Chapter 87 - In the Bleak Midwinter (Pt. 1)

Chapter Eighty-Seven

In the Bleak Midwinter (Pt. 1)

that is

A Short Tale of Sisters, a Diverting Task, a Day's Respite, Relief, a Confession, Grief, Gifts, the Vassal's Oath, and a Sudden Shadow

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"Father, you cannot mean to flog my brother on Midwinter's Day!" Princess Nuala watched her weary father from the comfort of a chair as the old king paced. Balor rubbed his left shoulder, where the harness for his hand of silver and wood attached, as if it ached. Nuala smoothed her hands over the folds of her blue gown. "Father, it is Midwinter's Day! A day of rebirth and renewal, a day of hope and light. A time for family and friends. Surely you can grant Nuada clemency!"

The princess was exhausted, but she wouldn't go to bed until she'd spoken on her brother's behalf. Though she was ashamed of his actions—a blatant disregard for the truce and the king's wishes—she could understand. She'd felt the heart-stopping terror in Nuada when he'd seen the crossbow bolt aimed at the mortal woman's heart. And the king hadn't heard the vicious threats spewing from the human murderer as he'd raged at Dylan and Nuada, either. Nuala had. Just the memory of those threats made her queasy.

I'll cut her into little pieces and feed her to your dogs…

"He deliberately disobeyed me, Nuala," Balor snapped. "Before witnesses! My guards, my servants. Visiting dignitaries, including your betrothed! What would you have me do? He must be punished for his transgressions!"

"But surely forgiveness would send a more appropriate message, in light of the season!"

Balor slumped into a chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So I should pardon his crimes because he is my son and I do not wish to ruin our holiday?"

"I…Father…Father, the human threatened Dylan's life!"

"And your brother sent a message that flies in the face of everything I stand for!" The king surged to his feet, expression thunderous, but the strength soon left him and he fell back into the chair again, breathing harshly. "He wanted to send the message that he will kill anyone who threatens what is his, in spite of my orders. That is unacceptable, Nuala."

She ran a hand through her silvery hair, unbound now in the early hour of dawn. As a princess, she understood what her father was saying. If he didn't punish Nuada, it would make him seem weak. Even weaker than showing a disunited front—which Nuada had already shown by disobeying the king in the first place. But it was Midwinter's Day, and surely an exception could be made.

"Áthair, Nuada loves Dylan so much. He could do no other than protect her. You know he is willing to accept whatever punishment you deem fit, but that such punishments won't prevent him from doing what he feels he must. One need only hearken back to this previous October to see such!"

The king grimaced. October, a few days ere Samhain, had brought Nuada beneath the lash. Two-thousand stripes, and he'd received only half, but he'd been willing to take them all for the sake of the mortal that had nearly died tonight. Balor knew, just as well as Nuala, what the prince was willing to sacrifice for the mortal woman's sake.

Balor sighed. Things had been going so well, stars curse it! Yes, Nuada was under house-arrest, but they'd managed a handful of civil conversations over the last month, and that was something, wasn't it? Nuala knew her father didn't want to hurt Nuada. Didn't want to punish him. But she also knew he felt it was necessary. And yet…

"I will delay his punishment for one day," the old king muttered. His daughter perked up, scarcely able to believe her ears. "Let him have Midwinter's Day for himself and his lady. Time enough to punish him tomorrow."

Nuala curtsied deeply to the king. "Thank you, Áthair. Thank you so much."

Balor waved away her gratitude, then rubbed his shoulder again. Nuala frowned—the king's shoulder seemed to pain him often these last few days—but inclined her head and left the room to find her own bed and get some much needed sleep.

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"Where have you been?" Francesca demanded the moment Dylan stepped into her sitting room. "What the heck, Dylan? D'you know how long I've been stuck here? And your guards need to stop sitting on sticks, know what I mean? The young one's cute and all, but…"

Francesca trailed off when she saw her sister's stark pallor, marred by faded bruises that hadn't been there when she'd sent her little sister to get publicly engaged at a royal ball. The waitress got to her feet without another word. Ignoring both Butcher Guards, she went to Dylan and slid an arm around her waist, guiding her toward the bedroom. The guards didn't attempt to stop them. Inside, Francesca found Dylan's two talking dogs—she wasn't even going to think about how strange it was that her sister had talking dogs—lying across her massive bed. Two canine heads lifted, ears perked. A milky puddle of fur and a sprawling mound of black both bellied over to make room. When the mortal psychiatrist sank onto the bed, Francesca sat beside her.

"Dylan? You okay?" Concern twisted in Francesca's stomach when the younger woman merely swallowed and nodded. "What's wrong? Did something crazy happen at the ball?"

"An assassination attempt."

"Holy sh—" The waitress cut herself off before the curse could escape. "Was anyone hurt?" Dylan nodded numbly. "Who?"

"Nuada," she whispered.

Well that explained a few things—like why Dylan looked ready to collapse in a heap of sobbing head-shrinker. "Will he be okay?" Dylan closed her eyes and nodded. Francesca relaxed. At least her baby sister's fiancé wasn't going to die. That would've just been cruel. "Okay. Well, you look like you need some sleep. How about you lie down and…" She trailed off when her sister shook her head vehemently. "Why not?"

"I have to wait for him to come back," Dylan said softly. Francesca frowned.

"From where?"

Dylan drew a breath that rattled. "Being punished."

"Whoa, wait. What?" Francesca demanded. In soft, halting words, Dylan explained everything that had happened, including Nuada killing one of the human assassins. Throughout the recitation, Francesca's eyes grew larger and larger, and she pinched her lips together until they were thin and bloodless, but she didn't interrupt. When her sister explained how she'd eliminated the second mortal assassin, Francesca hugged Dylan tightly. She could feel Dylan's heart pounding hard in her chest, hammering against the arm Francesca draped around her. The story ended with Nuada escorting Dylan to the suite and waiting for her to go inside before he'd strode off down the hall toward his dawn-tide flogging.

"That is…" Francesca trailed off. She wanted to call this King Baldy a douche, but she wasn't sure if the guards could hear, and whether she could be locked up for badmouthing the king. So instead, she asked, "You gonna be okay for a minute?" Her sister nodded. "I'll be right back, okay?"

