Chapter 89 - Fortune's Fool

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Fortune's Fool

that is

A Short Tale of Insomnia, the Princess's Plans, Punishment, a Fantasy, Tenderness, a Terrible Decision, and Cruel Confessions

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That night, Dylan couldn't sleep. Instead of trying, she'd finished perusing the books on Avalon and making mental notes on the defenses and obstacles that between her, Nuada, and the apples of the magical isle. The last book had been closed just as dawn peeped above the horizon.

She'd known at that point that Nuada was already on his way to see the king. Already on his way to be punished for protecting her. Her fingers had scrunched in the blankets as she'd tried to force the images away of Nuada being bound to the whipping posts, the lash cracking against his back, amber blood trickling down across moon-pale skin. She hadn't wanted to think of that. She hadn't wanted to think of her prince suffering for something so unfair. Instead, she'd gotten up and done something with herself.

Now she gazed out the window and tried to think of another way to help Nuada. She'd already written the request for an audience with Prince Emīru and Princess Shāuddo of Onibi; Nuada could look it over at his leisure when he returned, to make sure she'd done it right. With some coaching from Ailís and Fionnlagh, and with Nuada's permission, Dylan had also written a note to Nuala explaining her plan for getting the king to send medical aid and various sundry supplies to the northern villages (minus the nefarious subterfuge involving bringing in various armed guards to deal with any attacks while the royal party was visiting the border villages, though Dylan had explained why she wanted to bring John and Francesca—to show them more of Faerie and her new life). That note would be delivered to the princess when she woke, probably over breakfast. With Nuala's help, Dylan was almost positive they could convince the king to help the villages as a "belated Midwinter gift" to his future daughter-in-law. Especially if Nuala and Nuada added a layer of subtext, that this would help make up for Dylan almost getting killed, twice, under the king's nose.

What else could she do, though? There had to be something she could do to help, or to at least ease Nuada's burdens. She knew, for example, that they were running out of time regarding the human assassin they'd recaptured. The king would push to have him released soon—in the next few days, most likely. Dylan also knew the fae had gotten nowhere with the assassin; he was saying nothing regarding his employer, his compatriots, his price—nothing. And because of the truce and the king's still-cooling wrath in regards to the two dead mortal assassins, they couldn't torture information out of their prisoner, either.

Dylan wasn't sure how she felt about torturing someone. On the one hand, it was such a cruel, terrible thing to do. On the other hand, this assassin had tried to kill her and Zhenjin, and his employer probably intended to finish the job. And if other people were in danger, as well? Did the lives of potential innocents outweigh the inhumanity of torture?

But that was a moot point, anyway, wasn't it? Because even if Nuada were willing—and she wasn't sure her prince was above torturing someone for information when it put her in a direct line of danger—he couldn't do it anyway. No fae could torture someone in the king's custody.

No fae…

What if…what if she…but she couldn't. She couldn't possibly torture someone. Could she? To protect Nuada, to protect Zhenjin and perhaps others, could she torture someone? What if she didn't have to actually torture anyone? What if she could just imply…

Dylan scrunched her eyes shut and ran over a list of natural herbs she kept in stock in the cottage. Then she whipped out her phone and sent a rapid text to Dr. Hollis at St. Vincent's. Finally, she sent a text to John, asking if he was free in the next few days for several hours.

The reply texts came back, staggered, about an hour later. Yes, Hollis could get her what she needed…but why did she need it? She texted back that she couldn't explain but that she only needed a little of it, and would Hollis please trust her? Please? He responded that he would drop off what she needed at her cottage—as a "gift." John replied that he was free whenever Dylan needed him. Dylan asked him to please be available Christmas Eve morning, early, and for John to bring his gun. Her brother was slow to respond, but he agreed, though he sent her a WTF? emoticon.

Closing her eyes, Dylan pressed her fingers to her temples. She was a princess now—or would be. She couldn't just stand around and let Nuada do all the work of running a kingdom, protecting her and their people. It was her turn to step up beside him and do what princesses were supposed to do. She could handle this. She would do it for the fae. For Nuada. For Zhenjin.

The mortal rubbed her temples. She would do this, she thought, because she had to.

Just as that thought crystallized in her mind, she heard movement coming from the other side of the door leading to Nuada's bedroom.

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Nuada closed his eyes as hot blood seeped from the wounds and trickled down his back to soak into the tops of his black trousers. He hadn't flinched during the flogging, though his face still remained tight with pain even now as he pressed his forehead to the post of his bed. He'd kept his eyes closed during the punishment as well. He hadn't looked at his father as a Butcher had whipped him; he hadn't wanted the king to see something he might mistake for accusation in the prince's gaze.

Nuada knew his father had been merciful in assigning him a mere twenty lashes. In truth he'd expected worse. The last time he'd felt the bite of the whip against his flesh, the number had been a hundred times that many, and he'd been chained with ensorcelled iron to iron whipping posts. This time simple leather thongs had bound his hands to keep him on his feet. And this time, at least, the person wielding the whip hadn't been intent on flaying flesh from bone with every strike.

