Chapter 92 - Dance with the Devil

Chapter Ninety-Two

Dance with the Devil

that is

A Short Tale of a Brawl. Some Advice, a Hyena, Confessing to the King, Trousseau, an Argument, a Cruel Warning, and a Plea for Belief

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Having finished their business with the Lord Provost and the Chamberlain, Nuada and Dylan were on their way to the palace tailors, when a shrill adolescent echoed down the corridor. Dylan would've been concerned at the sound of any unhappy child, but Nuada stiffened upon hearing the voice, recognizing it immediately.

'Sa'ti.

Lengthening his stride, he made his way down the corridor, Dylan following at a limping jog. He rounded the corner in time to see his lady's handmaiden shoved roughly to the floor by an Elven noble-boy of perhaps nine or ten centuries. Another Elven boy held 'Sa'ti's precious doll, a Midwinter gift from her prince, high over his head. Nuada recognized the stance of a taunting bully. A few other Bethmooran boys stood in the hall as well, watching the "fun."

What made Nuada hesitate—out of curiosity—to intervene was the fact that he wasn't the only one to respond to 'Sa'ti's distress. A'du'la'di lunged for the boy who'd shoved his sister. The Elven boy ducked and drove his fist into A'du's face, no doubt blacking his eye. Another boy—fae, but not Elven, and familiar to Nuada—launched himself at the lad who'd punched A'du. The attacking fae boy was dumped unceremoniously on the floor. His silver-rimmed spectacles skidded across the stone floor to fetch up against the wall.

An Elven girl perhaps A'du's age, blond hair tousled and one lip split and bleeding, tackled a third Bethmooran boy. A smaller girl with flame-red hair and snapping green eyes shrieked in outrage and, with two Elven girls around the same age, mobbed the boy who'd punched A'du'la'di.

A'du and a sturdy, well-muscled lad with thick black hair and garnet eyes squared off against four other Bethmooran boys. A'du'la'di's crimson-eyed friend bared his teeth in a lazy smile and made a gesture that clearly invited the Bethmooran lads to come try for a piece.

"G-g-give it b-back," a young voice demanded. The fae boy had found his spectacles and now stood glaring at the noble-boy holding 'Sa'ti's doll. "She's j-j-j-j-just a little g-g-girl. G-g-give it b-b-b-back to her n-n-n-now!"

"Make me, Welshman," the Bethmooran boy sneered.

Dylan nudged Nuada. "If you're not going to stop them, get out of my way so I can!"

But the prince held up his hand. "I find this interesting," he murmured, keeping an eye on the children. "Do you know who those children are?"

She started to say no, of course she didn't, when she stopped. Holy crow, she did know those kids. She'd seen them before—at the first midwinter banquet, when the envoys had been introduced. The boy with the glasses was Prince Llŷr of Annwn, youngest son of Arawn. The blond girl with the crimson eyes was Shāuddo of Onibi. A boy went down beneath a pack of rabid five-year-old-looking girls Dylan recognized as Princess Abigail of Saami and Kale and Lily Wentworth of Eathesbury, the two little princesses who'd used Sétanta as a handhold while making their curtsies to the Bethmooran royal family. And the dökkálfr bashing heads beside A'du'la'di was Siegfried, youngest brother of the crown prince of Álfheim. In fact, the only people missing from the fray who, it seemed, should've been there were-

Nine-year-old Lady Kate of Elphame, mortal foster-sister of Lady Kaye, and the scarlet-haired changeling boy who served as her diminutive "Elf knight," Lord Bean, rocketed down the corridor whooping war-cries and launched themselves into the fight as well.

With the arrival of the cavalry, the Bethmooran noble-boys found themselves slowly giving way before their younger opponents. Nuada was content to let the children fight their own battles until one of the older boys—the one holding the coveted doll—kicked a crying, pleading, clutching 'Sa'ti in the face.

The cougar girl went sprawling to the floor. Everyone froze. 'Sa'ti blinked at the ceiling, sucked in a breath, and let out an ear-piercing scream. Then she began to cry, great whooping sobs mixed with caterwauls as she clutched her face.

The girls raced to their fallen friend. Siegfried, A'du, Bean, and Llŷr lunged for the boy who'd kicked 'Sa'ti. In the same instant, Dylan shoved forward and yelled in a voice any sergeant on the battlefield would've envied, "Enough!"

Again, everyone froze. Seeing Dylan and the prince, A'du grimaced but stood his ground. Siegfried didn't look fazed in the least by the appearance of the adults. Then again, he was a Viking; perhaps this sort of thing was common in Álfheim. Bean glared at the boys he'd been fighting.

But Llŷr took advantage of the distraction and kicked the Bethmooran boy hard in the shin. The boy yelped and hunched over. Llŷr balled up his skinny fist and clocked the other boy on the point of the chin with incredible speed. He dropped like a stone, the doll slipping from his fingers. Llŷr picked it up. With one furtive glance at Nuada, Llŷr went to a now-quietly-weeping 'Sa'ti and handed her the doll. She clutched it to her chest. Llŷr drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the side of her face that hadn't been kicked, wiping away the tears.

"What is going on?" Dylan demanded. Scanning the children, she picked the one she figured was least likely to try to lie or prevaricate. "Prince Siegfried?"

Siegfried stepped forward; there was a slight hitch in his step, as if he'd strained something. He offered her a deep bow. "Your Highness Prince Nuada Silverlance, my Lady Dylan of Central Park, I was walking with His Highness Prince Llŷr and Her Imperial Highness Princess Shāuddo when we heard a ruckus in the corridor. We thought we heard a girl crying, so we came to see if we could help. We found them," gesturing dismissively at the Bethmooran boys, "messing with these little 'uns," making a gesture that encompassed 'Sa'ti, Kale, Lily, and Abigail, "and our new friend here," clapping A'du'la'di on the shoulder.

"They t-t-t-t-took her d-d-d-doll, Your Highness," Prince Llŷr stammered. "It w-w-wasn't r-r-r-right. It w-w-w-wasn't honorab-b-ble. She was j-just a l-l-l-l-l-little th-th-thing." One of the Bethmooran boys, the one Llŷr had punched, snickered at the prince's stutter as he rose to his feet, and Llŷr flushed a brilliant scarlet. Casting a defiant glance at his enemies, Llŷr added, "Th-th-they k-k-k-k-kicked her! In the f-f-face!"

"Did they, now?" Nuada asked in a silky purr. The Bethmooran boys paled to a sickly grayish-blue. A'du and his new comrades clenched their fists at their sides and tried not to look nervous. The cluster of girls huddled closer together, and 'Sa'ti's sobs quieted. "I wonder what their fathers would say about the foolishness of young nobles attacking visiting dignitaries and royals. Or what they might say about the cowardice of their nobly-born sons bullying a little servant girl." One of the boys gulped audibly. "If they were my sons," Nuada added with a snarl, "I do believe I would give them such a thrashing that they wouldn't be able to sit comfortably for a week."