With one last reassuring squeeze, Francesca slipped into Dylan's bathroom to splash some cold water on her face and think. Someone had tried to kill her sister and her sister's fiancé, and apparently it wasn't the first time. She needed a minute to process that disturbing concept. And she needed a few minutes to push through the feeling of helplessness and figure out what, if anything, she could do to give her baby sister a hand amidst all this craziness. Part of her wanted to tell Dylan to get the heck away from this Prince Nuada…but at the same time, she knew Dylan wouldn't listen. She was obviously gaga over the dude, and considering that he was being flogged, for crying out loud, because he'd killed someone to protect her, obviously the prince was just as googoo over Dylan.

In the bedchamber, Dylan curled up on the bed with her head on Sétanta's flank, tucking her knees against her chest. Somhairle had done something to eliminate the ache in her bad knee when he'd healed her fractured skull, so the movement was smooth and swift, without pain. Her chest ached, though—ached with the thought that somewhere in the castle, her prince was being hurt because he'd protected her from a group of assassins.

I'll be all right, my dearest, he'd said outside the door to her suite. Nuada had seen her anguish, because he'd enfolded her in his arms and pressed his lips gently to hers, a sweet promise that everything would be well. His breath had been warm against her mouth, his hands strong and sure as they'd smoothed over the plains of her back. Be brave for me, he'd whispered.

She couldn't take it, the helplessness. The thought that somewhere, Nuada's blood spilled without justification and no one was standing for him. The first time the king had flogged her prince, Dylan had been the only one to challenge Balor over the cruelty. Now even she was powerless...

Dylan surged to her feet. The dogs lifted their heads, watching her stride toward the bookcases lining her bedroom walls. She couldn't help Nuada while the king had him, but there was something she could do while she waited for her prince to return. There were things the two of them needed to know in order to put their plan to make Dylan immortal into action. One of them was how to get to the Isle of Avalon and the natural magical defenses the island would use to repel them, both from its shores and from its sorcerous orchards. The kings of Mag Mell, who possessed the power to make Dylan immortal if offered the right incentive, wanted the quert of Ynys Affalon—the magical apples of Avalon. Nuada had said the two kings most likely wanted either the lethal black apples or the silver fruit that granted true, non-aging immortality. Both were protected by guards as well as enchanted means, though the prince didn't know what they were. But there were some books about Avalon on the shelves in her room; Dylan could learn some of these details for her prince while he was…busy.

And if that didn't keep her occupied until Nuada returned, she would write a request to the Onibi envoy seeking audience with Prince Emīru and Princess Shāuddo, since the two Japanese Elven siblings apparently knew about combining various fae powers to create a grand magical total stronger than an heir or monarch's magical power levels. That, Dylan and Nuada had theorized, was how the disinherited Prince Shaohao of Dilong, Prince Zhenjin's eldest brother and the former heir to the Jade Dragon Throne, had managed to keep Dylan and Zhenjin glamoured long enough for assassins to attack them without anyone being able to find them.

The mortal had just settled with a book titled Avalon: A History of Its Defensive Magics when Francesca came out of the bathroom. She saw her sister stretched out on her bed, a book open on the mattress in front of her and three more beside her, and smiled. She knew exactly what Dylan was doing.

"Can I help?" Francesca asked, hopping onto the bed. "Any of those in English?"

Dylan handed over the book she'd been reading without a word—though she smiled gratefully at her sister—and snagged a second book for herself. This book was written in Old Gaelic; slightly different than the modern Irish language, it was close enough that as long as Dylan took time to mentally translate (as opposed to having to keep up with a rapid conversation) she'd be okay.

But would Nuada be okay?

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Nuada stumbled down the corridor, weary beyond belief and stunned by his father's decree. The prince had come to the king's formal receiving room as ordered, only to be informed that his flogging would take place at dawn the next morning. He'd only been able to stare at his father in shock for a moment before the king had gripped his son's shoulders and said, "I do not wish to punish you. It is Midwinter's Day; consider this brief respite my gift to you, my son. And your sister's gift, for it was she who spoke for you. Enjoy the holiday and be with your lady. There is time enough for punishment tomorrow."

Now Nuada's hand clamped hard around his bedpost. Nuala had spoken for him? Why? Because she believed him deserving of mercy? Or because this was Midwinter Day, and therefore it was right that she should beseech for clemency for her twin?

Gods, but he was so tired; too tired to try ferreting out the undercurrents of his father's motives regarding this bit of mercy—if mercy it was. No, he wouldn't fret about such things tonight. He would merely find a few hours sleep if he could before seeing to everything that was required of him today. Midwinter's Day or not, his duties did not cease. There were things to be done: checking on Niamh, the halfling child, and receiving a report on her recovery; giving his gifts to Dylan and the children, as well as his family and Wink and a few others; taking Dylan to see Shang, since it had been a full twenty-four hours since his lady had seen the lóng mâ. And there was information to be had from the mortal assassin they'd captured last night, the only one to survive.

The prince passed a hand over his face and bit back a groan. If only he could rest…but there was too much to think about. Too much to concern him at the moment.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth, when he thought of that moment when Dylan had gone limp beneath the assassin, and he'd thought she was dead. Dead, gone forever. He tasted blood and realized he'd bitten his tongue. She had been so terribly still…

Slumping to his bed, Nuada dropped his head in his hands. Even now, the memory of that briefest of brushes with death threatened to unman him. He had come so close to losing her.

And if I had lost her? He asked himself, cold dread flooding his veins like poison. What would have happened to me then?

He knew. First there would have been vengeance, a terrible retribution to pay back the destruction of his very world. And then, with her killer's blood still hot and wet on his hands, Nuada would have lain down beside Dylan's chilled body and simply ceased. By the time anyone would've been brave enough to draw near him in the cooling of his berserk rage, he would have merely…stopped. There would have been nothing left of him.

And that frightened him almost as much as the thought of losing Dylan.

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Francesca had quickly fallen asleep; she'd put in a full day of work before coming to Findias the night before, and she hadn't slept at all since entering the faerie realm. Dylan didn't blame her for passing out, sprawled facedown into the mattress, the book half-tucked beneath her limp body. The psychiatrist simply continued perusing the book currently open in her lap. So far, she hadn't found anything pertinent to the orchard defenses, or even relevant to the apples themselves, but she'd only been looking for perhaps thirty minutes. If she kept it up, maybe she'd get lucky and find something useful.