He hadn't thought about the pain as the lash came down, though his back had burned. Instead he'd thought of Dylan, and of the thin filament of hope sparkling just beyond his reach. If they managed to get their hands on the quert of Ynys Affalon—if they made it, with the help of King Rennan of Eìrc, to the island of Mag Mell—Dylan would be immortal. He would never need fear losing her to time and death, as he did now. And if her mercy and her compassion, her forgiveness, allowed it…they would be wed in forty-five days. No…forty-four days, now, as dawn already filled the sky with carnelian fire and threads of rose and gold. They would be wed and she would at last be his wife. Except that…except that she would never stand for…unless he…

Ignoring the pain and the shadows at the edges of his thoughts, Nuada had allowed himself to imagine marrying Dylan. She would wear white, as she'd requested, with the traditional gold. In his mind's eye he saw her swathed in iridescent moonbeam silk, the soft material luminous as a pearl. She would hold a bouquet of lacy white snowdrops; one of her favorite flowers. He fantasized about the way the faint breeze would tease him with the fragrance of her perfume. Not lilies and roses, not for this. Something else. Something different.

He'd tried to imagine the feel of Dylan's slender hands in his as she finally drew close to him beneath the Royal Eildon Tree and the marriage ceremony began. Her eyes would be lit from within, like sunlight through misted sapphires. When they exchanged vows, sealing their pledge with a kiss, he knew he would be happier in that moment than he ever had been before. He could think of only two other events that possessed the power to make him happier, and those were only possible if they could secure Dylan's immortality.

But if—no, when—when she is at last as long-lived as an Elf and we are wed, I will do all in my power to give her that dearest wish of her heart, Nuada swore silently to himself as his back spasmed with the sudden memory of pain. I will do all that I can to give her the child she yearns for. I swear to you, my love, you will have the child you desire.

A dull ache in his shoulders as well as the throb in his healing ribs from the unnatural position he'd been forced into had yet to fade. He remembered focusing on the king seated on his throne in the King's Hall, and stepping purposefully away from the whipping posts and coming to the foot of the dais on which the king's throne rested. Kneeling, he'd bowed his head before the king. Blood had slipped down his back, tickling his ribs and rolling in tiny amber droplets down his shoulders and arms as he knelt. It could have been worse; he'd known that, and he was grateful that though his blood cooled on his skin in the morning air, he was still able to move without debilitating pain, and his back remained unflayed, though the wounds burned.

"Is it finished to Your Majesty's satisfaction?" The crown prince had asked in a voice tight with pain and exhaustion. He hadn't slept since the night before last, and he hadn't slept well in many nights. On top of that, he'd been healed—was still being healed—by magic. His body was now flagging under the punishing trials he'd recently undergone. Though the flogging hadn't been brutal, the pain still swept over him in red-hot waves.

Balor had inclined his head. "I am satisfied," he'd said in a voice that rang through the nearly-empty Great Hall. Only a chosen few had been called to bear witness to the prince's punishment—Nuada's guards, the Lord Chamberlain, the Lord Steward, the Lord Provost, and Chief-Healer Somhairle, as well as the king's retinue of guards—including the female Butcher Captain, Sáruit ingen Chuinn. At King Balor's words, all of the witnesses had offered a fist-to-chest salute typical of the Butcher Guards, but one that was also used in formal matters such as this. It was a gesture that meant, in essence, "We hear, we see. We understand and accept. Thus we bear witness."

Nuada had raised his head in time to see his father stretch out his hand, offering his son a hand up. After a moment's hesitation, Nuada had taken it. Balor had pulled his son to his feet. Shock had rippled through the prince, quickly masked, when he'd felt how thin and frail his father's grip had become. Dylan had said she thought the king was ill. Was he? Or had he merely gotten old in Nuada's prolonged absence from the Golden Court?

"Go to your lady, my son," Balor had murmured so that none but perhaps Sáruit could hear him. "Let her fuss over you. It will soothe her to be able to help you."

A wan smile had tugged at dark lips and Nuada had said, "No doubt she will henpeck me like some shrewish dwarf wife."

Balor had smiled and inclined his head. "No doubt."

Now Nuada's hand clamped harder around the bedpost. He had no intention of letting Dylan tend to him; he had no intention of letting her see him until the bleeding had stopped and his wounds were wrapped. Nuada hadn't forgotten the terrible grief and fear in Dylan's eyes whenever she recalled the flogging he'd suffered at the king's order. The prince would take care of himself and his wounds; only then would he seek out the comfort of Dylan's presence.

As if the thought had conjured her, the door betwixt their rooms opened and Dylan stepped into his bedchamber.

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Dylan took several steps forward into the room, then stopped, biting her lip.

Nuada stood beside his bed, one hand gripping the bedpost so hard his knuckles burned stark white against the blue-tinged gray of his skin. His hair hung in a braid over his shoulder, silvery-gold and unstained by blood, so far as Dylan could tell. He pressed his forehead against the tall bedpost. His eyes were shut, the silver lashes like feathery crescent moons against his cheeks, catching the dancing light of the fireplace. Lines of strain marred his features. Tension screamed in every line of his body. Dylan took another step forward. She glimpsed smears of blood on Nuada's shoulders and on his sides. His fingers were blood-stained, as well. He clutched a dark cloth in his other hand. A clean tunic lay on his bed.

