Chapter 91 - Sleep, My Tarnished Silver

Chapter Ninety-One

Sleep, My Tarnished Silver

that is

A Short Tale of Plots, Circumventing the Truce, a Confession, Tarnished Silver, Plans for Many Things, Love of Country, and the King's Gift

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Dylan and Nuada did not play chess over breakfast when they finally emerged from the prince's study late that morning. The mortal couldn't tell if Nuada's guards had overheard anything that had occurred beyond the study door, since they acted as aloof and bodyguard-ish as usual, but Nuada didn't seem to care, so she didn't ask him or try to find out. She would hold off until later for that, if it became a problem. In the meantime, there were things she and Nuada needed to discuss.

They shut and locked the nook-room door—after Dylan informed Uaithne to please keep the children from disturbing them—and Dylan sank into her chair on the yellow-diamond side of the chessboard. Her breakfast tray sat kitty-corner to it. Nuada's sat opposite hers on the white-diamond side. Gingerly her prince sat down.

"You eat," she said, "and I'll tell you what I've been up to while you've been…otherwise engaged, okay?"

Nuada nodded and took a bite from a piece of toast slathered with melted butter and honey. A smile tugged wearily at the corner of his mouth when Dylan made a face.

"Okay, so here's the deal," she began, and explained her correspondence with Nuala about the villages (and the wedding); her plan to keep on top of wedding stuff so Nuada didn't need to worry about it unless he wanted to; the hope of speaking to the king herself about a few things, including the details of John's elevation to peerage and her own court standing; and finally, her plan to get information out of the remaining human assassin without breaking the treaty.

The Elven warrior raised his eyebrows when she explained what she meant John to do in order to get information out of her assailant. "Your brother will be armed, so he stands as a visual threat, but how do you plan to actually deal with the wretch?" Nuada asked.

Dylan sighed. Scooping up a forkful of scrambled eggs, she stared at it with distant eyes for a moment before sighing again and saying, "I'm going to do what psychiatrists who work for the cops always do—profile him. I can use my insights into his psyche to push his buttons, make him talk, say things he might not under other circumstances. I've done it before. Psychological manipulation. John can read me well enough to know when I'll need him to step in or do something."

"My father may not approve of your plan," the prince murmured. Dylan glanced up from her breakfast, and Nuada saw a subtle shift in her gaze, a hardening in her eyes he'd never seen before. The woman who looked back at him wasn't his truelove or a mind-healer or anyone familiar. He realized suddenly that he was looking at Dylan the princess.

"We're not killing him, crippling him, or even hurting him. John might—might—knock him around a little, but he's had training in non-invasive interrogation techniques. It's a compromise; isn't that what politics is all about?"

"You think you can sell such an idea to my father?"

"I'll do my best. If I gauged your dad right when I talked to him yesterday after the assassination attempt…he was scared. You nearly died, and the thought of losing you—especially when you two are starting to reconcile—frightened him. He's probably scrambling for a way to keep you safe and uphold the truce right now. I'm giving him a way to do that. I should get a medal. And of course there's always my medical backup plan."

"Your medical…"

She sighed and raked a hand through her hair. "Before I explain that, I just want to say that if people's lives weren't potentially at stake, if this guy hadn't been involved in trying to kill Zhenjin, trying to kill you, I wouldn't be doing this. I don't…I won't say I'm a merciful person—"

"Though you are," Nuada said softly, "for here you sit, despite what you know of me."

A quick shake of her head. "No. That's not mercy. That's…selfishness and understanding and—"

"Selfishness?" He scoffed. "Selfishness? You?"

"I am yet too selfish to let you go," she mumbled, staring at the table, echoing the words Nuada had used only two nights past when he'd apologized for the dangerous life he'd dragged her into. "I'm complicating things for you, making things more difficult. How many times has someone tried to assassinate you, Nuada? Now tally up how many of those attempts occurred after you met me, because you chose a life with me." She sighed again. "You chose me, and how do I pay you back? By adding to your burdens…" Dylan trailed off when Nuada raised a hand.

The prince took a long drink from his glass of wine, then met her eyes. "As you once said to me," he murmured, "it was my choice. And, if I may be so bold, my lady…what a glorious choice it is." He smiled when she did, inclining his head. "You were saying?

Feeling inexplicably better, Dylan nodded and continued, "I'm not the nicest person when I'm…erm…"

"Riled," he supplied. She nodded.

"That's a good word. I'm not the nicest when riled, but I a m a bit…squeamish. I can admit it. I have to be furious to try and hurt someone. I don't know if I'll be able to handle hurting someone in cold blood for information, instead of in the heat of a fight for my life or yours. So with that said…if it turns out I'm not strong enough, hard enough to go after the assassin physically, or if the Spirit tells me I shouldn't, I can try dosing him with sodium pentothal. Truth serum," she explained, seeing his puzzlement. "It doesn't compel you to tell the truth, and it doesn't last long, but it makes it harder to keep from spilling whatever comes into your head, and usually a person's first mental response to a question is the most honest answer."

