woman, who looked so much alike they might have been siblings. They were introduced as Lord Hiro Hiyorimi and his elder sister, Lady Sawawa.

With them was a redhaired girl with the feral golden eyes of a werewolf; a dark-haired vampire girl with an amused half-smile curving her blood-red lips; and a crimson-skinned, burgundy-eyed tengu maiden with glossy, violet-black feathers. These were the Ladies Liza Wildman, Reiri Kamura, and Koto Makimori. With Sawawa, they were Princess Ririānu's ladies-in-waiting.

Except they didn't act like ladies-in-waiting. In fact, they acted a lot like bodyguards. Unlike Lord Hiro, who supposedly was Ririānu and Shāuddo's bodyguard.

He actually reminded Dylan of herself - a mortal amidst the fae, only at such a high-ranking royal function because their place was at the side of the faerie royal they loved. She could see that loved reflected in the teenager's eyes whenever he looked at Ririānu.

When the Saami envoy approached, after introductions and obeisance had been made, Princess Abigail took a few steps toward the table and gave a sort of bounce on the balls of her feet. "Hi, Lady Dylan."

Dylan smiled. "Hello, Princess Abigail."

Abigail was about to step back to stand with her parents when a furry black snout shoved out from beneath the floor-length tablecloth again, followed by a furry black body. Sétanta slowly approached the Inuit princess, who held very still. When the hound's face was only a few inches away from hers, Abigail held out a hand for him to sniff.

"Hello. I'm Princess Abigail. I'm a munaqsri. Don't be scared; I'm nice."

*I am Sétanta,* said Sétanta. *I am a dog.* He licked Abigail's outstretched fingers. *And I am nice, too. You are delicious. You taste like snow and seals.*

"My father is the polar bear munaqsri. We eat seal a lot."

"Sétanta," Nuada said softly, but without anger. The young hound pup hunched his shoulders and slunk back beneath the table, murmuring *bye-bye* over his shoulder to the young princess.

"Princess Abigail," Mashkaupeu said in the same tone of voice. The princess mimicked the dog's hunched posture and went back to stand with her parents.

Dylan hazarded a surreptitious glance at Balor. The old king was smiling indulgently. The mortal wondered if Nuada's father had a soft spot for children. Or dogs. Or the offspring of mortals. Either way, chuckles went up from the assembled fae at the meeting between faerie hound and munaqsri princess.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed twin princes of the east-Asian kingdom of Orang sent ice washing cold and biting down Dylan's spine.

The crown prince, or czarvitch, of Zwezda was only about sixteen centuries old. He came with his two older sisters, the adult czarishkas, or princesses, Utrennyaya and Vechernyaya. All three had the moon-pale skin, black hair, and cat-slit silver eyes of the Children of the Stars.

Pharaoh Maahes and his queen from the Egyptian fae kingdom of Ubasti didn't have the chilling effect the Orang envoy had on her. The feline-like Queen Aket-ten, like Princess Eir and Queen Pele, was pregnant. Dylan tried to suppress a sharp throb of envy.

Nuada had been right - she immediately liked Prince Dastan and Princess Dinarzadi of Shahbaz. Dastan was the third child of the widowed Sultana of Shahbaz and the second prince. Dinarzadi was his older twin sister, and Dylan could tell from the bright smile on the faerie woman's face that she and Dinarzadi would get along splendidly.

And when Dastan grinned at Nuada as he straightened from his bow to the Bethmooran royal family, Dylan felt her prince relax. Nuada even smiled back. A real smile, one that reached his eyes and warmed them from topaz to gold.

There was one envoy that thrilled the human down to her very toes. A tall, skeletally thin man in a velvet tunic and trews of sepulchral black, his silk shirt also of black with a sheen of otherworldly green to it, approached the king's table.

Unlike every other envoy, there was no bowing or canting of the head. The faerie lord merely let his deathly black eyes drift over the royal family. Balor and Nuala and even Nuada had to fight against the urge to stiffen under that corpsely gaze. Dylan only smiled.

"Greetings to you and yours, King Balor One-Arm, sovereign lord of Bethmoora. Hail and well-met, Prince Nuada Silverlance and Princess Nuala." Then, in a voice that was no less regal for all it had taken on a soft sort of gentle fondness, the fae king added, "It is very good to see you, Dylan, my dear."

She grinned. "It's good to see you, too, Master Moundshroud."

Which of course sent the assemble fae into a frenzy of hissing whispers.

Dylan just kept smiling. Not only was Moundshroud there, but he'd brought the heir to the throne of his half of the kingdom he shared with Ligeia, Samhain of Weir - Joseph Pipkin, the once-mortal boy responsible for Dylan's relationship with the Keeper of the Halloween Tree in the first place.

Pipkin bowed to the Bethmooran royal family before offering Dylan a wink and a half-insolent, two-fingered salute. The human woman just laughed softly.

And then, thankfully, the banquet began. Which was great, because lunch felt as if it had been a million years in the past, and Dylan was positively starving.

.

The food was fantastic, made all the better because unlike the last formal banquet where Bres had sat beside Nuala, now Moundshroud sat beside the Bethmooran princess.

He'd told the king that if he managed to make it to the Midwinter festivities, he wanted a seat near Prince Nuada's mortal, without displacing any of the royal family. So while Nuala was obviously nervous about sitting next to the ancient fae king, Dylan was ecstatic to see her old friend.

The ease with which she talked to Moundshroud, even getting him to laugh every now and then in that bone-dry, rattling way of his, astonished pretty much everyone, including Nuada. He'd known Dylan was on good terms with the Samhain Keeper. He just hadn't realized how good those terms truly were.

During the fifth course, of lightly roasted squab, King Balor finally asked what most of the table had been wondering since Moundshroud's greeting of the human woman being courted by the mighty Silverlance. "My lord Moundshroud, if I may ask... how did you meet Lady Dylan?"

Moundshroud grinned, revealing his tombstone-like teeth. "I don't know if I ought to embarrass the poor girl. What do you think, my dear?" He asked Dylan, who flushed and sighed.

