Chapter 100 - Oaths Yet Taken, Vows Yet Made

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Chapter One-Hundred

Oaths Yet Taken, Vows Yet Made

that is

A Short Tale of Nerves, Compliments from Ladies, a Prayer, Compliments to Ladies, Nuada's Secret, Hidden Blades, the King's Surprise, and Another of Nuada's Secrets

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Nuada smoothed his hands down the length of his burgundy velvet tunic. The heavy aurulent embroidery caught the light from the amber fairy lights casting their glow across the breadth of the king's private antechamber. His sister rose from her seat, her wine-red skirts brushing the floor as she came and took his hands in hers. Their father watched with an indulgent smile on his weathered face.

"She will do fine, Brother," Nuala assured him with her own little smile. "You will be right there to help her if something goes wrong."

He shook his head. "Nothing will go wrong. Dylan will do fine." He had to check himself when he raised his hand to run it through his star-blond hair. If he did that, it would muss his formal warrior braids. The prince ground his teeth. "She will be fine."

"Do you think she has noticed your surprise yet?" His father asked.

Remembering the surprise gift he'd arranged for his truelove, a smile curved dark lips. "I do not know. Perhaps I should see." Excusing himself, he slipped out of the room. Ledi Polunochnaya and A'ge'lv Na'ko'ma met him in the corridor. To his surprise, the wakįìyą　bowed to him and smiled. A sincere smile. Had Nuala slipped her poppy juice?

"Your Highness," Na'ko'ma murmured. "You look well indeed."

"I…thank you," he replied, nonplussed. Taking in the thunderbird's elaborately embroidered tunic of antique-gold silk and matching, gold-tooled burgundy doeskin trews, the golden eagle feathers and rose-gold rings braided into the ebony feathers that served her for hair, he added politely, "You look quite fine, milady."

Polunochnaya eyed her two friends. Nuada knew what she was thinking—they were actually being civil to each other. Well, small miracles happened every day. Focusing on the Zwezdan noblewoman, resplendent in a dark gold velvet gown that brought color to her moon-pale cheeks, Nuada took her hand and dropped a kiss to the back of it. Naya smiled and dipped a brief curtsy.

"Naya," he said warmly. "You look lovely, as well."

"You seek the other half of your heart, Your Highness, so we shall not keep you," Naya replied with a teasing gleam in her eye. "Go to her. Wish her well."

Surprising him once more, Na'ko'ma added, "Tell her she has our best wishes also." Seeing his astonishment, Na'ko'ma brushed a stray feather from her face and added, "Your lady is a worthy woman, Your Highness. I find myself admiring her…and her choices."

He smiled—at both of them, since the woman who considered herself his nemesis was actually being pleasant for once. In fact, Nuada thought she might have just given him a compliment, a rare occurrence indeed. Had that ever happened before? "I will tell her you said so," Nuada said. Bowing, he left them smiling after him.

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Dylan smoothed her hands over the exquisitely plush velvet of her overgown, trying to suppress the nerves jumping around in her belly like hyperactive frogs. Closing her eyes, she sought inside herself for calm.

Dear Gracious Heavenly Father, she prayed. This is a big step. I know that Thou art always with me, I know that Thou art here, protecting me, shoring me up…but I'll be honest, I'm really nervous. They're all going to be looking at me, Heavenly Father. I feel like any second I'm going to crack. Please help me to be calm. Please help me to act like the noble lady I'm about to become. Please help me to make a good impression on the Bethmooran court…for Nuada's sake. He's risking a lot by doing this for me. Please don't let me mess it up for him.

She closed her quick, silent prayer and opened her eyes just as the rear door to the antechamber opened and two of the most handsome men she had ever seen in her life stepped into the room. Both met her gaze and heat flushed her cheeks. A flash of white teeth as the first grinned at her; a gleam of appreciation in the eyes of the second. Dylan smiled.

"What are you two doing here? Zhenjin, you should be out in the crowd," Dylan said as Nuada approached and took her hand. "Actually, should you even be out of bed?" All she got in response was a swift grin. She couldn’t help but smile back before focusing on Nuada. "As for you, Your Highness, aren't you supposed to be getting into position? And isn't it bad luck to see me before the ceremony or something?"

Her prince set his hand beneath her chin. A wave of warmth washed over her skin from crown to toes, and her cheeks tingled. Nuada leaned in and kissed her very lightly. The spell he'd just cast kept the kiss from marring her carefully made-up face. Dylan peeked up at him through her gold-dusted lashes. Was that awe in his face?

"You look so very beautiful, my love," Nuada murmured.

Zhenjin made a noise of mock-derision. "Beautiful?" The crown prince of Dilong echoed. He shook his head. The golden fairy lights made the emerald and jade scales at his temples, along his brow-bone, and along the muscles of his neck gleam like jewels. "Is that truly the best you can do, Silverlance?"

Nuada scoffed good-naturedly. "You think you can do better?"

The suave Dilong prince, with a quirked brow, stepped up and took Dylan's free hand, bringing it to his lips. "My fair lady," he murmured, dropping a kiss to her knuckles. "If I may…you are absolutely stunning." Casting a jaundiced eye to Nuada, he suddenly smirked. Waggled his brows at Dylan. "In fact, O Jewel of Bethmoora, if I yet may be so bold, you are a queen among mortals. A glittering diamond set amongst false stones of mere cut glass. When I gaze upon your face, I am struck as if with Eros' cruel dart, a mortal blow to my very soul."

Conscious of her sisters staring at this unfolding drama and 'Sa'ti giggling from her seat against the wall, Dylan rolled her eyes and smiled. "Wow, Zhenjin. Your flirting gets more ridiculous every time I see you."

"You wound me, O Vision of Utter Loveliness."

"This is so not fair," Francesca mumbled. Dylan glanced over to see her and Tori pouting prettily in a corner. She bit back a grin. Cesca added, "You have not one, but two fairy princes kissing your hand and telling you how hot you are. What are we, chopped liver? Unloved, unwanted, destined for the fate of socks?"

Dylan laughed outright at that. "The fate of the socks? You mean to be single and lonely forever? Don't you have a boyfriend, Cesca? What about Davio?"

Francesca smiled dreamily. "Yeah…Davio's just…mmm. But still, Dylan!" She turned stern, folding her arms. Her gaze held mock-hurt and just a touch of good-natured envy. "Who is this other stud throwing himself at your feet? He's cute. And Asian. What's his name?"