"Why not simply begin with that method?" Nuada asked. His brows furrowed when Dylan paled slightly. "Dylan?" When she took a moment to sip from her cup of hot cider, giving herself time to formulate a response, Nuada noted her hand shook slightly.

She set the cup down and murmured, "Your father doesn't trust either of us, but he knows one thing for certain—you love me. You'll do anything to protect me. You won't let me get hurt. So…how that applies to the serum: your father will suspect you of trying to poison the assassin, maybe to kill him out of vengeance or just to torture him so you can ferret information out of him; you know, tell him you'll give him the antidote if he tells us what we want to know. King Balor might even suspect me of doing something like that. He won't let us inject the assassin with the serum without testing it out first. Since you're fae, even though you're royal, I have no idea what it will do to you. So if someone was going to test it before giving it to the assassin, they'd have to be human. Your father would insist on testing it on me, since he knows if it is poison, you won't let anyone inject me with it."

Nuada studied his truelove. Throughout this explanation, she'd grown paler and paler. Yet the Elf knew the potion wasn't poison, or Dylan would never have suggested it.

"Why do you fear taking this truth serum if it will not hurt you?"

His lady shuddered and hung her head, drawing a shaky breath. Her fingers twitched; he remembered that she'd said the latent "medicinal" toxins in her blood had that effect when she was agitated. If he looked under the table, he was fairly sure Dylan's toes would be scrunching.

"I…this is going to sound stupid, but I'm afraid of needles." She swallowed hard and gave a shaky little laugh. "Something like that stabbing into me, the drugs swimming around in my blood…I hate it. It always reminds me…" She trailed off; he didn't need her to continue, because he'd walked through memories of violent injections with sleepy poisons whispering in her veins. Dylan continued, "The last time they doped me with sodium pentothal was…was the night you came to my cottage after our fight and pulled me out of that nightmare of Patrick and Xander."

Nuada said nothing for a long moment. When he finally did speak, it wasn't what she expected to hear. "You know," he said conversationally. "I would very much like to present you with their severed heads as a wedding gift. And the head of this…Ivan."

Dylan's eyes shot wide. "How do you know about Ivan?" How did her prince know about the Blackwood boys' father? She hadn't told him…

"You talk in your sleep when you're having nightmares," Nuada said, slanting his eyes away. "I heard you at the cottage. Talking, I assume to the human police, in your sleep. Often you spoke to…them. Begging them for mercy." His hand convulsed into a fist around his wineglass. His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. "Sometimes you did nothing but scream."

She looked away. "I didn't know you'd heard…all that. I'm sorry—"

"Do not apologize to me for that," he snapped. Her eyes flicked back to his face, feral with anger. "Never apologize for what those monsters did to you, do you understand me?"

After a long moment, Dylan nodded. They ate for several minutes in silence, both skirting warily around the sudden tension hovering over them like a storm cloud. Finally Dylan broke the silence.

"It's going to be difficult," she said, "if you're father demands we test the truth serum first. For me, I mean. But I'll get through it."

The prince nodded, then stared at his half-empty plate. "Thinking about you in that place, those poisons in your blood…I've lost my appetite."

"Eat anyway," Dylan-the-Healer commanded. "Your body needs fuel. You look…you don't look well."

His lips quirked into a wan smile. "I was hit thrice in the face with a chair, mo crídh." But to oblige her, he forked up several mouthfuls of sausage and eggs. As he obediently ate, he asked between bites, "When will you attempt to put your plan into effect?"

"Tomorrow," she said. "I want to get it over with, but I need a day to prepare. I can have Becan escort John here, can't I?" Nuada nodded. "I was thinking…how should we bring this up to the king?"

A humorless smile curved dark lips. "We'll inform him we're remanding the assassin to mortal custody." At Dylan's confused look, he elaborated, "Your brother works for the human government, does he not?"

Her eyes widened. "Yes! And once John accepts custody of the assassin, he can do whatever he wants to him, as long as it's not illegal, because he works for the FBI. Wait. Does the assassin have any special rights or anything that I need to worry about?"

"He cannot be executed without a fair trial," Nuada said. Polishing off the last of his eggs and sausage, taking up another piece of toast, he added, "If we give him over to your brother, is he not protected by whatever rights and laws affect human criminals in America?"