As if the thought had conjured a stroke of luck, her eyes lit upon the word quert about halfway down the page. Shifting position to get more comfortable, so that she lay on her stomach on the bed, Dylan folded her arms atop the mattress and rested her chin atop them, gaze devouring the words.

"There are six species of magical quert to be found on the Isle of Avalon: red, green, yellow, black, silver, and gold. Each species of apple bestows a different boon or curse upon the one who tastes of it. The red apples restore youth. The green can be used to reverse dark magic, and the yellow aid in healing. The black apples of Avalon are a lethal poison without antidote that kills in minutes. Most highly prized by all fae are the silver and gold apples; the former bestows true, unaging immortality, and the latter is rumored to possess the power to grant any one wish to the one who eats it. While those who dwell in Avalon have sometimes chosen to bestow the red, green, or yellow apples as gifts to fortunate favorites throughout the centuries, even they do not have access to the other three orchards. The black orchard is guarded by…"

Dylan's entire body suddenly went cold, as if someone had plunged her through a thick sheet of ice into a river in the middle of a winter night, then she flushed as hot as if she'd stepped into a sauna. She lifted her head as something in her chest tugged at her, urging her to get up. It wasn't a warning; not exactly. It was…it was…

She heard a shuffling sound on the other side of the door leading from her room to Nuada's, and she knew then exactly what it was. Nuada had returned.

The mortal was on her feet and across the room in seconds, almost as if her feet had wings. Francesca didn't wake. Without pausing, Dylan yanked the door open and darted into Nuada's room, closing the door quickly behind her. She took several steps forward, then stopped, biting her lip. Nuada slumped on his bed, his shoulders hunched as if he were wounded. But of course—he was. Dylan took another step forward.

"I am not hurt," he mumbled, raising his head. His gaze was inexpressibly weary as he watched her. "My father delayed my punishment in honor of Midwinter's Day."

With a soft, wordless cry of relief, she rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck. Her lips found his cheek; she pressed a dozen kisses to it, overwhelmed by the sudden lifting of some great weight from her shoulders. "You're not hurt," she mumbled, running her hands over his shoulders and along the muscles of his arms, feeling the tension even through his thin linen shirt. "You're not hurt."

"You were worried," Nuada murmured, still watching her with unfathomable eyes.

"Of course I was," Dylan whispered as her hands slid back up his arms, over his shoulders and to his neck, his strong jaw, his cheeks with the royal scar carved deep. Her thumbs brushed over the scar in a tentative caress. She felt a small tremor go through him. "Of course I was."

Moving as if afraid of bleeding to death, Nuada leaned in and kissed Dylan's forehead. "I am well enough," he murmured. "You should get to bed. It's late."

Dylan pulled back slightly, feeling almost as if she'd been slapped. "Nuada…"

"I need you to leave, Dylan," he said. "Please."

Stung, she asked, "Why?"

Nuada squeezed his eyes shut. His hand, which had been pressed flat-palmed to the bedclothes, clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white. Through gritted teeth, he half-snarled, "Because I nearly lost you tonight. Because I have killed men tonight, and their blood and their deaths hang around my neck like stones. I ask you to go because I need you so much in this moment that I am a breath away from tossing my honor aside and begging you to come to my bed so that I might find some solace in your arms, your body. And that makes me ashamed."

She reached out, her fingers just brushing his cheek. He drew a shuddering breath and grasped her hand, turning his face into her palm. His lips whispered a kiss against the center.

"When I joined the army," he mumbled against her hand, "and I killed my first man, my captain sent me to one of the army followers. 'Purge yourself with a beautiful woman,' he told me. Such has been my habit since then when the deaths I deliver become too great. But I would not dishonor you so, my lady. I would not use you, even if you were willing; use you like some beast with a whore to salve my conscience and cleanse my soul. Yet the need is still so strong. You have always comforted me, and I…I ache for you, Dylan…and you were nearly killed…" He shuddered.

Now it was Dylan's turn to lean in and kiss his forehead. "If I go, will you be all right?"

He nodded, eyes still closed. "I will be fine."

So she kissed his forehead again, whispering, "I love you" against his hair, and went back to her own room, leaving him alone.

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Usually Dylan woke slowly, unless something startled her out of sleep: a nightmare, an attack, or a cat jumping on her face. But for some reason, on Midwinter morning she bolted upright out of a sound sleep, heart slamming hard against her ribs, tears running down her cheeks. She wasn't disoriented or afraid; it wasn't a nightmare. She hadn't been dreaming of the future, of a family and a life with Nuada, either (and even if she had been, that dream wasn't impossible anymore, and had lost the power to make her cry). Why was there this heaviness in her chest? This crushing sorrow? It wasn't John. She could feel him in the back of her mind, sound asleep still—he worked nights, after all; it made sense for him to be dead-asleep in the middle of the afternoon. So who…

She threw her legs over the side of the bed the moment the thought came to her. Nuada. Something was wrong. He should've been asleep, but instead he was somewhere nearby—his study?—and his heart was breaking. Or had broken. Why hadn't he woken her? But of course he wouldn't. She'd been up all night. She still felt tired, though her phone said it was almost two in the afternoon. Would she ever get any decent sleep in Faerie? Luckily yesterday had been her last day of work before her two weeks of Christmas vacation, so she could catch up on snoozing later with a cat-nap or ten.

Her bed was warm, though her chamber was positively frosty, so her leg wasn't too stiff, and whatever Somhairle had done to it the night before was probably helping, too. Scrambling out of bed, she got to her feet with minimal discomfort. Where was Nuada? His room? His study? What could've happened that she was actually feeling his sorrow? Had the king said something to him about last night after she'd left her prince? Had Nuala?

A thought froze her for a moment. Zhenjin. What if Zhenjin had…?

"My lady?" Dylan jumped a little at the sound of Fionnlagh's voice. She turned to the leader of her female retinue. Fionnlagh stood at attention by the window with Gráinne, both of them watching her intently. Fionnlagh asked, "My lady, are you all right? Are you ill?"

