Chapter 85 - Killer Queen

Chapter Eighty-Five

Killer Queen

that is

A Short Tale of Fear, Evasion, Another Attempt, Loss and Fury, Dereliction of Duty, Bloodshed, and a Potential Enemy Unveiled

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Nuada strode down the main corridor of the Healers' Wing, followed by a silent retinue of guards, wondering if his father had gone mad. Why would Balor let him off with such a light sentence? Had the prince really gotten through to the old king by mentioning Cethlenn and the vow Balor had made? Usually bringing up the late queen enraged his father. Nuada hadn't meant to dredge up memories of his mother. The words about Balor's vow to his dead wife had simply sprung off Nuada's tongue without conscious thought. And instead of growing angry, it seemed only to make Balor sad.

Mother, Nuada thought, is this your doing, somehow? Is Father healing from your loss at last? Or is this another trap of his? The Elven prince bit back a sigh. If his mother were here… if Cethlenn were still alive, many things would've been different. Perhaps the treaty might never have been forged at all. Or if it had been, the Hidden Ones would've actually enforced it at Cethlenn's urging.

Suddenly he wondered, if his mother had never died, would he have met Dylan? Would he have ever become the man he was now? Would he have Wink in his life, as father and brother and friend? Would Nuada have ever gone into exile in the first place? If not, what of Lorelei? Would he have ever known her? What about Erik, Aso, Laigdech, or Yang, or any of his other acquaintances and friends in his life? Would he have lived the life he had?

Nuada shook his head. Where were these thoughts coming from? His mother was gone. No amount of rumination would ever bring her back. And there was no way to know if Balor were trying to trick his son and heir until whatever trap the king possibly intended had been sprung. Worrying over it did nothing. He would simply have to be wary.

A sharp, lancing fear suddenly stabbed just behind his breastbone. Nuada stumbled. Forced himself to swallow back the icy lump of terror choking him. What…? Where was the fear coming from? It was so familiar…

Oh, gods. Dylan!

The Elven warrior bolted down the hall. His guards, momentarily stunned by the abrupt speed, scrambled to follow after him.

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"There's no use running," the assassin crooned, smiling still as he advanced on the mortal. "I'll catch you eventually."

Dylan backed up, careful to match her speed to the assassin's slow approach. She groped almost blindly behind her, let her gaze dart around as if searching for a means of escape, forced herself to take panting, gasping breaths. She deliberately projected terror to the advancing would-be killer. It wasn't hard - fear had her by the throat in a near-choking grip. But she could still think. Still plan. Still figure out a way to defend herself. She'd spotted her dirk lying on the bedside table. As she backed up, the psychiatrist did her best to keep the weapon hidden from the assassin's sight. Let him try to attack her once she got her knife in her hand. Even with only a few knife-work lessons under her belt, she could still kill him if she had to. Part of the lesson from the royal forest slipped into her mind…

"The blade goes here, right here, in between the ribs." His hands covered hers gently as he brought the dirk to his chest. "Move your hand, just a little, a flick of the wrist, and sever the aorta. Or push, a little harder through the visceral pericardium. Withdraw the blade and they will bleed out in-"

"Seconds," Dylan finished, voice barely above a whisper, hands steady where once they trembled.

If the assassin got close enough that was exactly what she'd do to him. She wasn't going to just let him kill her.

She barely suppressed the flare of triumph when her questing fingers brushed the cairngorm stone set in the hilt of her dirk. Walking her fingers over the hilt, she curled her hand around it. The assassin came closer. Dylan smelled the reek of sweat and the copper of blood as the human male stepped up to her. Cocking his head, he smiled.

"Silverlance ruined that pretty face, didn't he? Yet you still let him have you. You think he'll really marry you? You think slapping a wedding ring on your finger makes you less of a whore? How could a night's pleasure be worth the lives of an entire race? You'll watch from his bed as he butchers us all. What's your plan to keep him from killing you when he gets tired of rutting with a lowly human? Hmmm?" The assassin sneered at her. His green eyes were like jade glass as he drew closer. "You think, if he plows you often enough, he'll plant his seed in your belly? You think he won't kill you or your half-breed whelp-"

Fury smoldered in her eyes, burning like black fire in her chest, as she whipped her dirk around, aiming for ribs and aorta. The human assassin yelped when her blade found his flesh. Blood splashed Dylan's fingers. But she was exhausted, and drained from the healing, so her blow was off-center; the dirk skittered off a shielding rib. Before Dylan could adjust her grip and try again, the assassin grabbed her wrist and twisted viciously. The bones snapped with a sickening crack! A scream of pain ripped out of Dylan's mouth.

