Chapter Ninety-Eight - Men Do Battle but Women Wage War

Chapter Ninety-Eight

Men Do Battle but Women Wage War

 

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Despite her lateness in getting to bed, and waking long enough to comfort Nuada, Dylan woke with the dawn Christmas morning. The first faint rays of palest amber light caressed her face and tickled at her closed eyelids. Yawning and stretching, Dylan slowly sat up in bed. She offered a dreamy smile to the new Christmas morning.

 

Then she remembered last night: waking to the moonlit silhouette of her prince, Nuada's devastation at the king's cruel words, his hurt and her own fury. In a heartbeat Dylan had hopped out of bed. She moved stiffly because of the cold and her bad knee, limping across the room to the clothespress up against the wall. All of her best gowns were in chests against one wall; her common-wear was kept in the other chests.

 

"Milady?" Fionnlagh murmured, watching the human woman. "Are you all right?"

 

"Oh." Dylan stopped rifling through the clothespress long enough to offer her four female guards a tight smile. "Good morning, ladies. Merry Christmas. Just looking for a dress. Need to see the king. Very important."

 

She dove back into the clothes-chest. If she'd been Francesca, Dylan knew she'd have been tossing everything everywhere in an attempt to find what she was looking for…but the maids had to clean this place, and the psychiatrist wasn’t going to be one of those women who acted like servants were furniture and didn’t clean up after themselves. So she carefully set every garment on the clothespresses on either side of the one she searched through, and at long last, she emerged triumphant from the chest with an ebony gown of plush velvet trimmed in crimson silk. It was exactly what she needed.

 

Scrambling to her feet, she limped her way into the bathroom, accompanied by Eimh, and half-shut the door. The guards eyed each other as the sound of the show came on. Usually Her Ladyship preferred a bath in the mornings. The cold did unkind things to the leg she favored. No one knew exactly what was wrong with the leg—rumors varied from a torture by the king for speaking out of turn, to some cruelty by His Highness to satisfy a sadistic sexual need, to the mortal woman having been born lame—but the Butchers assigned to the human went out of their way to see to Her Ladyship's unspoken needs in that respect. It was what made them such excellent guards.

 

It was also what had Ailís and Gráinne going into the bathing room, despite Eimh's presence. They were anticipating when their mortal charge called, "Um…Fionnlagh? Ailís? One of you guys…I'm stuck. Can you come help me real quick? Please?"

 

Having been helped out of the shower by two of her guards, Dylan dressed hastily and braided her hair wet. She knew she'd rue the tangles later, but didn’t care. She wanted to get this done before Nuada or the children woke up. Granted, the king might not be awake yet, but she would find out when she got there.

 

And if he wasn’t awake, she'd park herself outside his door until he woke up. If he wanted her gone, he'd either have to talk to her or have her carted out of their by his own retinue of Butcher Guards. And this way the children couldn’t stop her with a desire for presents.

 

Remembering what had happened last time she'd gone to see the king improperly dressed, she put on her gold medallion, a pair of gold-backed ruby and black diamond stud-earrings—another gift from Nuada—and after brushing her teeth, added a touch of makeup. Shoving her feet into her sable leather boots, she gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror before marching into her sitting room.

 

Dylan stopped about two feet in front of Uaithne and spread her arms out. "Well?" She asked, smiling. "Am I presentable enough to go talk to the king?"

 

Uaithne jolted, clearly startled. "You wish to speak to the king now? Milady, it's just an hour past dawn."

 

"Yeah, it's about eight o'clock in the morning. That's not that early. Am I presentable?"

 

"I…well, yes, but—" Uaithne began.

 

Young Guardsman Ailbho broke in with, "I think you look very lovely, milady."

 

She smiled and dipped the tiniest curtsy. "Why, thank you, Ailbho. Look, Uaithne, if the king's asleep or whatever, I'm not going to make him get up. But this way I can hide out from the natives," she jerked a thumb at the door leading to the ewahs' room, "and get dragged back as a sacrifice for the Christmas gods in order to procure presents. I really need to talk to the king. Please?"

 

Uaithne sighed. "Last time you said you needed to talk to the king, you were going to yell at him. Are you planning on yelling at him again? Because if so, I cannot in good conscience allow you to see him. I would be derelict in my duty to protect you. His Highness would see me strung up."

 

"By your guts if he's in a particularly irate mood," Fionnlagh chimed in helpfully.

 

Dylan rolled her eyes. "Whatever. No, he won't. He's really not as scary as you guys seem to think. Anyway, I'm not going to get hurt and I'm not going to…I will do my best not to yell. Okay?"

 

"What has the king done now that you take issue with?"

 

"He seems to be misinformed about who was at fault in a situation involving my prince," Dylan said coolly. Hopefully her guards would take a hint from the frost in her tone and stop asking questions, because she couldn’t explain any further and she didn’t know what she'd say if Uaithne refused to take her to the king.

 

But apparently that was all the leader of her retinue needed to know. With a sigh and a short bow, he gestured to the door. "Judging by your apparel, you wish to make somewhat of an entrance? Or at least look imposing?"

 

Pursing her lips, Dylan nodded. "Imposing would be good…without looking like I wanna make trouble. You know, so…me being ready for trouble, but not necessarily instigating it."

 

Uaithne made a sharp, shrill sound that had Dylan cringing. Sétanta, who'd been sleeping sprawled in an inky mound of fur on the sofa, lifted his head. Ice-blue eyes fixed on the guardsman. Uaithne said, "Sétanta, you will accompany Lady Dylan. You have point."

 

*No more sleepy time,* the black hound pup said sleepily, shaking his head to wake himself up. *Time to guard. I will protect Mistress for Master. And I will not try to have you pet me, because you are wearing the soft pretend-fur that gets dirty. But I still love you and would let you pet me if I could. Do not worry about that.*

 

The massive black puppy slowly eased off the sofa and trotted to the door. Dylan glanced down at herself and realized the phrase "soft pretend-fur" must have meant the velvet of her dress. With a shrug, she fell into step behind Fionnlagh and Onóra, who opened the door for Sétanta, and they all stepped out into the hall—one Irish faerie wolfhound, six royal guards, and one mortal. It was only when something butted against the back of Dylan's ankle that she noticed Bat had followed her out of the suite.