Before the mortal could answer her sister's question, Zhenjin released Dylan's hand and moved to Francesca and Victoria. Taking one of their hands in each of his, he raised Francesca's to his lips, then Victoria's. Both women swallowed, suddenly at a loss for words. In his smoothest voice, Zhenjin said, "Forgive me, my ladies. You must understand, when one has lived in darkness for so long and then stepped out into the free world, a man is first blinded to all beauty but the silver light of the moon…but after he is given time for his eyes to adjust to the luminous night, he can better see the diamond brilliance of the stars."

It had to be admitted that Francesca and Victoria looked just as pretty as Dylan herself did, if not more. Both women had pinned up their hair with glittering garnet-and-amethyst-jeweled silver clips they'd borrowed from their younger sister; the clips matched the dusty-claret-colored velvet gowns embroidered in silver they both wore, Bethmooran colors. Themba had seen Cesca only once, and like with Dylan, had fashioned a gown that fit her perfectly—a special gift of the Elves of Nyame, the Children of the Spider. Basing Tori's dress on Cesca's measurements, he'd done the same for Francesca's twin. He'd fashioned them two dresses in Dylan's personal colors to change into after the ceremony, before the banquet. Dylan had another dress waiting for her as well.

The Dilong prince kissed their hands again. "Allow me to introduce myself: I am Crown Prince Zhenjin Azurefire of Dilong, the Jade Warlord—noble son of His Imperial Majesty Huizong Tilung, the Dragon Emperor, and Her Imperial Majesty Yeh-Shen Fenghuang the Serpent Empress—and the heir to the Jade Dragon Throne of the Lóng De Chuán Rén. And you…you must be Lady Dylan's beautiful sisters."

Victoria, pink-cheeked and unable to keep the goofy smile off her face, glanced at her youngest sister. "Dylan…is this guy legit?"

She nodded, grinning. "Yep…that's Prince Zhenjin. He's a friend of mine. Zhenjin—turn off the charm. You're going to turn them into puddles of goo."

Zhenjin gave her a mournful look. "Must I?" Dylan's lips twisted into a mischievous smirk. She jabbed him in his uninjured side with her ribs. Laughing in mock-outrage, the green-eyed prince jabbed her back in the ribs. She jumped and laughed. "Cruel wench."

"Did you hear that, Your Highness?" Dylan demanded, looking to Nuada. "He called me a wench!"

"Did he?" Nuada replied lazily. "What a scoundrel." He took Dylan's hand, tucking her against his side. Dylan noticed he angled his body to place himself between her and Zhenjin; she wondered why. Through their linked hands, Nuada added, I ran into Zhenjin on my way here. He claimed he wished to ensure his brother hadn’t found you again somehow.

Zhenjin's brother. Shaohao. The eldest child of the Dilong Emperor, Prince Shaohao had been removed from the line of succession after trying to murder an infant Princess Mïng Xiân. Zhenjin and Shaohao had once been as close as Dylan and John were, but no longer. Though Dylan suspected that Shaohao—who'd partially been behind the assassination attempt on her during the Midwinter Ball—still loved Prince Zhenjin, since his assassins had been under strict orders to leave Zhenjin alive, the current heir to the Dragon Throne claimed to despise his exiled brother. After trying to kill both Mïng Xiân, who Zhenjin adored, as well as Dylan, whom Zhenjin cared for as a dear friend, of course he would hate Shaohao…but somehow, Dylan wasn’t so certain.

You don't believe him? Dylan asked silently. After all, Nuada had said Zhenjin "claimed" he wished to make sure Dylan was safe from Shaohao. The word choice spoke of distrust…but Nuada loved and trusted the other prince. Zhenjin had saved Nuada's life less than a month ago when he and Dylan had been attacked by renegade Téngshé in the royal orchards while separated from their guards. More recently, he'd saved Dylan's life multiple times on Midwinter Eve, even taking crossbow bolts to the shoulder and chest that had been intended for the mortal woman. Why wouldn’t Nuada believe Zhenjin?

I believe that is one reason, the prince replied as their friend continued to flirt with Dylan's older sisters. When Dylan shot him a baffled look, he added, I think he had other reasons, however.

Like what?

I think he wanted to see you, Nuada said softly, and there was something in the words, something like regret or remorse, that caught her attention.

Choosing her words carefully, Dylan asked, Why do you think he wanted to see me?

Nuada's hesitation before answering sharpened her attention. At last he said, He has many reasons for the things he does. I do not believe he means you any harm, though. That was never a question in my mind. Zhenjin would give his life for you. For either of us. I know this as surely as I know my own heart.

Is he okay? When Nuada didn’t reply right away, a tiny thrill of fear shot through her chest. Nuada? Is he okay?

I do not know, he said softly. But do not fret yourself, my love. He will survive. I know that much.

Dylan shot a worried glance at her friend. What's wrong with him? Do you know?

Yes, he murmured. I do know…but I cannot tell you. It is…a secret between brothers, if you will. If you truly need to know, mo crídh, you should speak to Zhenjin himself. But not now. Not tonight. Tonight is your night. You should enjoy it.

Nuala said you had a surprise for me after the ceremony, she replied, letting him change the subject. She was going to ask Zhenjin what was up with him at some point, though. She was getting more and more worried about her new friend. She truly cared for him. Perhaps not as much as Nuada did, but then, she'd never gone to war with Zhenjin. She certainly hadn’t known him for…however long her prince had. At least somewhere around two-thousand years, since the last fae war had been when Nuada was in his twenty-first century.

Her prince shot her a look. Sometimes my sister talks entirely too much for her own good.

So you do have a surprise for me! What is it?

That would be telling, beloved. However, I do have a surprise for you intended for before the ceremony. Which is why I am here, he added, looking around. Apparently my surprise hasn’t arrived yet.

Even as he thought the words, a knock sounded at the door.

A'du'la'di, looking quite fine indeed in his best livery and bearing the knife Nuada had gifted to him for Midwinter, jumped to his feet. "I'll get it!" Scrambling for the door, he opened it a crack and looked up. "Um…excuse me. Do you have an appointment?" The cougar cub asked.

Dylan laughed, but the laugh died away when a very familiar voice said, "Hey, now! You don't remember me?"

No, the mortal whispered silently to Nuada. You didn’t…you couldn't have…

Nuada grinned.

"Hey, I know you!" A'du said. "You were at the toy store!" The cub opened the door wide, revealing a familiar figure. It was a tall man, with strong shoulders a little bent with age. His brown hair was threaded with gray, his face lined, but his silver-blue eyes twinkled when they landed on Dylan. He wore her colors—royal blue velvet tunic embroidered in silver, over a dove-gray shirt embroidered in pearlescent white, and black trews and boots—and the sight of this man wearing her own colors put a lump in her throat and made her eyes sting. The man rubbed a hand along his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and smiled.