"I was pretty foolish back then, wasn't I? Although in my defense," she added when the old fae cackled, "I was only twenty-one."

The Keeper of the Samhain Tree waved this negligent detail aside. "Foolish and brave, dear girl. Foolish and brave. I had come to a mortal hospital to collect a child, as it happened. Young Pipkin."

Moundshroud sent a toothy smile down the table to where his apprentice and heir sat near the end with some of the younger royals. "He was only a boy at the time, thirteen years old or thereabouts. And I came in to wait for him to die, when a young woman who'd been reading to him suddenly looked over at me with wide eyes and told me I couldn't have him."

Nuala gasped. "Oh, Dylan, you didn't!" No one refused someone as powerful as Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud anything.

Dylan nodded. "I absolutely did. Pipkin was only a kid and it wasn't fair. Of course, life isn't fair, but it just... I don't know. I couldn't just let Moundshroud take him. I wasn't sure exactly what happened to kids who die and are taken by the Keeper. If they become undead or anything. I'd never heard much one way or the other about it. So I told him he could have me instead of Pipkin."

Nuada had been in the process of taking a sip of white wine. Now he froze, then slowly lowered his glass back to the table. He fixed topaz eyes on his truelove and asked in a voice devoid of any emotion, "You did what?"

"I told him he could have me instead of Pipkin."

Moundshroud cackled again, a dry rasping sort of coughing sound that rattled in his bony chest. "It would have killed her, too, if not for the fact that four others made the same deal with me that very night. Four human children and a human woman offered a piece of their lifeforce to save that boy. I was very impressed.

"I was more impressed with Lady Dylan, because unlike the four children, she hadn't known someone else was offering up the same thing. She'd been willing to accept death to save a child she didn't even know. I was quite impressed."

Dylan shrugged. "And we've been friends ever since."

The old fae laughed again. "Well, I liked you well enough. But it wasn't until you managed to get Pipkin to act his age and shape up like a proper prince of Faerie that I became more than simply fond of you."

Nuada raised an eyebrow. "However did you manage that?"

"Bribery," Dylan replied with a grin. "Pipkin's a sucker for apple pie." She took a drink from her glass of cider while Moundshroud chuckled. "And I'm good with kids."

"Yes," Balor interjected. "It seems Princess Abigail and Princess Lily have taken a liking to you."

"Like I said," the mortal replied, forcing lightness into her voice, "I'm good with children, Your Majesty." She didn't say anything else for a long while after that, but busied herself with eating.

Nuada seemed to notice her nervousness, because he fielded a lot of the questions and conversation from the other royals while she fought to regain her inner composure.

Balor talking to her made Dylan nervous. Balor talking to her when Nuada was around, after what he'd done to the prince just that evening, after what he'd threatened to do to the prince a few days prior, scared her silly.

.

Unlike the banquet that had "welcomed" Nuada back to Findias, this one actually had dancing. Not a lot, Nuala explained to Dylan in a whisper as the dessert dishes were being taken away, not like a ball. But some dancing.

Dylan didn't have to dance if she didn't feel up to it, the princess assured her. She was allowed to turn down anyone who asked her if she wasn't comfortable. Dylan could see the memory of her one and only dance lesson reflected in Nuala's amber eyes.

For the most part, Dylan merely watched with Nuada. He didn't seem inclined to dance, either. So the pair of them simply watched the assembled fae. Every so often, Dylan would sneak a look at the king.

Since Sétanta had mentioned it, she kept noticing little things about Balor that worried her. His pallor. The deepening lines in his face. The fact that when she'd first come to Findias back in October, he'd sat straight and tall on his throne, and now he slouched a bit.

Perhaps it was merely the late hour, but she wasn't sure. Sétanta had mentioned that the king smelled odd. What could be wrong with him?

She was about to say something to Nuada, when Ciaran approached the table, escorting Lady Dierdre. Nuada narrowed his eyes at the Fomorian lord, but whatever he might have said was interrupted by the redhaired Fomorian woman.

"Your Highness, do you not like to dance?"

Nuada gave a negligent shrug. "My lady is tired, and I would not dance with another before first dancing with her, no matter how fair my partner nor how tempting the offer." He caught Dylan's hand in his and squeezed her fingers. "I fear I would be unable to give any other partners my full attention, if I were longing for a dance from my lady."

A rustle of skirts heralded Polunochnaya coming to stand abreast of Dierdre. "Oh, Lady Dylan, won't you dance with Nuada so that the rest of us might have a turn?" Naya flashed the mortal a dazzling smile. "It will not do, you know, for the crown prince not to dance at least a few times. Won't you, Dylan?"

Dierdre offered a short little curtsy to Dylan. "Yes, please, Lady Dylan. Bres has told me so much about His Highness. I had such hopes of dancing with him."

"And I know that Princess Azalea of Eathesbury was hoping for a dance as well," said Naya. "So are Princess Eilonwy and Princess Kamaria. And Princess Dinarzadi and the czarishkas of Zwezda. Surely you will not break all of our poor hearts, Prince Nuada."

"But who will keep my lady company, if I do not?"

Ciaran opened his mouth, then shut it with an audible click of teeth when Nuada shot him a quelling look. At that moment, however, two fae princes approached the table. One was Prince Askel. The other was Prince Mathonwy of Annwn. Mathonwy nudged Askel in the ribs with an elbow. Askel nudged him back. The nudging only stopped when Pipkin pushed between them.

"Stand aside, boys," Moundshroud's heir said with a grin. "See how it's done." He bowed to Prince Nuada before offering a second, flourishing bow to Dylan and extending his hand to her. "My lady, if I might have the honor of the next dance?"

Dylan smiled and glanced at her prince. "Seems Ledi Polunochnaya is in luck. Someone's come along to keep me company."

Nuada smiled back and watched her go.

.

The human woman tried to focus on dancing the Morning Mist, a slow and simple side-stepping medieval dance, with Pipkin and tried not to think about her prince dancing with Naya.