The assassin flung her to the ground. She landed on her broken wrist. Screamed again as tears poured down her cheeks. Before she could get enough breath to scream again, weight slammed down on her back, a shadow whipped across her vision, and something cold and hard wrapped around her throat. Tightened. Dylan choked, her hands scrabbling at the leather garrote clamped around her throat. She clawed at the strap, fingers struggling to slip beneath it and loosen the crushing grip, but all she succeeded in doing was drawing blood. Agony seared her broken wrist. Cruel laughter echoed in her ears as the killer tightened the strap further, the cool leather biting into her flesh.

"Time to die, Lady Dylan," the assassin murmured. Spots danced across her eyes. The blood roared in her ears and her lungs screamed for air. Time seemed to hang suspended as she slowly asphyxiated. Against her will, she whimpered. The assassin merely chuckled low in his throat. Darkness crept in around the edges of her vision.

A concussive boom and a splintering crack assaulted her ears as blackness descended.

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Nuada's heart went still in his chest at the sight of Dylan going limp beneath a familiar form straddling her body. Her head fell forward, her hands dropping to the floor. The human pinning her to the ground with his weight gave a low chuckle and pulled the leather strap around her throat even tighter.

Rage bloomed in the pit of Nuada's belly, mingling with acrid terror. The Elven warrior launched himself at the assassin before his guards could even think to stop him. With a feral snarl, he grabbed the human male, jerked him away from Dylan, and threw him with all the strength he could muster into the wall. The would-be killer's head hit the stone wall with an audible crack. The fae warrior took a few heaving breaths, fury boiling in his blood, terror and grief threatening to strangle him, and stalked toward the mortal who dared to lay hands on Dylan. The human would die. To hell with the king's gods-forsaken treaty; the assassin would die now, and Nuada would be the one to kill him, and kill him slowly.

Just as the assassin had killed… killed…

Pain was a taloned hand squeezing his heart as he thought of Dylan, lips tinged blue and hands limp, eyes closed, far too still beneath her assailant… his Dylan, his heart, his calman geal, his solace, and this human bastard had killed her. Had stolen her from him, stolen everything, everything that mattered, leaving him with nothing…

A strangled gasp and a fit of coughing barely registered at the periphery of his awareness as he attacked.

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Dylan clutched her throat with one hand, sucking in deep breaths, coughing hard enough it shook her entire body. Tears wet her cheeks as she struggled for air. Pain screamed through her broken wrist until she thought she might actually be sick. She blinked hard to clear the shadows from her vision and looked around frantically. The assassin, where…?

Nuada. She saw him wrestling with the human, who was somehow holding his own. There was a flash of light on metal and the patter of blood striking stone. Nuada snarled, baring his teeth, eyes crimson and feral with hatred. Blood soaked his sleeve and dripped down his arm from a cut across his bicep. He ignored the blood and drove his fist into the assassin's face. Crimson blood spurted from the human's already-broken nose. The assassin lashed out, cutting Nuada again, slashing at his unprotected stomach and chest. More amber blood flowed. A mortal fist caught Nuada in the mouth. Liquid gold dripped from the prince's split lip. He didn't even bother to spit out the blood flooding his mouth. He simply continued beating the assassin with merciless fists.

He'll kill him, Dylan realized. Somehow she got to her knees, cradling her broken wrist to her chest. I have to stop him; he'll kill him. If he kills him, the king will…

A scuffling sound from the hallway caught her attention. Two figures wrestled beyond the shattered remnants of the healing chamber door. Torchlight glinted off an iron helmet. A voice she vaguely recognized yelled, "Let me go, curse you! He needs help!"

"He disobeys the king by attacking the human," another voice snapped. "Balor told him to let the mortal go. He has obviously refused."

The Elven warrior roared, an animalistic sound of pure rage. Dylan's head whipped around in time to see the mortal drive a small knife into Nuada's side. The breath escaped the mortal woman in a breathless, horrified cry. She grabbed the edge of the healing bed, desperate to get to her feet. The assassin flipped Nuada onto his back. Before the prince could do more than start to get up again, the assassin grabbed the wooden chair standard in the various healing chambers and smashed it across Nuada's face, then again when the enraged Elf kept coming.

Dylan cried, "No!" Nuada hit the floor again, amber blood leaking from several lacerations on his face. His head hit merciless stone. The assassin hit him with the chair a third time. "Nuada!"

As if from far away, she heard that first voice yell, "He's your prince! That human will kill him!"

"I'm sure the king would actually prefer it that way."

Snarling, the human assassin threw the chair at the dazed, prone prince and turned on the mortal. "You thought you were safe?" He spat. Blood spilled from a deep gash on his forehead. His features were barely more than pulp. One pupil was dilated, the other a pinprick. Dylan knew she was looking at a dead man walking; her would-be killer had a potentially fatal concussion. His body just hadn't realized it should be dead yet. How was he still functioning? The pain should've brought him down like a tranquilizer. How… "At least I'll die knowing I killed you," the human added, "and there was nothing your precious prince could do about it."