Dylan shook her head. "I'm fine, thank you. Are you both okay? And Ailís and Onóra?" The two guardswomen nodded. "What about Uaithne and Ailbho?" Another nod. Dylan got the impression her guards were smiling at her. Well, she'd been worried because all of her guards had been injured—except Ailís, at least until the human assassin Dylan had killed had arrived. What had happened to everyone else but herself and Nuada was a bit of a blank after that (though she knew the dogs were with the kids). But now that her concern had been dealt with, she asked, "Do you know where Prince Nuada is?"

"He has been in his study all day, milady," Gráinne replied, "so far as we know."

All day? Dylan frowned. She'd left him in his bedroom; hadn't he slept? Forcing herself not to bite her lip, Dylan thanked her guards and made her way toward the door joining her bedroom with Nuada's. Fionnlagh stopped her at the door, offering her a thick wool-silk over-robe of gorgeous heather blue glittering with fine silver threads, a more feminine match to the blue tunic she often borrowed from Nuada. Dylan frowned.

"That's…not mine."

"It is, milady," Fionnlagh reassured her. "A Midwinter gift from His Highness, should you get cold at night. And it is cold in the castle, milady."

Surprised and touched—she'd thought Nuada's store of gifts for the holiday was used up after last night's jewelry and the gowns he'd bought her—Dylan slipped on the blissfully warm, deliciously soft robe over her black Hello Kitty sleep-shirt. Immediately the chill of the room seemed to dissipate. She wore her blue silk socks, the ones Nuada had bought for her with the silver starbursts, and the enchanted silk kept her toes warm as Fionnlagh preceded her into the prince's room to make sure it was secure. That done, and when the path to Nuada's study was considered "clear" by both his few guards as well as hers, Dylan went to the study door and knocked softly.

There was no reply. She knocked again, frowning. Nothing. To the guards' surprise, Dylan tried the knob. Finding it unlocked, she let herself in, shutting the door firmly behind her. The guards stared at each other, marveling at the human woman's daring. Not even Princess Nuala entered the prince's study without his leave. Would he throw her out?

But the door didn't open again.

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In the study, Dylan leaned against the door and stared at her prince. He sat slumped in his desk chair, which he or a servant had dragged near the fireplace. The fire had died to nothing but glowing embers on the hearth. Several candles guttered in pools of wax in the crystal chalice-like holders. The light was dim as deepening twilight. Nuada leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed. Was he sleeping? Dreaming? Was that the source of the pain Dylan felt emanating from him?

He twitched; a sharp jerking movement that made her jump. His head twisted sharply to one side. His hair, lose from the braid he'd worn earlier that morning, spilled across his cheek and shoulder; the sullen glow from the hearth turned the silvery strands to blood. She saw his fingers convulse on the arm of the chair. His short nails bit small crescents in the dark leather. Dylan took a step toward him.

"No," Nuada whispered. "Please…please. Oh, gods, don't…" He drew a breath that was almost a sob. Dylan choked on a gasp. "Please, Dylan," Nuada moaned softly. Dylan's hand flew to her mouth. What was he dreaming? "Do not do this." His fingers spasmed against the chair-arm again. His head jerked to the other side. "I beg you, beloved…please, wait. Dylan, just wait." She folded her arms around her belly defensively, sorrow and confusion and the faintest whisper of hurt swirling in her chest. Was he dreaming of her leaving him? Why would she ever? Why did he even consider that to be a possibility? Didn't he trust her after everything? "Dylan." Nuada whispered her name like a prayer. "Please, just wait. Just hold on a little longer."

She jolted. Not leaving him…hold on a little longer. Hold on. Was she dying in his nightmare? Clearing her throat, Dylan said, "Nuada." Sharp, firm. She couldn't be sure if the flutter of silver-gold eyelashes and the furrowing of moon-pale brow were because he'd heard her calling, or because of the cruel dream that held him trapped. "Nuada," she said again.

A tremor went through his entire body. He sucked in an agonized breath, as if he'd been stabbed in the heart. Then Nuada bolted upright, much as she had upon waking, eyes snapping wide open and a breathless agonized moan escaping his lips before he sank back against the chair, panting for breath. He brought a white-knuckled fist to his parted lips as he gritted his teeth hard enough that Dylan's jaw ached in response. A low, pain-filled snarl filled the dim study as he hunched his shoulders against the weight of the nightmare.

"Nuada?" Dylan whispered. He flinched as if she'd struck him, then his eyes widened and he twisted in the chair to stare at her, eyes twin gleams in the dimness. He surged to his feet. She stepped toward him, and then he was pulling her tight to him, burying his face against her hair. Dylan felt his ragged exhale before he dragged the scent of her into his lungs. "Nuada, it's all right. It was a nightmare."

"Yes," he rasped against her hair. "Yes. I didn't make it," he added, an ache in his voice. "When the assassins first came. I was too late. I found you, you were so white, so cold, your gown soaked with blood. You were barely breathing." She cuddled closer, the warmth of her breath soothing against his throat. "I held you as…You whispered my name, and smiled for me. Then you were gone."

"It's all right, mo airgeadach," Dylan soothed in a whisper. His grip on her was tight, just shy of too tight, but she could bear it for his sake. "I'm fine. I'm fine, you saved me. I'm fine."

He pulled back to gaze down at her. What did his Elven eyes see in the gloomy light as the fire continued to die? What could they see? All Dylan could really make out with Nuada's back to the hearth was the gleam of his eyes as they roved over her face. Nuada swore under his breath, some Gaelic oath Dylan didn't recognize, and then his mouth was on hers, hot and hungry. He held her captive with his kiss until her knees went weak and her body went limp in his arms. Only when her hand came up to smooth slowly over his cheek and along his jaw, a soothing caress, did he ease back, breathing hard.

"Why?" He demanded in a voice as soft as firelight. "Why is nothing easy?"

Her fingertips trailed over his jaw again, finding tension. She traced the fine Elven features, forehead and slender brow and the spiral scar at his temple, one edge of the royal scar, the curve of his mouth. When she touched his lips, a small smile drew them upward, as if against his will.