Nuada had already said that there was nothing between them anymore. It wasn't a big deal. They were friends. Friends danced with each other. It was all in good fun. So she forced herself to enjoy dancing with the redhaired, freckled faerie prince whose life she had once saved and ignored Polunochnaya with Nuada.

Dancing with Prince Mathonwy was easier. This dance was a somewhat faster deal, called the Fiddler's Tangle - though why it was called that, Dylan didn't know. It was quick compared to Morning Mist, but not so quick it made her tired or made her knee hurt.

It required three pairs of people, so she partnered with Mathonwy while Prince Askel partnered with the golden-haired Princess Clover from Eathesbury and Pipkin took Princess Ririānu of Onibi as his own partner (which made Dylan the oldest person in the group, physically if not chronologically). It was slow and easy enough that Dylan could actually talk to Mathonwy a little.

Mathonwy, it turned out, had a lot to say about Nuada. According to the Welsh prince, Nuada Silverlance was the fourth greatest warrior in the entire world. Only Mathonwy's father and older brother, King Arawn and Prince Taran, and his sister Eilonwy's betrothed, Prince Henri, were as good as Nuada.

It was very clear to Dylan that the young prince idolized Nuada and seemed to consider him a sort of adopted brother. As close as Nuada was with Arawn, that didn't surprise her too much.

As it happened, Dylan danced more often than she'd expected to, though she did not dance with Nuada before she had to beg leave of her partner to sit down. She danced with Askel, who complimented her extravagantly on her beauty. The ljósálfr prince actually seemed sincere, too.

After sitting out a few times, she danced with Crown Prince Taran, Mathonwy's older brother, as well as Crown Prince Emīru of Onibi. Zhenjin and Mashkaupeu also insisted on dances after giving her more time to rest.

Lord Bradford and Lord Haftenravenscher of Eathesbury were very gentlemanly, as well. Dylan was surprised to find herself having fun.

But eventually she had to sit down for the night.

Prince Emīru sat with her, more than a little out of breath and looking pale. One of the ladies-in-waiting-who-were-probably-actually-bodyguards, the tengu girl, brought the prince a glass of water before settling in at the prince's back. Torch- and candlelight gleamed glossy midnight violet on her feathers, which complemented her bright red skin. Her burgundy eyes flicked to the mortal for a brief instant before returning to the crowd of dancing fae.

Dylan sought out Nuada among the crowd. She found him just as the next dance, an actual waltz, was beginning. A prickle of unease shivered down her spine as she watched her prince hold out a hand to Lady Dierdre.

The Fomorian smiled at the Bethmooran Elf.

.

Nuada knew he couldn't put it off any longer. He would have to dance with Lady Dierdre. Well enough. He was not a feckless youth, unable to keep a single spark of attraction from consuming him when a beautiful woman looked his way. And it would be rude to slight the Fomorian noblewoman. Especially over something so ridiculous.

So the crown prince took Dierdre in his arms. Allowed her to lay one of her slim hands on his shoulder while slipping the other into his own grasp. Nuada laid his hand against her back. The silk of her gown was cool against his suddenly hot skin.

The hand he held in his was soft as silk and cool. Ever so slightly damp, the way Nuala's hands sometimes were after she had applied lotion to keep them soft.

A frisson of awareness licked along Nuada's spine as Dierdre stepped close to him.

I have heard that you possess the gift of mind-touch, Your Highness.

The words were faint, without magic behind them. Almost as weak as a stray thought. Yet Nuada heard Dierdre's voice in his head as clear as daylight.

I find it difficult to dance and converse at the same time without sounding out of breath. Might you be persuaded to indulge me in speaking this way?

After an interminable silence, Nuada replied, It would be my pleasure to indulge you, Lady Dierdre.

A lift of lush, painted lips in a smile. I appreciate your consideration, Your Highness. I truly do. I thank you.

Her fingers curled around his. Her fingertips just brushed his skin. Sparks seemed to sizzle along his arm. He forced back a frown.

I am rarely blessed to dance with such a skilled partner. I thank you for that, as well.

A warrior is not truly a warrior unless he can dance, my lady, Nuada murmured. And dance with both skill and grace, with consideration for his partner.

And are you considerate of your partners, Your Highness?

Her long hair wisped against his hand at her back, silken strands like spun garnets. His fingers twitched when the cascade of her hair brushed against his skin again.

What was wrong with him? Why did this woman affect him so strongly? He barely knew her. Yet he felt an odd sense of protectiveness for Dierdre already. Protectiveness, and this strange awareness of her as a woman. A very beautiful woman.

I do my best, he replied absently.

Nuada called up Dylan's face in his mind. He would have turned to look for her, but to so pointedly ignore his partner would have been rude. While the prince cared little for what the simpering court ladies who sought to bed him might think if he insulted one of them, he did not want to insult Dierdre.

So he contented himself with picturing that scarred face, those fey-like eyes of utterly impossible blue, that quick smile. It helped him put some distance between himself and the physical attraction for the woman in his arms.

It was not that he was tempted. Beautiful Dierdre might have been, but his heart belonged wholly to another. It was not temptation that troubled him.

It was Dylan. Her possible reaction if she learned he found the Fomorian noblewoman attractive. After confessing her fears regarding Lorelei and Naya, it would have been churlish of him not to take care with her uncertainties.

Your Highness, may I ask... how did you come to know the Lady Dylan?

Startled from his thoughts, Nuada murmured, She saved my life. I saved hers. More than a dozen brushes with death later, I asked her to be my lady.

Dierdre smiled, a dreamy sort of smile that parted her full lips a very little bit, as if that were the most romantic sentiment she'd ever heard. Her darkly verdant eyes were also dreamy. Dylan's eyes sometimes looked almost exactly the same way in the sweet seconds just after Nuada had kissed her.

Forgive me for prying, Your Highness, but why are the two of you not betrothed? You seem so in love. Has His Royal Majesty forbidden it?