"Go from me, Dylan," he whispered. "I do not wish you to see—"

"Shut up," she said softly, coming to him. "Just shut up." She pulled the cloth from his hand. It was damp. Where it touched her skin, it left faint smears of amber. "You're hurt. Let me see." When she tried to move around to get a good look at his back, he shifted, angling toward her so she couldn't see his injuries. "Nuada—"

"Will you allow me no pride, woman?" He snapped, regretting it the moment hurt flashed across her face.

Dylan swallowed. Then, without ever breaking his gaze, she asked in a quiet voice, "Will you allow me no comfort, after the night I've had? The week I've had? I've been waiting for you to come back since before dawn. Seeing you nearly killed right in front of me—twice—just two days ago and I haven't slept all night, knowing you were being hurt and you won't even let me look, won't let me help—"

"Forgive me," Nuada whispered. He reached out to touch her cheek, but drew his hand back when he remembered the blood on his fingers. "I…did not mean to speak sharply. You need to do this?" She nodded. He sighed. "Very well, then…little healer." The corner of his mouth curved in a crooked smile when she huffed a laugh. "I arranged for servants to bring the necessary things to my study. I merely came in here to retrieve a shirt, but then I realized how much I was bleeding and…" He trailed off, realizing he was coming as close to rambling as he ever did. He blamed it on blood loss and exhaustion. "Come with me," he concluded.

Nuada's guards said nothing at the sight of their bleeding prince or his tense betrothed as they moved across the front room of the prince's suite to the study door. Neither Nuada nor Dylan said a word, either; the mortal kept her eyes on the floor. She didn't want to look at Nuada's ravaged back with witnesses watching her, in case she started railing at the king again.

Inside the prince's study, Dylan draped the tunic over the back of the bronze visitor's chair intended for large fae like Wink and went to Nuada's desk. Spread out across the ebony surface were bandages, clean cloths, and two large wooden bowls—one full of steaming, soapy water and the other full of clear, fresh water, also hot enough to send lemon-scented steam wafting upward from the smooth surface. An empty porcelain bowl sat on the desk beside a few vials of what looked like oil. Dylan ignored those. Instead, she dipped one of the cloths into the bowl of soapy water and wrung it out.

"Before you look," Nuada murmured, his voice gentle; he perched on a tall stool to give her easy access to his wounds. "I wish you to understand that it looks worse than it truly is. I promise you, I am not badly hurt." She nodded and handed him a damp cloth to clean his hands. When he was finished, she twirled her finger in a circle, silently ordering him to turn around so she could get a look at the damage to his back. After a moment's hesitation, he obeyed.

It wasn't as bad as she'd expected; Dylan understood that in the rational part of her mind. This was very different from when Nuada had hung half-conscious from the iron whipping posts, blood sheeting down his back, the flesh a gory ruin that would've made her sick if she hadn't already had experience with such terrible wounds. Now, though old blood crusted the moon-pale flesh and fresh blood seeped from the wounds, there was at least actual flesh left on his back in the first place. Dylan swallowed and stepped forward, bringing up the cloth to begin cleaning Nuada's injuries.

The soap stung in the open lashes. Nuada's breath came in a long, slow hiss; he barely stifled a low groan. His fingers clenched, but he forced them one by one to loosen and relax. Dylan's touch was gentle as she stroked over his back with the soft cloth, as if she were slowly brushing the blood and pain away. The tender way she bathed his wounds reminded him strongly of those first few months in the sanctuary. He'd been a fool not to savor the intimate touches she'd bestowed in the course of healing him all those moons ago.

He suddenly remembered how she had once had to kneel on the floor in front of him between his knees, dressed only in a loose white under-shift, while she tended to the healing gunshot wound in his belly. And before that, when she'd cleaned the blood from his skin after the makeshift surgery that had saved his life, and she had knelt before him then…only that time, he'd been unashamedly nude.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. Her hand stilled at his back. "For how I behaved in the sanctuary when we first met. I must have made you very uncomfortable."

After a moment, Dylan gave a soft, low laugh that swept over Nuada's skin like a caress, and began wiping away the blood once more. "A little bit, but…it's more of an issue now, actually. You know, trying not to remember how you looked naked."

Despite the lines of fire cutting across his back and shoulders, Nuada found himself smiling almost wolfishly. "My lady…do I take that to mean that you think about me without my clothes?"

"If you weren't injured, I'd smack you," she replied tartly.

"It was a simple, innocent question."

She snorted. "There is nothing innocent about you, Your Highness. And you don't see me asking questions like that." When he merely chuckled, she paused in her ministrations. "I have never asked if you fantasize about me naked."

"Darling," Nuada replied, "of course you don't. You're not a woman who wastes time asking questions with obvious answers."

His truelove was silent long enough for him to start to—figuratively—sweat when she asked in a quiet, almost timid voice, "Nuada…do you fantasize about me…like that?"

To his surprise, heat flared across his cheeks. He wasn't blushing…but if he'd been younger, he might have been. His stomach twisted a little, but he gave her an honest answer. "You are a very beautiful woman, Dylan. One of the most beautiful women I've ever met. You may say that is only my opinion, but that isn't the point. I find you…alluring. Yet I also know that for me to deliberately think about you in such a way would make you uncomfortable and perhaps upset you, so when I find my thoughts taking such turns, I do my best to curb them, though I admit your beauty makes it difficult." He didn't see her cheeks flush. "Sometimes I have thought about what it would be like," she went utterly still, "to make love to you." Her breath hitched when he said, make love. Nuada continued, "But it was not so much a fantasy as a plan. When our time comes, I want it to be everything you wish it to be, and so I have considered various…skills I might employ to ease your fears and see to your comfort. Our wedding is less than two moons away. I do not want anything to distress you. Does…that offend you?"