"Because," she murmured, "nothing easy is worth having, and what's worth having is worth fighting for."

There were heartbeats of silence, and then Nuada asked, "Am I worth it, Dylan?"

Suddenly Dylan remembered a night, perhaps a month ago, when she'd wept in Nuada's arms over the darkness of her childhood and the horrors of lost innocence. She remembered the words he'd spoken to her then when she'd told him that she wasn't worth him risking himself. Meeting her truelove's eyes now, Dylan murmured, "If not you, then who is? You are worth everything."

Nuada remembered those words; she could see it in the widening of his eyes, feel it when he bent his head and kissed her again, gently this time, a sweet tasting. She'd never thought before about different types of kisses, save those with lips closed and those with mouths open. With this kiss, as with every other Nuada gave her, her prince showed her that all kisses, when done right, were different. His lips were velvet and warmth, gratitude and reverence, as if every brush of his mouth over hers was both desperate plea and tender reassurance. The blood burned in her cheeks as Nuada kissed her chastely; strong hands cradled her face as if she were made of fine porcelain. Thumbs sweeping along the fragile edge of cheekbone, fingers pressing gently against the smooth column of her neck, he pressed his mouth to hers as if trying to memorize the shape of it. The kiss broke like the dawn, slow and easy. She brushed her knuckles over his cheek in a mimic of the caress he often bestowed on one of her scars.

"Are you okay?" She whispered, skimming his cheek with her knuckles again. "You haven't slept, really, have you?"

He sighed. "Not well, but…I will be all right." He kissed her again, gently. "I want to hold you, beloved, if I may. Shall we go to your sitting room? With your guards present," he added wryly, "I shan't be hard-pressed to remember my honor."

Laughing a little, Dylan nodded. "Sure."

.

Dressed in a fresh shirt and trews (the ones he'd worn were badly wrinkled from tossing and turning) the night before, Nuada sank down on the sofa in Dylan's sitting room, his truelove curled up on the seat beside him.

"So," Dylan murmured, "today is Midwinter Day, and that means presents, right? Like this." She lifted the soft robe, silk-and-lamb's-wool of heather blue. She hadn't noticed when she'd put it on, but her initials (minus her surname) were embroidered on the lapel in royal-blue silk thread—DRSN. "Thank you, by the way."

Nuada nodded.

"Well, that's good," she murmured. "I figured there would be gift-exchanging or something, so I brought some of the presents from the house. I hope you like them."

The prince jolted. "You…bought me…a gift?"

She shrugged, smiling. "Gifts, plural. One of them might not have turned out how I wanted it to, but hopefully you like it. You wanna open them?"

He stared at Dylan as if he'd never seen her before. With everything going on, it had never occurred to him that she might take time to prepare solstice gifts for him. He'd done so for her, but…but that was different.

How long had it been since he'd received a Midwinter gift from someone other than Wink? Oh, sometimes Lorelei or another friend bequeathed something, but only if he was actually staying with or near them for the holiday. Well, he remembered, the húli kit, Yun Fei, always sent a gift; she never forgot the prince who'd saved her life as a toddler. But other than that, only Wink had consistently remembered his birthday and Midwinter. Even his father and sister were conservative with gifts, though Nuada made a point always to send things to his family.

"I…" It was such a small thing, gifts, and yet…and yet it wasn't. "I would be honored to open any gifts you might bestow upon me, milady."

With a sunny smile and a quick kiss on his cheek, Dylan bounced off the sofa and scampered into her bedroom. She returned with her arms full of packages. She set a few aside—"For the kids," she said, "when they wake up. I don't want them fetching these particular things from my closet."—but laid three parcels before him on the low sitting-room table. Nuada glanced at her. Dylan perched on the sofa beside him, wriggling like a child with suppressed excitement. It must've been contagious; Nuada found himself strangely nervous as he unwrapped the largest package.

Folds of blue cloth appeared beneath crinkling paper, glinting in places with gold thread. The moment Nuada lifted the material, he knew what it was: a quilt, like the one his mother had made for him before her death, fashioned with love in the heart of the maker. Without quite realizing what he did, Nuada pressed a square against his cheek, a patch of blue suede so soft it could've been velvet. Dylan didn't need to ask if he liked it; she could tell.

The second parcel surprised him even more; it was a greatcoat. A very nice greatcoat. Just as good as the mink-lined velvet cloak he'd given Dylan as a courtship gift. Butter-soft black leather lined with smooth, burgundy Elven silk; slitted back-panels for ease of movement when walking, riding, or even fighting. When Nuada tried it on, it settled around him as lightly as a wisp of cloud, the rich aroma of good leather enveloping him. How had Dylan been able to afford such a gift? Had she made this as well? But no, he knew she lacked the skill. Where had the coat come from?

"A jorōgumo in the East Village made this for me," Dylan murmured, "to pay me back. I'd healed her daughter of an illness that might have killed her if left untreated. The local healer refused to help, because they were spider fae. Probably afraid of the d
aughter biting him while delirious with fever. Anyway, d'you like it? I figured, since you're always buying me stuff, I should return the favor."

"It's marvelous," Nuada murmured. A jorōgumo? The spider fae, native to Onibi, were incomparable weavers. Even
Themba, Master Tailor of Findias, couldn't compare with their skill. Prince or not, this sort of article was beyond his grasp unless he knew one of the man-hating Japanese arachnoids personally—which he didn't. That also explained why it fit perfectly even though he'd never been measured for the garment. Just one of the talents of the unearthly jorōgumo seamstresses.

In the final package, Nuada found a matching pair of black leather riding gloves. They fit perfectly when he tried them on. "Thank you, mo duinne."

She smiled. "You're welcome. You've got other presents, but those are for Christmas. I know the kids have gifts for you, too—somewhere—and they'll want to see—"

"Presents!" The high-pitched, overjoyed cry had both adults twisting around to see A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti scrambling out of their room, rumpled in their pajamas, each clutching a wrapped parcel. Tsu's'di emerged as well, moving somewhat stiffly and stifling a yawn. Speaking in unison, the two younger ewah cried to their prince and mistress, "You guys slept forever!"

"I couldn't hold the savages back any longer," Tsu's'di added, grinning.