 

"Bat!" Dylan carefully, stiffly crouched down next to the purring black cat and stroked his head. "What are you doing out here? There are all kinds of scary things out here, you have to go back inside."

 

*He wants to be with you,* Sétanta said, approaching the black cat. Bat's eyes widened and the fur on his tail shot straight out. He arched his back, flattening his ears long his skull, and hissed. Sétanta jerked his head back as if the cat had bitten him. Cautiously, the pup stretched his neck out, bringing his snout to within paws' reach of the cat.

 

Bat smacked Sétanta on the nose. The puppy yelped softly and jerked back again, licking his nose and crossing his eyes as if to see if the cat had scratched him. Dylan smacked Bat on the head.

 

"No," she said firmly. "Bad cat."

 

The bad cat gave her an incredulous look, then narrowed his eyes to slits, pinning Sétanta with his gaze. A low growl rumbled in his throat. Sétanta whuffed and blew a hot breath in the cat's face. Bat growled again. Sétanta turned to Dylan.

 

*He says he is not my friend and I should go chase a car. What is a car?*

 

"It's like…like a carriage," she explained absently, scowling at her cat. "Wait…you can understand him?" Sétanta nodded. "Oh. That's actually kind of handy. And you are so his friend, Bat. Sétanta is my dog and you are my cat and you two will get along. He was in the castle first."

 

Bat hissed. Dylan bopped him on the head again. He hunched down and mewed in protest.

 

*He says he would rather eat dry dog food than be my friend. He says I am too big and I smell bad. Hey! I do not!* Sétanta growled briefly at the cat. *You are rude.* A small black paw took another swipe at the dog's nose. Sétanta reached out and pushed Bat flat to the ground with one massive paw. Bat yowled and wriggled, but to no avail. *You are cute and cuddly, like a mouser, but you scratch my nose. I do not like that. Be nice, or Master will put you in the Cone of Shame and the other mousers will think you are a lamp.*

 

Dylan raised an eyebrow. "The Cone of Shame? What's the Cone of Shame?"

 

Sétanta gave a full-bodied shudder, then shook his head so his ears flopped against his skull. *The Cone of Shame is terrible. It makes you itch, but you cannot scratch. You cannot see except in front of your nose. It smells funny. It is hard to eat when you wear the Cone of Shame. And it makes you look like a lamp. I do not like the Cone of Shame.*

 

"I see. Hear that, Bat? The Cone of Shame. It looms in your future if you don't behave. You want to follow me around? Be nice to Sétanta." With a quick stroke down the black cat's back, Dylan heaved herself to her feet and started walking again. Her entourage fell into step around her, and this time, it included both a black dog and a black cat, who eyed each other warily from the front of the group.

 

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As she'd expected, Dylan was stopped by a pair of Butchers at the entry hall to the king's wing of the castle. Uaithne stepped forward and spoke in the chittering language of the Butchers—a strange bastardization of Old Gaelic and some other tongue Dylan didn’t recognize. The two royal guards nodded and chattered at each other for a few moments before Uaithne turned back to his mortal charge.

 

"His Majesty has only just awoken, milady."

 

"I can wait," Dylan replied. "As long as it takes. I can stand out here all day." She couldn't, actually, but Balor's guards didn’t know that. Or at least, she hoped they didn't. Her leg wouldn’t let her remain upright literally all day, but hopefully it wouldn’t take that long for the king to come out.

 

Uaithne hesitated. "Milady…is this really that important?"

 

"Yes." Seeing her bodyguard's unease, she added, "Not life and death important, but important enough that I need it resolved as soon as it's feasible. Like I said, I can wait out here all day until His Majesty is willing and able to see me."

 

A sudden wash of prickling cold spilled down the mortal's spine. She stiffened, and just before she could turn around, a soft lilting voice called, "Dylan?" Inexplicable dread knotted in the pit of Dylan's stomach as she turned to see Ledi Polunochnaya standing several feet behind her, head cocked to one side as she studied the human woman. "Merry Christmas. What are you doing here so beastly early?"

 

Dylan forced a smile. "Merry Christmas, Ledi Polunochnaya—"

 

"Naya, please. You are going to be Nuala's sister soon, which will give me the pleasure of considering you my sister. Surely we can dispense with stuffy titles. Where is Nuada? Is he not with you?"

 

"He's asleep," Dylan said, trying not to fidget. The Zwezdan noblewoman always made her so uncomfortable. For the first time, she considered whether it might be her appearance. She did resemble Eamonn a great deal: the long black hair, the moon-pale skin, and the cat-slit eyes like freshly-minted silver coins. But that was just how the Elves of Zwezda looked. Dylan hoped she wasn’t simply holding a racial resemblance against the woman. That…would've been pathetic, as well as simply wrong.

 

Polunochnaya made a dismayed face. "Oh, dear. Lady macAengus was looking for him about twenty minutes ago." At the mention of Lady Dierdre—and the fact that the Fomorian woman was looking for Dylan's fiancé after what had occurred between her and Nuada—Dylan went cold. The noblewoman continued blithely on, "I told her she should seek him in his rooms; I assumed he was celebrating with you and your young servants. Ah, well." The noblewoman smiled. "If he's asleep, his guards will simply tell her to come back later. But what are you doing here? Do you want to see the king?"

 

She made a face. "He's asleep, too. I thought he might be; it's pretty early. I just want to snag him before he gets wrapped up in king-things or Christmas stuff or whatever. It's okay, though. I can wait."

 

"Nonsense!" Polunochnaya darted forward and snagged Dylan's hand. The human stiffened for a fraction of a second before forcing herself to relax. It didn't help; the Elven woman noticed. Her slitted pupils narrowed briefly as she met Dylan's gaze. Her smile wavered, but Polunochnaya forced it back at full strength. "Nuala, 'Ko, and I are awake. You can visit with us. I'm sure the princess has much she wishes to discuss with you about tomorrow. Your elevation to peerage," the Elf explained when Dylan stared at her blankly. "That is tomorrow, is it not?"