"Oh, no," she said, and he could almost hear the smile in her voice. "That's sweet, actually. I know you're used to just…you know, having a girl if you want her—and if she's okay with it—so I know it's hard for you to not have that with me. I know it frustrates you a lot that I'm so uptight. Thank you for not pressuring me."

How had they even gotten on this subject? He wondered with some amusement. It seemed like the last thing they'd be discussing while she mopped up his lash-wounds. But aloud he only said, "Frustrates me? Is that what you think?" Though it made the tight flesh around his wounds stretch and burn, he reached behind and grasped one of her hands. Her fingers were slender and warm against his skin. "I will tell you how being forced to wait affects me, Dylan. It makes me anticipate the day when I can finally surrender my body to you all the more. If I am in any way frustrated, it is merely because I am eager to show you what lovemaking should be, for I wish to erase the scars on your heart if it is within my power."

Dylan sighed softly. "Romance is certainly your forte. I love you," she added. "I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'm glad you're with me, Nuada. I'm just…I'm so glad we're together."

"As am I, beloved," he murmured. "You bring me joy when I had thought it lost, faded from a gray and dreary world. You are my breath and my heartbeat." He pressed a kiss to the warmth of her palm. "You are everything."

She drew a shaking breath. "We're going to be okay," she said, not knowing why she felt compelled to say so, but knowing he needed to hear it. "We will. Don't worry." She must have been finished cleaning out his stripes, because after she stopped to wet and wring out a washcloth, it didn't sting with soap when the new cloth touched his skin, and he smelled the fragrance of lemon. He didn't speak until she'd begun washing away any lingering traces of soap.

"Sometimes it is difficult, wanting you so much. I feel as if without you I cannot breathe or think or even stand. As if without you, I have nothing. I have never loved someone like this. If I could, I would forsake all who attempted to stand between us and simply come to you, offer myself…but I cannot. You do understand that?"

A soft cloth chased the remnants of moisture on his skin as Dylan skimmed the drying cloth lightly over his back, careful of the clean wounds that had finally stopped bleeding. "I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me…but I think…I think you're trying to say that if you didn't have responsibilities—all the things required of you as a prince—you would devote yourself…"

"To you," he murmured. "Yes. Dylan…if war breaks out between the humans and fae…I…I must—"

"Don't leave me," she said softly, fiercely. He froze, then turned slowly to face her. Her eyes were wide and wet, but she didn't cry. Not this time. She only set the drying cloth on the desk and reached out to cradle his face between her hands. "Promise me that if there's a war you won't…reject me because I'm human or ship me off somewhere or something. I mean…war sucks and I know you worry about me, but I worry about you, too. If things really do go that far, I…" She trailed off, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly on the words she wanted to say before she finally whispered, "I want to be with you when it happens. I want to protect you. Don't leave me alone, Nuada. I've been alone, in one way or another, most of my life. Now I'm not…because of you. Please don't take that away."

"Dylan…" Stars curse it, he didn't want to! He'd sworn never to send her away, never to abandon her, but what else could he do? She would never stay with him if he attempted to resurrect the Golden Army. Even if she did eventually forgive him the sin, for the time she forsook him, his truelove would be alone. And in a way, was not her greatest fear to be alone? "Dylan, there will be things I am forced to do if—when—war comes. I don't want you to—"

"To what?" She asked. "Look at you like you're a monster? Nuada, I trust you. I know you would never go against the dictates of your honor. You would never do anything evil. War is terrible, but you'd fight it as cleanly as possible, I know you would. You'd never do anything that could make me think of you the way they do."

He covered her hands with his. How often would they dance with words, coming so painfully close to the knife edge of his past and present sins, before he finally found his courage and just confessed? Would she understand that it wasn't hatred or rage or vengeance that drove him, but fear? Fear for his kingdom, his people. For all the Fair Folk. How would his people survive in a world shared with humans? They couldn't. They simply could not. Would Dylan, with her tender heart and her forgiveness, understand that necessity drove him to condemn his own soul to Hell in order to save those he had sworn to protect?

"I do not want to lose you."

Dylan shook her head as if in disbelief. "Why do you keep saying that? It's not going to happen."

"One day," he whispered. A hundred images and memories flashed through his head, some nightmare and some all too real: Dylan bleeding and broken on his bed after Eamonn had taken her from him that first night ever in Findias; the sight of her when she'd strode out of his study, eyes damp with tears of hurt and anger, just after telling him she hated him; rage filling him when he'd pierced the assassins' glamour and seen the crossbow bolt aimed at her unguarded heart; the wreck of her fragile mortal shell beneath him as he broke her to pieces; Dylan, his truelove, lying so still beneath the assassin who'd made it into the Healers' Wing. Ah, gods, to lose her…to lose her to death or to lose her love was enough to break him. Nuada stroked the backs of her hands with the very tips of his fingers, tracing fragile bone and tendon where it stood out against the delicacy of her skin. To never touch her again, to never hear the velvet caress of his name on her lips ever again…the mere idea was nearly more than he could bear. "One day you will—"

"No." She shook her head. Brushing her thumbs along the edges of the royal scar, she said firmly, fiercely, "No. It's you and me against the world, right?" She smiled and leaned in until he could feel the soothing warmth of her body against his bare skin. "Here's what's going to happen. We're gonna get our hands on those magic apples or whatever and the kings of Mag Mell will make me immortal." Dylan leaned in closer until her lips brushed over his with every word, phantom kisses. "Then we'll get married, and we'll have a million kids and we will be happy. Do you understand what I'm saying? Happy. You and me."