At that point, Dylan had to wonder if the leader of the doll-thieves hadn't lost his mind, because he limped forward, lifted his bruised chin defiantly, and said, "My father's not going to do anything to me. He'll be happy I made the little bint cry."

Nuada's eyes narrowed, darkening at the edges to bronze. "A gentleman does not use such language in front of ladies."

The boy jutted his chin at the prince belligerently. His eyes slid to Dylan, settled for a deliberate moment, then shot back to Nuada. "I don't see a lady."

A'du'la'di lunged for the Bethmooran boy, snarling and hissing, but Siegfried and Llŷr hauled him back.

From the corner of her eye, the mortal woman saw her prince's fingers twitch. She knew what Nuada was thinking—that he wished he had the right to beat the noble-boy senseless, or at least spank him like the brat he was. Instead of giving into that urge, however, the prince merely folded his arms across his chest and asked coolly, "What's your name, boy?"

"Lord Hamish mac Galen of Óic Bethra."

Dylan started in surprise. Lord Galen the Younger of Óic Bethra had been the leader of the drunken louts who'd tried to assault her the night Zhenjin had escorted her back to her rooms from the stable. Lord Galen wasn't old enough to have a son Hamish's age, which meant Hamish was probably his younger brother. Was it coincidence that two of the three lords of Óic Bethra had insulted her in the last week? Doubtful.

A'du'la'di tried to lunge forward again. Bean joined Siegfried and Llŷr in restraining the cougar. "I don't care if you are a lord. Don't talk to the prince like that. You're s'posed to call him 'Your Highness!'"

Young Lord Hamish sneered at A'du before dismissing him as unimportant.

"And was this little…adventure…all your own idea?" Prince Nuada asked.

"It was," he said with haughty confidence. "What of it? You can't do anything to me; everyone knows you're in disgrace for breaking the treaty. Again. Because you killed a human and murdered your own kind to protect your new trollop."

Nuada pinned the boy with a look of vicious ice. After several long moments of heavy silence, Lord Hamish started to look less sure of himself. A few more moments, and he quailed under Nuada's implacable stare. The boys behind him looked ready to start crying for their mothers. They went gray as corpses when the Elven warrior drew his sword; the blade whispered against the leather sheath and the light seemed to sing when it touched the keen edge. Moving too quickly to register, Nuada lunged forward, stopping with the edge of his blade resting lightly against Hamish's throat. The boy swallowed reflexively. Dylan saw his knees knocking together.

"Listen well, boy. Your father is a member of the Bethmooran council. Both your father and your brother have sworn oaths of fealty to His Royal Majesty King Balor. Thus, they have sworn fealty to the Crown and to the royal family—including me."

Nuada's arm twitched fractionally. The flesh of the boy's neck dimpled beneath the fine edge of the sword, though there was no blood. Hamish's lips trembled.

"Do you know the penalty for disrespecting a member of the royal family?" Hamish's mouth moved soundlessly. "Answer me, Lord Hamish," Prince Nuada barked. The boy shook his head almost imperceptibly. "I will tell you. For commoners, it is a day in the village stocks. For nobles, it is a day in one of the cells in King Balor's dungeon. However, as the crown prince, I could choose to take grievous offense and have your tongue from your mouth." At this, Lord Hamish whimpered. "Or remove the head from your shoulders." Nuada lightly tapped the sword against the boy's neck. Hamish squeezed his eyes shut as two fat tears leaked out. "And in case you were unaware, interfering with my vassals counts as treason. You would do well to remember that.

"With that said, I want you to pass along a message to your father, Lord Hamish. Tell him I said that if he chooses to take issue with my bedroom habits, he would do well to take it up with me in person, like a man, and not send his sons to fight his battles for him against my servant girls." Nuada drew the sword away from Hamish's neck. There was a faint yellow line against the paleness of his throat. "Now go along with you, insolent whelp, and remember what I've said."

As Hamish turned to run, Nuada's arm snaked out and the flat of his sword caught the Elven lordling hard across the backside, making him jump and yelp. He scuttled off, followed by his cohorts, leaving the prince with his lady and the gaggle of children who'd interfered on 'Sa'ti's behalf.

Siegfried and Bean sniggered at Hamish's humiliation, but stopped instantly when Nuada turned to them and, sheathing his sword, said, "In the future, you would do well to remember that when choosing between rescuing a lady's valuables and defending the lady, the lady's protection is always paramount. Understand?"

The boys bowed to the prince with murmured assent. Nuada scanned the quartet of boys and the clump of girls.

"Are any of you besides 'Sa'ti hurt?"

"I'm not hurt, Your Highness," 'Sa'ti sniffled. She emerged from the mass of adolescent girls swiping at the fur on her cheeks, and added, "Shāuddo made my face all better."

Dylan glanced at the blond Elven girl. She shrugged and stuck her hands in her pockets. Unlike the other girls, the Onibi princess wore black trews and a black tunic embroidered with golden flames. The Japanese features seemed at odds with hair like a golden flame and crimson, reptilian-slitted eyes. Dylan understood the coloring—Onibi royals were said to be phoenixes in Elven form, and flame-yellow and fiery crimson fit with that—but it was still odd to see blond and red where she should've seen black and brown.

Shāuddo said in accented Gaelic, "It was my privilege to aid the servant of Prince Nuada Silverlance." She bowed to the prince.

Nuada offered a truncated bow—more of a dip from the waist—and said, "My thanks, Your Imperial Highness. If you would honor me, my lady and I seek an audience with Your Honorable Brother, His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Emīru, and yourself."

Shāuddo didn't smile, but Dylan recognized the crinkling around her eyes as the Onibi equivalent. "I will convey your message to my Honorable Brother, Your Royal Highness. Please excuse me." To 'Sa'ti, she added, sounding more like a little girl, "We'll play tomorrow, hai?" The cougar girl nodded eagerly, and after receiving Nuada's permission, Shāuddo walked away.

The Elven prince glanced at the other children. "Begone," he muttered. "All of you. Return to the keepers you no doubt escaped from. Except you, Llŷr."

Prince Llŷr hunched his narrow shoulders. Only when everyone but 'Sa'ti and A'du had gone did Nuada speak at last.

"That was a good strike, the fist to the chin," the Elven warrior murmured. Llŷr smiled shyly and polished his glasses on the hem of his tunic. Dylan wondered if she'd ever seen a dorkier, sweeter fae in her life. She didn't think so. "Next time, instead of throwing yourself at your enemy and being batted aside like one might swat a fly, try that strike from the first. Understand?"

"Y-yes, s-s-sir, Prince Nuada."

Nuada gestured down the hall. "Off with you, now." As the young prince scampered off, the older fae noticed Dylan eyeing him with a soft smile on her face. "I've known Llŷr since his infancy," the prince said, sounding almost defensive. "He understands the ways of a warrior, for all he is a scholar." Then Nuada focused on A'du and 'Sa'ti. "We will have words, you two and I, later this evening."