 

Oh. It was. With everything else going on, Dylan had completely forgotten that Nuada had put her on the fast-track to nobility. He wanted to endow her with as much political power as possible, as quickly as possible, to help protect her at court until their marriage sealed her power as a princess (and the potential future queen of Bethmoora).

 

"Yeah," Dylan replied weakly, her forced smile wobbling a bit. The thought of being the next queen of Bethmoora—if they were successful in making her immortal, which was currently a big if, but still a possibility—still left her a little off-balance. "That's right. I almost forgot. I, uh…I really need to talk to the king, though."

 

Then a thought occurred to her. Last night, Nuala had been concerned for the king. Then, when Nuada had been verbally and emotionally ripped to pieces during his conversation with his father, the princess had worried for Nuada. Perhaps Dylan could find an ally in her fiancé's sister. As unthinking and unfeeling as Nuala could be regarding her twin brother, Dylan didn’t think Nuala actually hated the prince.

 

"Actually, that would be great. I'd love to visit with you three. I need to talk to Nuala anyways." Though she did not want to see A'ge'lv Na'ko'ma, Nuala's lady-in-waiting who had a particular dislike of Prince Nuada. Oh, well. She could take one for the team. And if Polunochnaya wasn’t good for much in Dylan's world, at least she was good for shutting Na'ko'ma down in a hot minute if she started bad-mouthing the prince.

 

But why was Lady Dierdre looking for Nuada so early in the morning? What did the Fomorian woman want?

 

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Dierdre hovered just at the end of the hall leading to the prince's suite and smiled. Only two guards. Nothing she couldn’t handle. Butchers were supposed to be impervious to the glamour of anyone less than a king. Luckily she had the illusion spells provided by King Elatha and Prince Bres. The combined magic of a king and crown prince could surely fool the common-born royal guards, even with the iron in their blood. Thank the Fates Bres had had the cunning to enlist the help of the two exiled princes from Onibi and Dilong.

 

Taking a deep breath, the disguised gancanaugh broke the seal on the king-fueled glamour spell and let it sweep over her, hiding her completely from the senses of anyone except a king stronger than Elatha. There were only a few in Faerie whose power rivaled or exceeded the king of Cíocal, and only a couple of them—including that infernal Moundshroud—were in Bethmoora.

 

But they weren’t in the corridor, so Dierdre was fine. Time for the next step of her prince's plan. If she did well, perhaps Bres would reward her. The Fomorian envoy needed this ploy to work because if they didn’t manage to drive a wedge between Nuada and his whore, they would never be able to reach the next part of the plan necessary to punish him for his treachery. They needed to get Dylan alone. They needed her to leave Bethmoora of her own freewill—without the crown prince. Because when she did, the Fomorians would be waiting for her.

 

Invisible, soundless as a shadow, Dierdre slipped down the corridor and past the guards. Her special glamour enabled her to slip into Nuada's suite without the guards even realizing she'd opened the door. Moving through the front room without the other guards catching even a glimpse of her, she stopped at the threshold of the bedroom, cracking open the door to peer inside.

 

Silverlance lay sprawled on the bed, asleep. His breath came in soft, shallow gasps. Sweat glistened at his temples and across his brow. Dierdre smiled. So, they hadn’t noticed the second, more subtle poisoning of his room yet. It had really thrown a wrench into everything when the Tuathan prince had stripped his room and had it cleansed, physically and magically, of the gancanaugh poison she'd saturated everything with. She'd had to sneak back in during the betrothal ball on Midwinter's night to leave the faintest traces of venom and magic behind. This time, Dierdre had been especially careful to keep her touch light and subtle, to prevent quick discovery. With the poison working in conjunction with the simple thread-spells she'd put together, Nuada was in the exact frame of mind she needed.

 

Stepping into the bedchamber, she shut the door as soundlessly as possible. No point in tempting Fate. Closing her eyes to concentrate better, she dragged the second illusion spell around her while she let the second one weaken a little. She didn’t drop it completely, but now Nuada could see her.

 

Rather, he could see what the second glamour allowed him to see.

 

Her smile widened as she stepped further into the room.

 

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Nuada awoke slowly, languidly, from a dream of cool satin sheets and warm velvet kisses. There were lips at his bare shoulder, whispering along his collarbone and throat; lips like hot silk that made his breath come short. And a scent. The fragrance of roses and lilies and beneath it all, the beautiful fragrance of familiar skin. A dream? He didn’t want to wake up. Not from a dream of his truelove in his bed, kissing him like this. He didn’t want to wake…

 

"Nuada," that so-familiar voice murmured in his ear before those lips caressed along the edge to the sensitive Elven point. Tension sang through his body and he gasped. "Nuada, open your eyes. Why won't you look at me?"

 

"You're a dream," the prince whispered with some difficulty as a warm body settled against his. A thin layer of silk separated that warmth from him. "If I open my eyes, you will disappear. I don't want to lose this."

 

Then he remembered that Dylan didn’t want him to think of her this way…yet. Not until they were wed. Not if he could help it. And he had promised her that he wouldn’t fantasize, wouldn’t daydream about having her in his bed, making love to her. This was a true dream, not a pleasant little fantasy, but if he knew it was a dream, didn’t he have the obligation to force himself awake? He had promised her…so Nuada opened his eyes.

 

Silvery-blue eyes like stardust gazed down at him, soft with love. A gentle smile curved the scarred lips. As Nuada blinked, trying to clear the exhaustion from his brain, Dylan leaned down and touched her mouth to his. Her hand cupped his cheek, smoothed over the line of his jaw. She opened her mouth to him and without thinking about why or why not, should or should not, he deepened the kiss.

 

Oh, her scent, he was suddenly drowning in her scent. And she was so warm. So soft. Was this a dream? But Dylan wouldn’t come to him in the real world. Her dedication to her God and the Law of Chastity prevented that. And if for some reason she did need to come to him while he remained in bed, such as being frightened by something, it wouldn’t be like this. She wouldn't be…climbing over him…she…

 

"This is a dream," he gasped into the kiss. He felt her smile against his lips.