The words tasted foreign on his tongue when he said, "As much as you love children, I doubt a million young ones will make you happy, mo duinne." A weak smile curved one corner of his mouth. Dylan laughed softly, but the laughter faded when he added, "War is a certainty, Dylan." He squeezed her hands, though whether he was attempting to comfort her or seeking his own comfort, neither of them knew. "When it comes…when we declare ourselves and our existence to the humans—yes, that is how we intend to begin the conflict—they will not accept my people. If we are to try and find a place for ourselves in the mortal realm, your kind will not give it to us; we will have to fight for it. Blood will be spilled, innocent blood. If I am to protect my kingdom, then the fae must strike before the humans do. The blood of innocents will stain my hands, never to be washed away. I will be the monster my father has named me. You will condemn me as murderer, and forsake me."

"What are you talking about? It isn't going to be that way," she protested. "The humans will accept us when we reveal ourselves, and if they do attack us…you would never hurt an innocent, Nuada. You didn't hurt me," she reminded him. "You saved me. You didn't even know me, and you almost died trying to save my life. A human's life. You're too honorable to ever hurt an innocent."

He wrenched away from her. "Stop it." Her faith slashed at him like knives. "You don't know that."

"Well, have you ever?" When he hesitated, she added, "Have you ever killed an innocent person on purpose? Or ordered someone else to?"

"No," he cried. "How can you ask me that? I would never…"

Except that he would when it came time to raise the Golden Army. He would have to unleash it on every man, woman, and child of the race of Adam. He would have to, because once the war began, the fighting wouldn't stop until all of the adults were dead—that was how humans were—and then it would only pause briefly until the next generation of humans grew up. Then the war would begin anew. He had to do it. If he didn't, his people would fade. They would die. All the fae would die.

Yet if he did this, he would lose Dylan. Oh, gods, to have her walk away from him…

He wondered suddenly if he truly possessed the strength to defend his people after all. Perhaps he didn't. Perhaps his strength had spilled onto the pavement of the New York subway tunnels along with his blood the night he'd met the woman who'd stolen his heart. And just perhaps he no longer possessed the courage to sacrifice everything for the good of his kingdom.

In fact, he knew he didn't. He'd known it in a distant part of his mind since walking into the healing chamber and seeing Dylan lying there as if dead. He'd tried to forget, in some of the frivolity of yesterday, how the hollow ache he'd felt at her pseudo-loss, the emptiness filling him like cold poison flooding his limbs, had stripped him bare, leaving him nothing but grief and black rage. And Nuada knew that once the rage had been spent, he would have simply collapsed beside her lifeless body, curling himself around her as if to impart some of his own warmth, his own life into her, a feeble and vain attempt to bring her back to him.

And after? He would have been Prince Nuada Silverlance no more. He would've been nothing but an empty shell. If he ever lost Dylan, it would be the breaking of him. And if she ever walked away from him, it would be the breaking of her—her heart, her spirit. Nuada knew then that he would do anything to protect her from such pain, and anything to keep her.

The force of this realization nearly felled him. Nuada stared at Dylan, at her beloved face, as the true depth of what she'd done to him by making him love her finally dawned.

He was lost now. He'd become her slave, in all the ways that mattered. If she forbade it, he couldn't go against her and raise the Army. If she threatened to walk away from him, he would be forced to give in. And she would walk away from him. Oh, gods. Oh, gods, he…he had no choice anymore. He lacked the strength to abandon her in favor of his people. The thought of losing her…it hurt so much it was nearly crippling. The very idea of hurting her even half as much as it would pain him to let her walk away made him almost physically sick. He was like his father, then—his very soul entwined with the one he loved, until he was nothing but a shade of a man without her. Nuada had become what he'd sworn never to be. Regret and bitterness were as ash in his mouth.

"Damn you," he rasped. Obviously stung, her confusion evident, Dylan dropped her hands and stepped back. Nuada's legs shook as he rose to his feet and took a step toward her. How had this happened? When had this happened? She had shattered his honor; stolen his resolve, his drive to do what was right by the people he owed his loyalty and protection to. Had his father known this would happen? Were the gods merely toying with him? Was he to be Fortune's fool, the plaything of the Fates? "Damn you. And damn my own soul in the bargain."

"Why?" Dylan whispered. The hurt and subtle shading of betrayal in her voice was like a fist in his belly. Understandable, that she would be confused and upset. Moments ago, they had been whispering reassurances to each other, professing their undying love, and now he was cursing her as well as himself with audible bitterness. No doubt she believed him mad. "What…what did I do?"