"Are we in trouble?" A'du asked diffidently. Nuada sighed.

"No," the prince replied, pressing two fingers to his temple. "I merely have a headache. Begone with you. And stay out of trouble. Go to the kitchens to have your eye tended to, A'du'la'di!" He called after the retreating children. They waved to show they'd heard him and scampered out of sight.

Nuada sighed and leaned his shoulder against the wall next to a window. Giving her leg time to recover from the jog, Dylan hoisted herself backward onto the sill. The warmth of the sun on the back of her neck was absolutely lovely.

"I like how you handled Lord Hamish," Dylan murmured with a grin. "But you know I already sent the request to the Onibi envoy for an audience?"

He inclined his head. "Yes, but now Emīru is more likely to grant it, because we defended his sister's honor, as it were."

"Oh, I gotcha. Why send the kids to the kitchens?"

"One of Caspar's cook-girls will put some cold meat or ice on A'du's eye, prevent it from swelling. We don't bother healers for such trifling injuries, usually."

"And what was that about bedroom habits?"

The prince scowled. "Children do not spout such insults without hearing it from someone else first. Lord Hamish insulted you in a way he would never have thought of on his own. Which tells me that not only has Lord Galen the Younger turned against me, but I'm almost certain Lord Galen the Elder has as well. Stars curse it, anyway. Some of the anti-human faction are practically foaming at the mouth at the thought of a mortal becoming our next princess, possibly our next queen. The fools…" He trailed off when Dylan went white. "Dylan? What's wrong?"

It took her a moment to stammer, "Q-q-queen?" She shook her head. "I'm not going to be queen. I'm just going to be a princess. You're a prince. I mean, your father's not stepping down when you get married or anything like that…is he?"

"Not that I know of. Gods, I hope not," he added with a grimace. "I have enough on my plate at the moment as is. No, but surely you've thought of the long-term, Dylan? You are crowned a princess, you are made immortal, and we wed. Several long centuries down the road—the gods willing, that is, that it be several centuries at least—I will be king, and your husband. Thus you will be queen of Bethmoora." Seeing her stricken expression, he hazarded, "You hadn't thought of that."

She shook her head numbly. "Nuada…I can't be a queen. I don't…I don't know anything about running a country."

He waved that aside. "You will learn during your time as princess, my love, and from governing Éas Ruaíd and Fionntrá, as well as the fiefdoms you will gain when we wed. I will teach you, Dylan, never fear. When the queenship falls on you, you will have centuries of experience governing already. And I will rule beside you as well. You needn't do it alone."

Dylan closed her eyes and drew a breath. She didn't have time to panic. She didn't have the luxury of panic. She'd made a commitment to Nuada; she would become a princess, marry him, and help rule and protect the Bethmooran people by his side (although she'd expected that to be in a more limited capacity than as queen).

Still, it was more than a little…daunting. She opened her mouth to ask Nuada for some soft word of reassurance when the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor and Princess Nuala came rushing around the corner toward her twin brother.

"Brother, it worked!" She raced to her twin and threw her arms around his neck. Shock and pain flickered across Nuada's face before he smoothed it away behind a blank mask. "Father agreed to your proposal! He's going to gift Dylan by aiding the northern villages! It worked!"

It took the prince a moment to understand just what his sister was saying. Then, an exultant grin flashing across his face, Nuada hoisted Nuala into the air and spun her around once with an almost-adolescent whoop of triumph before hastily dropping her to the ground and hunching over slightly. Nuala winced, as well, shoulders hunching and one hand stealing to her side. She gave her brother a sharp look of concern.

"Ahhh," he hissed. "Shouldn't have done that. My back and ribs have not healed quite yet…ow." Nuada smoothed a hand over his side. "That was foolish. But this is brilliant news," he added, grinning despite his pain. "Oh, sweet sister mine, you are a wonder." Impulsively, the prince darted in to kiss his sister's cheek. "Well done."

Smiling back at her twin, Nuala then turned to Dylan. "By the way, Dylan…have you been to see Themba about your wedding dress? Because I have some wonderful ideas."

Here we go, Dylan thought with a smile. Time for Nuala to play with Dylan the Doll again. But the mortal decided she didn't really mind. It was kind of nice having another sister—almost-sister—who liked to play dress-up and didn't dress like a stripper.

"We were just on our way there," Dylan said. "Do you want to come?"

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The vast chamber that the palace tailors and seamstresses called home swarmed with activity, and its center, like an ebony lion, Themba stood waiting for them. Immediately after bowing to the royal twins and Dylan, the Master Tailor of Findias took the mortal's hands and kissed them.

"Congratulations, my lady," he said in his deep, rumbling voice. "I wish you and His Highness all the joy in the world. Now, you are here about your wedding trousseau, yes? And a formal gown? Three days isn't much time, especially with Midwinter having just passed and Christmas in two days, but for you, my lady, we will manage!"

Nuada raised an eyebrow. "Word spreads quickly," the prince said dryly. "We only received the king's permission for the ceremony's date a few hours ago."

Themba's white teeth flashed bright against the midnight of his skin. "If the castle gossip ceased, Your Highness, the walls would fall in. Now where is…ah. Hiyori!" The Nyame Elf beckoned to the slim Onibi journeymaid seamstress Dylan had become fond of, who scurried over and bowed to the prince and princess, then to the mortal. "Hiyori, where is my book?" Without a word, only the crinkling of laugh-lines around her crimson eyes, Hiyori presented a loosely-bound book that Dylan realized a moment later was an artist's book. "Come with me, my lady, and we shall see your wishes fulfilled."

Though the tailor spoke to Dylan, it was Nuala who grabbed Dylan's hand with childlike delight and practically hauled her to the relatively quiet alcove Themba was heading for. Nuada followed after, wondering if he were already beginning to sweat. He was only here to ensure Dylan got her way regarding her wedding gown. He had promised her it would be white, and modest by the standards of the Star Kindler's children. Once that was established, he would go to his father and confess…everything.

Then the prince had a thought. Sister, he ventured through the link he shared with his twin. I must attend to some business. Will you look after Dylan?

Of course, his sister replied. I'm sure you would rather be practicing in the salle than listening to us gush about clothing. I will ensure she looks as she ought to for your wedding, Brother.

Nuala, Nuada said, Dylan has specific requirements for her wedding gown.

There was a moment of silence. Requirements? Nuala said at last.

She will tell you. She is to have her own way in all things, Nuala. Aloud, turning to Dylan Nuada said, "A ghrá, I must attend to some things. I shall return before you're finished here." Conscious of the curious eyes of the staff on him, he leaned in and lightly kissed his truelove's cheek. He would've preferred her lips, but they were in public. "Enjoy yourself."