"I don't know. I don't think so, because…well, for one thing, I'm a political figure now, right? The future bride of the crown prince, lady of the Bethmooran Court, blah-blah. So the Geneva Convention is really the thing when dealing with crimes against heads of state and international hoopla. And because the humans and the fae aren't currently at war, we don't have to follow the Geneva Convention, which means we can, by rights, do whatever we want with this guy, short of murder. And since John is a federal agent on foreign soil…hang on, lemme check something."

She pulled her phone out of her skirt pocket, her fingers flying over the slick dark surface. Sharp beeps and whistles filled the air for several minutes as she frowned at the machine in fierce concentration. Her eyes darted frantically over the screen as if she were reading something. Then a smile of savage satisfaction broke across her face.

"Yep. Federal agent on foreign soil dealing with an international incident involving someone of dual citizenship—that would be me—and a perpetrator not of American origin…that perpetrator is not protected by American rights if the crimes were not committed on American soil. Ha!" Then Dylan hunched her shoulders. "I shouldn't sound so happy about that."

"Why not?" The Elven warrior asked with a sharp, wicked smile. "I am happy."

She shot him a look. "Of course you are. You want to kill him."

Nuada's expression morphed into something too savage to be called a smile. "Yes, I do. He tried to kill you. I want to rip him apart. I would do it with my fingernails if I thought I could get away with it without endangering you or bringing my father's wrath down on you…but my father, like my other enemies, know how to hurt me now."

How much had it cost him, she wondered, to refer to his father as an enemy? Mending fences or not, Nuada still didn't—couldn't—trust the king. The lashes on his back, and what they meant, were proof of that.

"That reminds me," Nuada said, breaking into her thoughts. "Before our wedding, we must elevate you to peerage."

Dylan blinked. "Um…how is that related to the assassin?"

"The sooner you're given a title and lands, wealth, the more protection you will have. I want it done…quickly."

"Okay. How quickly?"

"Before the end of the calendar year."

"That's in eight days!" She protested. Nuada offered a negligent shrug. "I…I…so…in eight days?"

Nuada drew a breath, let it out slowly. "I would prefer sooner."

Her eyes widened. "Um…how much sooner?"

The prince thought about this for a minute, then asked casually, "The day of the stars is usually the one chosen for such an auspicious occasion."

"And what's that in English?"

"Saturday."

"The day after Christmas? That's in three days! There is no freaking way! We're already planning a wedding in less than forty-five days, how am I supposed to plan a…an elevation or whatever it's called, too? On top of interrogating assassins and popping off to bandit-ridden villages and learning how to actually rule a country? I can't even hit the target at archery without you breathing on me or catch a fish with my bare hands or ride a horse." Immediate panic vented, Dylan closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath. Hunching her shoulders, she tapped her fingers on the tabletop, took several slow breaths, then rolled her shoulders and opened her eyes. "Okay, panic attack over. Princess time now. Three days? Okay. What do I have to do for this?"

Nuada smiled. That's my girl, the prince thought. Something had changed her in the last several days. He wasn't sure what it was, only that it had made her determined to be everything she thought a princess should be.

"You will need a formal gown, Bethmooran colors, as well as…hmmm. I will have to speak to my father about the gifting of tithes and properties, but you'll at least receive…well, I wanted to give you that as a wedding gift, not as a land-grant from the Crown. Hmmm…"

"Give me what?"

"A surprise. One dear to my heart. But that is neither here nor there. There are only a few things you need concern yourself with, beloved. One is making sure you don't trip on your way to my father's throne, where you will kneel before him."

She shot him a dirty look. "That's your advice? Don't trip? Not helping my confidence. How does this even work?"

"My father plans to bequeath a portion of the lands owned by the Crown to you, and endow you with the title of 'lady,' as is the custom. Bethmoora has no titles such as 'earl' or 'duke'—your status at court is defined by your wealth and your lands, so my father will gift you appropriately. I'll ask him for permission to move this plan forward later in the day when I go to speak to him about…everything."

"Do you need to talk to him about…what you told me this morning?" A thought widened her eyes. "Wait …is that why the two of you have been at odds all this time? Because you thought the humans couldn't be salvaged?" She must've seen the truth in his face, because before Nuada could answer, Dylan smacked the table with the flat of her hand. "What a jerk!"

Startled, Nuada eyed her much as one might eye a rabid squirrel. "I…beg your pardon?"

"He's been a jerk to you this whole time because you were trying to protect your people? I mean, yeah, you were going about it wrong, but that's what you wanted. You just wanted to protect the fae. And he said that made you a monster?" She dropped her face into her hands and then bounced her elbows on the table in frustration. The silverware and plates rattled. "Didn't he see how desperate you were? Oh, my gosh, he doesn't understand you at all! Instead of working with you, he just…ugh!" Then she picked up her head and shook out her hands as if they were stiff, muttering, "Okay, okay." She ran her hands through her hair. "I'm calm. I'm done. I'm just…I can't believe he didn't realize…" She shook her head.