"Well, now. Hey, there, cute stuff. Don't you look pretty?"

"Uncle Thad!" She rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, my gosh! You're here, you came, you're here!" She kissed his cheek. "How did you even know to come? I thought you were going to Europe to see Renee and Dolph the day after Christmas."

Her uncle put an arm around her shoulders. "Your young man here came to me yesterday and told me you were being elevated to peerage tonight. Of course I came to see my girl. And I'm not the only one, am I, Niamh?"

Dylan couldn’t help gasping as her aunt poked her head into the room. "Hello, sweetheart," her father's sister said. She, too, wore Dylan's colors. "Oh, don't you look beautiful!"

"Aunt Niamh!" There was more hugging and kissing. She glanced at Nuada, stunned and delighted and so very grateful that he would have brought these two people here, these people who were almost like her parents, for this special night. But Nuada smiled and canted his head toward the door. Baffled, Dylan released her hold on her aunt and watched as one last person entered the room. Her heart skipped a beat as she met a pair of sea-gray eyes that held the same knowledge, the same oddness that the Sight always gave, as her own did.

The woman who entered the room wore a beautiful dress of antique-blue velvet that Dylan remembered buying for her at a faire in New York. Her medium-length brown hair hung in a shining curtain around her face. Pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, she smiled at the mortal woman. "Hey, Dylan."

"Renee." Her cousin. Her best friend as a child, aside from John. The person she wished she was still in contact with, but Renee—the same age as Dylan—traveled all over Europe studying literature for her second Ph.D., so they'd fallen out of touch. Renee, her aunt and uncle's daughter, blessed and cursed with the Sight as Dylan was since before either of them could remember. It had been Renee who'd helped keep her somewhat sane in the institution after John's disappearance by writing to her until her parents had forbidden contact with that part of her family. Renee had been the one to tell Thaddeus just what was being done to Dylan in the institution. Renee had been the one to help Dylan come to grips with what it meant to have the Sight. "Renee. I don't believe it."

Renee hugged her, squeezing tight. "Hey, love. How are you? Oh, my goodness, it's been so long!"

Dylan squeezed right back. "Oh, Renee. I really, really missed you." She hadn’t even realized just how much until this moment when she'd seen her favorite cousin again. "I haven’t seen you in…three years, isn't it? Since you were in Washington for that literature conference thing. But how did you get here? I thought you were in Europe working on your doctorate."

The two women finally released each other, and Renee replied, "I was. Paris, actually; I was studying medieval French literature. It's so cool. I can't even…anyway, so I was at the Paris Library minding my own business when la néck approached me. She said a friend of her brother-in-law knew you, and was doing some nice big thing for you and I should fly to Ireland if I wanted to see you. She swore on the Darkness, so I wasn’t concerned about her trying to kill me or anything. Anyway, I called in some favors, got to Ireland, and met this furry kid…I think he was some kind of cat-fae. Seuss-dee or something—"

Silver-blue eyes widened in utter shock. "Tsu's'di?" Had her young guard been colluding with her prince for this tremendously awesome surprise?

"That sounds about right. Anyway, he escorted me here, and there was my mom and dad, and now here I am with my favorite cousin. Who is apparently engaged to an Elven prince, heir to the throne of one-third of Faerie Ireland, and you're about to be elevated to peerage. I mean…look at you. You look…amazing."

Francesca broke in. "Why, thank you. Half of that is my work, thank you. Doesn't she look fabulous?" The waitress actually nudged Nuada in the ribs with one skinny elbow. "Come on, Your Highness. Admit it—I did good. I so did good. Come on. Say it. I took what God gave her and made it even better. Admit it. Praise me. Tell me you love me."

He eyed her with one raised eyebrow. "My. What a fertile imagination your sister has, my lady." Francesca just elbowed him again. "If I compliment your work, will that stop you from touching me again?"

"Possibly," Francesca replied cheerfully.

"Very well. My lady looks…breathtaking. I thank you for your aid in helping her prepare."

Renee leaned in and whispered, "He's a bit uptight, isn't he?"

Dylan waved that away. "He's just uncomfortable with most humans. He hasn’t adjusted to Cesca yet."

"Is it even possible to adjust to Cesca?"

"I don't even know," Dylan replied. "I'm so glad you're here, though," she added, hugging her cousin again. "We have to catch up after the ceremony…oh, cripes. The ceremony! Nuada! When's the ceremony supposed to start?"

It still surprised her sometimes that her prince, instead of checking a watch or a phone like most of the people she knew, or even glancing at one of the tremendous old-fashioned clocks or hour-marked candles, he looked to the sun or the stars to gauge the time. In this instance, he peered up at one of the incredibly narrow windows high up on the wall. Star-spangled night shown through the thin slice cut from the stone wall. Nuada said, "We have eight minutes." Turning to the assembled family, he said in his most polite prince-voice, "Erik, one of my valets, will escort those of you watching the ceremony to your places. I know my lady wishes to visit with her family, and I will ensure she has the chance when the ceremony is ended."

Her uncle gave her another hug, her aunt another kiss, and her cousin both before the garnet-eyed dökkálfr known as Erik Ashkeson escorted them out. Zhenjin, also a spectator for this momentous occasion, made as if to follow them, but stopped at the door. He went back to Dylan and took her hands. A strange tingling spread from her fingertips across her skin. She blinked, baffled by the new sensation. But she wasn’t getting any warnings. And it was just Zhenjin. He wouldn’t hurt her.

"In seriousness, my…lady," Zhenjin murmured, "you are breathtaking. You put the so-called court beauties to shame, Dylan."

He glanced at Nuada. So did Dylan. It surprised her to see both a warning and something that might have been sympathy in his gaze. Zhenjin nodded to him, then turned back to her. Dylan turned back to him after noticing that the only person paying attention to them was Nuada; everyone else acted as if Zhenjin had left the room already. Had that odd tingling sensation been the crown prince glamouring himself and her from most of the room? Why?

Zhenjin cleared his throat. "I wanted to tell you, Dylan…it has been an honor to know you. To be called your friend. And tonight, I am honored still further to be able to watch my…friend as she proves to all those pompous naysayers that she is exactly who she has always claimed to be—a true lady. Thank you for inviting me tonight. Have courage out there, and a dragon's luck to you."

She blinked, just a little bit surprised. She'd learned from Nuada that "dragon's luck" was the most affectionate sentiment a person could give in Dilong and still keep things platonic. It was a phrase used when parting from one's oldest friends, or perhaps a dear sibling. Dylan smiled, touched by the words.

"Thank you, Zhenjin. I'm lucky to have someone like you, and someone like Nuada."