In the back of his mind, Nuada knew Dierdre shouldn't have been asking such questions. Not because it was insulting. Merely because he should have told her to mind her own business with her first question regarding how he'd met Dylan. His lack of protest would only encourage her.

Yet something - perhaps the phantom of his mother's memory, so intricately entwined with the Fomorian noblewoman's appearance - beckoned to the Elf prince. Whispered to him that having someone apart from all of the politics and power plays with whom he could talk would be no bad thing. And it was common enough knowledge, anyway, was it not?

My lady is a follower of the High King of the World, and that royal God has commanded that His followers wed only those who also follow Him. Though I acknowledge the existence of the divine, I follow no God or gods who would abandon the Daoine Maithe to the cruelty of the sons of Adam. So marriage is a-longed for dream, and nothing more.

After a space of silence, Dierdre murmured, Any lady who would deny your suit is a fool, my prince.

The words "my prince" were a velvet caress along Nuada's spine, though from the absolutely artless look on the scarlet Fomori's face, the prince knew it had not been deliberate.

I mean no disrespect, and forgive me if I offend you, but a man like you... Bres has told me much of you. How you are honorable. Courageous. Kind. A fearsome warrior, a proud and great leader of Elves and other fae. And you must know there is gossip aplenty concerning your prowess as a lover.

Yet your lady turns all of that aside in the name of her faith? One might almost wonder if she truly appreciates the value of what she has. I would never turn away such a man, if I were fortunate enough to truly win his love.

Nuada paused to study Dierdre's upturned face. The candlelight twined with her rich, dark hair to turn it into an alluring tangle. Her eyes were still dark, still dreamy... yet there was a soft light in them that sent just a lick of heat warming Nuada's blood. Dierdre's tongue touched her bottom lip, a nervous gesture that drew Nuada's eyes to her mouth.

I... my lady, the prince said, trying and failing to ignore the way her lightly painted lips glistened enticingly in the golden light of candles and chandeliers. You may be under a misapprehension. I am wholly devoted to Lady Dylan. I have vowed to remain at her side until Fate itself, and nothing else, drags me from her.

Forgive me, Your Highness, I mean no disrespect to either you or your lady with my words, but that hardly seems fair to you. Those who follow the Star Kindler forebear from intimacy until marriage. So not only are you denied a wife, but you are denied even a lover? And she denies you children by her, when your duty as crown prince-

I know my duty, Lady macAengus, Prince Nuada Silverlance said coldly. Nuada instantly regretted his tone when Dierdre's eyes widened and began to glisten with a sheen of what might have been tears. She bit her lip, looking away.

Forgive me, my lady. You speak of wounds that shall never heal, but only fester and plague me for many long years to come. I did not mean to speak so sharply. I am grieved to have upset you.

I did not mean for my words to bring you pain, Your Highness. It is just... as I said, it does not seem fair.

Many things in life are not fair, my lady. I have learned to live with it.

The song over, Nuada stepped back and brought Dierdre's hand to his mouth. Her skin was like satin beneath his lips. He caught the faintest whiff of some sweet fragrance clinging to her skin. It teased him, tantalized him. Sent a shiver of lust down his spine.

I thank you for the dance. And now he needed to get away from her.

I thank you for your consideration, Your Highness.

Dierdre watched him going back to his human whore and couldn't find it in herself to be angry. A touch of Branwen's Tears - just the very lightest touch, mind, to stoke his lust - and a couple of the compulsion spells, woven by Birog and fueled by King Elatha and Prince Bres's magic, would do what she wanted them to do this night. It would just take a few hours for the spells to take root, to ripen.

And the spell Eamonn had insisted she include in the assault... that, too, needed only time to ripen before it lashed out at Silverlance's whore.

When those spells finally quickened and came to life... Dierdre wasn't quite sure what was going to happen. Would the prince attack the little slut? Or just seduce her? Dierdre hoped it was the former.

Nuada made his way back to Dylan's side. His palm tingled pleasantly where Dierdre's hand had pressed against it. The prince surreptitiously wiped his hand on his tunic. He could still smell the Elven woman's perfume. Still feel the softness of the back of her hand against his mouth.

To erase the sensation, he took Dylan's hand in his and sent a wordless pulse of adoration through their linked hands.

"Have fun?" Dylan asked, smiling. There was an odd catch in her voice. Or was that his imagination?

The prince inclined his head. "I had a difficult time keeping my thoughts on my partners," he confessed. "As I warned I would. It was difficult not to attempt to find you in the crowd and attempt to cut in. I do wish a dance with you, mo mhuire."

She smiled. "After the banquet, when we go for our walk. We can find someplace you can try to teach me to waltz, where no one will see me mess up."

The thought of waltzing with her, of having her pressed as close as Dierdre had been pressed, of her hand in his and his other hand caressing the velvet-shrouded plains of her back, feeling the warmth of her so very near... the thought fired his blood, erasing the last memories of what Dierdre had made him feel during the dance.

"It would be my absolute and sincere pleasure, mo mhuire."

.

They slipped away a little after midnight. Nuada arranged it somehow with his retinue of royal babysitters, and Dylan's guards, to make it so that the prince and his lady could at least escape the banquet without being noticed by anyone other than King Balor, who gave his son a cold look before nodding to him, and Nuala, who was busy being swept off her feet by Crown Prince Bres.

Nuada and Dylan met up with their guards a little ways down the corridor from the formal banquet hall. Tsu's'di had been sent to Dylan's suite at Nuada's order to get something. The cougar boy returned with the prince's gray winter cloak of thick, soft wool and another cloak of rich russet red lined with golden fur.

"I thought perhaps you would prefer this to your leather coat if we happened to venture out into the cold," the prince murmured. "And Themba suggested we have some outdoor things made to go with your gowns. If you do not like it," he added hastily, "I can have Tsu's'di fetch your coat or...."

He trailed off when Dylan only stared at the thick crimson velvet and tawny fur. As if mesmerized, she took it from the cougar youth. Touched the lining of the cloak to her cheek.