Dylan grinned back. "Sorry about that. A'du, can you get the rest of the packages from my closet, please?"

The little boy shoved his package into his sister's hands, shot Dylan a salute, and raced to obey. 'Sa'ti skipped over and handed one present to Nuada, the other to Dylan. Then she plunked herself on the floor. At a nod from the prince, Tsu's'di slumped into a chair. A'du came back dragging an assortment of wrapped items on what looked like the blanket from the boy's bed. Nuada raised an eyebrow. A'du'la'di stopped next to the sofa, panting.

"Couldn't (pant) carry 'em (pant) all. Had to (pant) drag 'em," the boy said.

"Bum," his older brother replied. A'du merely stuck out his tongue before continuing his task. He finally brought the gifts to their proper spot in front of the adults and flopped onto the floor.

Then to Dylan's surprise, Brádach and Étaín—two of Nuada's guards—knocked and entered from the prince's suite, bearing more gifts (the two Butchers had been under orders to deliver said parcels upon the cubs' awakening). These were deposited with those from Dylan's closet. Dylan glanced at Nuada, wondering how many of those were for her, and hoping the answer was "not many." He bought her so many things already, things she didn't deserve. The mortal hoped her prince intended most of the packages for their children.

"Just think," she murmured to Nuada. "When we have children, they'll jounce us awake on Midwinter and Christmas morning yelping about opening presents." The prince smiled. Then he lifted two packages from the pile and handed one each to A'du and 'Sa'ti. He fixed A'du'la'di with a stern gaze as the boy accepted the parcel.

"A'du'la'di," the prince said. The boy instantly straightened up. "From this moment forth, you may no longer carry my knife."

The cub immediately deflated. "But…but…" His eyes were wide and despairing in his small face. Dylan cocked her head, eyeing her prince. "But, Your Highness…what did I do? What'd I do wrong? I won't do it again, I promise!"

"You did nothing wrong," the prince replied. Dylan frowned, but waited for Nuada to add, "Open your gift."

Uncertain, A'du obediently pulled the string and peeled back the paper, revealing a box of polished white wood the length of the child's forearm. Lifting the silver latch and propping up the lid, he peered at the contents. His eyes widened and a deliriously happy grin broke across his face. His gaze darted to Nuada, down to the box, to Nuada again and then back to the box. With trembling hands, he lifted out a knife in a silver-chased white leather sheath. A moonstone etched with his mistress's crest sat in the pommel of Elven silver. A'du expertly thumbed the sheath's catch and reverently drew the knife. Silver shushed against leather. An intricate flowering-vine detail was lightly etched along the length of the slender, shining blade.

"Oh, wow," 'Sa'ti whispered.

Tsu's'di leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, examining the knife from his chair. He let out a low whistle. "That," he said, "is a real warrior's knife."

"Like the one the prince gave you, Tsu's'di," A'du whispered, staring in delighted awe at the blade. Finally he raised his eyes to his mistress and whispered, "Look, A'ge'lv. Look what the prince gave me." Then he focused on his hero. "Thank you, Your Highness. I'll try to be worthy."

A warm smile spread over Nuada's face. "You already are, A'du'la'di. You're old enough to have a blade of your own, one that serves as a declaration of your loyalty. Bear it well."

The child nodded, trying to look solemn but unable to suppress his exultant grin. "I will."

Next to him, 'Sa'ti gave a cry of delight. Dylan wondered if Nuada had given her a knife as well, but no. She was a bit young for a weapon as well-crafted as the one Nuada had gifted to A'du'la'di. A practice knife, maybe, but that wasn't what she'd unwrapped. Instead, 'Sa'ti held a doll. It was made of fluffy spotted cloth to give the illusion of fur, with a feline face and bright turquoise eyes identical to the little girl's. A blue velvet dress—very similar to the cougar girl's favorite church dress—adorned the figure. 'Sa'ti stared with avid joy at the doll, then looked up at the prince, squirming with happiness.

"I've never seen anything so pretty in my whole life!" She cried, squeezing the doll and raining little kisses on its fluffy head. "I love it, I love it!" Scrambling madly, she lurched to her feet and ran to the prince, throwing her short arms as far around his broad shoulders as she could reach, and hugged him. "Oh, thank you, Your Highness! Thank you! I love it!"

Nuada stiffened briefly, then remembered to return the little girl's embrace, patting her awkwardly on the back. Then, as if she'd suddenly recalled that he was a prince and she was a servant, 'Sa'ti stepped back and offered a quick little curtsy that Dylan found utterly adorable, still clutching the precious doll.

Dylan's gifts to the children were fairly standard—more picture books, as requested, for the cubs, and a box of fae candy to split between them. For Tsu's'di, there was candy, too (when Dylan remarked, "Because growing guys are always hungry," the cougar youth grinned); a trio of books he'd admired from the Troll Market; and a pair of silver-tooled, white leather vambraces tooled in silver that Dylan had picked out at the Floating Night Market in Manhattan.

"Whoa. Oh, A'ge'lv," Tsu's'di whispered, caressing the leather. "I…I…wow. Just…wow. Thank you. They're so…cool!" With 'Sa'ti's help – she was getting good at tying laces, from helping Dylan with her gowns – the youth put on the vambraces. They looked very fine gracing his wrists and forearms.

From Nuada to the children came the rest of their formal livery—including their last changes of Midwinter finery for the rest of the winter festivities. He'd also bought 'Sa'ti a knife, but hers was a simple practice blade. Tsu's'di received his own elegant blade, identical to A'du's, but larger. He gave a truncated bow to his prince and murmured, "Thank you, Sire. I'll try to be worthy of this blade, too."

Both young ewah were also gifted with leather slings, which Nuada informed them they were expected to master quickly (the stable-lads would no doubt enjoy teaching them the use of the country weapons). Second only to the knife and doll and candy—at least in A'du and 'Sa'ti's estimation—was the pair of small bows carved with beautiful knotwork, each sized specifically for their small owners. 'Sa'ti—and her doll—admired the polished length of her bow, made of white yew. Tsu's'di received an appropriately-sized bow, as well.

A'du inspected his own bow with more maturity and a sharper eye than Dylan would've expected from the child. Then he got to his feet and knelt before his prince, hand over his heart. Dylan and Nuada exchanged surprised looks before Nuada focused on the kneeling boy.