And suddenly that shadow was back in his eyes, that flickering sorrow that seemed to pierce Dylan's heart like a splinter of ice. But Zhenjin smiled. Bending down, he leaned around her and touched his lips very lightly to her cheek, perhaps an inch from the corner of her mouth. His lips were warm; that surprised her for some reason. Because he had draconian—and thus reptilian—blood running through his veins?

But she didn’t have time to think about it. Zhenjin pulled back abruptly, as if he were already regretting the little gesture of affection. Dylan remembered that her friend didn’t actually like humans. Just her and, apparently, her sisters. Was he having the same doubts Nuada had once had, when they'd been merely friends, about being demonstrative?

"Look for me in the crowd," the Dilong prince added, and slipped from the room.

Dylan turned back to her own prince. Taking his hand, she murmured silently, He confuses me a little bit. Nuada came toward her, one brow raised. I don't know, she answered his silent inquiry. I get the feeling like…like he keeps trying to say goodbye to me. To us, maybe. But he can't bring himself to do it. I need to talk to him later.

Yes, Nuada replied. Later. I must take my place in a moment. Now, you remember what you must do?

Yeah. They'd gone over it a hundred times. Okay, maybe more like ten, but she still knew what to do. In slow, measured steps, she and her little entourage would make their way through the parted crowd of fae courtiers to the first step of the dais where the four Bethmooran thrones sat—two at the top, one for Balor and an empty one for the deceased queen; two on the lower section of the platform, which was where Nuada and Nuala usually sat during formal audiences and whatnot—and curtsy.

She would actually kneel once a pageboy brought her a cushion for her knees; that, too, was customary. She'd taken an extra Vicodin before coming down from her room, just to make sure she wouldn’t stumble. Stumbling was probably some terrible omen that she would bring draught and famine to the land for seventy-times-seventy years or something.

And while she knelt before the king, Balor would have her swear the Oath of Eildon, the vow of fealty to the royal family—specifically the king first and foremost, followed by the crown prince, then the princess—and fealty to the country itself, which would make her a citizen of Bethmoora. The king would come before her and she had to kiss the signet ring of the sovereign, which was a little strange for her, but she could handle it. Then Balor would grant her the title of lady and endow her with the two provinces Nuada had chosen for her—Fionntrá, land of the white towers, and Éas Ruaíd, the land of the red waterfalls.

She'd get to her feet when he told her to rise and he would declare her "Lady Dylan of Blah-Blah-Blah." Everyone would cheer—or not, depending—and she would then be asked if she had a boon to beg of the king. Then she would give her carefully rehearsed little song-and-dance about young Guardsman Loén, the king would order him freed, the ceremony would be over, and it would be time for banquet.

"You will be all right?" Nuada asked aloud, grasping her hands.

Dylan nodded. "I'll be fine. Don't panic."

Drawing himself up, every inch the haughty prince, he replied, "I am not panicking. I am looking out for your best interests. I am hopelessly in love with you; I cannot help it. Naya and Na'ko'ma send you their best wishes, by the way." Lowering his voice, he added in a mere whisper, "Do you have your dirk?"

Surprised he would ask, she nodded. "In my girdle."

Nuada nodded, then put a hand to the burgundy sash at his waist, which bore the etched gold crest of Bethmoora. Softly, he replied, "I have something for you." Reaching into the sash, he pulled out two slender twin-knives almost identical to the ones he carried in his sash and in his left boot—ebony hilts with silver-chased leather grips, no cross-guard, and fine blades of Elven silver, honed to a razor's edge.

A wave of warmth swept over Dylan and she realized Nuada had glamoured them so no one else in the room—her sisters, the cubs, her guards—would know just how well she was armed. Stepping behind her, Dylan felt her prince settle one hand against the small of her back. His other hand slid around to span the width of her waist. His breath was warm in her ear when he murmured, "I told you I would forge you your own blades. The first one fits into a sheath here, just under your laces. Reach underhanded behind you and draw it easily. I promise you, it will not leave the sheath unless you wish it." The weight of the first twin-knife settled against her spine; it was surprisingly comforting.

Her prince stepped around to stand in front of her again. His eyes had lightened to that all-too-familiar, too-intense gold-kissed ivory that nearly always spelled trouble for both of them. He stepped closer. For some reason, Dylan suddenly couldn’t breathe. She could feel the heat coming off Nuada's body, nearly scorching as he drew so near that barely half an inch separated them. His empty hand settled lightly against Dylan's ribcage, only a few inches above her hip. She swallowed hard. The tingle of glamour still active whispered delicately against her skin.

"The other," Nuada whispered so softly Dylan almost couldn’t hear him, "would normally be worn at the hip, but this is a formal occasion and you must wear a gown. But there is a knife-sheath—more of a scabbard, actually—sewn into the bodice of all your gowns that Themba has made…here."

He took her hand in his, opening her fingers with exquisite care, laying the twin knife in her palm. Slowly, one by one, he closed her fingers around the hard hilt. Then Nuada lifted Dylan's hand just enough that he could touch the sheathed tip of the blade against the flesh over Dylan's heart. He barely seemed to breathe as he slid the sheathed blade into the thin, flexible scabbard sewn into her bodice between her breasts. Dylan barely kept from swallowing her tongue. Her pulse kicked up, her heart jumping in her chest. She opened her mouth—either to protest the intimacy or beg for mercy, she wasn't sure—when Nuada gave the twin-knife a small twist and Dylan felt something shift in the bodice of her dress, actually in the fabric. She jumped, squeaked. The movement subsided slowly.

"What…was that?" She asked.

Nuada smiled a bit ruefully. "The protection spells Themba had placed in the cloth. I have activated them; now you cannot be disarmed by anyone. The blade will unsheathe only to your hand. My sister has similar enchantments on many of her gowns. Forgive my taking such liberties as to touch you so intimately, my lady."

She swallowed. "No problem. All for the cause." Uncertain suddenly about what to do with her hands, she smoothed them over her skirt for the millionth time. Nuada reached out and took her hands in his. Raised them to his lips.

"You must know, my love, that I am so very proud of you," he murmured. "You are the pride of my heart. Your courage, your selflessness, your kindness, your generosity, your humility…I stand in awe of you, Dylan. And I always will." He kissed both her hands almost reverently. "Thank you for being my lady. I love you with all my heart."

"I love you, too." A small laugh hiccupped out of her. "You're going to make me cry," she mumbled.

"Well, we cannot have that. I shall see you in the Great Hall," Nuada added, brushing a swift kiss against her forehead. "Remember—chin up, stand tall, and smile."

"You never smile," she pointed out.