Before he could take more than a couple steps in her direction, however, Nuada surged to his feet and attacked once more.

Dylan didn't just stand there like a frightened damsel and let Nuada fight her attacker again. Broken wrist or not, she would not let him hurt Nuada anymore! Never again!

Shaking off the paralyzing fear, pain, and shock, she dropped back to the floor, though pain screamed through her bad leg and she couldn't put weight on her broken wrist. Casting about frantically, she found her dirk where it had skittered halfway under the bed during the initial tussle with the killer. Propping herself precariously on one elbow, she reached with her good hand and managed to drag the courtship blade from beneath the bed. Somehow she got back to her feet, though she was running on fumes after the long night and too many healing spells. She saw that Nuada had the assassin pinned by the throat. A snarl of hatred twisted his features. His eyes blazed sanguine red. His shirt was splashed with scarlet and gold.

"Nuada, don't kill him!" Dylan yelped. "You can't!" Her prince didn't even look at her. Rage and loathing kept him focused entirely on the assassin trapped beneath him. Dylan sought for something, anything, which would get him to loosen his grip. She knew better than to try and stop him herself. Trapped in a battle mindset, he might hurt her without realizing it. But she had to stop him. The human male was slowly going limp beneath the prince's strangling grip. Nuada growled vicious curses in Gaelic. If he killed him, then King Balor would…

Flash of light on metal. The assassin's fist shot out and connected with Nuada's ribs. Nuada jerked. The assassin made an odd twisting motion with his arm. There was a muffled crunch. Nuada grunted as vicious pain flashed through his side. Liquid gold spilled down his belly to drip to the floor. Dylan hadn't even managed to struggle to her feet before the assassin hit Nuada once more. Twisted his arm again. There was a second crunch and more blood flowed. A third blow brought even more blood. The prince groaned, faltered - just a little. Just enough. Before he could recover, the killer head-butted the prince in the face twice. Nuada hit the floor sprawling. Spitting blood, the killer lunged for the prince. A small, spiked weapon gleamed in his fist.

Only one word echoed in Dylan's mind. No…

Hatred, black and cold and poisonous, flooded Dylan's veins. With a half-snarled scream of rage and terror, she launched herself at the assassin before he could touch Nuada again.

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Erik growled and vainly attempted to heft his hammer as he strained to escape Guardsman Siothrún's grappling hold. The royal guard had dragged him down the hall, away from the healing chamber, when the prince had pinned the human assassin and begun beating him. Erik wouldn't have cared, except that as the Butcher had hauled the Nordic Elf down the corridor, Erik had seen Nuada hit the floor, bleeding.

"Let me go, curse you! He needs help!"

"He disobeys the king by attacking the human," the Butcher snapped at the dökkálfr. "Loén," he added to his junior partner, whose eyes darted frantically between the door and his senior partner, "stay right where you are!" Erik growled like a wolf, teeth bared, and tried to twist away from Siothrún. The royal guard slammed Erik forcibly into the wall. The Nordic Elf's mouth hit stone. His teeth cut his lips, drawing silver blood. "Balor told him to let the mortal go. He has obviously refused."

"He's your prince! That human will kill him!"

Tonelessly, the guard who'd been sent to fetch Chief Healer Somhairle - and sent his junior partner to do it instead - said, "I'm sure the king would actually prefer it that way."

"Bastard! How can you-" Erik's verbal assault was quickly cut off when a shrill but still masculine shriek echoed down the corridor from the healing chamber. Erik frowned. "That wasn't the prince." Another, lower shriek followed the first. "What is-"

"He killed the human," Siothrún snarled. There was a strangled cry from the chamber. The sharp smell of blood flooded the corridor. Both guards and the dökkálfr heard a choked whimper, a gurgle, and then silence. "That treasonous wretch killed him." The guard abruptly released Erik and bolted down the hall toward the chamber. The dökkálfr and the younger guardsman followed hot on his heels. All three warriors halted in the doorway. Siothrún swore viciously. Loén staggered back. Erik's mouth fell open in utter shock.

Dylan hunched on the floor, pale as a corpse, white-lipped, her cheeks sprinkled with red, her hands gloved in crimson gore. Human blood spattered her simple, blue leine. She trembled violently. Every breath she drew hitched and shuddered. A dirk, smeared with blood and dripping scarlet on the floor, was clutched in one hand. Her other hand was cradled to her chest, the wrist swollen and purple with bruising. The mortal woman's gaze was glassy, vacant. She didn't even notice when Prince Nuada, moving stiffly, covering his side with one hand, gently pried the knife out of her hand and set it on the floor a safe distance away. The prince spared not a glance for the assassin. He didn't need to anymore.