"I love you," Dylan murmured. The wealth of emotion in the three simple words soothed him. She knew; she knew he intended to speak to his father about his change of heart regarding the humans. Knew it, loved him for it, and wanted him to know she would be with him in spirit during the interview.

"You are my life," he whispered. Forget propriety; forget the servants. He would kiss her lips because he bloody well felt like it. Nuada started to lean forward. "Mo duinne—"

A gagging sound arrested him. Feral amber eyes slanted to Nuala's far-too-innocent face over Dylan's shoulder, then to the smile tugging at Themba's mouth. The glare the Elf leveled on his twin promised sibling retribution. Brushing Dylan's cheek with his knuckles, Nuala bowed to his sister, kissed his truelove, and departed.

Nuala turned to Dylan. With enthusiasm resembling a hyena pouncing on a gazelle, the princess said, "So, Dylan, your wedding gown. I was thinking Bethmooran colors, red and gold. What do you think?"

"I…" Dylan resisted—barely—the urge to yelp for Nuada to come back. She could handle this without his help. She wasn't a baby. It was her wedding, after all. And she wanted a white dress, so for the love of French toast, it would be white.

She glanced at Nuala again. The hyena-look was still there.

This is going to be harder than I thought…

.

Sometime later, in another part of Findias, Nuada gave the chamberlain a curt nod as he bowed the prince into the king's study. The prince entered and bowed low to his father; the precise, military-sharp movements allowed him to hide his nerves. He didn't know how this interview might go. The king had yearned for his heir to give up his vendetta against the humans. Now Nuada intended to do just that, at least as far as the Golden Army was concerned…but would the king believe him? And how would the news change things between them?

"Lord Iríall said you wished to see me, my son," the king said softly. Wariness edged his voice. No wonder, Nuada thought. On the heels of Balor offering aid to the northern villages, his son requested an audience. Balor continued, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The prince took a moment to find his composure. Having already revealed his betrayal of his people to Dylan, a few trusted members of his inner circle, and Wink, it seemed almost too much to ask him to do it again…but he knew he must. His father needed to know. And perhaps, just perhaps, Nuada could use this perfidy of his heart to purchase further aid for his people from their king.

"My royal father," Prince Nuada murmured, "I have a confession to make."

Balor's brows furrowed. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as he frowned. He sat back and nodded for his heir to continue.

Drawing in a breath that threatened to strangle him, Nuada found he couldn't meet his father's eyes. This was what Balor wanted—a part of what he wanted, at least—yet Nuada knew he couldn't look his king in the eye when confessing that he was too much the coward to stand for his people. Nuada gripped his right wrist with his left hand until his fingers and wrist ached. Feeling as if he were swallowing glass, he managed to say, "I have abandoned my quest for the Golden Army."

The king jerked upright. Wide-eyed, he stared at his son. "What did you say?"

"I've abandoned my quest for the Golden Army. I will no longer seek the third Crown piece. I will no longer attempt to raise the Army. I…though we will fight if war comes between the fae and the humans, I…I will no longer seek out such a war. Bethmoora, at least, will not be the instigators of that bloody conflict, should it ever come."

When it came. He knew it would; he knew that, in order for his people to survive much longer, something had to change in the way the humans and the fae interacted. Dylan believed the humans would help his people, but he couldn't trust the children of Adam. Dylan had faith, hope. Nuada had abandoned hope long ago.

Balor stared at his son in stunned silence. What did the king see? Did he see the prodigal son returned from whatever supposed madness had urged him to seek for the Crown piece? Or did he see a man broken, stripped of his honor, of what made him a warrior and a man? Did Balor realize he'd finally, finally managed to break his son's spirit?

Nuada had been able, he was sure, to bear the loss of his father's love; hadn't he already lost it the day his mother had been killed? As for Nuala, she'd slowly drifted from him since that fateful day as well. Others who'd left or would leave…they were not so dear that he couldn't live without them. But Dylan…he was so selfish, that he'd been willing to live with the guilt and the horror of the slaughter of Adam's race until she came into his life. He'd been willing to bear the sin of what the Golden Army would do, the destruction it would wreak…until her. Damn his soul, anyway. Damn his cowardice.

"You're in earnest," Balor whispered. "You are truly in earnest."

He nodded, heart heavy with shame.

The king made a sound then, halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and suddenly Balor was on his feet, coming around the hawthorn desk to grip his son's shoulders.

"Oh, my son," Balor murmured. "My son. I have prayed for this day for centuries. I am so very proud of you, Nuada. Long have I prayed…I had almost given up hope…but at last you've given up your misplaced hatred, this ill-begotten lust for revenge against the humans. The gods have answered my prayers at last."

And his father embraced him. Nuada stiffened as pain flashed across his back. His father faltered for a moment, then realizing the reason for Nuada's tension, loosened his grip. The pain from the prince's lashes slowly subsided.

Nuada wanted to return his father's embrace, but the hurt and grief at his father's words held him frozen. Misplaced hatred, this ill-begotten lust for revenge…Still Balor thought so little of him; thought he would butcher an entire race out of a thirst for vengeance. He loathed the humans—of course he did, with their festering, hungering, savage ways—but it wasn't his hatred that had led him to seek their destruction. Not hatred, but love—love for his people, and the drive to protect them. And still his father didn't see…

I see you. I know you. I love you. Dylan's words. They soothed the rawness inside him until he could breathe a little easier. Nuada found himself able to stiffly embrace his father.

"It takes great courage to admit when one is wrong," Balor continued, drawing back to gaze at his son with warmth and sympathy. "I understand how difficult this must have been for you to confess to me, Nuada."

I wasn't wrong, the Elven warrior wanted to snap. I am not wrong! The humans will see us destroyed and there is now no guarantee that we will be able to defend ourselves! I am not courageous. Not anymore. I am a coward afraid of losing the thing he holds most dear.

But he held back the fury and despair writhing like serpents in his belly and said only, "There is one thing, Father. The human assassin in custody."

The instant wariness in Balor's eyes was like a slap. "What of him?"

"We need information from him," the prince replied coolly. "The identity of his employer, anything he might know. You do not wish him harmed. Very well. My lady has a plan to interrogate him without hurting him."

Nuada sparsely outlined Dylan's plan, saying that Dylan's brother, a human official in the mortal realm, would take the assassin into mortal custody and deal with him according to official methods. He didn't mention Dylan's idea to use truth-inducing drugs; once the assassin was remanded to John's custody, Balor no longer needed to know such things. Nuada did mention Dylan would use her skills as a mind-healer to question the assassin, but that was all.

After a long moment, the king nodded. "Let the mortals care for their own, and punish their own," Balor murmured. "It is well done. This, too, fills me with pride in you, Nuada, that you are willing to work with the humans and let justice have its way with the assassin. Well done, my son."