"I am a prince. I do not have to smile if I choose not to. Besides, your smile is far lovelier than mine."

Dylan laughed, which she knew had been Nuada's intention. And considering she'd worn braces for a few years, her teeth ought to look nice. She could smile for the crowd. As long as she could keep her eyes on her prince, and so long as nothing went wrong, she could smile.

Hopefully.

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"Presenting the Right Honorable Lady Dylan of Central Park!"

The booming voice of the Elven herald just outside the doors of the antechamber seemed to echo in Dylan's head. Sweat began collecting at the nape of her neck and on her palms, a sure sign that the panic-monster prowled through her skull. Her stomach twisted into crazy knots as the carved, rowan-wood doors in front of her began to creak open. The air rushed in and out of her lungs in shallow whooshes that made her a little dizzy. Was she smiling? She had to smile. How could she smile when it felt like she was about to pass out?

"Showtime," Francesca murmured as she, Tori, and 'Sa'ti took up their positions behind Dylan, each holding a portion of her incredibly long cape-train.

Victoria whispered, "Don't forget, you gotta imagine them all in their underwear."

Dylan's lips twitched into a half-smile.

Francesca added, "Do they even wear underwear? What if they're naked?"

"Icky," 'Sa'ti mumbled.

The smile bloomed bright and free on Dylan's face; she had to work for a few seconds to tone it down to a seemly level. By the time the doors had opened completely and she stepped into the King's Great Hall, her smile was warm and regal—instead of cluing in the rest of the world that she was five seconds away from cracking up like a nutcase because of her sisters' comedic timing.

Just as Nuada had told her, the moment the soles of her boots touched the red carpet unfurled between the parted courtiers toward the king's dais, music began to play. It wasn’t a tune she recognized, but that was okay. The slow plucking of a cláirseach harp, the stately violins, and solemn fluting of uilleann pipes still helped keep Dylan's heart from galloping straight out of her chest. Beneath the sweet melody came the steady thud of a single bodhrán　drum, like a heartbeat, guiding Dylan's speed as she slowly approached the dais.

Whispers rose up among the courtiers of Bethmoora as she passed them with her heart in her mouth. Were they surprised by her retinue? Two mortal women acting as train-bearers, along with one young ewah cub; her Butcher Guards in formal black and gold dress-uniforms in formation behind her, with Tsu's'di at their head in his best livery and carrying the sword and knife Nuada had given him for Christmas and Midwinter; and at her side, keeping pace with his mistress, walked a solemn-faced A'du'la'di holding the purely ornamental, silver-tooled gray leather leashes attached to Eimh and Sétanta's silver-tooled, gray leather collars. All in all, they looked like a collection of sunset colors—antique gold, soft copper, twilit silver, and various dusky shades of burgundy, violet, blue, and black. Knowing they all looked so fantastic made it easier to keep her chin up as she walked down the crimson velvet path.

When they passed her aunt and uncle, Dylan saw that both had tears of pride in their eyes. Renee beamed at her. John, looking every inch the soon-to-be fae lordling in his blue velvets and gray silks, grinned at his twin sister and shot her a thumbs' up.

With them stood King Roiben Darktithe, pale as the moon in his black clothes, standing with Kaye in her diamond-studded violet dress. Young Kate bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, but managed to keep her changeling wildness in check. Young Lord Bean, wild auburn hair still slightly damp from being combed, stood beside Kate. Lady Peri—Bean's mother and Dylan's friend and neighbor in the mortal world, as well as a member of Roiben's Unseelie Court—looked beautiful in her midnight blue gown; she and Kaye grinned at Dylan. Roiben smiled and nodded to her.

As Dylan moved down the red carpet, she saw others as well: Lorelei von der Strom, the ebony-haired rhinemaiden who was Nuada's friend and Wink's significant other; young Rórdán Hob from the kitchens, who waved surreptitiously to the mortal as she passed; Princess Abigail of Saami and her father, the ebony-skinned, white-haired King Mashkapeau of the shape-shifting munaqsri; Caspar Kabouter, with his best red velvet cap; Nils Fjøsnisse, dressed in his best formal attire; Moundshroud and Pipkin standing with Mr. Magorium. Mr. Magorium beamed at her with all the proprietary affection of a grandfather. Pipkin offered her his standard, two-finger salute. Moundshroud smiled at her with as much affection—if not more—as Mr. Magorium. Zhenjin stood in the crowd as well, grinning.

Dylan noticed King Arawn in the crowd as well, watching the proceedings with a small smile. What was he doing there? She hadn’t invited him; had Nuada? Why? Beside the rather nondescript Welsh fae king stood his breathtakingly beautiful wife, their eldest daughter Princess Eilonwy, and their youngest son, Prince Llŷr. Prince Llŷr waved at Dylan until his father put a restraining hand on his small shoulder.

Even Nuala, Polunochnaya, and Na'ko'ma—the two ladies-in-waiting standing on the dais a little behind their seated princess—smiled at her.

All of these friends filled her heart with a ridiculous amount of happiness, but none of them compared to the moment she fixed her gaze upon her prince on his throne. To her utter shock, Nuada smiled at her. Nuada never smiled at court functions. Well, he did when she was there to make him laugh, but that rare, beaming smile free of all shadows was one he never shared with anyone but her. Yet this smile was for her. She could see the pride shining like sunlight in his honey-gold eyes. It sent butterflies winging through her stomach. She smiled back. The remaining length of red carpet seemed to rush past beneath her feet.

At the dais, she waited as her train-handlers set the velvet down and 'Sa'ti, as serious as A'du, brought out the cushion for Dylan's knees. The mortal knelt before Balor, as did her entire retinue. Even Francesca and Victoria got down on their knees; Cesca had promised the night before to behave.

Dylan was the only one to get a cushion.

Balor rose to his feet. He looked every inch the king in his heavy burgundy velvet robes, his dark antlers jutting up overhead, the golden torc catching the glow of the fairy lights overhead. He came to the edge of the topmost part of the dais. Nuada and Nuala also rose and went to stand near him. The music rose to a crescendo. Balor raised his hand of flesh and the music abruptly ceased. He lowered his hand, looking Dylan straight in the eye.

"Dylan Myers," Balor said, his aged voice ringing out across the Great Hall like a bronze bell. "Daughter of Eve, of Adam's flesh and Adam's bone. You have come to the Golden Hall of the One-Armed King. You have bowed before Balor One-Arm, King of Bethmoora, and petitioned him for citizenship in this great kingdom, have you not?"

Somehow keeping her voice steady—she was terrified it would squeak—Dylan said, "I have."

"Then do you swear to uphold and live by the laws of this kingdom?"