Erik swallowed bile as he stared down at the dead human male on the floor. Nuada hadn't killed him. The prince didn't kill so inelegantly or so savagely. But Lady Dylan… he couldn't put the image Nuada had painted of the human woman together with what she'd done to this would-be killer. How many times had she stabbed him? Where had she even come by the strength?

"Dylan?" The prince whispered, gently touching her cheek. Her skin was icy. "Dylan, look at me."

She only shook her head. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off the corpse. "I didn't… he hurt you, I… I had to… I didn't want to…"

"Nuada," Erik said softly. The prince glanced at him. Erik nodded to the hand clapped to Nuada's side. Blood seeped between white fingers - not so much that the prince was in danger of bleeding to death, but enough to show that he was truly hurt and in need of healing. "You're wounded."

"It can wait," the prince replied in a low voice. "It hurts, but it isn't deep. Siothrún, fetch Healer Lóegaire. Now," he snarled. To the human girl, he added, "Dylan, it's all right. Look at me." He turned her face to him and peered into her glassy eyes. "You did nothing wrong, mo duinne. Do you understand me? You did nothing wrong. You saved my life. Look at me," he said when her eyes darted back to the dead assassin. "Look only at me. Erik, do something with that," he said contemptuously, flicking his eyes to the corpse. "Get it out of here. Don't look, mo duinne. Look only at me." Nuada cupped her cheek with his free hand, uncaring of the iron-laced blood smearing her skin, blocking her view as the other Elf hefted the corpse and dragged it from the room. "You were very brave, Dylan. It's all right. We're safe now. You saved me."

"I killed him," she whispered. "I didn't… I shouldn't have… I couldn't get a clean shot, I missed the first time, I couldn't-"

"Shhh," he said. "I know. You tried to make it quick, I know. It's all right." He reached out and pulled her against his side, holding her with one arm. One of Dylan's hands scrabbled weakly at his shirt before clutching it tightly. The other hand, Nuada saw with a fresh spike of hatred and rage, hung limp at a sick angle on a broken wrist. Dylan buried her face in his chest and sobbed, half in relief and half in pain. Nuada held her close and pressed his cheek to her hair. Relief shuddered through him. She was alive. She was alive. He'd thought… oh, gods, he'd thought…

"I'm here," he whispered against her hair. The assassin was dead, so he could focus on his lady, who trembled because of the vicious pain throbbing through her wrist as well as the ebb of the adrenaline in her blood. "I'm here, Dylan. You're safe. You're safe now."

Nuada pressed his lips to her temple. He ignored the arrival of Guardswoman Ailís and his two remaining bodyguards. Prior to entering his father's study, he'd dispatched Guardsman Lorcc and Guardsman Mahon to make sure 'Sa'ti and A'du weren't still at the servants' solstice party (and if they were, the guards' new assignment was to escort the children back to their mistress's suite). He'd sent his other two guards, Étaín and Brádach, to ensure Dylan's sister remained unharmed, for his lady's sake and just to be safe, and to keep her in the consort's suite until further notice - at Dylan's request. Wink and Lorelei had gone to the servants' nursery to check on Niamh, the halfling child that, according to rumor, was Nuada's illegitimate daughter. The last time assassins had come after Dylan, they'd also attacked the children, Wink, Lorelei, and Dylan's brother; Nuada was taking no chances this time. And Tsu's'di and two of Nuada's guards, Ríagáin and Odhrán, had been injured in the previous altercation and so were with Healer Conn in another room of the Healers' Wing. All but one of Dylan's guards was also with the healers and/or being interviewed for more information about the initial assassination attempt.

"He'll not touch you again, I swear it. You're safe." Glancing at the guards in the doorway, he barked, "Fetch Chief Healer Somhairle and Healer Táebfada! Ailís, send word to the king that Lady Dylan has been attacked again." The three Butchers left to do as he bid.

"He tried to hurt you," she whispered against his shoulder. "I had to stop him, I-"

"I know. I know. It's all right." He slowly got to his feet, bringing her with him. The room spun in dizzying circles. He swallowed back the lightheadedness, ignored the blistering pain in his side, and focused on the one who needed him. "Listen to me. We're both injured. We need a healer-"

Her eyes widened. Some of the glassiness faded. "You're hurt." She scanned his face, which bled from dozens of scrapes and cuts, then her eyes dropped to the hand pressed to his side. "You're bleeding. Sit down."

"I'm well enou-"

"Sit," she snapped, voice oddly brittle. "Sit down." Her good hand shook as she feebly pushed him toward the bed. Knowing that arguing with her would only distress her further, and feeling sick from the pain and loss of blood, he did as she said. Was she trying to sublimate her shock and revulsion and fading terror in work? She'd done the same in the sanctuary all those moons ago. Why not now?