Was he deceiving his father? His king? No, he was merely playing the political game. Eliminating an enemy when politics and the king's foolishness—he would never call it mercy—tied his hands. And it was necessary to protect Dylan, as well as those dear to her and her prince.

But it left Nuada feeling hollow when he merely nodded and said, "Very good, Your Majesty."

.

"I really think red would make a better impression, Dylan," Nuala murmured. Dylan had to resist the urge to slam her head into Themba's desk-table where she, the princess, the Master Tailor, and his journeymaid sat. "It is traditional-"

"I'm not wearing a red wedding dress," the mortal interrupted. She'd been having this conversation with her fiancé's sister for the last goodness knows how many minutes, and she was done. Done. She didn't want to be having this conversation when Nuada arrived because then he'd feel obligated to get involved and tell his sister to take a hike. Plus she didn't want to cause friction between the royal twins when they seemed to be getting along for once. "Look, Your Highness-"

Nuala…well, if it had been anyone else, Dylan would've said she pouted, and said, "Dylan, we are going to be sisters. Call me Nuala, please."

She sighed. "Okay. Nuala, look…it may be traditional for a royal bride to wear red at her wedding, and I will gladly have red jewelry or something, but I'm a Latter-Day Saint, and I'm supposed to wear white at my wedding. So my dress is going to be white. Okay? Nuada already promised me."

The princess arched an eyebrow. "Oh, he did?"

"Yes. He swore to me on his honor as a Bethmooran prince. Besides," Dylan added, smiling to take the sting from her words, "my dress has to be white so I can wear it in the Star Kindler's temple when—if—Nuada and I ever go there together." And if I haven't gotten fat from having a million kids, she added silently, swallowing a laugh.

"I…see," the princess said, in a tone that clearly indicated she really didn't. "Well, if that is truly what you wish…then white it shall be."

Thanks for your permission, Dylan thought, more amused than annoyed. Aloud, she said, "But I do want to do things according to Bethmooran tradition, too. So maybe we blend the two?" She looked to Themba, who sketched in his art book with a look of fierce concentration. After about two minutes, he set the charcoal stick aside, wiped the smears of black from his fingers with a handkerchief, and slid the book over to Dylan. Her mouth dropped open.

She'd asked for a blend of two styles, but clearly Themba had already had such an idea in mind. The sketch was rough, but clear and concise—a simple white leine as the base, though Themba's notes indicated the use of embroidery and beading for decoration, and a floor-length surcoat, white with golden detailing; an accessory, which meant Dylan could take it off when she wished to enter the temple. A modest neckline, wrist-length sleeves that belled out a little, a skirt that would no doubt just brush the floor and the toes of her boots…Dylan looked up at Themba.

"I like it," she said. Remembering her future sister's presence, she added, "What do you think, Nuala?"

"Well…it's a malleable design. It would look beautiful on you, Dylan, if the right cloth is used. Shall we take a look at Themba's suggestions?"

"Sure," the mortal replied.

The dark-skinned Elf led the two women to another table, where swatches of fabric lay waiting to be looked over. There were silks and velvets and sheer organdy and doeskin and brocade, all in white, that had Dylan's inner girly-girl drooling. Dylan found herself stroking an exquisitely soft, silky material with shimmering embroidery as luminous as a pearl in the moonlight.

"Ohhh," Nuala breathed rapturously. "Oh, Dylan, that's beautiful. Look at it." Nuala stroked the fabric, too, tracing a slender embroidered vine that trailed along the material with one finger. Where embroidered snowdrops bloomed, a tiny seed-pearl nestled at the heart of each blossom. "Couldn't you simply fall in love with it?"

In point of fact, Dylan had fallen in love with it. She wanted it for her dress. She shot a pleading look, complete with puppy-dog eyes, at Themba.

The tailor grinned, delighted, and made a notation. Then he said, "The embroidery is not a…how do mortals say it…a print. It is custom." Seeing Dylan's puzzled expression, he explained, "We take a piece of the crushed-velvet and embroider it with the snowdrops and vines by hand in a pattern of your choosing, milady. Do you wish the embroidery to cover the entire gown, or perhaps as an accent?"

"Um…" Come to think of it, she wasn't sure she'd like to sit on seed-pearls. And it would look kinda weird if she had embroidered, pearly flowers all over her dress except on the butt. "Hmmm…a sparse patterning, maybe? Pearls are kind of delicate, right? I wouldn't want to, um, squash one or something."

Nuala laughed. "A very good point."

Themba inclined his head, showing his bright white teeth in another grin. "It shall be as you wish, my lady."

He showed them gold-embroidered materials for the surcoat, and with Nuala's opinions, Dylan made her choice. Nuala made Dylan promise to let her help choose jewels for the wedding ceremony. Remembering that Nuala enjoyed playing dress-up—and acknowledging that it couldn't hurt to have someone with so much experience helping make her choices—Dylan promised.

There were designs and materials to pick out for other parts of Dylan's trousseau, some of which made her blush so hotly she thought her hair might catch fire, and then there was her gown for Saturday. That, unlike the wedding dress, had to follow a rigid set of guidelines.

"Some shade of red and gold, I think, my lady," Themba said, setting out the material. "Velvet and silk brocade, I think. Purely Irish in style, to appease the people and show them you appreciate the kingdom's history, our culture. Let's see…a gold velvet cape trimmed in ermine. No, silk is better. Burgundy…no, claret velvet kirtle, ruby silk shift, antique gold embroidery…it will look well with the matching cape. Ruby broach or garnet? Hmmm…we'll use a mixture of both, perhaps, after the form of the Eildon Tree. Your boots will match your kirtle."

Nuala's eyes widened. "Boots? Slippers, surely, Themba."

"No," Dylan practically yelped. "Boots work. Boots are fine. I like boots."

The Nyame Elf offered Dylan a reassuring smile. "His Highness has spoken to me before of your preference for boots, milady. Never fear, Princess," he added to Nuala. "We will take care of her. Now, we shall have the Eildon Tree embroidered here on your over-gown…"

They'd just finished hammering down the details of the new formal dress and Nuala and Dylan were back to admiring the snowdrop-embroidered velvet when Nuada returned. He found himself bombarded with excited chatter that momentarily froze him in place. The legendary Elven warrior only found the fortitude to move when his sister presented him with a scrap of white cloth and demanded, "Is this not the loveliest thing you've ever seen, Brother?"

Nuada gathered enough wits to say, "Erm…yes. Lovely. A good choice." He cleared his throat. "Have you finished, Themba?"

"We have, Your Highness. I relinquish Her Ladyship to you."

Dylan laced her fingers with Nuada's when he took her hand, but her high spirits plummeted when he growled through their link, You and I need to have words, Lady Dylan.

She masked her sudden uncertainty with a smile at Themba and Nuala, but she responded silently with equal gravity, As you wish, Your Highness.

.