"I swear to obey and protect the laws of Bethmoora," she said, making sure everyone could hear her. A few more murmurs issued from the crowd at her back.

"Do you swear fealty to this kingdom, to the royal family of Bethmoora, and to Bethmoora's king?"

She swallowed. It had taken a lot of soul-searching before she'd been able to answer this truthfully as well as appropriately, but now she lifted her chin just a little higher and replied, "I swear my fealty to the kingdom of Bethmoora, to this kingdom's royal family, and to Bethmoora's rightful king."

Balor inclined his head the tiniest fraction. "Do you swear to love and defend this kingdom and its people until the end of your life?"

"I swear to love and defend Bethmoora and its people until the day I die."

The king nodded. "Child of Man, daughter of Eve, this oath you have taken. It is imprinted indelibly in your blood and bones. We have witnessed your courage, your loyalty, your compassion, your desire to act with honor, and your love for the Tuatha de Danaan. We have found you worthy of Our friendship and loyalty. Therefore, by the power invested in Us by the gods and the Fates, let all the Realm hear this: that I, King Balor One-Arm of Bethmoora, do hereby dub thee Lady Dylan Myers of Bethmoora, mistress of the province of Central Park in the Mortal Realm, as well as the provinces of Fionntrá, Éas Ruaíd, Inber Scéne, Macha Chroí, and Luácha Hanráhan of Bethmoora, and thus endow you with all the responsibilities and privileges therewith!"

Dylan's mouth fell open slightly. So did Nuala's, and her ladies-in-waiting. Nuada's mouth remained closed, but he stared at his father in utter shock. Behind Dylan, the Bethmooran nobles' whispering and muttering rose to new heights. Five provinces? He was giving her five provinces? Not the standard two or the heard-of three or even the rare four, but five? What had she done to deserve such consideration from the Crown? And it was obvious Nuada had had nothing to do with this sudden generosity; he looked just as flabbergasted as everyone else.

But the ceremony wasn’t quite over yet. Balor bade Dylan to rise. Though her knee was a bit stiff, she managed to stand up fairly smoothly. 'Sa'ti and A'du, being divested of Eimh and Sétanta's leashes by a servant assigned to that task, came forward and stood on either side of their mistress, a little ways behind her.

Balor turned to the Master of Ceremonies, an Elf somewhere in his fiftieth century. In front of him stood two pages in formal Bethmooran livery, each holding a scroll. The older Elf called, "Now commences the presentation of Lady Dylan's coat-of-arms!" The page on the left unrolled the scroll and held it aloft so that everyone could at least catch a glimpse of the coat-of-arms Prince Nuada had designed for his lady.

Nuada had explained the coat-of-arms to Dylan a few days ago. At its center was a shield, divided into four quarters, with a double-ringed border of royal blue and dove-gray. The two-stripe border was a distaff border, which meant that the coat-of-arms belonged to a household that had originated with a woman being ennobled. A different symbol stood in the center of each quarter of the shield: in the top left, a blue firedrake again a dove-gray field, representing Dylan's maternal German ancestry (as it was traditional to pay homage to the matriarchal line); in the top right, a silver unicorn's head against a blue field, to represent her skills as a healer; in the bottom right, the Lyre of Érenn, the traditional symbol of Ireland, done in blue against gray; and in the bottom left, a silver crescent moon against blue, to show that her healing skills extended beyond the body to the mind and heart. In the shield's center shone a rayed white star to represent her devotion to the Star Kindler. On either side of the shield stood the two "supporters"—a rampant unicorn on the left, a rampant mare on the right, to show that while she was physically mortal, her heart was of the fae. Atop the shield rested the Coronet of the Heir Apparent, because she was engaged to Nuada. And beneath it all was the motto of her new house: As dorchadas dtagann solas—Out of darkness comes light.

'Sa'ti stepped forward once the page rolled up the scroll. The Elven page handed the cougar girl the scroll, which she held very carefully as she went back to Dylan's side. The Master of Ceremonies looked to the second Bethmooran page, who unrolled his scroll next.

"Now commences the presentation of Lady Dylan's formal crest!"

The crest was the one Nuada had designed for her—the Irish knotwork rose, incorporating both the Eildon Tree in its complex twistings and turnings, as well as the symbol etched into the crown prince's lance. Both coat-of-arms and crest had been approved by the king, so the use of the Eildon Tree was no issue. The crest drawn on the scroll gleamed silver against a blue circle. A'du took the scroll from the second page once it had been rolled back up again.

"Bethmoora," Balor said as Dylan struggled to keep smiling, struggled to stay focused on her prince watching her with such love. "I give you Lady Dylan of Central Park, Fionntrá, Éas Ruaíd, Inber Scéne, Macha Chroí, and Luácha Hanráhan!"

Dylan turned, her sisters turning with her to deal with the inconvenience of the cape-train, as the entirety of the court bowed or curtsied to her. The only people who remained standing because they still outranked her were Zhenjin, Moundshroud and Pipkin, Mr. Magorium, Arawn and his wife and kids, Abigail and her father, Roiben and Kaye, and…and Bres.

What was Bres doing there? He watched her with cold eyes that left her shivering before turning his summer-blue gaze onto something behind her. At first she thought he was looking at Nuada, but then she realized his gaze had softened and warmed considerably. Not Nuada, then. Nuala? Could Bres actually care for her? But the ice skating down her spine said that no, he didn’t care for the Bethmooran princess. And anyway, what was he doing there? Had Balor invited him for some reason?

But then she didn’t have time to think about it anymore, because Balor called her attention back to him.

"As is tradition, Lady Dylan, you may request a boon of the Crown on this momentous occasion. Is there aught that you would ask of Us?"

Dylan flicked her eyes briefly to Nuada, who gave her the tiniest nod. Then she glanced at Guardswoman Fionnlagh, standing straight and proud in dress-uniform with the rest of Dylan's guards. Through the slit in her helmet, Dylan saw the hope in the Butcher Guard's moss-green eyes. Dylan gave Fionnlagh her own tiny nod. Turned back to the king. Time for the very well-rehearsed little speech.

"Your Majesty, I claim the privilege of a peer of this realm and beg Your royal pardon for Guardsman Loén McTadhg, imprisoned on suspicion of treason five nights past. His Royal Highness Prince Nuada and I have made inquiries, and Guardsman Loén has been found innocent of these charges. Because of due process of law, he still remains imprisoned. I would ask you, Sire, for my boon, to release Loén McTadhg and assign him permanently to either my or His Highness's retinue of bodyguards, for Guardsman Loén has proven loyal to the Crown and to me. So I humbly petition, Your Majesty."