 

"Then it is a good dream," she murmured. Leaning down, her hair brushing against his chest and cheek, she pressed her lips against his ear. He shuddered at the warmth of her breath. "Make love to me, Nuada. Please."

 

Oh, gods…he needed to wake up. He needed to…but he wanted to…he had to…Somehow she was under him, clasping him to her as he kissed her desperately, thirsty for her. Last night, though…hadn’t they…he couldn’t think like this, but something nagged at him. Hadn't they nearly…on the sofa…hadn’t she asked him not to…? Her hands slid down his back as he tried to think, tried not to think, tried to wake up, fought against waking. He couldn’t do this. There was a reason he couldn’t do this. But it was only a dream…wasn't it?

 

Nuada held himself above her, trying to breathe, trying to force the blood back into his head so he could think. There was something strange here. Something…something. But he wanted her so badly. He ached for her. And yet…the memory of his promise throbbed in the back of his skull like the echoes of a compulsion spell.

 

"I'm dreaming," Nuada whispered, gazing down at Dylan. She was so beautiful like this, her cheeks bright with color, her eyes like silver smoke against the vivid blue. Her smile was dreamy and inviting. "This is a dream."

 

"Then why are you stopping?" She stretched luxuriously and slid her arms around his neck. "Don't you want me?"

 

"I…Dylan, I…" He had no words. His head felt cobwebby, thick with the haze of desire. Only the strange trepidation—and the fact that he was still wearing his sleep-clothes—kept him from giving in completely as Dylan leaned up and kissed him hungrily. Nuada groaned as somehow she turned them so that now she hovered above him, still kissing him, her fingers tangling in his hair.

 

"Make love to me, Nuada. I need you."

 

Ah, gods…to the thirteen hells with it, then. He closed his eyes in defeat. He could bear no more. With a muttered oath, he reached for her…and she was gone. The weight of her vanished, the warmth fading swiftly. Nuada bolted upright and his eyes snapped open to find himself alone in his bed, the early morning sun coming in through the eastern windows. He sat there, hands braced behind him against the mattress to hold himself upright, and simply remembered to breathe for a long moment.

 

Then, with a low groan, he dropped back to the bed. "It was a dream. Only a dream. Stars curse it, anyway," he muttered. Scrubbing his hands over his face to push away the last remnants of sleep, he added, "Ugh. This will stop when we wed, surely. I cannot bear this much longer."

 

Trudging from his bed to the bathroom, Nuada stumbled into the shower and muttered a few terse words in Gaelic to turn on the water. Needles of ice drove deep into his body, jolting him to full wakefulness. Gritting his teeth, he accepted the frigid lashing of the water for a full two minutes before he commanded the temperature to rise. The brisk, biting spray shoved back all the cobwebs in his mind as he turned over the dream of Dylan in his mind.

 

He'd dreamed of her often in the past; every night, in fact. Nearly always he dreamt of finding her dead or dying, dreamt of the iron stench of mortal blood and an agonizing grief so savage it felt as if harpies were tearing out his guts with their poisonous claws. Yet occasionally he was blessed with a respite, as now. Those sweet dreams of her nearly always involved their life together—marrying, raising children, without the fear of his people's condemnation or the looming conflict with the humans. Yet this one had been…altogether different.

 

Different, and glorious…while it had lasted. Yet a twinge of guilt pricked him even as he thought of the dream. He could still hear Dylan's voice whispering to him, begging him to make love to her. Nuada clenched his teeth and pressed his forehead against the slick marble of the shower wall. Muttering a quick spell to turn the water icy again, he squeezed both hands into tight fists.

 

Their wedding could not come soon enough. He yearned to make Dylan his, in all ways, and to surrender himself to her completely. Why did they have to wait until the seventh of February? That was in almost seven weeks. Could they not do it in three weeks, when the next full moon graced the sky? Perhaps he could speak to his father about that. It would be an inconvenience for the servants, but it would please Balor—and Nuada needed to do something to please him, to erase the condemnation festering in his aged amber eyes—and on top of that, so much emotional turmoil would be curtailed if he and Dylan could just marry.

 

For one thing, they could stop worrying about his people's potential reaction and actually deal with their reaction in truth. After Dylan's tour of the northern villages, the crown prince had no worry that his people would be upset by his choice. She would have ample opportunity to impress them. How could anyone not be impressed by Dylan's dedication to helping others?

 

But that visit wouldn’t be until sometime in January, at least two weeks from now. Until then, Bres's words kept hounding him, circling in his mind like sharks. After everything that had happened, was he doing the right thing by wedding Dylan? The danger to her kept rising.

 

What if his people did try to harm her?

 

Once out of the shower, dressed simply for the holiday in burgundy and white, he knocked on his lady's door, trying to ignore the misgivings plaguing him. He loved her. She loved him. Neither of them could give the other up; it was far too late for that. So they would protect each other, and try to win over his people. In the end, everyone would see. Things would work out.

 

They had to.

 

When there was no answer to his knock, Nuada poked his head into the room. Dylan's bed was neatly made; Eimh sprawled across it, looking mildly depressed. Canine woe peered out of her golden eyes at the crown prince. When Nuada raised his eyebrows at the hound pup, she heaved a sigh.

 

*Mistress went on an errand. I did not match her dress, so I had to stay here.*

 

Nuada's brows rose higher. "You didn’t match her dress?"

 

*Mistress wanted to look imposing. Pack-Leader Uaithne said she should bring Sétanta, because he was black, like her dress. I am not black. I did not match. So I did not help her look imposing.* The hound sighed again. *Master, can we play Ball? I am bored. We should play Ball because I am bored and I love you.*

 

The prince smiled. "Perhaps. Where was Lady Dylan going?"

 

*To speak to your sire. She promised not to yell.*

 

No, she wouldn’t yell. Not on Christmas morning. Nuada knew her well enough to know that. He also knew what she'd gone to speak to his father about. Should he try to intercept her?

 

A memory flitted through his mind, of Dylan basically implying that often when he sought only to protect her, he was in truth undermining her power and authority as a future princess and as his lady. If she was to be viewed by the fae as an equal, the first person to treat her like one had to be Nuada himself. Balor wouldn't hurt Dylan. Dylan knew better than to treat the king disrespectfully after everything that had happened. The prince had to trust that she could handle herself.