"Realize what?"

The wealth of sorrow in her eyes stunned him. "How much it was hurting you, to think you had no other choice than something so terrible in order to protect your people."

Nuada shrugged. "At first I…I thought I could bear it…but as my family retreated from me and the years grew long…I wondered sometimes if I might go mad. And my father and sister weren't the only ones to turn on me."

Dylan scowled. "Like Ethine." His truelove muttered something beneath her breath that, had she been anyone else, Nuada might have suspected to be another word for a she-hound. "I hate her," Dylan added more loudly.

"I thought the High King's children weren't allowed to hate others."

She sighed. "We're not supposed to. It's a flaw. So we've got stuff to do, I suppose, since you're probably not going to bed like you ought to." He saluted her with his wineglass. "Yeah, that is so not gonna fly with me, Your Highness."

Nuada arched a brow. "I beg your pardon?"

His truelove pinned him with a steely gaze. "You've eaten. Now you need to sleep."

He scowled. "I am not a child, Dylan, to be ordered about."

"You are going to collapse," she insisted, "if you keep pushing yourself like this. You haven't really slept in days. You can't keep doing this."

"Oh?"

Dylan sighed. "Please don't fight me on this. Please. I am really scared for you." He frowned, but didn't interrupt. "We talked about this earlier. Your body needs rest. Please do this, Nuada—for me."

The pleading in her gaze seemed to hit him like a blow. He closed his eyes and pressed two fingers to his temple, sighing. "You know I would do much for you—"

"Anything, you said."

His gaze darted to her face, then away. "I do not wish to sleep."

"Why?"

A muscle flexed in his jaw. He gripped the arm of the chair with enough force that Dylan heard the wood creak. Nuada squeezed his eyes shut. Through gritted teeth, he murmured, "You know that I have often had…dreams. Dark dreams. But lately…lately they haunt my nights without respite. I only escape them in exhaustion, and then only for an hour or two."

Slipping on the shield of her professionalism like armor, Dylan leaned back and crossed her ankles, assuming the pose she often used at work. "All right," she said in the warm, encouraging way she used in the office. "You've been having nightmares. Let's talk about that."

He shook his head. "It matters little."

"It matters enough that you're flogging your body into exhaustion in order to sleep," she replied softly. "Which means it matters a lot. Tell me about your dreams."

Nuada lifted his wineglass and stared at the burgundy liquid, swirling it gently. "Do you remember the nightmare I had in Roiben's sithen? Where all I loved had been murdered—Wink, my friends, my sister. You."

"Yes."

"I knew, even in that nightmare of blood and Hell, that it was a dream. But these night phantoms…they are so real." His gaze turned distant. A shadow of anguish passed over his face. "Do you know what it is, to watch as the people you love most are butchered night after night, and you are powerless to save them?"

She had to force herself not to go to him, attempt to hold him. It wouldn't help. Not yet. Instead, she said, "Actually, I do. That first night in Findias, I dreamed of Eamonn torturing and killing you…over and over again. I thought I'd lose my mind."

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes. It's a sort of madness, isn't it? Visions of blood and screams and slaughter dancing in your skull…mayhap your Christian Devil's idea of a jest, to torment me thus. Every night I see the dead and the dying. My people—enslaved, raped and butchered by the humans. My father murdered. My friends put to the sword. And my sister…I cannot speak of what I see of her in these nightmares…or what I see of you. Only that you both die in my arms, again and again, night after night.

"When I awaken, always I must touch Nuala's thoughts; feel her life-force through our link. She despises the touch of my mind in hers, I can feel it, but I can do no other than ensure she's well. And then I go into your room and…" He trailed off, pressing his lips together.

"Tell me," Dylan encouraged gently. "I won't be upset."

"It soothes me to watch you sleep," he murmured, and took a sip of wine. "You look so peaceful, since the Elven potion prevents your darker dreams. The barest caress of moonlight through the curtains washing your face with silver, the soft glow of the hearth embers limning your hair with copper and gold…I look on you and in that moment, I know you're safe, and the dreams are a distant pain. Then I return to my own bed and…and the darkness returns, and I see it all once more. Feel it all again…that agony of losing everyone I love. Everyone…" He sighed, then met her gaze. "It is a weakness I must overcome, nothing more."

Nibbling on a blueberry muffin gave Dylan a minute to think. Finally, she said, "When I sang to you that night at Roiben's—even though I sucked—you didn't have a nightmare after you fell back asleep, did you?" Nuada shook his head wearily. "You wanna try that? Since I have my phone and it actually works, I can call up a video on Youtube and actually keep in tune. Let's try that."

Nuada scoffed. "The legendary Silverlance, put to bed with a kiss and a lullaby like an infant?" He shook his head again. "It seems I've fallen far indeed."