"A'du'la'di?" Nuada questioned cautiously, one eyebrow raised. The child raised his head. His expression was remarkably solemn.

"Your Highness…you're giving me a warrior's weapons, so…so I want to promise that you can count on me," he murmured. "For anything. I promise I'll always be loyal to you and A'ge'lv Dylan. I…you know that oath Tsu's'di made when you found us? 'Sa'ti and I didn't make that oath. Just Tsu's'di. But I feel like…should I do it now? You gave me a knife and a bow and you said I'm old enough to have one, so…and people have been saying stuff."

The prince frowned. "What have people been saying?"

"That we're not really your vassals; we're just normal servants, because we didn't make the right oath or something. That when you and the a'ge'lv…when you break up…that you're gonna get rid of us. I want to say the right oath. I want to be yours and A'ge'lv Dylan's vassal."

Nuada glanced at the cougar youth in his chair. Tsu's'di nodded, eyes hard and face solemn. So…someone had been saying things either to or within A'du's hearing. Idle gossip? Or something else? Giving away nothing of his thoughts, the crown prince of Bethmoora inclined his head regally.

"Very well. Oath or not, you will always have a place with us, A'du'la'di—you and your family. But as you wish, so shall it be. 'Sa'ti is not yet old enough to make this oath, but you and your brother are." And he would find out who'd been spreading this story of dissention between himself and Dylan later. "Both of you, retrieve your blades and kneel before me." After obeying, the cougar boys looked up at their prince. "Repeat after me."

He walked them through the formal oath of fealty, which outlined the duties and responsibilities of a vassal. At the end, he asked both of them, one at a time, his voice ringing with princely authority, "Art thou willing to become entirely mine and my lady's man?"

Tsu's'di nodded and gave the ritualistic reply. A'du'la'di, looking strangely adult, kept his eyes fixed on his hero as he said, slowly and carefully to keep from fudging the words, "Verily, I am willing."

"Then we accept your fealty with gratitude and love," the prince replied.

Tsu's'di nodded again, but the adult aura around the cougar child fell away, and A'du grinned. "Awesome."

"When will I be old enough?" 'Sa'ti asked in a plaintive voice. "I wanna be a real vassal, too!"

Nuada quickly calculated. "In nine years." Ewah aged one year of maturity for every five chronological years, and 'Sa'ti was thirty-one. When she was forty years old, she would be old enough to swear an oath of fealty.

The child looked horrified. "But that's forevers!"

Dylan smiled at the little girl. "In the meantime, you're still my favorite handmaiden."

"Yay!"

The three ewah, Dylan, and Nuada went on to open the rest of the gifts. The remaining gift from Dylan to the prince was a delight—somehow in her spare time (what little of it she possessed) she'd managed to put together one of the two miniature armies from the clockwork chess set they'd purchased at the Troll Market. He'd been able to put half the secondary army together before this, so if he took some time to finish, they would soon be able to play chess with the clockwork set.

From Nuada for his truelove was more jewelry—a princess, he explained to her when her eyes widened at the sight of a broach made of dark emeralds and amber seed pearls set in gold, needed jewels to help give the proper impression—as well as a set of leather-bound books containing legends from Bethmoora, which Nuada knew would she'd love.

But the thing that delighted Dylan the most was the socks. She cooed at crimson footwear patterned like ladybugs; snuggled exquisitely soft amber-colored cashmere stockings; sighed deliriously over green and brown socks like fuzzy turtles. Her favorite pair, however, was the socks that looked like #2 pencils. Dylan kicked off her slippers, stripped off her socks, and stuffed her feet into the pencil-socks. She wiggled her toes, rapturous. Then Dylan flung her arms around her prince and kissed him soundly on the mouth ('Sa'ti sighed about the "romanticalness" and A'du cried, "Ew!").

The children's gifts to Nuada and Dylan were something of a surprise.

For Dylan, the children had made a beautiful mosaic of the cottage against a piece of old but soft, well-oiled leather they'd requested from Nils, the Master of the Stables, and framed so it could stand up on the fireplace mantel. The granite blocks of the cottage had been pieced together from small, gray stones they'd collected (with permission) from the public gardens; the door was bits of pinecone, which made the ensemble smell of spicy evergreens. Stiffened fragments of lace made up the curtained windows. Tiny pieces of blue and white-frosted glass represented the blue and white lights that had decorated the eaves and walkway when the cubs had first come to the cottage. Small, dried flowers and green and brown stones approximated Dylan's garden, dusted with glued-on flour for snow. Carefully arranged bits of clean straw served for the thatching of Dylan's roof, also sprinkled with the flour (also glued, to keep from making a mess). More gray pebbles and several twigs dipped in whitewash formed the garden walls and wooden gate, and shiny black buttons of varying sizes made up the sky. The moon was a single, shiny button the color of pearl. Flecks of river mica glued to the buttons served for stars.

"Oh, wow," Dylan whispered, brushing loving fingers over the mosaic. She looked at A'du and 'Sa'ti, who watched her with mingled trepidation and excitement. "Where on earth did you two get the idea to do this?"

"It was 'Sa'ti's idea," A'du said promptly with a grin. "I helped get the stuff and put it together. Tsu's'di helped with the leather."

"And the glass," the youth added dryly. I was worried they'd cut their hands open or something."

"So it's from all of us," 'Sa'ti chirped. "You don't get your Christmas present until Christmas, though."

Dylan raised her eyebrows. "I get a Christmas present, too?" The cubs nodded. The mortal grinned. "Well, now I'm really excited."

The cubs' gift to the prince was a carved wooden statue. The statue was a (somewhat messily) painted shield leaning against a sword thrust point-down into the ebony base. The device on the shield was a pair of crossed, black-handled lances, blades colored with shining silver and with golden grips, set against a crimson field. The wooden longsword had been painted silver, the hilt and cross-guard black and gold. It was a (rather amateurly rendered) recreation of Nuada's own blade. Gold paint on a bas-relief on the wooden base made it look like a trophy with a plaque. Words had been carefully etched into the plaque and filled in with black paint: Honor and Valor.