 

The thought made the spot between his shoulder blades itch, but he forced himself to refrain from rushing after Dylan. His father wouldn’t hurt her. He knew that. And she wouldn’t disrespect his father. Not on Christmas morning, and not after Nuada had only recently been flogged. Dylan had more sense than that.

 

"Yes," Nuada said to Eimh, giving none of his thoughts away. "We can play Ball if you like. Shall we go down to the kennels? Your mother would no doubt like to see you."

 

Eimh leapt to her feet. *Mother? I want to see Mother. I love Mother! We can play Ball with Mother! And maybe Father!* The dog scrambled off the bed and practically flew to Nuada, bouncing up on her hind legs to plant her front paws on his shoulders. Nuada grinned as the white puppy added, *Can we play Ball with Father, Master? Please oh please oh please?*

 

Considering Eimh's sire was nearly as tall as Nuada's horse, the prince wasn’t certain how feasible such a thing would be…but his hound was so excited. And it was Christmas. "We shall see."

 

Muffled squeaks came from behind the door leading to Dylan's sitting room and the door popped open. Two furry heads poked in, and two pairs of sleepy but hopeful cat eyes peered at Nuada. "Can we come too?" A'du asked, yawning. "A'ge'lv Dylan's not here, so we can't open presents yet. Can we go outside with you, Your Highness?"

 

"Please?" 'Sa'ti begged, twisting her hands in the skirt of her nightgown. "We promise not to throw any snowballs at your face."

 

"Yeah," A'du agreed. "We promise!"

 

Forcing back his smile, Nuada nodded gravely. "If you wish, I suppose such an outing can be arranged. Go and get dressed. Dress warmly; it is cold out."

 

'Sa'ti threw her hands in the air. "Yay!"

 

"Awesome!"

 

Nuada watched them scuttle out of the room, chattering excitedly, then looked down at Eimh, who'd resumed her proper place on the floor. Eyes of liquid gold gazed up at him with absolute adoration. "Did you wake them up?"

 

The dog ducked her head and hunched her shoulders. Her tail gave a cautious wag. *Maybe.*

 

He sighed and pointed a stern finger at her. "Bad dog."

 

Eimh studied his face for a moment with woeful eyes before noticing the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Giving him a doggy grin and wagging her tail, she wriggled a little and said, *Yes, Master. Now I will get the ball and we will go outside and we will throw and catch the ball and maybe Father with give the cat-puppies a ride. They are small enough. Now where is my ball? Ah! I smell it! It cannot escape me!*

 

Pressing her nose to the stone floor, Eimh sniffed as if tracking a scent, wending her way back to the bed. She stuffed her head under the bed and promptly sneezed. *Dust cannot foil me. I am a royal hound. Where are you, ball? I will find you.* Another sneeze, and Eimh wiggled backwards, easing out from beneath the bed with a crimson rubber ball in her mouth. *I am successful, because I am a royal hound and I am smart. The ball is now my prisoner.*

 

Laughing, Nuada patted her head. "Well done; you've caught your quarry. Good dog."

 

*Yay!*

 

.

 

Dylan couldn’t decide which she wanted to do most: beg Nuala for mercy; shove Ledi Polunochnaya in a closet so she didn’t have to deal with her and how uncomfortable the Elf of Zwezda made Dylan anymore, ever again; or dump her cup of cider over A'ge'lv Na'ko'ma's glossy black and white feathers. Of course, none of those were actually viable options, but the mortal was tempted by all of them. She sat with the three women in Nuala's sitting room around a small table laden with a breakfast for four: muffins, toast, sausage, boiled eggs, and cups of hot cider to ward off the early morning chill. The food was excellent; Nuala was being as friendly as could be hoped; and even Polunochnaya wasn’t doing anything to make Dylan uncomfortable on purpose; but the thunderbird was getting on Dylan's nerves.

 

"So, has Nuada taken you to his bed yet?" Na'ko'ma asked.

 

Heat flooded Dylan's face. Na'ko'ma had been asking prying question after prying question ever since Polunochnaya had brought Dylan to Nuala's sitting room. Before the mortal could say anything, however, Polunochnaya sighed in exasperation. "By the stars, 'Ko, you'll embarrass the poor thing. Humans aren't so open about such things as thunderbirds. I apologize for her, Dylan. Na'ko'ma is very outspoken. All thunderbirds are."

 

The mortal raised an eyebrow. "I've noticed."

 

Na'ko'ma eyed the prince's truelove with some amusement. "You don't like me. Because I'm open in my dislike of Prince Nuada?" Nuala sighed. Dylan kept her face carefully neutral and said nothing. The Native American fae smiled. "Ah. That is why. Do you automatically dislike anyone who objects to the prince?"

 

"Normally," Dylan replied with careful politeness. "Since I happen to be very fond of him."

 

"Yes, I've heard that. I don't understand it myself."

 

Nuala scowled at her lady-in-waiting. "'Ko, you are speaking of my brother."

 

"I only mean, Nuala, that he's so…terse. He's a warrior. He's a very hard man, you must admit. And he despises humans. I don't understand what Lady Dylan could have seen in him that would buy her loyalty so absolutely. What made you fall in love with someone like him? Didn't he frighten you?"

 

Nuala's scowl melted away, to be replaced by a thoughtful expression. "Yes, Dylan. I remember you saying once that my brother scared you at first. What helped you overcome that fear? You're very devoted him; anyone can see that."

 

Forcing herself to refrain from hunching her shoulders at the sudden attention, Dylan took a sip of cider to give herself time to think. It was an innocuous enough question…and it might give her a chance to paint her prince in a less unforgiving light than the three fae women seemed to see him. Dylan tried to think back to when she'd first begun to relax around Nuada. He'd scared the daylights out of her for at least the first two weeks in the sanctuary. When was it that she'd become comfortable with him?

 

"It wasn't so much that he stopped scaring me all at once or anything," she said slowly, puzzling it out in her mind. "It's more…well, for one thing, we got in a huge shouting match about six days after we met. He roared at me, I screamed at him. But he never tried to hurt me. And when he upset me so much that I started crying, he was very gentle with me and tried to make me feel better."