"No, you haven't. You're just tired and stressed. Come on—let me sing you to sleep." He was about to say no when Dylan added, "Please, Nuada?"

After a moment where she could see pride warring with tiredness, he canted his head in silent acquiescence. He went to change into sleeping trews and a tunic and ready for bed while Dylan finished her breakfast. She met him, phone in hand and the internet already up, in his room. When he stretched out on his belly across his bed, Dylan frowned. Nuada pretended not to see. He expected to wake sometime in the next hour, perhaps two, from a nightmare; why slip beneath the covers when he'd only kick them off while thrashing in his sleep? Besides, it would've humiliated him for Dylan to tuck him in like a child.

Dylan settled on the bed beside him. He stiffened, uncertain why her nearness filled him with tension, but relaxed when all she did was caress the edge of his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. The worry in her eyes was a dark shadow against the blue. Leaning down, Dylan brushed her lips across the back of his shoulder above the bandage. An electric spark, a kiss of lightning, shivered through his body. Nuada crushed a fistful of velvet coverlet in his hand. He knew he couldn't turn over and kiss Dylan as he wished while they were so close to his bed. Too much of a temptation to try coaxing her down onto his bed and…no, he wouldn't dishonor her by succumbing to temptation.

"Close your eyes," she whispered gently. "Just think about my voice. All right?" A small movement of her thumb as she pressed a button on her phone, and slow piano filtered from the phone-speaker. Taking a breath, Dylan began to sing.

Her voice, with the music, was low and sweet. She was no minstrel or lady-bard, but she was in tune, and her voice shaped the Gaelic words lovingly as she tangled her fingers with Nuada's. Her thumb brushed slow circles across the back of his hand as she coaxed him with the simple but poignant lullaby.

"Codladh, mo airgead loite;
Lig dom tú marbhánta arís.
Codladh, mo gheimhridh gan sneachta;
Lig dom te tú aon uair amháin sula dtéann mé."

'Sleep, my tarnished silver,' Nuada thought as tension began to ease from his aching muscles. I am that, am I not? Tarnished silver…she always knows. I've never heard this song…she sings so sweetly with the music. I've never heard her sing like this before, he realized even as he let his eyes drift closed, let his shoulders relax. The dull but persistent ache in his back, shoulders, and mending ribs eased somewhat.

"Codladh, mo céadair tar éis titim;
Lig dom a bheith do bród lagú a shealbhú.
Codladh, mo abhainn;
Lig do chuid abhainn i gcoinne mo gcladach,
Agus fág mé cad a bhí nite amach roimh."

'Sleep…let me have your weakened pride.' Gods, am I that weak, that she sees through me so easily? Nuada wondered as the slow caress of her thumb on his hand lulled him closer and closer to sleep. By the Fates, he was so tired. He'd been shoving it down and away, letting the pain burn the exhaustion back, but no longer. It rose up, a grasping tenebrous hand. Instinctively he fought it, knowing as Dylan continued to sing that it was futile.

"Codladh, mo séipéal dhorchaigh;
Lig dom nglúine roimh leat anois, mar sin,
Gan fiú mar tá mé.
Codladh, mo scáth gan lasair;
Lig dom fuarú an tine ar lasadh aois go fós…"

Why do you think yourself unworthy, beloved? He wanted to ask her. 'Unworthy as I am,' she'd sung. 'Sleep, my flameless shadow.' Yes, I am your shadow, your heartbeat. Don't let me dream, Dylan. Not of losing you again. Promise me…

He felt her lips on his shoulder once more as music continued to play. Heard the whisper of I love you. Nuada sighed, feeling suddenly warm and drowsy and strangely comfortable. Something soft fell across his legs; he realized it was a blanket and wondered absently where it had come from just as sleep finally came to him.

"Codladh, mo airgead loite…"

Dylan watched Nuada's breathing deepen and even out. Watched him sink into slumber. He'd sleep for awhile, she thought. The healers would check on him in a few hours to change his bandages. In the meantime, she had something very difficult that she needed to do if she was going to go through with marrying her prince.

She needed to tender her resignation to her office.

.

Hours later, lunch eaten and banquet perhaps a couple hours away, Dylan brushed her hair in front of the bathroom vanity while 'Sa'ti tried to find a hair-piece in the contents of the polished, white-wood jewelry box on the counter. The cougar maid was extremely careful with the delicate silver, gold, and platinum necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and other jewels. Dylan's handmaiden sought for something silver with garnets, to match the wine-red velvet gown her mistress intended to wear to banquet that night.

The mortal had had a bath, smelled great, looked great—except she was missing jewelry—and was ready for anything. She hoped. Her dirk sat on the vanity beside her makeup box; the sight of it reassured her. Eimh and Sétanta curled up at her feet, dozing, made her feel better, too.