Dylan sank - or rather, flopped - to the floor. She didn't seem to notice the pool of blood on the ground, or how the blood soaked her skirt. A dull sort of anger flashed through her eyes when, after pulling Nuada's hand from his side and cutting away his very expensive velvet tunic and silk shirt, she saw the four puncture marks, oozing amber blood, surrounded by darkening bruises. She touched the bruise with light fingers. Bone-deep, nauseating pain made Nuada's side spasm. He hissed a sharp oath through clenched teeth.

"I think your ribs are broken."

Nuada's eyes landed on the weapon the assassin had used against him. It looked like a slim knife, but dozens of slender spikes studded the blade. Nuada swore again.

"That," he snarled, "is a torturer's weapon; a gancanaugh blade. When the spikes are activated with the right movement, they have enough magically-boosted force to break bone." Which meant his ribs probably were broken, and also explained, he thought sourly, feeling rather lightheaded, why the wound bled so much and hurt so badly, yet wasn't deep enough to have hit any internal organs or major blood vessels.

Dylan tried to grab the pillow from the bed and hunched her shoulders, shuddering. Nuada glanced at her sharply. Carefully brushed the hair back from her face and studied the familiar features. She still had the cut from the arrow graze on her cheek and a bruise where the Dilong assassin had struck her. She'd refused to let Somhairle tend either, protesting that it was just a little bruise and a scratch and not worth the bother. The cut had started bleeding again. A tiny dribble of blood smeared her cheek with red. Her eyes were slightly glassy - from shock, he thought. Her face was white as milk.

"Sit down, mo duinne," he murmured, tugging her skirt a little. "Let's tend to your hurts as best we may before we see to mine." It was a testament to how shaken she was that she actually obeyed without protest. Nuada cupped her broken wrist. At his touch, Dylan went even whiter.

"Bad?" He asked. She nodded. "I can set this, at least. It will hurt less if I do. Shall I?" She nodded again, scrunching her eyes shut. Tension radiated through her entire body. Knowing this, Nuada tried to be as quick as possible when he yanked sharply on her wrist, then shifted the bones so they fit together properly. Dylan's scream escaped through clenched teeth. Two tears rolled down her pale cheeks. "There. Finished."

She let out a shuddering breath and bowed her head. Another tear dropped from her eye to splash the skirt of her simple velvet dress. She wiped at her face with the back of her uninjured wrist. Nuada reached up and lifted her chin so he could meet her eyes.

"I am so sorry," he murmured. Her eyes widened and she frowned, baffled. "I swore to protect you, and what sort of job have I done? I bring you into my world, promise you a life of magic and wonder as a princess, but all I give you is danger. Twice tonight you were nearly killed. Twice, Dylan, and I am yet too selfish to let you go."

Gentle fingers brushed the edge of the royal scar. That touch, chaste as it was, seared him to the bone. He covered her hand with his and closed his eyes.

"It was my choice," was all she said. Then she withdrew from him, pulled the pillow from the bed, yanked off the black linen pillowcase, and awkwardly folded it into a cloth pad. Gently moving Nuada's hand out of her way, she pressed the cloth to the bleeding punctures. The pressure made him grit his teeth against the invectives burning in his throat. "Hold that there," she mumbled. "A healer's coming, right? So just… just hold… that there. I know it hurts, but keep pressure on it." Dylan looked around as if in a daze before just sitting on the floor and closing her eyes. She drew a shaky breath.

"What in the name of all the gods beyond the stars happened?" Nuada glanced over to see Táebfada and Somhairle standing in the doorway, both of them with mouths agape.

Lóegaire slipped between them and surveyed the congealing blood pool, the broken chair, and the other remnants of the fight. The Elven mind-healer said to the prince, "I had heard you were both attacked by Faerie-born human assassins, Your Highness." Nuada nodded, never taking his eyes from Dylan's waxy face. "Did she kill…?" Lóegaire trailed off. Nuada nodded again. The old Elf woman frowned. She wasn't all too sure Lady Dylan was mentally stable enough to handle the psychological aftermath of killing someone, even a murderous attacker, with the brutality apparent from the blood spatter on the floor and the mortal's dress. "How is she?"

"She needs a healer," the prince murmured. Dylan, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was the topic of conversation, pressed her forehead against Nuada's knee. She tucked her broken wrist against her chest. He laid the hand not slicked with his own blood against her hair. "Her wrist is broken. She's injured her right knee, she's bruised up, there may be some damage to her throat, and she has a cut on her cheek."

Dylan finally stirred. "Nuada's hurt," she whispered. She didn't lift her face from his knee. The fingers of her uninjured hand twisted in the loose fabric of his trews. "That monster hurt him."