 

The three noblewomen exchanged startled glances. Polunochnaya murmured, "He made you cry? What did he do?"

 

Dylan shrugged. "He yelled at me, and I was a bit…fragile at the time. So was he. We were both beat to crud. He was in bad shape, actually. That's why I was there—because he wasn’t healed yet." A rueful smile tugged at her mouth. "And then he yells at me and I start thinking about all the depressing stuff the fae are going through. Of course I start crying. He felt horrible about it. He was all stiff and standoffish later, after I'd calmed down, but that moment gave me the best glimpse of how sweet and kind he could be. And then there was the day he left…"

 

She trailed off, remembering the day she'd walked out of the sanctuary bathing chamber to find the underground haven empty of its Elven occupant. She'd panicked. She'd been so sure the human wolves that had hurt them both would come back and find them, even though she'd seen Nuada kill them all. Only Nuada's return had made her feel safe again. Somehow, in the three weeks she'd been in the sanctuary at that point, he'd come to represent safety to her.

 

"Yes?" Na'ko'ma prompted. The thunderbird leaned toward the human, eyes intent. Dylan realized all three women were hanging on her every word. "The day he left? You mean when he brought you to the human world again?"

 

"Oh, no. That was almost three months later. I mean…" A warm glow heated her chest as she considered whether she ought to keep talking. Reassured, she said, "There was a day when he had to go and tell Wink what had happened. I was taking a bath in the other room and didn’t hear him leave. When I went back into the main room, he was gone. I…got scared. I missed him. I thought something might have happened to him. I was worried."

 

"How long had you known each other?" Nuala asked softly.

 

"About twenty days. When he came back, I was so relieved to see him. I felt safer. He was hurt, though." Dylan frowned, remembering the trauma Nuada's shoulder wound had sustained while he'd been gone from the subterranean haven. He'd told her much later that Eamonn had hit him very hard. "I chewed him out for that."

 

Nuala stared at her, wide-eyed. "You mean you…you yelled at him?"

 

Dylan smiled. "And I smacked him. On the shoulder, not the face," she added when Nuala looked both horrified and fascinated at the same time. "He has a gorgeous face; it'd be a shame to damage it. I'm very fond of Nuada's face. But yeah, I gave him a talking-to. I let him out of my sight for a few hours and he comes back injured again. Jeez. I made it very clear that I'd kick his butt if he did it again."

 

Na'ko'ma asked, "And what did he do to you?"

 

"He called me a shrewish dwarf wife and told me to stop henpecking him."

 

"And what did you say?" Na'ko'ma asked.

 

"I told him to bite me."

 

Polunochnaya laughed. Clasping her hands, she propped her chin on them and grinned. "Oh, I do like you. You're good for him. And he obviously loves you very much. That's wonderful."

 

The strange thing was, Dylan could tell the silver-eyed Elven woman was telling the truth. She did like Dylan. She was happy that Dylan and Nuada were together. So why did the mortal get such a weird vibe from her? As if Naya meant her ill somehow? Was it because she still loved the Elven prince? Nuada had said their break-up had been a long time ago, and it had been mutual…but what if Polunochnaya still had feelings for the heir to the throne?

 

"He can be so kind, can't he?" Polunochnaya continued, smiling softly. "So few get to see that part of him. How kind he can be."

 

The mortal noticed Nuala and Na'ko'ma looked a little uncomfortable. She focused on Polunochnaya again. "He is very kind when he has cause. He's been so sweet to me. He's done a lot for me. He even gave me Sétanta." Dylan reached down and stroked the dog's head. Sétanta wagged his tail and settled his head on top of her foot. "And he gave me the most wonderful birthday celebration."

 

Nuala's golden eyes widened. "Your birthday? He didn't tell me! Why didn’t he tell me? We would have thrown you a lovely celebration. When was it?"

 

"The day before Midwinter. I think he wanted to make life easy on the servants. But he planned the most wonderful day for me. I mean, he really did. He took me to Carnegie Hall to hear some of my favorite music. And we had dinner. It was really romantic."

 

"Nuada? Romantic?" Nuala seemed surprised by the word. "I have…never known him to…be that way."

 

"I have," Polunochnaya said.

 

Dylan blinked and felt her jaw go slack for a moment before remembering that at court, in front of one's enemies, a poker face was essential. She smoothed out her features and tried not to wonder if Polunochnaya just blurting out that information was the noblewoman's attempt at staking some sort of claim on the prince.

 

But no, that was ridiculous. For one thing, Nuada loved her, not Nuala's lady-in-waiting. For another thing, it would be stupid of Polunochnaya to make any kind of claim to Dylan in front of the princess she served.

 

The Zwezdan noblewoman added, "He could be quite romantic when he tried. At least when he was young. Very charming."

 

Dylan forced a smile. "He is very charming, yes."

 

Na'ko'ma gave her a strange look. "Charming," she said, as if testing out the word. "Nuada. I…suppose."

 

"No, he really is," Dylan insisted. "Quite the, uh…ladies' man. Elven Casanova, I call him."

 

"And yet he hasn’t coaxed you into his bed yet," the lady-in-waiting replied. "That doesn’t sound like much of a 'ladies' man' to me."

 

"He's not trying to coax me into bed," Dylan replied with sweet venom. "Because he respects me and how I feel about premarital relations, and he knows it would make me uncomfortable if he attempted to 'persuade' me in any way. Nuada is a man of honor, A'ge'lv Na'ko'ma. Just because he has an advantage doesn’t mean he will always use it. He respects me. You may not respect him, but I expect you to act like it in my presence. Nuada is my prince and I will not let you insult him in any way."

 

The thunderbird shot an indignant look at Nuala, as if expecting the princess to take Dylan to task for speaking to her this way, but the Elven princess merely smiled before taking a sip of her spiced cider. When Dylan caught her eye, Nuala gave a nod. Dylan smiled and raised her cup to her lips. Apparently she and the princess had reached an understanding. She wasn’t sure exactly how she knew, but if Na'ko'ma said anything about Nuada again, Dylan wouldn’t be the only one knocking the other woman down a notch.