A spark of something like approval glittered in Balor's aged amber eyes as he nodded. "Pretty words, Lady Dylan. You have proven yourself already a courtier. Very well. Let it be heard and recorded—Guardsman Loén McTadhg of the King's Royal Guards shall henceforth be released and given in perpetuity to Prince Nuada and Lady Dylan's private retinue. Page!" A young page approached the king's dais, bowing low. "Send word to Our personal herald." To Dylan, he added, "Loén shall be released before moonset."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I am eternally grateful." She dipped her best curtsy.

And the ceremony was over, and people were converging on her to talk to her, chatter at her, congratulate her (sincerely or not, depending on the person). In the end, she needed Nuada and Francesca's help to escape long enough to change her clothes.

.

Dylan tried not to fidget as Francesca's fingers and makeup brushes smoothed over her brow-bones and her cheekbones, over her lips and brows again. According to Francesca, a new outfit meant new makeup. So her sister had washed away the russet lip-color and eye-shadow the color of fire and autumn leaves and frost. Now Francesca swiped silver glitter on Dylan's redone black lashes, brushed soft blue and twilit indigo across her eyelids, applied a dark lipstick across her lips.

"Evening look," Francesca mumbled as she gently touched up the cat's eyes she'd drawn in black liner at the corners of her sister's eyes. "You'll look smokin' hot. The guys'll all be nuts over you. Your eyes look like freaking galaxies, Sis. I've been practicing this one. The galaxy eye, with blue overtones. Practiced just for you."

The mortal smiled at her sister, but forced her mouth straight when Cesca squawked in alarm. Her fingertips played with the sapphire-and-diamond beading on the silver girdle draped across her hips and hugging her ribcage. Her crest—the combination of the stylized Eildon Tree, the half-claddaugh Celtic knot from Nuada's lance, and the stylized Bethmooran rose—had been embroidered in real sapphires and diamonds no bigger than the heads on hat-pins against the cloth-of-silver girdle with pearlescent thread. It complimented the dove-gray silk gown and royal blue velvet kirtle Nuada had requisitioned for the "after-party," as it were. The cut of her gown was such that it hid both of her new twin-knives and gave her an easy draw on her dirk, as well. Her prince had activated the spells in the hidden sheathes in her new gown, as well.

It made sense that she'd had to change clothes. She'd worn crimson and gold, Bethmooran colors, during the ceremony because she'd been inducted as a citizen of that kingdom. Now she was not only a citizen, but a peer of the realm. It was time to show off her own colors. Even her jewels had been exchanged, yellow gold and rubies and garnets for white gold, sapphires, and white diamonds. The diamond pins in her hair looked like tiny stars.

Being Nuada's lady had a lot of downsides, but it also had a lot of perks; one of them was definitely the clothes. And the boots. She especially liked her doeskin boots, dyed the same blue as her overgown, with their laces of braided silver cord. On top of the ones she wore now, Dylan had at least ten new pairs of boots, all of them gorgeous, and in a variety of colors. She didn't love shoes, but she loved boots.

Her sister made a sound of satisfaction and stepped back. "You can open your eyes now." Dylan did, to see Francesca and Victoria beaming. 'Sa'ti, seated on a chair near the door, gasped and leaned forward.

"Oh, A'ge'lv! You look bee-yoo-tiful!"

Dylan grinned. "Thank you, sweetie. And look! We match!" She indicated 'Sa'ti's blue velvet dress. "You ready for food?"

'Sa'ti hopped to her feet. "Yeah! I'm hungry."

"Me, too," Dylan replied.

"Me, three," Cesca chimed in.

Victoria, with a roll of her eyes, raised a sardonic hand. "Me, four, because I'm square like that."

The three sisters—and young handmaiden—in perfect accord, the four of them rejoined the guards, the hounds, and A'du'la'di outside Dylan's bedchamber and made their way back down to the king's banqueting hall. They met John, their aunt and uncle, and Renee in the corridor outside. After a couple minutes, they were all announced by the herald; it was still a shock for Dylan to hear her new title.

What was an even bigger shock was hearing her family announced. None of them were ennobled—yet, though John would be made a lord sometime before the wedding—but not being ennobled didn't mean much. Because they were her blood-kin, they technically had a stake in her new provinces. So when her aunt and uncle were announced to the court, they were declared, "The Right Honorable Thaddeus and Niamh Bardson of Newark, Manhattan, Fionntrá, Éas Ruaíd, Inber Scéne, Macha Chroí, and Luácha Hanráhan, and their daughter, the Honorable Renee Bardson." John was called "The Right Honorable Guardsman John Myers of Brooklyn, Fionntrá, etc.," and Francesca and Victoria were announced the same as their cousin, as "the Honorable," but with the same geographical attachments as their younger brother.

To Dylan's surprise, her entire family had had places reserved at the king's table. On Balor's right sat Nuada, Dylan, Nuala, an empty space, and then John, Victoria, and Francesca. On the king's left would sit Moundshroud and Mr. Magorium, King Arawn and his wife, and then Dylan's aunt, uncle, and Renee. To Dylan's disappointment, Zhenjin would be sitting with his brothers further down the table with her sisters. Zhenjin's father was absent; as Nuada got her chair, he murmured very quietly in her ear that Emperor Huizong was unwell; clearly her prince had noticed her surprised look in the direction of the Dilong royals.

Everything was fine until four latecomers were announced to the banqueting hall. Dylan's pulse spiked and ice dribbled like poison down her spine as Crown Prince Bres, Lord Cíaran and Lady Dierdre macAengus, and Lord Lí Ban Na'Bodaich entered the room. Seeing Dierdre, Nuada stiffened beside his truelove. Dylan shot him a surreptitious glance beneath her lashes, but he didn’t look at her; merely swallowed and hid behind a glass of wine. All four newly arrived fae bowed—or in Dierdre's case, curtsied—to the king before approaching their table. To Dylan's irritation, Dierdre took the empty seat next to Zhenjin. Lord Lí Ban sat beside her; like the rest of the Fomorian envoy, the dark-haired, dark-eyed fae lord made Dylan very nervous. But to her horror, Cíaran took a seat next to his sister, far too close to Dylan's own sisters for her peace of mind. Bres, cool as a glacier, took the empty seat right next to Nuala, murmuring a tender greeting to his unofficial betrothed.

A position that placed him barely three feet away from Dylan.

Under the table, Nuada grasped Dylan's hand. Do not be afraid, he murmured, voice gentle but firm. No matter what happens, beloved, remember—I will never allow Bres to harm you. I swear it. If you have ever doubted me, doubted my love for you, do not doubt me now. Believe in me now. I will kill him without hesitation if he attempts to harm you in any way. Do not be afraid.