Nothing, he wanted to reassure her. Nothing, my love. And yet at the same time he wanted to confess, You have broken me as no weapon of my enemies ever has. You are my downfall. You are my greatest weakness. With you I am no longer the man I was, but a doppelganger, a shadow without honor or courage or strength. And yet to be without you…then I am nothing at all. What have you done to me?

"I will never be able to live without you, will I?" He asked softly. He wanted—needed—to reach out and take her into his arms, hold her. She looked so confused. He knew he wasn't making sense to her but he feared that if he stopped long enough to attempt to soothe her or marshal his thoughts, he would say the wrong words and lose her anyway, despite the realization that had come to him. "Do you remember how I have said, 'I will do almost anything for you?' And you have said the same?" Warily she nodded. "That isn't true for me anymore," Nuada said, and loathed himself when Dylan flinched almost imperceptibly. "Now…there is no almost. I would do anything for you, Dylan. Somehow you have made me need you that much. I've no strength left, no honor, no wisdom or courage that can stand up to whatever you would ask of me. I have killed for you. Risked death for you. I would do anything for you. Anything."

For a moment she merely stood there in stunned silence, leaning against the edge of his desk. Finally she shook her head. "I…have no idea what to say to that. What brought all that on?" When Nuada shook his head and gestured almost helplessly, Dylan nodded. "Okay. It's okay." She spoke softly, the way he would speak to a skittish horse. "I think you're just tired—"

"No, Dylan. Listen to me." Please, he thought. Please listen. Please understand. "If you asked it of me, I would forsake my kingdom and my people. I would follow you to the end of this world and beyond to the next. If you were taken from me, I would follow the shadow of your footsteps across kingdoms and realms and even through Hell. To be with you I would become your shadow, the echo of your heartbeat, the whisper of your breath. Do you understand?" Can you understand? He wondered. Can you see what you've wrought within me?

"I would never ask you to abandon Bethmoora," she murmured, trying to soothe him. "You know I wouldn't."

Never consciously, no. She would never do such a thing. Yet she challenged him with that impossible choice, forcing him—with her presence in his life and her goodness, her forgiveness and her devotion to her God and His laws, with her mercy—to admit that he lacked the strength to do the right thing any longer, lacked the courage to stand by his people if it meant she would no longer stand by him. He couldn't hurt her that way, and he could no longer deny himself.

Nuada bit back a sigh of frustration. He'd made his choice; to explain now about the Golden Army and what he meant—what he had meant, Nuada corrected himself—to do with it would only scare or upset her. Or worse, turn her against him, even though he had bitterly surrendered that last hope for his people. Yet without explaining that, how was he to make her understand?

"I know you wouldn't," he said. "But if you did…I would."

"But…why?" Was that the light of comprehension in her fey-like blue eyes? "Why would you do that?"

"When my mother died, my father…lost himself. He has never come back, not really. He is a ghost now, a shade, where a hale and hearty warrior once tread the paths of the world. Dylan…without you, I am the same. For too long I've agonized over the thought of your loss. Just two nights past, you were nearly taken from me. I thought I'd seen you murdered before my eyes. But it is not only death that could part us. There will come a time when war looms, and when that day comes…

"I will have a choice," he confessed. "I thought it made decades ago, when I decided that mankind could never be salvaged, but…but now, when I look into your eyes, when you whisper my name in sleep, when I see the smile on your lips that I know is reserved for me alone…I find the choice taken out of my hands. If I had brothers or sisters who could take the throne and safeguard my people, I would step down to be with you. As it is…this love is like a blade in my chest. I do not know if the wound is a mortal one, yet I feel my heart's blood leave me when I look upon you. You hold the future of my kingdom in your hands." Nuada grasped Dylan's hands and brought them to his chest, right over his heart, cupping them there in the same way he had that bloody day in the royal forest, as if trying to warm them. "You hold my heart and soul, Dylan. Have mercy."

Dylan took a step forward. Nuada's heart thudded hard against his breastbone. She drew nearer, and his breath caught. Nearer still, and he found he had no breath anymore, and his heart hammered against his ribs hard enough to bruise bone. Moonlit blue eyes locked with sunlit topaz. Nuada swallowed. She understood—he could see it in those beautiful eyes. Dylan understood. Perhaps not all of it, but she realized that he had been ready to make a terrible choice, and she had pulled him back from the brink of potential destruction and sure despair.

"Mercy, then," Dylan whispered, her voice exquisitely gentle, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. Her mouth was soft and sweet, a balm against the raw ache in his heart at what he had done, and decided to do. Lips like silken fire caressed his. Need inflamed him; not physical need, not the ever-present desire for his truelove's body entwined with his, but a need of the heart. He matched her kiss, a silent plea that she never leave him, never abandon him as others would when they learned of this. Dylan answered him with warmth, with gentleness. Nuada trembled; he could feel everything she offered him in this kiss—her life, her love.

That was all he could count on to sustain him now. The warrior prince had lost his honor. He had forsaken his people and damned his own soul. To keep the one who meant more to him than any other—including Wink, his father, his sister—he would commit the most selfish act he could have ever imagined.

.