"It's so soft," she whispered. Rubbed it against her cheek, closing her eyes to savor the feel of it. "Oh, it's so soft." Delighted eyes fixed on Nuada's face. "You have got to stop buying me stuff. I don't deserve... oh, it's wonderful." She laid her cheek against the luxurious fur again and sighed. "Thank you. It's wonderful and beautiful and I love it, thank you."

It was warm enough that when Dylan stepped out into the winter night on Nuada's arm, she hardly felt the cold at all. Snowflakes whispered down around them, catching in her hair and on the scarlet velvet, on Nuada's cloak. Probably in his hair, too, but the blond was nearly white in the light of the moon, so she couldn't tell.

At first she didn't know where he was leading her. Then, when they came upon a rowan wood door in an ivy-covered stone wall, she smiled. "You'd bring me back here?"

Nuada canted his head. "I would."

In his mother's garden of eternal summer roses, there was no snow. Only a little bit of spritzing rain. Barely a drizzle.

Dylan shrugged off the fur-lined cloak and laid it carefully across the stone and wood bench beneath the Fomorian rose tree. Nuada's cloak took its place beside hers.

The Elf prince held out his hand.

"Anois, mo mhuire, mbeidh tú ag onóir dom le damhsa?"

Now, my lady, will you honor me with a dance?

Feeling suddenly oddly shy, Dylan smiled. "Bheadh sé mo onóir, mo phrionsa."

It would be my honor, my prince.

His hand was soft and warm at her back, coming to rest just under her left shoulder. His other hand enfolded her right hand in a firm but gentle grip. Dylan let her other hand rest against Nuada's shoulder. A few wisps of star-blond hair tickled her fingers.

He drew her close, until she could almost feel his heartbeat through his shirt. They had left their guards beyond the ensorcelled walls, so they were wonderfully alone under the moon gazing down on them.

Nuada's eyes traveled over her face before sliding closed. He drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "You are so beautiful, Dylan," he whispered. "Why are you so very beautiful?"

Heat flooded her cheeks. She ducked her head. "I think you're just a teensy bit biased. Most people would go with pretty."

He leaned in just a little and whispered, "Well, then, allow me to be biased, as you call it. It is no fault of mine that 'most people' are blind to your exquisite beauty.

"Especially tonight," he added. Even in the moonlight, she could see Nuada's eyes were ivory kissed with gold. "With the moon caressing your skin, and the stars reflected in your eyes like jewels. You steal my very breath away. Now," in a voice like a whisper of velvet, "dance with me, my love."

She'd never danced the waltz in her life, unless one counted the disastrous five minutes with Ciaran. Yet as she moved with Nuada to silent music, the steps came easily to her.

Nuada's soft mental voice reminded her which foot to step with. He led with only the most careful of touches, and she followed him with ease. Dylan found herself smiling in wonderment as Nuada gently spun her out and brought her back in again.

As they danced, alone in the garden, they found themselves drifting closer, as if drawn by some inexorable force. In the end, Nuada found his cheek just touching Dylan's temple. His breath ruffled a few stray wisps of hair that had managed to escape her crown of braids. Her breath shushed against his neck.

"That was very well done, mo réalta tráthnóna," Nuada whispered. My evening star. "Very well done, indeed."

Her contented sigh was warm against his throat. "I thought tonight would be scary and horrible, but it wasn't. It's been wonderful. I keep using that word, but I can't think of another one. It's just... it's all been so... magical. The dancing was great. I had so much fun.

"This is the best part of it all, though. It's like a faerie tale, dancing here with you under the moon and the stars. I feel so... I feel beautiful. I feel like a princess."

"You are a princess, Dylan," he murmured against the soft wealth of her hair. "You are my princess. Inis dom cad atá I do chroí." Tell me what is in your heart.

"You," she said. "Just you." Then she paused. "Well... and that phenomenal lemon custard they had at dinner. That stuff is freaking amazing. I kinda want to have some for breakfast tomorrow."

Nuada's lips twitched. "You want lemon custard for breakfast."

"Or maybe applie pie," she replied, giving it some thought. "I haven't had apple pie in a while."

"That is not breakfast, my lady."

Dylan gave him a scandalized look. "Oh, my gosh. Don't tell me you're one of those people. I will have to disown you, my dearest prince, if that's true. You can't possibly balk at having pie or custard after having snickerdoodles and slushees for breakfast at the Troll Market. That just doesn't make sense."

He chuckled. "You are such a child sometimes."

"Yeah. But that's why you love me, though," she said sweetly.

Nuada smiled. "It is one reason."

He tilted her chin up so that the moonlight shone on her scarred face. The pad of his thumb brushed along the fullness of her lower lip, stroking back and forth. Her breathing suddenly went very shallow.

"There are others, however."

Voice somewhat breathy, she asked, "Am I supposed to guess?"

"If you like." He was slowly, ever so slowly closing the distance between them. A shiver ghosted down Dylan's spine. Her hands slid up over the smooth, cool silk of his tunic to rest against his chest.

Nuada's fingers traipsed up and down her spine, inciting another delicious shiver. The velvet of her gown was soft beneath his fingertips. Almost as soft as her mouth under his caressing thumb.

"My charming personality," Dylan whispered. She was more than a little breathless now, and her eyes were wide and lit by the moon overhead.

Dark lips quirked at the corners. "That is one."

"My penchant for stumbling into life and death situations and giving you gray hair."

A laugh caught in his throat. He swallowed it down. "Indeed."

"The fact that I can make you feel awkward."

His brow quirked. "I am an Elf, darling. I am never awkward."

"Yeah, I've heard that before. Do you love me because I let you absolutely slaughter me at chess?"

"You let me slaughter you at chess? Sweetheart, I do not know how to break this to you gently, but you did not let me do anything last night." With a wicked curve of his mouth and a glint in his eye, he added, "To my eternal sorrow."

She laughed.

The Elven warrior added, "I defeated you in battle using my own skills."