Was it weird that Nuada threatening to literally kill someone made her feel safer? It was so strange that if anyone else had said that to her, it would have frightened her even more. But not him. Trying to maintain a semblance of calm, she demanded, What is he doing here? I thought your father was going to break his engagement to your sister!

We have yet to give him sufficient cause. Remember, he wishes to speak to us both about why we mistrust Bres so. My father does not yet trust me enough to merely take my word for it. My sister is…fond of Bres. And it is a good match politically, one that nearly all our people will look favorably on…unlike ours. But do not fear. We will force my father to see reason. I have no doubt of that. It will merely take some time. In the meantime, we will treat Bres with courtesy—and nothing more.

Cíaran better not touch my sisters, she muttered.

If he lays so much as a finger on them, I will gut him with his own blade at this very table, Nuada replied calmly. Dylan had to fight not to give him a wide-eyed look. I have made my position on you and your family very clear to him. If he attempts to harm them in any way, he will foolishly be taking his own life in his hands. I may not care for your family, but they are your family. I will defend them as I would you.

Thank you, Nuada, she whispered, meaning it with all her heart. She hadn’t expected such a declaration from him. She knew he respected her uncle, was reluctantly fond of Francesca, and understood John was as necessary to her as breathing, but that didn’t necessarily mean he would defend them so adamantly. Her heart flipped over in her chest.

It is my pleasure and my privilege to ensure your happiness and to protect you, as well as your kin, he said. You needn't thank me for that.

Dylan would have responded with more than just the tender smile she gave him, but at that moment something caught her attention. If she'd ever needed proof that the members of her family assembled in this banquet hall actually loved her, she had it now. Francesca and Tori had both turned their heads just enough to catch her eye; the looks on their faces were bland and pleasant, but the concern in their eyes was obvious to their younger sister. John sent her a wordless pulse of reassurance through their own twin-bond, something he'd been practicing ever since that night he'd nearly been killed by the shandymen in the park. Her aunt and uncle both glanced her way, as well. Renee used the little hand-signal they'd come up with as children, propping her chin for exactly three seconds on one hand while resting her index and middle fingers against her cheek—a silent question, Are you okay? Dylan casually brushed her own index and middle finger along her hairline, as if brushing aside a stray curl, the equally silent reply of, I'll tell you later.

Over the course of the meal, the tension began to ease a little. Bres didn’t speak to her, except to congratulate her on her entitlement, nor did he make any rude comments about her family. Neither Cíaran nor Lord Lí Ban attempted to catch her eye or in any way upset her. Dierdre kept herself well away from Nuada. On top of all of that, Caspar Kabouter, Master of the Royal Kitchens, had done something Dylan would have never dreamed of asking of him—making some of his best dishes sans alcohol, so that Dylan could enjoy them. When Nuada explained that it had been Caspar's congratulatory gift to her, Dylan's eyes had stung with the threat of fresh tears.

Yes, things would have been just fine, in fact, if Francesca hadn’t opened her mouth during the fish course.

"So I know who everyone is down here except you two," she said, indicating Cíaran and Bres with a piece of lobster. The angry adolescent in Dylan wanted to punch her sister from down the table, because she'd told her sisters not to talk to anyone unless spoken to first. Instead, she tried to enjoy her own lobster and scallops while cringing inwardly.

Nuada tensed beside her when Bres said, "I am Crown Prince Bres mac Elatha of the Fomorian kingdom of Cíocal…my lady. A friend of Prince Nuada's…and a friend of Her Highness, Princess Nuala." Neither Nuada nor Dylan missed the way the Fomorian prince said Nuala's name like a caress. Bres continued in his bland court voice, "And this is my oldest friend, Lord Cíaran macAengus of Caer Ibormeith in Cíocal. You must forgive him. He is…shy in such company." Cíaran briefly canted his head.

Francesca nodded and took a sip from her goblet. What, Dylan wondered a bit hysterically, was she drinking? Was that wine? Beer? Ale? Francesca couldn’t afford to be even the littlest bit tipsy in this place. Although her sister handled alcohol well; it didn’t really affect her behavior, scary as that thought was, until she dropped from buzzed to straight-up drunk. Still…

First and foremost, Bres is a prince, mo crídh. He will behave as one in public, Nuada assured her through the link of their hands joined briefly beneath the table.

What if she makes him mad? What will he do to her?

Nothing, Nuada replied firmly, if he wants to keep breathing. Which he is well aware of.

"So you're a crown prince too. Cool. That's cool." Francesca nodded again. Dylan realized her sister was just the slightest bit buzzed. "Why don't you look like Prince Nuada?"

"He is one of the Tuatha de Danaan, one of the Children of the Earth. I am Fomorian, one of the Children of the Sea. We are different races."

"Nifty. How old are you?"

"In…human terms," he replied, unable or unwilling to keep the sneer out of his voice, "I am in my fortieth century."

Francesca's eyes nearly popped out of her head. Victoria took this moment to chime in with, "Do you have any brothers or sisters? I mean, Dylan told us once that fae royal families tend to be kind of small, but that the Fomorian royal family was pretty big."

A cold, humorless smile curved Bres's mouth. He glanced at Dylan; she felt that single flat look like a spike of ice drilling right through the crown of her head, stealing the warmth from her blood and bones, gripping her lungs like a fist so she couldn’t draw breath. Bres was being polite, but he still despised her. He said, "At one time, I had twelve brothers and seven sisters. My eldest sister Sádb is comfortably married to Crown Prince Minyak of the kingdom of Orang. The rest of my siblings are dead."

Dylan had to fight not to jump out of her skin when Nuada took her hand once more beneath the table. Watching Bres from the corner of her eye, Dylan asked silently, I know royal fae can lie; is he telling the truth? Are they really all dead but his sister?

Yes. King Elatha had twenty children by his seven wives.

He had seven wives?

Not all at once, Nuada replied softly, hiding his expression behind a mug of what looked like ale, but what Dylan knew to be spiced cider. But his wives had a strange habit of dying after each of his daughters was born. Each wife bore several sons and one girl.

Wait…are you saying…Dylan had to fight not to stare at him in dawning horror. You don't mean he killed them? For having daughters instead of sons?

Nuada didn’t answer for a long moment. Finally, he said, No one has ever been able to prove anything.

Dylan swallowed hard. How did Bres's brothers and sisters die?

Her prince took a breath and squeezed her hand. She suddenly sensed he was reluctant to tell her this. Why? Because it would change something between them. Something about how she felt about him. But that didn’t make sense. What could Nuada possibly say that would affect them like that?

Then he told her, and she knew. Bres and I killed them.