Nuada hadn't gone straight back to fetch his lady after speaking with the king. Instead, he'd sought out Lord Galen the Elder of Óic Bethrá to speak to him about young Lord Hamish's behavior. And what the whelp's father had had to say hadn't pleased the prince one bit. It had also given him a brief but intense urge to wring Dylan's neck.

Now he strode with her back to their joint suites, wondering what he was going to say to his lady about Lord Galen the Younger and keeping secrets and Prince Zhenjin. Fury at Lord Galen and at being caught unawares by his enemy crowded the words in Nuada's throat until he thought he might choke. Mingling with the rage was hurt—hurt that Dylan hadn't told him about Galen the Younger, that he'd had to find out about it from the wretch's father, and hurt because of what the Lords Galen had said Dylan had said to Zhenjin.

It was pathetic to be jealous of his friend. Perhaps Dylan hadn't meant the words the way they had come across to the Bethmooran lord. It was ridiculous to be upset that Dylan had managed to sway Zhenjin from his course simply by saying, Please. For me. Nuada knew why Zhenjin had acquiesced, of course. After their conversation that morning, of course he knew. But that didn't explain how Dylan had known to say those words.

He marched with her into her room, slamming the door in their guards' faces. He whirled on her, only to find her taking a seat on her bed, stretching out her bad leg atop the counterpane. The thought that she might be in pain stayed him for a moment, but then the tumult of emotions swirling in his chest spurred him on.

"Why didn't you tell me about Lord Galen?" Nuada demanded. Dylan swallowed and lowered her head.

"How did you find out?"

"That isn't the point," Nuada snapped. "Why didn't you tell me what he'd said to you? What he'd tried to do to you?"

Dylan sighed. "He was drunk, Nuada, he didn't mean it."

The Elven warrior snarled under his breath. Fixing her with a glare, he snapped, "The wretch called you a whore, insulted you to your face, propositioned you, tried to touch you without your invitation or permission, and you defend him with the excuse that he was intoxicated?"

"It's not like he attacked me!"

Incredulous, Nuada demanded, "What do you think he and his cohorts would've done if you'd been alone? He was drunk enough to press you. What do you think Lord Galen would've done without your escort to give him second thoughts?"

Her mouth opened and closed. Finally she confessed, "I don't know."

"I do," Nuada said too softly, "and it makes me sick." With a muffled snarl of fury, he turned to pace furiously up and down the length of the room. "The thought of him putting his hands on you…hurting you…I could cheerfully kill him, and make it take a very long time, merely for attempting it. Dammit, Dylan, you should have told me!"

"You had other things on your mind."

"Things like this are never far from my mind," Nuada yelled. "Do you have any idea how terrified I am that a member of my court, insulted by your humanity, will decide to hell with it, and hurt you? Kill you? Do you know what the fae do to human women? Do you know what humans have done to my enemies and my allies—to their mothers, wives, sisters, daughters? Do you know how many of them want to pay back the humans, any humans, after the same fashion? Why do you think I'm doing this?" Nuada demanded. "Insisting on your elevation so quickly? I'm doing it to protect you from treacherous dogs like Lord Galen."

Dylan regarded him with wide eyes, then lowered her head. She whispered, "I was trying…trying to be merciful. I knew you would probably beat the crud out of him for what he did, and I didn't want to make an enemy of him. I thought being gracious and letting him off with Zhenjin scaring the daylights out of him would be enough. And I didn't want to disturb you. You've been so busy and preoccupied…you have so much to worry about. I didn't want to add to it. I'm sorry."

Nuada sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "Dylan…" Sighing again, he sank onto the bed beside her. "I'm sorry for shouting. I'm sorry for…I…I need to ask you something."

She brushed back a lock of hair. "All right."

"I spoke with Lord Galen the Elder after I went to see my father. He said the reason Zhenjin didn't cripple his son was that you asked Zhenjin to spare him. He claims your exact words to Zhenjin were, 'Please. For me.'" Warily, Dylan nodded. Swallowing his pride, Nuada asked, "Why did you say that?"

"I…I don't know. It just…the words just popped out. I knew they would work. And they did. Zhenjin let him go. Why?"

"There have been rumors, Dylan. Rumors about you and Zhenjin."

She flinched. "I know." Then her eyes widened and she glanced up at him. "You don't believe them…do you?"

"Of course not."

At least, he believed Dylan would never deliberately play him false, and neither would Zhenjin. Deliberately. But just as he'd started out with every intention of hating Dylan with every fragment of his soul until the end of time, Zhenjin had begun the same way. And just as Nuada had fallen under his lady's spell, bewitched in both body and soul, so too might Zhenjin fall. Zhenjin might, as Nuada had, find himself unable to resist the temptation.

Nuada had a sudden vision of his friend pulling Dylan into his arms, fastening his mouth to hers, kissing her with the same desperate fire that always smoldered in the pit of Nuada's belly. The image ran away from him, and now Zhenjin wasn't merely kissing Dylan, but touching her, caressing. Yet despite her adherence to the Law of Chastity, in this imagining Dylan responded ardently to Zhenjin's advances—

No! No, she would never. She valued her chastity too highly. Valued her love for Nuada too highly. She would never betray him. Never hurt him that way.

The way he had hurt her when he'd kissed another woman.

He'd intended to lecture her, chastise her, but in the face of his own self-doubt and her uncertain hurt, Nuada forewent the blistering lecture and merely drew her into his arms. Laying his cheek against her hair, he murmured, "You must be careful, Dylan. Everything depends on us going carefully for the future. You need to tell me if someone threatens you. It isn't a sign of weakness, and I need to know."

"Okay," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I was trying to help. I can't just run off and tattle on everyone who's rude to me, you know? It will make me look weak."

"Why does it matter to you what things look like to the court?"

"Because then your courtiers won't respect you," she said shrewdly. "They'll see it as you making a weak choice for their future princess, their future queen. It'll look like I'm scared of them."

"You need to be afraid of them, Dylan," the prince said softly. "They are all dangerous; you must take care."

Dylan sighed. "I know they're dangerous, but I can't let them think they scare me, even though they do. It's all about appearances—that's what you and Zhenjin keep telling me. So I need to appear unconcerned."

"That does not preclude you from telling me these things!"

"It does if you're going to blow my cover as the big, strong, brave warrior-princess by rushing off to beat the crud out of whoever decides to call me names that week!"

Nuada growled under his breath, "By the Fates, you try my patience. Fine," he added with a snarl. "Fine. I will make a bargain with you, my lady. If you swear on your love for me to tell me whenever someone threatens you in any way, then I swear on my love for you that I will not act rashly and expose you to either ridicule or censure. I will not damage the image of you as a strong future royal. Agreed?"

After a moment's hesitation, she nodded. "Agreed."

"Which means you will now tell me the surnames of Patrick and Xander so that I may hunt them down like the dogs they are and kill them."

Dylan raised an eyebrow. "That is so not what that means. Nice try. They're not a threat right now. The police are keeping an eye on them for me."