"That kinda sounds like a challenge."

Now he was having difficulty keeping his face straight. "If you like."

"Fine, then. Bring it, Elf boy. I will kick your butt. And you will love every second."

"I do not doubt it." His mouth was mere scant inches from hers. "Any other reasons why I seem to find myself utterly bewitched?"

Dylan grinned. "I'm just too beautiful to resist."

Triumph flashed in the prince's eyes. "Ha. Caught you, mo duinne. Never again will I allow you to profess to being anything other than beautiful. You have at last admitted it yourself."

"Okay, fine. I concede defeat on that score. Though it's not my fault you're so amazing. How is one poor, romantically inexperienced mortal supposed to resist such a dashing and courageous Elven prince?"

A mere breath away from her lips, Nuada murmured, "You forgot deliriously attractive."

"Fine. A dashing, courageous, honorable, and deliriously attractive Elven prince with the most adorable ears I've ever seen."

He shot her a mock-scowl and pulled back abruptly. "I was going to kiss you, but I've changed my mind."

Instead of laughing it off or joking with him, Dylan slid one arm around his neck. She laid her palm against his chest, as if holding his heartbeat in her hand. Her touch nearly scorched him through the silk of his shirt. Those impossible eyes locked with a feral ivory gaze.

"You changed your mind," Dylan echoed, as if testing the words.

Nuada suddenly found his tongue immobilized. He could only nod. She pressed a little closer. Heat bloomed in the pit of his belly.

"You don't want to kiss me? You're sure about that? Because if I'm just wasting your time, Your Highness, I can go-"

Strong hands settling at her hips cut her off. Nuada's breath had gone oddly shallow. Pinning her with his eyes, the fae warrior said in what might have been a growl, "You are playing with fire, my lady."

Hunger had taken root in him as she'd pressed close - so enticingly close, yet far enough away to make him need her closer. An almost predatory instinct had stirred in the back of his mind when she'd teased about leaving. Something dark and hungry had whispered in his veins, mingling with his heated blood.

Now he held her in place and watched the emotions shifting behind her eyes. Excitement, adoration, fond amusement, a little nervousness. But no fear. Not even with that growl beneath his words, or the sudden possessive strength in every line of his body.

Dylan laid her palm against the side of his face. Brushed her thumb ever so lightly along the royal scar carved into his cheek. Nuada drew a sharp breath, as if he'd been pierced. One hand was draped against the back of his neck beneath his hair. Her palm was warm against his neck. Her fingers fluttered against the pulse beating hard at the base of his throat.

He tried to speak. Found he couldn't. She was playing with fire, though, stoking the embers of desire smoldering inside him.

"Playing with fire?"

An odd, niggling sensation at the back of her mind tried to distract her. She ignored it, drowning in the way Nuada was looking at her.

"Don't worry - I won't get burned," Dylan murmured.

Butterfly-soft pressure against his neck urged him to lean down a little. She licked her lips, that nervous gesture that nearly drove him mad. He bit back a groan.

"How can you be certain?" Longing roughened his voice. He cupped her cheek.

"Because I trust you," she whispered against his lips, each word a caress against his warm mouth. Then there was only the press of dark lips like velvet against her own.

Nuada groaned against Dylan's mouth as she made a soft, kitten sound that shivered over him like a touch. Once again he noticed the odd difference in them, the exquisite softness of her body so pliant against the hardness of his. Gods, she was so soft against him, he could scarcely bear it.

Her hands slid down from behind his neck to press against the heat of his chest. The prince could taste the sweet tang of vanilla and lemon on her lips from the banquet earlier that night.

Sometimes, as now, the prince wondered how Dylan failed to see exactly what she did to him. How she fired his blood and left him so aware of her. Of being so very close to her.

She understood that he loved her. Wanted her. But did the woman in his arms truly understand how she left him trembling, aching, needing?

And holding her against him, kissing her, was the only cure for it.

When Nuada began to murmur soft, sweet things in Gaelic against her mouth between kisses, his fingers tracing the delicate edge of collarbone and ghosting over the hollows at her throat, Dylan felt her heart melting. The yearning in his voice stroked down her spine like a touch. The tenderness in his words made something warm fizz pleasantly in her stomach.

Weakness flooded Dylan's knees and her stomach somersaulted. No matter how many times Nuada kissed her, no matter how often he let down his defenses and whispered sweet nothings to her while he held her close, it still hit her as if it was the very first time.

"Tabhair ná cuir cosc, Nuada," Dylan pleaded.

Please don't stop. Her voice as soft as silk, as sweet as temptation.

It stirred something in him. Something that had been pulsing just beneath the skin, simmering in his veins ever since his waltz with Dierdre. Something that had been fueling the hunger burning within him now. That something flooded through him. Set him aflame.

Nuada's fingers clenched in the velvet of her gown until his hands trembled. He caught Dylan's lush bottom lip between his teeth, nipping just hard enough to make her gasp. A flick of his tongue against her lip soothed the soft buzz of hurt. Left liquid fire in its wake.

She shivered in his arms. Gasped when he nipped her again.

A strange tingling warmth whispered along Dylan's spine. It felt vaguely familiar. A ghost of memory that tugged at her thoughts.

Nuada's hands sliding over her ribs, stopping a few inches shy of her breasts, drove the half-formed recollection from her mind. His hands burned through the material of her gown.

She felt almost dizzy as that strange tingling warmth spread through her body. It seemed to start in her hands and around her throat, where Nuada's hands had been earlier. Was this magic? Or just the hot, shuddery feelings he could coax out of her with enough skill and patience?

She should... she should have been doing something just now. Telling him something. But she couldn't remember what it was.

Her head felt cobwebby. Her body felt languid and sleepy. Everything seemed distant, surreal. Only Nuada's touch, his mouth on hers, the nearness of him, seemed real. He was so solid against her. So warm.

There was something about this, Nuada thought as he trailed little kisses along the thickly slashing scar gracing Dylan's cheek. Something... different. He was supposed to do something. Or not do something. He could scarcely think beyond the blood pounding through his body and the heat searing him.