"It's like a trophy," 'Sa'ti piped up when Nuada simply stared at the medium-sized carving. Nervous, she directed her remarks to Dylan. "For the prince. Because he's brave and stuff." She and A'du'la'di exchanged a glance, then the child continued gamely, "We thought you could keep it on your desk, Your Highness."

"I carved it," Tsu's'di added diffidently. "Colum McCleod, in the stables, showed me how."

"And me and 'Sa'ti painted it. Is…is it okay?" A'du asked when the prince didn't speak. Nuada simply turned the carving over and over in his hands. "Do you like it?"

Uneasy, 'Sa'ti mumbled, "We're sorry we can't paint very good. We tried really hard. Don't you like it?"

The prince took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He closed his eyes, brow furrowing, and brushed his thumb over the words carved into the base. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the children.

"This is a very good gift," he said softly. The cubs grinned. Tsu's'di smiled; he'd been feeling uneasy, too, in the face of the prince's silence. Nuada added, "I'm honored by it." He would, he decided, keep the statue on his desk as 'Sa'ti had suggested.

"Yes!" A'du and 'Sa'ti high-fived each other.

"Milady," Nuada murmured, catching Dylan's attention. "There is something else I wish to gift to you. I'll fetch it, shall I?"

Still smiling, Dylan nodded, and Nuada left the room.

"What's all the ruckus?" A sleepy voice called from Dylan's room. Francesca had been shifted to Dylan's bedroom when she and Nuada had come into the sitting room. Now she stumbled from the bedchamber into the sitting room. "Good morning," the mortal waitress mumbled with a yawn, coming in to plop down on the sofa beside Dylan. She dropped her head on her sister's shoulder. "What's with all the presents?"

"Midwinter," Dylan said, dropping an arm around her older sister. "It's like Christmas for a lot of the fae." She hugged Francesca. "When do you have work? You're not going to be late, are you?"

Francesca shook her head, smiling a little oddly. "I won't be late, though I do have to get back soon." Grinning, she leaned in and whispered in her sister's ear, "I realized this morning I left my panties at Davio's place yesterday."

Dylan dropped her face in her hands again, this time to smother exasperated laughter. "You…are…such a—"

"Slut," Cesca said airily. "Yeah, I know. He's hot, though, Dylan, you have no clue. He's got these muscles…mmm."

"Mine's better," Dylan replied, but then she nudged her sister with one elbow and indicated 'Sa'ti and A'du with a nod of her chin to remind her older sister that they needed to keep the manly comparison of their respective loves G-rated while the kids were in the room. Francesca nodded, then arched a brow. Dylan rolled her eyes. "Yes, mine is better."

"Well, at least he doesn't live in a sewer," her sister said.

"Your boyfriend lives in the sewer?" Dylan exclaimed, startled. "Doesn't that bother you?"

Francesca shook her head. "I don't know how it works or whatever, but it's like the sewer's not even there. No smell, no rats, no damp or anything like that. You can't even hear the water in the pipes. The whole place smells like sandalwood, actually, and there's always nice music playing. And you can get to it without having to go through the rest of the sewers."

"Huh."

"So I do need to get back kinda soon…Anyway, since it's almost Christmas, weren't you going to take the kids to Mr. Mago-"

Dylan clapped her hand over her sister's mouth. "Shhh," the mortal psychiatrist hissed in her sister's ear. "They don't know about that yet. Quiet." Francesca raised her hands in mock-surrender. Dylan released her. "We have to get permission from the king before we can go, anyway. So shush. Don't get their hopes up."

"Gotcha," Francesca murmured. "Well, I'm gonna…" The other woman trailed off when Nuada strode back in, face inscrutable. He paused at the sight of Francesca intruding on the idyllic little Midwinter scene. "Um…"

Nuada gave her a sharp nod, then focused on Dylan. "My lady, I request your presence in the salle after you've made your goodbyes to your sister." Dylan didn't raise her eyebrows; she'd learned to mostly school her expressions since dealing with the king. Hadn't Nuada gone to get her another gift? He was empty-handed now. And why was he suddenly being so formal? Because of Francesca's presence? The thought of her sister reminded the mortal woman that someone had to take Cesca back to the mortal realm, and due to the means of transport, only one of three people could do it—Dylan, Wink, or Becan, because they would have to take her back via the ensorcelled ring and the underground healing sanctuary. Becan didn't know about the haven; would Nuada trust him with that information?

Apparently he meant to do just that, because after a tiny knock about a foot off the floor from the front room of Nuada's suite, Becan poked his head past the door and then stepped into the room. He swept a low bow to the prince, bowed to his mistress, offered the children a smile, and nodded to Francesca, who waved jauntily.

"Becan will escort your sister back to the mortal realm, and accompany her to wherever she may wish to journey. Is there aught else you require before we go, milady?"

"Well, I need to get dressed."

He nodded and bowed to her. "I'll await you in the corridor." He picked up the new greatcoat Dylan had gifted him with and swirled it around his shoulders, jerking his arms through the sleeves and tugging the leather into place across shoulders and chest. Dylan realized he meant to go outside. A linen shirt and tunic wouldn't have protected him from the wintry chill. Nuada strode from the room, his guards following after.

Francesca let out a low whistle after the door shut behind him. "Something bit him in the-" Francesca glanced at 'Sa'ti, then said, "Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed. Oh, wait. Didn't he, uh…" She mimed cracking a whip.

"No, it was postponed," Dylan mumbled. "I don't know why he's suddenly so tense. Something must have happened."

"Okay, then something definitely bit him on his incredibly well-toned…posterior, Francesca substituted at the very last second.

"Huh," Dylan said, only half paying attention. As soon as they were alone, she was getting to the bottom of whatever was bothering her prince. "Never mind, Cesca. Becan will take care of you." On impulse, the mortal psychiatrist kissed her sister on the cheek. "Thank you for helping me, Cesca. I really needed it."

"No problem, sweets," she murmured, getting to her feet. "See ya later." She followed Becan into Dylan's bedroom.

Dylan waited a couple minutes to make sure they were gone—it was rather disorienting to watch someone simply blink out of existence—before going into her room herself to change. Whatever was suddenly bothering Nuada, she was going to find out exactly what it was ASAP.