Her word-choice snagged his attention, but he didn't remark on it. Only filed away the fact that the human scum who'd torn away her innocence were being monitored by human law enforcement. If he grew desperate for justice, he would find a way to tap that particular resource. Somehow.

Aloud he said, "I want them dead."

"You're not the only one," she murmured. "If it didn't put you in danger, I'd let you have them in a heartbeat…but you know what you're father will do. Especially after giving you Westenra."

He sighed. "I'm sorry I grew so angry."

Jealous. He'd been jealous. Was jealous still. Pathetic, but there it was. Zhenjin had the power to give Dylan everything she desired. If the Dilong prince wooed her, won her, there would be no need for this dangerous venture to Avalon and Mag Mell. Zhenjin could shuck his immortality if he chose—and Nuada knew he would, if he thought it would do him a single ounce of good. If the Chinese Elf thought Dylan would ever love him, he would give up his throne, his power, his immortality, and live a mortal life to be with her. Zhenjin would be able to give Dylan children. The one thing that, as yet, Nuada couldn't. The one thing she desired above all else.

If he'd been more of a man, if he'd been less a selfish coward, he would've told Dylan of Zhenjin's affections and encouraged her to go to him, to accept his suit.

But he couldn't.

And he'd been so viciously angry at Galen's words, his thinly-veiled accusations that echoed Bres's fury far too closely. Lord Galen the Elder had been one of the few of Balor's generation who'd refused to lie down under the boots of the humans and be trodden into the dust. Nuada had admired him for centuries. Now Galen stewed in disgust, feeling the sting of Nuada's betrayal just as strongly as Bres surely did. Galen hadn't known about Nuada's plans for the Golden Army, but everyone knew Prince Nuada Silverlance intended to make war on the humans and drive them back at least to the original boundaries outlined in the treaty, no matter the cost in mortal blood. His supporters in that venture had been stunned by his declaration of attachment to Dylan before the Golden Court, and now…now that Nuada had asked Dylan to wed him, their outrage knew no bounds.

It hadn't been treason, what Galen had said. There had been no talk of moving against the Crown. Only words dripping derision and disappointment that stung like acid. Lord Galen had agreed to speak to young Hamish about his behavior, but Nuada harbored no illusions. The Bethmooran lord intended to inform his son that challenging Nuada openly was foolish; he had no intention of correcting Hamish's view of the situation. The boy would be polite to his prince's face, perhaps even to Dylan's, but he would still think of her as Silverlance's whore.

Nuada would take no chances with her safety. None. So he would have a quiet word with Captain Sáruit and Captain Phelan about keeping an eye on certain members of the court.

But for now, he needed to focus on something else. His lady had been happy when he'd fetched her from the tailors'. His fury had shattered that happiness. He needed to make amends. Gently stroking her cheek with one finger, Nuada lifted Dylan's chin.

"Forgive me," Nuada murmured. "I am…ashamed as I am of it, I am afraid for you here, mo crídh. Please forgive me."

"Of course I forgive you," she muttered. "I'm sorry I did something stupid. I suck at this whole…this whole political thing. I don't know how to walk the line between bravado and stupidity. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm trying, Nuada."

"I know," he said, cupping her cheek. "I know how hard you try. I see it. What you did was not stupid; you meant to spare me unnecessary grief and to appear strong for me. How can I not appreciate such a thing?" Leaning in, Nuada pressed his lips to her forehead. Felt her relax. "Enough of this. Tell me how things went with Themba and my sister."

She shrugged as he drew back. "Fine. Got everything planned in one shot, so that's something. Had a fight with Nuala about not wearing red on my wedding day, though."

"Well," the prince murmured. Nuzzling the satin curve of her cheek, he inhaled her scent, felt her shiver when his breath caressed her skin. Nuada whispered, "Perhaps you can wear red on our wedding night." Dark lips quirked when Dylan gulped audibly. "The palace tailors can arrange a suitable garment for my beautiful future-bride."

"Is that all you think about?" Dylan asked, voice shaky, but he heard the smile in it. "The night you finally get to have your way with me?"

"As I intend to make it the best night of your life, one might imagine it occupies my thoughts. And you are so very beautiful. It truly astonishes me that I can think of anything else."

Dylan laughed. "I'll be having wedding cake that night. Nothing can compete with that. Sorry."

"I believe I'm being insulted."

"It's just a fact, Your Highness," she replied. "I'm sorry, but you and all your so-called prowess can't compete with wedding cake."

Nuada slanted her a dangerous look. "My 'so-called' prowess?" She gave him a sweet smile. Nuada's expression turned predatory. "Ah, I see. A challenge. Well, challenge accepted, my lady." He trailed kisses over her cheekbone to just beneath her ear, enjoying her shivers. Then, with his lips grazing her ear with every word and his breath warm against her skin, Nuada whispered, "Come the night of the Frost Moon, I assure you, you will be able to think of nothing else, not even cake, when I finally make you mine. You'll only be able to think of me."

"Oh, boy," Dylan half-gasped, fanning herself. "Um…wow." Her cheeks flamed scarlet. "How do you do that?"

He grinned. "I am an Elf, my love; I'm irresistible."

.

Eventually they had to go to dinner. Dylan's wine-red gown, accented with silver embroidery, matched Nuada's silver-and-wine ensemble. With her hair loosely braided beneath the silver-and-garnet hair-piece and with a little makeup, she looked the part of a princess. Nuada certainly approved, if the way he kept staring at her was any indication.

Of course a few of the guests at the king's table commented on Nuada and Dylan's "absence" the last couple of days. Others replied in varying tones of humor and disgust that obviously they'd been too busy "celebrating" the king's blessing of their engagement to be bothered with holiday revelry.

There was dinner and dancing, minstrels and gleemen and other entertainments. A bit stiff from all the walking, Dylan decided she was going to sit out the dancing.

Nuada remained by her side except for one instance, when he spotted Lady Dierdre standing off by herself against the wall. Silently explaining himself to his truelove, Nuada went to speak to the Fomorian noblewoman. Dylan tried not to eye them suspiciously. She knew there was no way Nuada would humiliate her by openly flirting with the noblewoman. He wouldn't deliberately set about seducing or wooing another woman, period.

But she couldn't help the icy zing through her chest when Nuada let his fingertips rest ever-so-briefly on Dierdre's elbow as he spoke to her in low, earnest tones. Nor could she ignore the warm smile that spread across the Fomorian's face, though Dierdre shook her head at the prince. Nuada gestured toward the dance floor. Dierdre shook her head.

Dylan frowned. What was he saying to her?

Nuada made the gesture again. Another sad headshake from Dierdre, then she gestured in Dylan's direction. The mortal went cold. Nuada sliced the air with a dismissive wave of his hand. A lump formed in Dylan's throat.

Really? She demanded silently. Really? I'm going to jump to conclusions just like that? I'm not going to doubt him. I'm not. She's in trouble, and he's trying to convince her to do something to help herself. That's all.