"How about this?" 'Sa'ti presented a hair-piece, a series of silver chains with a trio of garnet teardrops that would rest against Dylan's forehead.

Dylan considered. It did match the garnet teardrop earrings 'Sa'ti had already picked out, and the silver-backed garnet broach. She smiled at the little girl. "Good choice. Run and fetch my boots, would you, hon? "

"Okay!" 'Sa'ti raced to the door while Dylan turned back to the mirror. Only 'Sa'ti's cheerful, "'Scuse me, Your Highness," arrested her attention just as the hounds lifted their heads and began wagging their tails.

Dylan turned to watch Nuada lean casually against the doorframe to her bathroom. She studied him with the eyes of a healer and finally smiled. He needed a little more sleep—eight hours wasn't enough when he was so tired—but he looked much better than he had in a while. The shadows around his eyes had lightened, and the air of exhaustion hanging like a sickness around him had dissipated quite a bit. When he smiled, her heart lightened.

"No nightmares?" She asked as he pushed off the doorframe and approached. Nuada shrugged.

"One," he replied. "It woke me, and I couldn't sleep again…but I feel more rested than I have in some time. Perhaps you might sing to me again tonight before I retire."

It had cost him a lot, she knew, to ask. It was still so hard for him to admit weakness. She smiled and nodded. "Sure." A flutter tickled her stomach when Nuada leaned down and brushed a finger over her cheek; tingles of magic spread across her face just before her prince kissed her—a slow, sweet kiss that left her breathless. When he broke away, she mumbled, "Magic?"

He smiled. "I would hate to ruin your makeup when you've taken such pains, mo crídh."

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Okay, so banquet's in, what, two hours?"

"Three; it will be late tonight, as my father is apparently unwell." Nuada frowned as he spoke, and Dylan felt a twinge of unease. "Mahon, one of my guards, informed me when I woke. Áthair has remained in his chambers most of the day." The prince sighed. "Perhaps it is merely that he's growing old…"

Dylan took his hand. "You're worried for him."

Nuada sighed. "He was always so strong when I was a boy. I thought nothing could fell him. It is…difficult to imagine him, to see him, as an old man." Then the prince seemed to shake himself. "Well, there are a few things that need to be seen to before we can dine with our fellow nobles."

Letting him change the subject, she said, "Okay, what's on our agenda?"

"If you are to join the ranks of my father's courtiers in the timeframe I desire, we must speak to Themba about your wardrobe, the Lord Chamberlain about most of the domestic details, the Lord Steward and my father regarding his plans for your gifting, Jenny Hob about housekeeping details, the Lord Provost about security, and if there's time after, to Nils Fjøsnisse about your horse."

Dylan blinked, taken aback. "About my what?"

Nuada waved a negligent hand. "I thought we might begin working on your riding, especially if we mean to accompany the caravans to the northern villages in January."

"I don't have a horse."

"Oh?" Nuada gave her an odd little smile. "Are you sure about that? Because I received a message from Nils just yesterday; something about a lovely white arion mare from Shahbaz arriving in the stables on Midwinter morning."

Her mouth dropped open. "You bought me a horse?"

"It would seem so."

She grinned. "I love you."

"Yes, I know."

.

First Nuada sent a quick note to his father, requesting an informal audience and informing him of his wish to rush Dylan's elevation to peerage (for protective measures). The king wrote back fairly quickly; his response arrived while Nuada himself was arranging the silver chains and garnets in Dylan's hair—a trick he'd learned from Nuala.

Balor acquiesced to the date set, praising his son's timing—while the rush would be a bit of an inconvenience to the servants, it was a well-planned maneuver in garnering Dylan further protection with status and title, and word would spread quickly through other kingdoms of Dylan's new rank, in addition to news of her upcoming wedding to Prince Nuada Silverlance.

With the king's permission, Nuada went in search of Jenny.

Dealing with Jenny Hob, Head Housekeeper of Findias, took less than ten minutes. Nuada simply went to find her issuing orders with Caspar to the staff in the kitchens, along with Nils, who was eating his supper. After receiving their curtsy and bow of obeisance, and after Jenny had finished with her current set of orders, Nuada bade drew her aside and told her and Nils the news: that Dylan was to be elevated to peerage in three days.

Jenny's eyes widened and she tapped the seven fingers of her right hand on the tabletop while she sipped from a tin cup of blue Cornish ale (a particular favorite of hers). She gazed steadily at the prince's betrothed, an odd look in her brown eyes that Dylan couldn't read. A cool frisson whispered down the mortal's backbone. Suddenly, she got the feeling Jenny didn't like her. Which was ridiculous; the hob housekeeper didn't have a reason to dislike the human woman, and she'd been consideration itself when Dylan had been so distraught over Nuada's injuries after his duel with Zhenjin.