"Don't worry, Lady Dylan. I will see to the prince personally," Somhairle said after a long silence. When he took a step forward, Dylan's head shot up. Her eyes were wide, her expression wary. Somhairle held up his hands. "I'll not hurt him, my lady, I swear to you."

The mortal eyed him. "You work for the king."

Everyone froze. Nuada forced back the blood-loss-induced lightheadedness and touched his truelove's face. "Dylan, you can trust Somhairle. Neither my father nor those loyal to him would hurt us."

"Then why didn't Siothrún help you when someone tried to kill you?" She demanded, voice nearly breaking. Her eyes slashed from Nuada's face to the Butcher Guard standing behind the trio of Elven healers. "I heard you. I heard you, you bastard." Nuada's eyes widened. She didn't notice. "I heard what you said. You said, 'The king would actually prefer it' if the assassin killed Nuada. You wouldn't help him. And if the king didn't order you to abandon your prince, you're dead. I'll tell the king you betrayed the royal family. You left Nuada to die."

The guard shook his head. "The attack may have left you… confused, my lady. I would never betray my king-"

"Oh, stop lying," Erik said from behind the guard. He shoved Siothrún out of his way and stalked into the healing chamber. Human blood smeared his clothes and skin. Sensing impending confrontation, Lóegaire came further into the room, careful to maintain her distance from the warriors. "You stopped me from going to Nuada's aid," Erik snapped. "You refused to help him against the assassin because he was human. Or because you've no loyalty to the crown prince of your kingdom; I can't decide which. Lady Dylan isn't confused. She just knows how to pay attention. If not for her courage and quick action, both she and the prince might very well be dead now. But you were no doubt counting on that, weren't you?"

Nuada caught Erik's eye and inclined his head. The dark-haired Nordic Elf nodded - Siothrún was going nowhere. The prince focused on the mortal glaring with obvious suspicion at Somhairle. "Dylan, Somhairle is trustworthy. He's a healer, like you. You told me once of the Oath you took when you finished medical school, do you remember? Somhairle took a similar oath. He is my father's friend, but I've known him since I was a child. He would never hurt me. You can trust him."

Edgy, unable to suppress the nerves and adrenaline jumping in her blood, unable to ignore the fear still festering in the pit of her stomach, Dylan shook her head. "No. I want Táebfada to look at you. Please." Nuada agreed without argument. Normally that would've surprised her, but Dylan was too busy eyeing the potential enemies in the room. The female Elven healer went to the prince and immediately placed her hand over the cruel wound in his side. Dylan felt some of the pain-induced tension fade from the prince's body. She glanced at him. He offered her a tight smile. Táebfada suddenly reached out and touched Dylan's wrist with her other hand. Dylan tensed, shoulders hunching defensively. There was a crackling sound, a flash of heat, then an icy chill spread through her wrist. The pain and bruises began to fade. The healer returned her entire attention back to the crown prince while Dylan reached out and picked up her bloody dirk, gripping it in one white-knuckled fist.

"If it pleases you, Your Highness," Somhairle said, "my lady, I will report what's happened to the king. I swear to tell only the absolute truth," he added when Dylan's head whipped around and she glared at him. "I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, I mean Prince Nuada no harm. Nor do I mean any harm to you. I will go to the king and tell him what has transpired. All of it."

Siothrún gave a weak laugh. "Somhairle, you cannot possibly believe this mortal's wild accusations-"

"I will also speak to Captain Phelan and Lieutenant Jarláth about what has been said tonight," Somhairle growled at the Butcher. He no longer resembled the moon-skinned, blond vulture Dylan had compared him to the first time she'd ever met him. Now he looked like nothing so much as a silver and gold wolf intent on bringing down his prey - and his prey, this time, was Guardsman Siothrún. Somhairle bowed to Nuada. "Since you should have stepped in and aided the prince. Excuse me, Your Highness."

Erik drew his sword. Siothrún reached for his, but the sound of other swords being drawn from the corridor arrested the movement. He turned to see Lorelei with her short-sword naked in her hand. Behind her stood Siothrún's own partner, Loén, his sword unsheathed, as well as Ailís and a very pale Tsu's'di. Wink eyed the guard and curled the fingers of his bronze fist, making them clink together menacingly.

"On the authority of Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," Lorelei said, voice as icy as a mountain lake in deepest winter, eyes cold as dragon's gold, "we place you under arrest, Siothrún mac Suibhne, on suspicion of treason. I suggest," she added, and there was a ripple of something chill and ancient in her voice that had Siothrún's hand falling from the hilt of his sword to rest at his side, "that you come into the corridor and wait for your captain and lieutenant like a good boy. Come."