Perhaps an hour later, Nuada leaned down and pressed his lips to Dylan's smooth, untroubled brow. She shifted in sleep, making a small sound of contentment before subsiding. He breathed in her scent, letting his lips whisper across her skin from forehead to temple and along her cheek. After she'd finished tending his injuries, the two of them had merely leaned against his desk and held each other. Nuada had said nothing—but then, he hadn't needed to. Dylan had understood that while he was loath to explain why, he'd needed the comfort of her embrace. Only when he'd felt steady again had the prince suggested that Dylan get some rest. Nuada had dressed in a clean tunic and trews and now Dylan slept, utterly exhausted by work the day before as well as the long night of excitement and terror.

Nuada would not sleep. He had something he needed to do before another moment passed. So after brushing a farewell kiss across Dylan's lips—she was all he had now, really—he straightened his loose tunic; the bandages kept the linen of his tunic from rubbing painfully against his half-raw stripes. He moved more easily now, as well, thanks to his truelove carefully massaging the healing oils into the muscles over his cracked-but-mending ribs.

With one last lingering glance at Dylan, he took himself from her room. As he stepped into her sitting room, Dylan's guards slipped into the bedchamber to guard her. The thought of giving her into their safekeeping left his chest so tight it ached. After all, her guards had proven ineffective against this latest attempt. But this needed to be done.

Striding silently through the castle corridors, he eventually found himself outside the door to Zhenjin's healing chamber. He cast out with his sense of mind-touch and found things as he'd requested—within the chamber, Zhenjin, Arawn, and Bres waited for him.

The four of them had always been close, closer than Nuada had been with any of the rest of the "inner circle" plotting out the map of the coming war against the humans. While Nuada considered Kamaria and Farai of Nyame, and Anterion of Mytikas, to be his friends (and dear ones), these three were his confidantes. The four of them had fought in battle many times, and saved each others' lives. Nuada had even saved Arawn's family once, and had long ago been betrothed to his daughter. Apart from Wink, these men were his dearest friends. They deserved to hear his decision first.

Nuada prayed they would remain his friends after they heard him out. He wondered if Wink would still call him friend and brother—still call him lord—after he'd confessed to the silver cave troll what he meant to do.

He stepped into the room and shut the door quietly behind him. Judging by the expressions of the king and the two crown princes, he looked as haggard as he felt. Slumping into the spare chair someone had brought into the room, he studied his friends. Bres's sapphire eyes were sleepy beneath his knotted golden brows. Zhenjin's face was tight with pain as well as worry. Arawn's expression was closed, but his gaze showed concern. One didn't call a meeting such as this less than three hours after dawn without inciting some worry.

"Silverlance," Bres said into the heavy silence. "You look well enough, considering assassins had you in their sights not two days past." The Fomorian prince's voice held a false joviality, as if he strove to shove back the seriousness of the situation. When Nuada didn't smile, he added, "Is your…lady…unharmed? I'd heard she was well."

"Lady Dylan is as well as can be expected," the prince said softly. He hadn't missed Bres's pause. "That isn't why I have called you all here." Nuada swallowed and forced himself not to grit his teeth. He was no coward. He would admit his crime to his friends and comrades, his brothers-in-arms, and take their censure as he deserved. Nuada Silverlance did not hide from his sins. "There has been…a new development in our war efforts."

Bres immediately sat upright, a grin spreading across his sun-kissed face. "You found the third Golden Crown piece!" The prince of Eìrc slapped Nuada heartily on the back. He seemed not to notice the twisted expression of pain on Nuada's face, but neither Zhenjin nor Arawn missed it. The Dilong prince eyed his friend, silently asking with his gaze if he was all right. Arawn watched the exchange of the Chinese Elf's look and Nuada's brief nod with a sharp gaze. Bres added, "Well, now, and so we are one step closer to our victory over the mortal scum."

Nuada shook his head, ignoring the agony in his back. "No, Bres. Neither my agents nor I have found the final piece of the Golden Crown." Taking a breath and taking his courage in hand, he added in a voice as firm as he could make it, "Nor will we be continuing the search for it."

Arawn's brows lifted until they nearly disappeared into his hairline. He brushed a lock of brown hair from across his forehead, but said nothing. Zhenjin's eyes sharpened, but he didn't speak either, though his gaze held a wealth of speculation.

The crown prince of the Fomori gave voice to their collective thought.

"What?" Bres demanded, incredulous. "Why?"

Nuada forced himself meet those accusing eyes, which were now as glacial as frozen sapphires. "Our plan to use the Golden Army in the coming war has had unforeseen costs, costs too high for me to ignore. I cannot do as we have planned." He took another breath. It seemed to catch in his lungs and strangle him. Somehow, he managed to speak the final damning sentence. "The Army will not be used in the war; it will remain asleep. I entreat you, Prince Bres, and you, Prince Zhenjin, to follow my example with your own ensorcelled Armies."

There was silence—heavy, terrible silence, as brittle as a sheet of ice and just as cold and cutting—as the three fae royals absorbed the news. Arawn didn't react at all. He merely watched Nuada with that same sharp, perceptive brown gaze. Zhenjin pursed his lips and closed his eyes, as if having a terrible truth confirmed. Yet again, it was Bres who spoke, though this time Nuada couldn't be sure if the heir to the Fomorian throne gave voice to his own sentiments, or the collective thoughts of those assembled.