All there was, was Dylan's skin under his lips. The fragrance of lilies and roses teasing him. Her hair caressing him like silk. She was supposed to tell him something, though. Wasn't she? Supposed to stop him from... from what? But no, she'd said don't stop. So why did this feel strange? Why did it feel off?

His mouth was scorching hot at her throat. Dylan gasped, arching against Nuada as he brushed slow kisses along the smooth expanse of her throat. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His breath was hot against her neck.

They weren't supposed to... weren't supposed to... why couldn't she remember? Why couldn't she think?

There was nothing except his mouth moving over her skin as he came back to kiss her lips once more. He slid one hand up to cradle the back of her head as she melted against him.

Gently, so gently, he parted petal-soft lips and for the first time allowed himself to kiss her truly, allowed himself to drink deeply of that sweet, sweet mouth. She moaned into the kiss as he eagerly explored her mouth, as he finally tasted her for true. And by the Fates, she tasted so sweet. Intoxicating.

He hardly knew what he was doing when one hand tugged at the laces at the back of Dylan's gown. He could barely focus past the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her. Gods, the taste of her. He'd yearned for it for so long. Yearned for her, and now... now....

Now what? What was he doing? Hadn't she asked him not to do this?

The questions faded away beneath the strange haze of hot desire burning in his belly. Something nudged his thoughts back to the way she clung to him. Back to what he'd been doing with his free hand. What had he been doing?

His fingertips whispered across Dylan's back just above where the velvet gave way to soft, cream-pale flesh. She shivered. Whimpered. Pressed closer to him. Ah, that's what he'd been doing.

Something dark as midnight slid down Dylan's spine. She shivered again. That dark, primordial something mingled with the golden heat flooding her body, twisting it, changing it into something with sharp edges and jagged teeth. Behind her closed eyelids she caught glimpses of black hair, blond hair, golden eyes, silver eyes with slitted pupils, the dark eyes of the wolves.

She tensed. Nuada's mouth coaxed her into loose, languid need once more. The images faded. The spike of fear began to dissolve.

Only as the knot at the back of her dress came undone and the laces began to come loose, as she felt the velvet slide across her shoulders, leaving them bare to the summer-warm garden air, did reality finally penetrate the bizarre fog wrapped around Dylan's brain.

That black shadow in her mind slammed into her, dredging up Morphean echoes and hell phantoms of the past. Fear, screaming panic with razor sharp talons to rend and tear, slashed her. For a split second the mouth on hers was cruel, the kiss violating, suffocating. The hands on her body pinching and squeezing until black bruises were left behind. She cried out as the fear pulsed through her.

Then it was just Nuada. Nuada kissing her, touching her. But the fear refused to vanish.

"No! No!" She tried to jerk back. For an instant, his arms were inescapable. She couldn't break away.

She was trapped, and he would... he would force her to the ground, rough hands would rip at velvet and silk, leaving her naked, vulnerable, and then he would bear down on her like a nightmare of blood and hell and his hand over her mouth would keep her from being able to scream as he forced himself on her, into her....

The fear transformed into pulse-pounding, mind-numbing terror. She smelled the metallic reek of blood. The night pressed in with icy fingers and needle-sharp teeth.

"Stop!" Dylan ripped out of his arms and stumbled back, clutching at her half-laced dress to keep it from coming loose and slipping off her shoulders. Her back hit one of the walls covered in rose vines and ivy. She didn't even notice the thorns piercing the vulnerable skin at her back.

"Don't touch me! Don't, don't touch me!" She sank to the ground, shivering violently. "Don't touch me, don't touch me. No," she whimpered. Fought not to shake apart. "Don't touch me. Leave me alone. No. No, please, don't."

Wrenched back to reality, Nuada blinked hard and fought to clear his mind of the haze of desire and need. "I... I am sorry." He shook his head as if to clear it. Struggled to focus. Shame curdled in his stomach. "Dylan, I am sorry. I do not know what I was thinking, I-"

She made a soft, keening sound and covered her face with her hands. Ice flooded Nuada's veins, shoving back the strange fog in his mind. He recognized that pose. She'd done it all the time in the sanctuary when the memories grew too strong for her to handle.

Bile burned in the back of the fae prince's throat. He had done this. He hadn't been able to keep himself in control for five gods-cursed minutes and he had resurrected those vicious memories of her past.

"Dylan," he said. His voice was gentle. He approached slowly, his heart sinking with every frantic whisper out of her mouth. The shadows were dark and deep around her. "I am sorry, mo duinne. I am so sorry."

He touched her wrists and she jumped. Whimpered.

"It is all right. It's me; it is Nuada. I will not hurt you. You are safe, my love. I'm so sorry." He carefully grasped her wrists. Pulled her hands away from her face. "It is Nuada, Dylan. Come back, now, sweetheart. Take a deep breath. Just breathe, beloved. You are safe."

"Please," she whispered in a voice as hollow and brittle as blown glass. He could feel her slipping away down some tenebrous path into memory and felt his blood turn cold. "Please don't hurt me. Please, I didn't do anything. Please, please, don't hurt me, please." She hunched away from him when he moved a little closer. "Don't put me in the dark, please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't hurt me. They'll get me, the monsters, Patrick, Xander, please, please, don't."

"It is all right, Dylan," he said. He didn't dare touch her much more than he already had, so long as that strange cobwebby haze was still fuzzing his thoughts. It meant something, stars curse it; he just could not think what.

So he took her hands in his. They were ice cold. Her fingers trembled. She wrenched out of his grip with a small cry of utter terror.

"Dylan. Mo duinne. It is Nuada; do you know me? Dylan!"