To nearly everyone's surprise, Siothrún obeyed the rhinemaiden's suggestion. He walked like a man in a trance, ignoring everyone and everything around him. Once in the hall, Siothrún sank to the ground and sat, obedient as a child. Erik bowed to Nuada and followed the guard. Lorelei and Wink exchanged a glance; Lorelei went to stand with Erik, while Wink poked his head into the healing chamber.

"You look like death warmed over," the troll rumbled in his native tongue. "And the lassling doesn't look much better."

"I'll be fine, old friend," Nuada replied in the same language. He glanced down at Dylan; now that everyone she didn't trust had left the room, she'd relaxed, laying her head back upon Nuada's knee. She stared at nothing with unseeing eyes. A chill whispered down the prince's spine. "I do not know about my lady. She has killed for the second time tonight, but this time it was a bloody affair. She's never seen a man killed that way before, much less done it herself. I don't know what her state of mind will be when we are finally alone and she has to come to grips with what's happened."

Wink nodded. "She'll want to bathe. Fresh clothes, too. And you both need food. Perhaps… perhaps you should take her to the sanctuary. She'll feel safe there."

Nuada had been thinking the same. "We'll go as soon as the healers are finished. Keep your ear to the ground, my friend. Keep an eye on Siothrún. If my father summons me or if Zhenjin… if anything happens, send word immediately. And find the third human assassin and bring him back here. Do not harm him in any way if it can be avoided; certainly don't kill him. I wish to speak to him - he may have useful information. I shall return by dawn, if not earlier. We'll talk more then." Wink inclined his head and left his prince to the healers.

Once Táebfada was finished healing the prince's puncture wounds and broken ribs - not completely healed, which would take too long, but enough that he didn't need to remain in the healers' care - Nuada dismissed Táebfada. Lóegaire, on the other hand, was harder to get rid of.

"Lady Dylan needs to be in a safe place, Your Highness," the old woman insisted. "She's fragile right now-"

"I know," the prince replied. "I have such a place in mind. She'll be safe there. She'll feel safe there." The Elven warrior met the old woman's amber eyes. "I swear to you, Lóegaire, I will take care of her. But I need to get her to a safe place now. I can feel she's close to breaking. Everything else can wait while I take care of her."

Lóegaire eyed the prince for a moment. "I've known you for centuries, my prince. I've seen you grow from boy to man. I know you're an honorable man, or I wouldn't agree to this. If His Majesty tries to seek you out, I will tell him what I told you regarding Lady Dylan: that she needs to be somewhere safe in order to recover from tonight's ordeal."

After a moment, Nuada said, "My father is the king."

She smiled. "Lady Dylan is my patient, and you are my prince, and a good man trying to do right by her. Let me deal with the king." The mind-healer swept out of the room, leaving the prince and mortal woman alone.

Nuada touched Dylan's shoulder. She didn't lift her head from his knee. It was as if she'd withdrawn completely from the real world. It wasn't a flashback - she wasn't afraid - but there was something wrong. "Mo duinne," he murmured, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She hadn't allowed Táebfada to heal anything but the broken wrist; every time the healer attempted to touch her after that, Dylan had tensed so much, Nuada had been afraid she'd snap. So he was careful of the cut on her cheek as he brushed his fingertips along her jaw. "Dylan, I'm going to take you to the sanctuary. To our haven. Do you understand? I'm going to take you somewhere safe, my love. You needn't be afraid - of anything. We'll be safe."

Slowly, Dylan nodded. Nuada reached into his shirt and pulled out the gold and ruby ring. Slipping it onto his finger, he whispered the words that would take them to the underground haven where everything had first begun for them.

.

Thwock. Thwock. Thwock.

Guardsman Brádach felt a muscle above his third eye spasm.

Thwock.

His fingers twitched as irritation surged through his veins. He told himself to remember his dignity. Remember the treaty. Remember his orders.

Thwock-thwock.

Guardsman Étaín, Brádach's junior - and more laidback - partner, glanced over his shoulder at their current (and most annoying, in Brádach's opinion) charge. Being a member of the Butcher Guards meant that a guard learned to read body language from the neck down, due to rarely being able to see your fellow guardsmen's faces. So from just the set of his young shoulders and the way he angled his body, Étaín projected amusement to his senior partner as he asked Brádach, "Where did she even get that thing? And what is it?"

Thwock.

Brádach gritted his teeth as he considered the troublesome, neon-green projectile currently impacting the wall with a repetitive and resounding thwocking sound. "I believe the humans call it… a tennis ball."

Thwock-thwock, thwock-thwock.

"I know you bozos speak English," a chipper female voice said from behind the two guards. "English and Irish are the two main languages of the Court, and you guys have to speak both of them. My sister told me all about that."