 

And now that they had that understanding, the mortal thought that now would be a good time to speak to Nuala about King Balor. Ignoring the two women who irritated her for vastly different reasons, she said, "Princess Nuala, I actually do need to speak to you specifically about something. Would that be all right?"

 

Nuala studied Dylan over the rim of her cup for several seconds in silence before nodding once. "'Ko, Naya, leave us, please. I'll call you back when I am ready for you."

 

Both women rose without protest, curtsied to their princess, and glided from the room. Nuala looked to Dylan with a raised brow, inviting her to share. Dylan set her cup down on the little table and leaned forward.

 

"Nuala…you said you wanted us to be friends, right?" The princess nodded, smiling a little. "Okay. I know you love Nuada. He loves you, too. And I know you love your father. So I need to know…do you blame Nuada?"

 

The princess frowned. "Blame him for what?"

 

"Your mother's death," she replied. Nuala jerked back.

 

"What? Why would you even ask such a thing? Nuada was only a boy when she died. We were only children. How could he possibly have been at fault? He was only a child."

 

Dylan pursed her lips. Nodded. Good. Nuala shared her opinion on that part, at least. "I know that. I'm glad you know it…because I'm going to need your help convincing the king of that."

 

Silence stretched out between them for a brief eternity before the princess also set her cup down with a soft clink. She folded her hands in her lap. When she looked at Dylan, there was just the faintest tinge of bronze to her golden eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

 

"Nuada had a conversation with your father last night."

 

"I know," Nuala said coolly. "My father was upset. Your sister's questions about my mother had raised many painful memories."

 

Dylan wanted to wince, but she suppressed it. Francesca could be an idiot sometimes. She didn’t mean any harm, but there was that old adage about the road to Hell and what paved it. Pulling on the shield of her professionalism—she was here just as much in the capacity of psychiatrist as prince's betrothed—she tried to think of something to say.

 

"I can't imagine what it must have been like for you to lose your mother so young," Dylan said at length. "My mother died a few years ago; sometimes it still hits me like it happened yesterday. I can imagine what it must have been like for your father to lose his wife, though."

 

Nuala's eyes turned glacial. "Oh? Can you?"

 

Without so much as batting an eye, Dylan replied, "When I first met you and your father, when I walked in on Nuada being flogged, I thought he was dead." Even now, just the memory sent a frisson of sick horror shivering down her spine. But the chill in Nuala's eyes began to thaw. If anything, she looked a bit sorry. "I thought you'd killed him. That he'd died under the lash. When I saw him just hanging there, lifeless…"

 

Her mouth trembled. Normally she would've bitten her lip, but if she wanted this to work, she couldn’t hide her pain. It went against everything she'd taught herself over her thirty years, but Dylan allowed one of the tears stinging her eyes to slide down her cheek. She wiped it away at once, but Nuala had seen it. The last of the frost in her expression melted away.

 

"My world imploded," Dylan finished, steadying her voice. Her lips spasmed into a parody of a rueful smile as she added, "And I can't count the number of times I thought Nuada was going to die since I've met him. We were attacked in the royal forest before our return to Findias, did you know that? And he nearly died then. When the assassins attacked us at Midwinter and I killed the second of the three human assassins, I did it because I was terrified that that man had killed Nuada.

 

"So yes, I think I can understand how it felt for your father to lose your mother. I love your brother very much. I think…I think it's to the point now that I can't live without him. And I'm sorry my sister can be thoughtless sometimes. But your father blames Nuada for the queen's death, and we need to fix that."

 

Wide-eyed, the princess shook her head. "No. I do not—I cannot—believe my father could ever blame my brother for what happened to my mother. My father would never blame an innocent boy for something like that. Nuada cannot believe my father could blame him for such a thing."

 

"He believes it," Dylan said softly. A look of stunned horror flitted across Nuala's face. Dylan locked eyes with her and refused to let her look away as she added, "He believes it, and it hurt him enough that his pain called me out of a drugged sleep last night to find him crying at my window. Have you ever seen him cry, Nuala?"

 

After a moment of stunned silence, the princess nodded.

 

"When? When was the last time you ever saw him cry?"

 

Dylan expected it to be around the time of the truce, or sometime during the wars. Something to do with the countless deaths he'd borne witness to over the centuries. Maybe when the Golden Army had massacred so many innocent people and Nuada had tried in vain to stop it. But Nuala surprised her.

 

"The day he ran away from home," the princess murmured. "A few weeks after…after Máthair's death. Our father didn’t handle either of us very well when she died. He was stricken with grief. Two weeks after Nuada had recovered from his wounds, he went to speak to Father. I don't know what he wanted. He wouldn’t tell me, but he was so upset. Of course he was. Our mother was…gone. Dead. Our father had left us in the care of our nurses and governess, our guards, Wink. Áthair wouldn’t speak to us. Of course Nuada was angry, hurt."

 

Propping her elbows on her knees, Dylan laced her fingers together, pressing them to her chin. It was a pose she often took in counseling sessions with her patients. It bespoke a willingness to listen—to really listen. Sometimes that was all someone needed to feel more confident talking about painful things. Gently, the mortal psychiatrist asked, "And then what happened? When Nuada came back?"

 

"He returned in tears. He said…" Nuala pressed a hand to her lips and squeezed her eyes shut. "He said that Áthair didn’t love us anymore. That he wished we had died, too. That he wanted the humans to kill us like they killed Máthair. I didn’t believe him; my father would never have said anything like that, especially to a brutalized little boy barely nine centuries old, someone my father loved. I told Nuada he was wrong. I tried to tell him that our father was simply sad. That he missed our mother, just as we did."

 

"And what did Nuada say?"

 

Nuala shrugged almost helplessly. "Nothing. He said nothing. He just…"

 

"Just what?" Dylan prompted after a minute of silence.

 

"He just looked at me for a long moment. As if he was memorizing my face. Then he went into our room and climbed into bed. He pretended to be asleep, but I knew he wasn’t. He kept telling me to leave him alone when I would try to talk to him. He wouldn’t say anything to the adults. And the next morning, when I woke up…he'd left."