"You have done this—betrayed us—for her, haven't you?" The prince demanded. He surged to his feet, rage contorting his handsome features into a mask of dark fury. "For your human bitch."

Zhenjin sat upright, wincing. Arawn laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. Nuada watched Bres with narrowed eyes.

"Have a care, Bres."

"No," the other prince snarled. Pain mingled with the rage in his eyes. "No, I stood back and let you make a fool of yourself over your little mortal slut. I said nothing when you asked her to be, for the gods' sake, your wife! But this…you betray us all with this, and then demand we follow your example and forsake our kingdoms! How dare you? May the gods damn you, Nuada, have you no honor? Will you abandon your people—our people—to die at the hands of the humans?"

Silverlance lunged to his feet so that he stood eye to copper eye with Bres. He didn't know where the words came from, but they crowded in his throat until he had no choice but to speak or choke on them. "I will never abandon my people! You know this genocide has never sat well with me, much as I despise the humans, but I thought it necessary to protect the Fair Folk!"

Bres sneered. "And a paltry twelve-month between your whore's legs has changed your mind? She must be something special."

"Watch your tongue."

"Try and force me, coward," the Fomorian spat. "Because you fear losing your place in your slut's bed, you forsake your honor and abandon the courage to go to war for the sake of your own people?"

"Bres!" Zhenjin snapped. "That's enough!"

But the prince was beyond anyone attempting to reason with him. "You're just like Balor; no spine, no bollocks. Is your manhood such a pathetic thing that a common-born human whore can turn your head, force you to forget the plight of the Kindly Ones and uphold the shameful truce between our proud races and the barbaric humans?"

"I said," Nuada spoke, every word carved from jagged ice shards, "that I would not use the Golden Army, nor would I wipe out an entire race. I have enough innocent blood on my hands to last me until death and beyond. But! That does not mean that if war threatens, I and my kingdom will not fight. I will not abandon my people to the twilight and shadows."

Bres shook his head. "Your words mean nothing, traitor. I once called you 'brother,' but no longer. I will never forget this betrayal, Silverlance, and neither will your people. What do you think they will do when they learn you've forsaken them for some whore? You think they'll not care that she's bought your loyalty by letting you plow her like a rutting bull?" Nuada's hands flashed out and fisted in Bres's blue linen shirt. A low snarl rumbled in his chest. The other prince only sneered. "Go on, then. Strike me in defense of your trollop. Turn your back on everything we have always stood for, everything we've always believed in. And when you rut with that human bitch, I hope what remains of your soul and your honor sickens and dies from the shame of your cowardice."

Sick with rage, nearly shaking with it, Nuada shoved Bres away from him. He wouldn't strike a crown prince of an allied nation over words, cruel though they might have been. Princes couldn't afford to act like brawling soldiers. And Bres was his ally—or had been. His beloved sister's (unofficial) betrothed. And his friend. So he would not hit Bres. Instead, Nuada's hands curled into fists at his sides and he ground his teeth.

"I make allowances for your shock and the love you bear your people," the crown prince of Bethmoora snarled. "But if you speak one more word against my lady, the love I bear you, my brother, will suffer for it."

The crown prince of Eìrc scoffed. "Pretty words, Your Highness, but I will not be charmed. You think you can betray your honor and your bloodline? When your people learn who has turned your heart against them, how quickly will they hunt down your harlot and tear her to pieces? How much faith will they keep in a prince who turns his back on them? The Fates will see you suffer for it. Mark my words, Nuada—when everything you love has been taken from you, you will regret your treachery this day." Without another word, or so much as a backward glance, the Fomorian prince swept from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Arawn rose to his feet, a shadow in his black clothing and cloak. He inclined his head to Zhenjin, then pinned his gaze on Nuada. In a voice devoid of emotion, the king of Annwn murmured, "I will consider your words, Prince Nuada, and discuss them with Queen Penarddun. I shall speak with you further at another time." Then he, too, left.

Now there was only Zhenjin. Nuada met a reptilian jade gaze and said nothing; only waited for his friend's condemnation. To his surprise, Zhenjin sighed and settled back against his pillows, closing his eyes again wearily.

"You love her so dearly," the Dilong prince murmured, "that you cannot bear the thought of life without her, or the thought of what heartbreak she will suffer if you do as we have always intended. She has stolen your heart from your people, Nuada."

"Zhenjin—" Nuada began, but the prince cut him off.

"You are very lucky, Silverlance," the Dilong Elf said softly. "Do you know that? You love and are loved by one of the best women to ever breathe. Not only that, but you possess the ability to truly keep her. Your life will be a happy one—a wife who loves you desperately, children by her, everything you might wish. All you need do is sacrifice your honor." Nuada could not suppress a flinch, but Zhenjin merely sighed again. "I do not condemn you, my friend…my brother. Because if I thought it would do me any good, I would do the same."

Stunned, wondering if he'd heard properly, Nuada stared at his friend. "You…would…"

Zhenjin drew a deep breath and met Nuada's eyes. "I know how you feel, Nuada. If any of our comrades could claim to understand what you feel for Dylan, truly I would be the one…and for that, I consider myself to be Fortune's fool." Then Zhenjin turned his head, as if he could no longer bear the weight of his friend's gaze. "Now go from me, old friend. I am tired, and you've given me much to consider."

With nothing more to say, Nuada left.