Francesca grinned and shot her tennis ball - which she'd pulled out of her purse to alleviate some boredom and irritate the guards who were supposedly on her sister's orders to keep her in her room - at the stone wall of Dylan's… parlor? Sitting room? Whatever it was. The ball hit the stone with a heavy and satisfying sound of impact.

"So I know you know I want out of here."

"Lady Dylan has said she wishes you to remain in this suite," Étaín replied with an apologetic shrug. Unlike Brádach, he didn't mind the human woman's childishness. His younger sister, Máirín, liked throwing bouncing balls at hard surfaces when bored, too. So Étaín only added, "It's for your safety, Lady Francesca."

Thwock. Thwock.

"I'm not a lady," Francesca replied. "And I'm older than Dylan; don't my wishes take precedence? I want to see her." The tennis ball bounced off the wall and landed in the waitress's hand. She'd been stretched out on the sitting room couch, but now she sat up and fixed Étaín with a look. The young guard met her eyes with equanimity; at least, Francesca was pretty sure it was equanimity. It was hard to gauge while he wore that heavy iron helmet. "Look, she's my little sister. You tell me there was some kind of 'altercation,'" she made sarcastic air-quotes with her fingers, "and that she's with a healer, for crying out loud, and then you won't let me see her. I'm kinda freaking out. Some sympathy would be nice."

"You have my sympathies, Lady Francesca," Étaín replied, deadpan. Francesca gave him a look that could've peeled paint. The young guardsman sighed. "Milady, we answer to-"

"You like musicals?" She asked suddenly. He frowned and cocked his head to convey puzzlement. She sighed. "A musical. It's like a play, except with a lot of singing. Or like an opera, but with talking. D'you like that kind of thing? Do fae even do that kind of thing?" Étaín nodded. "Okay, so there's this musical I like about this crazy old Spanish guy who thinks he's a knight. Like every good knight, he's looking for a princess or noblewoman to fall in love with and woo. Because he's crazy, he meets a kitchen wench and thinks she's a noblewoman. Both he and his squire call her 'my lady.' You know what she says to him?"

Étaín shrugged, though he couldn't deny being intrigued. He adored theatre. "No - what?"

Francesca smiled sweetly. "She said, and I quote," the mortal dropped the sweet smile and glared, "'Don't you "my lady, me," or I'll crack you like an egg!' For the last time, I'm not Lady Francesca. You can call me 'Miss,' but Dylan's the lady, not me. Now, you were saying about answering?"

Brádach opened his mouth to bite off a scathing retort, but the sight of Étaín stopped him. The young Butcher had turned to look at Francesca, and his entire posture had gone soft and sloppy. His head was cocked to one side, and there was something warm and amused in his eyes, which Brádach could see through the slit of his helmet. Danu's mercy, the boy was infatuated with the human. Nothing wrong with humans per se, but this shrew was getting on the senior guardsman's last nerve. But Étaín had a predilection for shrews and harpies…

"We answer to the king, Miss Francesca." His partner could hear the laughter in Étaín's voice. "After that, we answer to the prince, the princess, and our captains and lieutenants. Lady Dylan requested you remain here until she could come to you. His Highness Prince Nuada turned that request into a direct order. You can bounce your tennis ball off my chest or even my helmet, for all the good it will do you. If my choice is between obeying my prince and being beaten to death by a woman with a tennis ball, or giving into the wielder of spherical death and being impaled like a butterfly on a corkboard, I choose the former."

The mortal began tossing the ball in the air and catching it. Brádach eyed the object with distaste. Étaín smiled behind his helmet. Francesca raised one black eyebrow and tossed her curly hair over her shoulder. "I could impale you like a butterfly on a corkboard if you really wanted me to," she practically purred. The young guard's eyes widened slightly. "And I'm pretty good at delivering death to men by balls. So either way, you're kind of… um…"

She said a word that, only because he'd spent some time in the mortal world, Étaín knew was a crude word for fornication in modern English. He smirked.

"I'll take my chances with the prince, Miss Francesca."

She nodded as if this confirmed something. "So that's how the door swings. Got it." She looked at the tennis ball in her hand. "Don't worry - I'll be real gentle." Before he could ask what she meant, she tossed the ball at him. It ricocheted off his helmet with a hollow bong and returned to her hand without a hitch.

Étaín folded his arms across his chest. "Well thrown." Brádach rolled his eyes at his partner - they were supposed to be guarding the human, not flirting with her; the whelp was actually enjoying the mortal woman's harassment! - but Étaín ignored him.

Francesca smiled. "Like I said - I'm good with balls."

Brádach bit back a groan.

"But," Francesca added, "I also have a boyfriend."

Now Étaín was the one who groaned. "Alas for my poor heart," he murmured. "You wound me, my lady. Have you not a shred of pity?"

The tennis ball bounced off his head.