 

Left me. Somehow Dylan knew that was what Nuala wanted to say, though she didn’t. It made sense that Nuala, a child with an intense psychic and emotional connection to her twin, would feel abandoned by Nuada running away without her.

 

But Dylan said none of that aloud. Only nodded, leaning back against the sofa cushions. "Who brought him back?"

 

"Wink did, nearly two weeks later. He found Nuada only a few days after he'd run away, but sent word back to the castle that he would bring Nuada back himself in time. There was more to his message, but only Áthair ever read it. I do not know what it said. When they returned, Father chastised Nuada for wasting the guards' time with searching for him, for worrying everyone. For abandoning his duty as the prince by running off. Nuada never said anything. I remember because it was the first time he cut himself off from me completely. I couldn’t hear his thoughts or sense anything from him but this…icy darkness."

 

Something clicked into place for the human woman. "And that's when you started being afraid of him." That, too, made sense. That kind of sudden telepathic isolation would have been terrifying for a child who was used to being in constant mental contact with a sibling. Nuada had become a mystery to Nuala without warning, a separate and mysterious entity, just when she'd needed his emotional support most.

 

"I am not afraid of my own brother," Nuala snapped, obviously stung. "Nuada has done many things, many terrible things, but he has never hurt me. Why should I fear him?"

 

"That's what I've always wondered. I've always wondered why your father should hate a son he could be proud of, and why you should be afraid of someone who loves you so much. I know Nuada has been forced to do a lot of terrible things…but so has your father, and you're not afraid of him. But that's not the point, Nuala." Arguing further would only upset her, and she needed Nuala on her side. They would address Nuala's fear of the prince another day. "You're telling me that last time you saw Nuada cry was over three thousand years ago. Is that what you're saying?"

 

"Yes," she murmured. A look of realization swept across her face. "He never wept again in my presence."

 

Dylan nodded. That fit with what she knew of her prince. It also showed the sheer amount of trust Nuada had in Dylan herself, that he'd shed tears three times in her presence. "Well, he wept last night," she said. "He told me your father blames him for the queen's death. His mother's death. He already blamed himself—"

 

Nuala jolted. "Why would he blame himself?" She demanded. "He was a little boy! He did more to protect me and Máthair than anyone could have had any right to expect—"

 

"I know!" Dylan interrupted. "You know, and I know, but apparently neither Balor nor Nuada can get that through their heads. Whatever, someone needs to say something to the king. Who knows? Maybe you're right and Nuada just misunderstood. I don't know, Balor's not my dad, he's yours. But things were going relatively okay between them last night until Nuada went to go talk to your father. When he came back, he was so upset he wouldn’t even look at me at first. He almost never does that. The last time he did was when he told me about the Golden Army—"

 

Golden eyes widened and the princess gasped, "He told you? And you're still here?"

 

The mortal frowned. "Yeah. He gave up his plan but felt like he should tell me anyway, so he did. Where have you been?"

 

"He…he did?"

 

"Yeah. Not the point. We can discuss the former genocide plans later. Nuada's my priority right now. Whatever your father said ripped his heart out. The king needs to know what he's doing to your brother."

 

"But…but Father would never hurt Nuada on purpose."

 

Dylan gave her a flat look. "With all due respect, Nuala, Nuada was flogged not even a week ago for protecting me. And it's not the first time. Yes, the king would hurt him. Would the king shatter him like this? I don't know, but if he meant what he said, then that needs to change. If he didn't mean it like that, both of them need to talk to each other. This relationship they have right now isn't healthy. It's actively damaging to both of them."

 

Nuala swallowed, then took a deep breath and asked, "You say this as a mind healer, or as my brother's betrothed?"

 

"Both." She shoved at a wisp of hair that fell against her forehead; that one never wanted to stay put. Meeting Nuala's eyes, she whispered, "Nuala, I can't stand to see him hurting like this. You felt him last night; he told me you were poking around in his mind, trying to talk to him, to find out what was wrong. You know what his emotional state was. Your father broke him to pieces, and not for the first time. And like all the other times, I was the one who had to pick up those pieces and try to put them back together again. Now I need your help to make sure this doesn’t happen again. Please, will you talk to the king with me?"

 

The princess hesitated. "Why do you need me to talk to him? I've seen you with my father," she added, and there was something that might have been admiration in her voice. "You hold your own very well with him."

 

"I don't know if he'll listen to me. But the two of us? Together? He should listen. If not, he's not the man you or I think he is. Nuada needs this. If we don't fix this now, it may never get fixed. Will you help me? Please? I'm asking as someone who loves your brother. As your future sister, if that means anything."

 

After a moment, Nuala nodded. "Of course it means something. Of course I'll go with you to speak to my father, because you're wrong. You and Nuada are wrong. Áthair couldn’t blame Nuada anymore than I could. What they did to him…he nearly died. Those…animals…hurt him far worse than they hurt me, because Nuada fought them. He's always been so strong, so fierce. I wanted so much to be like him."

 

"Because they hurt you too," Dylan said. After a brief hesitation, Nuala nodded, staring at her hands tightly clasped in her lap. "And you never wanted anyone to be able to hurt you like that again. I know what that's like."

 

Nuala bit her lip. "My father loves Nuada, Dylan. I do not understand why my brother doubts that, but you must see that it's true. You do not believe Father hates him, do you?"

 

Dylan sighed. She would have to choose her words with care here. "What I believe…is that there's a rift between your father and Nuada. A rift that started, very shockingly and abruptly, when your mother was killed. And I think that it's only gotten bigger as Nuada's gotten older. And now there's so much mistrust and hurt feelings and anger on both sides that Nuada's afraid to believe Balor cares for him."

 

"But why? Why should Nuada fear such a thing?"

 

"Because if he dares to hope that your father doesn’t hate him, doesn’t blame him, and then finds out he's wrong to hope…I don't think he could handle that. Which is why he fell apart last night. I've only seen him like that twice before and…anyway, that's not important right now. We've got to fix this. Should we go now?"

 

"Yes." Nuala squared her shoulders. "My father will see us if I ask. Come…Sister."

 

Dylan smiled. "Let's do it."