"This is your wish, Your Highness?" Jenny asked Nuada, who smiled and inclined his head. She nodded. "Then it shall be as you wish. The King's Hall will be ready to bear witness to the ceremony in three days' time. I and my lassies will see to it."

"My thanks, Jenny; I know it's an inconvenience," he murmured. She waved away the notion of "inconvenience" and smiled at him indulgently, though her eyes flicked often to Dylan. Nuada turned to Nils. "And my lady's horse?"

Nils smiled at Dylan, who smiled back. After several visits to the castle's chapel the past few Sundays, she and the one-eyed stable fae were good friends. "Never you fear, milady," Nils murmured, and winked. At least, Dylan thought it was a wink. It was hard to tell, since tomte only had one eye in the middle of their foreheads. "Énna's a gentle beast, knows you've not much experience with riding. She'll never let you fall from her back. She's an arion mare, so she's got the language of men and horses, both, and you two should become good friends." To Nuada, the Master of the Stables added, "If you don't mind my venturing an opinion of Lady Énna, Your Highness, she'll foal easy and comes from good breeding lines."

Dylan didn't roll her eyes, but she smiled when Nuada nodded and murmured, "Good. I'd thought to bring some new blood into the stables," and launched into a rapid discussion of horse-breeding with the tomte that lasted a good seven or eight minutes. Then Nuada seemed to remember they had places to be, so he and Dylan left the two high-level servants to their meal and went to find Gobhá, the Lord Steward, who was doing paperwork in his study.

.

The mortal wasn't sure how she felt about Lord Gobhá. He was tall and doughy and pale, like Lord Box-Head, but he didn't have creepy worm-fingers. Instead, his hands sported the long, elegant fingers of an artisan…except they were tipped with razor-sharp black talons. Dylan knew that was actually quite common among the féar gortach, the Men of Famine—which was what Lord Gobhá and Lord Iríall, the chamberlain, were—but it was still unnerving to see him steeple his slender fingers and watch the jagged claws click together. He listened to the prince's simple statement that Lady Dylan was to be given the rank of Bethmooran lady, both title and land, in three days without batting a beady black eye.

"The king has been slowly making provision for such an event, Your Highness," the steward of the Golden Court murmured. "It is traditional for the gifting to include…" Lord Gobhá unrolled a scroll that had been sitting on his desk, which bore the well-penned writing of a professional scribe, and rattled off, "At least one province and its tithes and revenues, ad minimum. Have you any specific provinces in mind, Your Highness?"

"I believe Éas Ruaíd and Fionntrá, the provinces neighboring Kilcommon, are part of the king's lands, and near enough to my own lands to be convenient."

Before Dylan could even moderately freak out about becoming the sovereign lady of not one but two provinces in Bethmoora, it was agreed on (pending the king's approval) that as of Saturday, the so-called Lady Dylan of Central Park would afterward be known in truth as Lady Dylan of Central Park, Éas Ruaíd, and Fionntrá. By the time Dylan had enough thought to squeak out anything half-resembling a question, she and Nuada were leaving Lord Gobhá's study and arrowing for the Lord Provost's office near the Butcher Guard barracks.

"I feel like I've been dropped off a cliff," Dylan mumbled as she and Nuada headed for the offices of Lord Íomhar, the Lord Provost of Findias. "Where are those places again? What are those places again?"

"Éas Ruaíd is a hill-province on the north-eastern border. Fionntrá stands southeast of Éas Ruaíd. The Irish kingdom of Eìrc stands near them; King Rennan mac Dela is a friend, and tolerant of humans, so won't take offense to your fiefdoms being on his border. In truth, it's the safest place for you, and protected by hills on the borders you share with Lallybroch, Kilcommon, and Boyne, three of my provinces.

"Éas Ruaíd means 'the red waterfalls.' You will love it there, Dylan," he added, pausing to turn and take her hands. His eyes shone with enthusiasm. "It is beautiful country. There's a small stretch of coast near the estate, and high rolling hills and mountain cliffs with waterfalls that roar down like thunder. When the sun is setting, it sets the falls afire—ruby and carnelian and gold, shining with light.

"And Fionntrá—that means 'the white towers'—has beautiful clear rivers with sandy white shores where we can walk together in the golden light of the dawn. I can show you the forests - the birch and aspen trees, the ghillie dubh and sylvans in the woods. And there are limestone caves with the most incredible rock formations, sheeting stalactites as thin as a needle in places, and stalagmites that tower taller than a giant. The drow have sculpted those caves over millennia. You will love it there, Dylan."

Pleasantly stunned by the obvious wealth of love in his voice for the two provinces of his kingdom, she smiled wonderingly. "Wow. You must love being there."