An icy chill ran down Dylan's back. Her entire body stiffened as the warning burned like ice in her chest and along her backbone.

Then Prince Bres sank into the chair Nuada had so recently vacated. Scooting it back several inches to put space between himself and the human, Bres offered a tight smile. Dylan ducked her head.

"Your Highness," she managed. The Spirit wasn't telling her to run, or to scream bloody murder, but He was screaming, Warning! Danger!

"Lady Dylan," Bres murmured, with a quick dip of his head in lieu of a bow, "I wondered if I might speak with you concerning a matter of some importance."

"I…"

"There is reason to be concerned for Prince Nuada's safety, milady," the Fomorian prince said. Dylan froze. "Lady Dylan, my words may distress you, but you are putting Silverlance in danger."

She fought for calm. "How?"

"Your very presence endangers him. Surely you know his stance against humans? That he intended to massacre them in the coming war, down to the last man, woman, and child?"

Dylan remembered Nuada's grief, his self-disgust, the horror nearly choking him as he'd confessed what he'd intended to do to save his people from the slow creeping destruction she herself had fought against nearly her entire life. She realized Bres thought she didn't know about that. He didn't think Nuada would've told her or that she would've stood by him had she known. And she realized that Bres had supported Nuada's plan. Still supported it. Did he know Nuada had abandoned his plans for genocide, unable to bear the guilt?

Without waiting for an answer, Bres continued. "Well obviously he cannot hope to perpetuate that very necessary slaughter with a mortal at his side. I doubt you intend to war against your own kind."

As she had many times to Nuada, Dylan said, "They're not my kind." Bres paused and frowned at her. "I'm Prince Nuada's betrothed," she said, hoping her voice sounded regal instead of squeaky with fear. "The fae of Bethmoora are my people now."

Bres's lip curled. His voice dripped disdain as he murmured, "Pretty words, milady, but you'll excuse me if I do not put my faith in the promises of a mortal."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. You still haven't told me how my presence puts His Highness in danger," she added, wondering how she could sound so calm when her teeth should've been chattering.

"Isn't it obvious? Your presence means his allegiances have changed; he no longer cares for his people."

She arched a cool brow. "Oh?"

Bres narrowed his eyes. "Indeed. If he truly cared, he wouldn't parade you on his arm like some prized treasure. He wouldn't rub his people's faces in the fact that he's abandoned them for the pleasures of your bed. Instead of attempting to fend off the creeping decay that has fallen over the Fae, he lifts your skirts at every opportunity and goes riding."

Now chilly anger warred with the bitter cold inside her. Color flooded her cheeks and she raised her chin. "If you only mean to insult me and His Highness, Prince Bres, I suggest you to take yourself somewhere else."

"Nuada was once my friend! And you—you, with your witch's guile, your siren spell—have somehow stolen away his honor, his courage, his dedication to duty. If I have taken offense, how many of Silverlance's own people will begrudge your conquest? And how many of them might take it into their heads to punish their prince for bedding the enemy? An assassin nearly killed him not even a sevenday past."

"And I defended him," Dylan said coolly, "as he defends me."

"Very touching, but one day, the knife or the poison or the arrow will get past even your redoubtable defenses and he will lie slain at your feet, his lifeblood staining your hands, his death on your conscience, and all because you refused to free him from your widow's web. What clever words will you use then?"

Her knuckles were white, fists clenched in her lap. Only a Herculean effort allowed her to meet Bres's eyes.

"I don't know," she said softly. "But I'll tell you this, Prince Bres. If anyone tries to hurt Nuada, I will make them pay. Dearly."

Bres's eyes went flat and cold as a snake's. "Are you threatening me, you filthy whore?" He demanded, voice a deadly hiss.

"I don't make threats," she replied. "I make decisions."

A shadow fell over them. Dylan looked up, relief threatening to make her cry when her eyes met Nuada's. He acknowledged her with a curt nod before focusing on Bres.

"What are you doing here?"

The Fomorian raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise. "Merely offering some friendly advice to your…lady. Enjoy your evening, old friend." Bres rose, bowed, and strode off. Nuada watched him mix into the crowd of fae courtiers, nobles, and royals before turning to Dylan.

"Are you all right?"

She opened her mouth to say yes, then snapped it shut on a sob. A shaking hand covered her mouth. When she thought she could speak without crying, she gasped out, "I need some air."

Startled, Nuada helped her to her feet. Her legs threatened to buckle. Only with his support did she manage to slip out of the ballroom into the quiet shadows of the nearby gardens. He took her to a nearby footbridge overlooking a small garden stream; the babbling of the water would prevent anyone from overhearing their conversation. Dylan stumbled to the railing, grasping it with trembling hands, and hung her head, simply breathing deeply of the winter night air. She didn't seem to feel the cold. After a moment, she sank to the ground, her legs giving out.

Nuada was beside her in an instant. "What is it?" He took her icy hands and chafed them gently. She was pale, eyes wide. Her breath came in shallow gasps. "Are you ill? What's wrong?"

"I never want to speak to him again," she gasped out. "He's…he's evil. Please don't ever make me talk to him ever again. I'm scared. I'm so scared. Hold me. Please, I just need you to hold me for a minute."

"All right," he murmured gently, gathering her in his arms. He'd never seen her like this without the weight of flashback. "It's all right, my love. You're safe; Bres cannot harm you. I'll never let him hurt you, I swear it."

"He said," she mumbled, the words spilling into the air like blood, "your people would never accept me because I'm human, that they'll try to hurt you, try to kill you. He said your death would be on my hands, and I couldn't tell if he was threatening you or not but I made him angry because I didn't back down. He told me I should leave you…I was so scared…he's evil, Nuada. Nuala can't marry him, he's a monster. He's a monster."

She wasn't hysterical, the prince thought. Dylan was simply terrified. What had Bres done to make her react like this? There had to be more than what she'd told him. Had he threatened her?

Monster, she'd called him. What made Nuada different from Bres? What made the Fomorian prince the monster, when Nuada had been the one to organize the plan to raise the Golden Army and the other ancient weapons put to sleep after the last war with the humans? Was it only Dylan's love that made her believe some good remained in her prince? What made Bres so much worse than the Tuathan prince?

"You don't believe me," she whispered. The hurt in her voice threatened to gut him.

"He has been my friend for centuries, Dylan," he tried to explain. "He's saved my life countless times. We were brothers-in-arms. I—"

"I know what I felt, Nuada. He's evil. He's…I felt so cold talking to him. There's something wrong with him. Him and Cíaran. Dierdre, too! I don't know what it is but there's something wrong! Please, you have to believe me."

He tightened his hold, spending a little magic to warm her against the bitter night, and murmured, "I'll look into it, Dylan. I promise I'll look into it."

But, she thought, feeling sick in her heart, he hadn't said he believed her.