"No," she whispered. Her entire body shook. Her voice was the heartbroken pleading of a tormented child. "No, no, no. Don't put me in the dark. Please no, please no. Don't put me in the dark. Don't hurt me, please. I'm scared. Mommy, I'm scared. The monsters are coming, Mommy. Help me. John, where are you? John, John, don't leave me, please, help me. I don't want to be alone in the dark. Don't let the monsters get me, please, they're coming, don't let them-"

"I won't," the Elven warrior said. Every word from her mouth had been like a stone striking him. Every word from his own mouth felt as if it left his tongue bleeding. The night smelled of blood and ragged terror. "I won't, sweetheart. You are safe with me, I swear it. I will keep you safe.

"Come back, now. Please, mo duinne. You are safe. Look at me. Look. Do you remember?" He shifted to look into glassy blue eyes that saw nothing. "Do you remember who I am? Do you know me? It is Nuada, beloved. I am sorry, but it is all right, you are safe now. Please, mo duinne."

Tears slid down her cheeks. She didn't move, didn't respond except to whisper, "No," over and over again.

Desperate, unsure, Nuada took one trembling hand in his. Closing his eyes, he sent a wordless wash of everything he felt - grief at her pain, shame over what he'd done, despair, fear for her, and over it all, the golden warmth of how she made him feel, of what she meant to him. A soundless plea that he could only pray would shatter the flashback that had sucked her in and refused to let her go.

She drew a shuddering breath. Swallowed. Blinked. Let the breath out in a slow exhalation. "Nuada," she breathed. The emptiness began to fade from her eyes. She blinked again. Frowned. Met his eyes. Confusion filled her face. "Nuada?"

He had to swallow the guilt like shards of glass before he could speak. "Yes. It's me, Dylan. I am sorry. Gods, I am so sorry. I did not mean for this to happen. Are you all right? Do you remember where we are?"

She swiped at her face. Stared at her damp fingertips. "Your mother's garden. What's the matter? What... my dress. Why is my dress...." He saw the memories slip into place behind her eyes. What little color she'd possessed drained from her face. She stared at him. The betrayal and accusation in her gaze was almost worse than the helpless terror from moments before. "Wh-what... why did you... what?"

"Forgive me, I'm sorry, I do not know what I was thinking-"

"I know exactly what you were thinking," Dylan replied in a tremulous voice, staring at him as if he were a stranger. She ripped her hand out of his grasp. Panic razored through her as she thought of everything that had just happened. "Nuada, you promised."

He opened his mouth, unsure what he meant to say, and she quavered, "You promised."

A fresh tear slipped down her cheek.

"Oh, don't," the prince said. "Do not do that, Dylan, please. I am sorry."

Dylan huddled against the wall, as far away from him as she could get. Guilt and confusion and panic warred in the pit of her stomach until she thought she might be sick. Even now, everything seemed fogged and hazy. It was difficult to focus.

Every part of her yearned to be back in Nuada's arms, to let him finish what he'd begun with steamy kisses and caressing hands, but just the thought made her eyes burn with tears. Fear turned her guts to ice. What had she been thinking? What had he been thinking? What was wrong with them?

The breath shuddered out of her almost in a sob. It wasn't just the rawness in the wake of a brutal flashback, although that was most of it. It wasn't the guilt at breaking the Law of Chastity again, after promising she wouldn't, although that was part of it, too.

It was that Nuada had promised her. She'd told him that if he put his mind to it, he'd have her in a heartbeat, and he'd promised never to try and seduce her. Yet now... now...

She could still feel his hands on her body. Still feel his mouth on her skin. She wanted it, with the same abnormal intensity that came after the jumbled nightmares of rape and shadows. Wanted it so much it was starting to hurt.

Starting to hurt... that dragged at her awareness. It meant something, the pain. And the stuffy, cobwebby feeling in her head. What did they mean?

Nuada shifted, startling her. She flinched. Her jerked back.

"Sweetheart," Nuada murmured, his voice as gentle as a lullaby. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I did not mean to frighten you. Forgive me. I am so sorry. It will never happen again, I promise you. It was a mistake."

"You tried to take my dress off," she whispered. Fear, the edges still ragged and sharp, made her lash out. "What were you going to do after that? Throw me down on the grass and have your way like I was some whore?"

Nuada averted his eyes. Swallowed audibly. "I deserve that. I know I do. I... I never meant... I can only beg your forgiveness."

Dylan stared at him. The shadowed eyes of dingy gray-gold. The thin line of his mouth. The torment in his eyes. Her anger trickled away, leaving guilt and fading panic in its place. "I... it's my fault. I shouldn't have been so... I sent you mixed signals. Maybe I deserved it." Her voice took on just an edge of hollow memories. "Good girls don't kiss boys like that. Good girls don't let boys kiss them. It was my fault, I shouldn't have-"

"No," Nuada said. "No, Dylan. You are right - I broke my word to you. I was not thinking clearly. I beg you to forgive me, my lady. I never meant to take things so far. I should have taken more care with your memories, especially considering your recent nightmares."

She shivered, wrapping one arm around herself. "It felt like I was swimming through fog. Everything's burning."

A trembling fist scrubbed at her eyes. The makeup smudged, giving her eyes a bruised look.

"Burning fog. I couldn't think. Everything was cobwebby. I should've stopped you but I couldn't remember why. I wanted it but it was wrong and it felt like my nightmares and I got scared and I couldn't get away, you wouldn't let me go, and then you... and then I... I...."

She started to cry, silent tears streaming like trails of diamond down her cheeks. "It was just like in my nightmare."

Nuada frowned. Cobwebby. Just as his thoughts still were, though the sensation was fading the more he concentrated on it. And the burning. Lust, vicious and hot and unrelenting, so merciless that it left the entire body aching. Just like... just like....

He suddenly remembered Dylan pacing frantically around a healing chamber, desperate to outrun the poisonous agony in her body. And the cobwebs. Something that made you ignore common sense. The strength of her flashback, and the choking miasma of terror and darkness that had surrounded her.

"Fire and rain," Nuada breathed. Dylan went very still. Teary eyes flicked to Nuada's face, to the horrified rage slowly spreading across his features. "By the gods. Someone... Dylan, someone put a spell on us."