He grinned. "There is not a single province of Bethmoora I do not love with all my heart. I cannot wait until we are wed, that I may show it all to you. Fionntrá and Éas Ruaíd, Boyne and Roan Inísh, Renvyle…gods, you'll love it."

"I think I already do." And suddenly she couldn't wait to see it, either.

.

Meanwhile, in another part of Findias, Princess Nuala sat before her father in his study for the second time in as many days, petitioning him on behalf of her brother and his lady.

"Father, I have seen Lord Gobhá's reports," the princess said softly. Despite her demure attitude, her golden eyes were as hard as her twin's gold-washed plate armor. "Four villages utterly decimated in less than a moon. Children made orphan, our people slaughtered." When the king opened his mouth as if to protest, Nuala remembered Polunochnaya's coaching in her chambers and said quickly, "I would never ask you to cast aside your honor, Father. I would never ask you to break the truce. But surely sending supplies and medicines to those in need is not dishonorable?"

Balor rubbed the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache. "Your brother put you up to this, didn't he?"

"As a matter of fact, he didn't. I've been discussing it with my ladies-in-waiting, and we deemed it prudent that I speak with you. Father, Midwinter may be past, but you've yet to give Dylan a gift as befitting a future daughter of the king. You know she is a healer, and tenderhearted. She, too, has heard of the northern villages and their plight. I think it would be a grand gift to send non-militant aid on her behalf to help the villagers."

The old king sighed. "My daughter, think of what your brother will construe from such an action. He will view it as a weakening of my resolve to uphold the truce, and think to use his lady as a tool against me—"

"No, Father! If you play it through properly, Nuada will not come to that conclusion at all. Nuada has played the obedient son with this betrothal, rushed though it is, and much as Dylan does not wish it because of her faith. He has not ridden out or sent his agents to kill these human bandits in opposition to your commands, though you know he might have. He hasn't harmed the human assassin currently held in custody. Nuada has been loyal and obedient to you, Father, save in killing that assassin, and he accepted what punishment you ordered without protest. Where once we feared Dylan to be a negative influence, instead I think she may be a steadying force in Nuada's life. He seems far more calcitrant now. Should not such bending to your will be rewarded?" When the king looked as if he might argue, Nuala added, beseeching, "Father, I beg you, do not think the worst of my brother without first giving him a chance!"

"I have given Nuada many chances over the centuries—"

"But he has changed," Nuala insisted. "Anyone with eyes can see it. He attends council meetings as you've ordered, though you know he believes them to be a waste of time; he surrendered the Silverlance to you not once, but twice, and hasn't attempted to regain it against your will; he submits to house-arrest, and speaks not a word against you to his supporters, though you know he could.

"And most importantly, he has made it very clear to all and sundry that despite Dylan's humanity, he loves her deeply. He does not make light of his attachment to her before friends or enemies, opposition or supporters, even though his love for her damages his political stance with the anti-human faction of the court. Does this count for nothing? Nuada will see this gift for what it is: mercy for our afflicted people, a peace offering to his mortal lady, and a very kingly gift indeed, something Dylan desires greatly—for you know that no healer can stand aside and allow others to suffer—and yet cannot obtain on her own.

"Please, Áthair? Think of the political benefits. You draw Nuada closer to your heart, as well as Dylan, who has my brother's ear. You gain a little more support from the anti-human faction while still placating those in favor of the truce. We banish any rumors that we cannot or will not protect our people from predation. With one simple gift, you have done all this, and shown the kingdom that while Nuada Silverlance may chafe beneath the yoke of your kingship at times, he remains loyal to you, for he does not move against the bandits in any way, passive or aggressive, without your leave."

Balor sat back in his chair and rubbed his aching left shoulder as he considered his daughter's impassioned but reasonable words. Nuala was right in every argument presented. And if Balor agreed to send any sort of aid to the villages in his son's fiefdoms, Nuada would be grateful. It would draw the prince closer to the king not just politically, but hopefully emotionally as well; might help serve to mend some of the old heart-wounds between them.

Aged amber eyes rested on the fair-haired princess. Balor smiled, warmth tinged with weariness. "When did you become so wise, my daughter? Very well. This gift I will bestow upon the northern villages on Lady Dylan's behalf. Send word to your brother at your leisure, that he may have his secretary draw up lists for the quartermaster as he wishes. So long as it is affordable and purely non-militant in nature, it will be given."

"Thank you, Áthair. Thank you." Nuala rose to her feet and dipped a graceful curtsy to her father, the heavy velvet of her skirts rustling with the movement. Then she darted to the king and kissed his weathered cheek. "Nuada and Dylan will be so happy." With that, she rushed out of the room to find her twin.