Chapter Ninety-Eight
After All This Time, the Truth
that is
A Short Tale of Faux Fear, a Little Too Much Heat, a Cat and a Dog, the Truth Comes Out and Wounds Reopen, Dylan Reveals Much to Nuala and Her Ladies, Nuada's Gratitude, and Dylan's Doubts
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"If you’ve hurt her, Majesty, you will not like my reaction."
Dylan bit back a wince. It hadn’t occurred to her that Nuada would assume his father had forced her to come to him. Hadn't the guard she'd left behind told the prince what was going on? And Balor wasn't exactly in the proper frame of mind to deal with Nuada's misplaced anger at the moment. With a shock, the mortal psychiatrist realized she'd switched roles. Usually she had to try and shield Nuada from his father's cruelty, but now she was trying to protect Balor from his son's fury and suspicion. Then again, maybe Balor realizing just how little his son trusted him would be good for him. Still, better to defuse the tension a little.
She went to Nuada's side as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. Sliding her arms around his, she laid her cheek against his shoulder. An odd, familiar scent tickled her nose. Where had she smelled that before? And why did it make the hair at the nape of her neck prickle? She had to swallow a sudden surge of irritation; why? Focusing on the moment, she shot Nuada a wide-eyed look.
"I think I'm scared of you right now," she said in a stage-whisper.
Nuada frowned. "Why?"
"Because you're miffed," she said brightly. "On Christmas morning. And you look all intimidating. I think my pinkie-toe might be quivering in my boot." A flash of triumph shot through her when dark lips twitched. That helped push aside the annoyance scritching like insect legs down her spine. Why was she suddenly angry? "I saw that," Dylan added, pointing at Nuada's face. "That smile lurking behind your mouth. I saw it. It's right there."
Unable to keep a straight face, Nuada gave in and smiled. "Stop that."
A quick shake of her head loosed that one curl that never did what she wanted from her braid. It flopped against her forehead, tickling. She puffed air at it to try and make it move; it flopped again, but that was all. "Can't make me," Dylan said with a challenge in her eyes.
An answering challenge sparked in Nuada's golden gaze. "I could," he replied.
Dylan recognized his best attempt at a regal voice. Sensing imminent victory, she shook her head and grinned. "Not in front of your father, you can't. At least, not and still consider yourself a gentleman." The amber of his eyes shifted to ivory kissed with just a touch of gold. Dylan saw his fingers twitch. Perfect. He wasn't angry with Balor anymore. At least, he wasn’t focusing on that anger. Sobering a little, she set her chin on his shoulder. "I'm okay, Nuada. Your father didn't hurt me. We've been having breakfast and talking. That's all."
He raised an eyebrow. "About Nuala?"
She made a face. "Erm…no. We were gonna get to that." Eventually. She still wasn't sure how she could convince the king that Prince Bres was a bad match for the princess. She didn’t know if Balor wanted Nuala to marry the Fomorian because of politics or because she liked him or both. "About you, actually," Dylan added.
Concern flashed in his eyes. "Have I offended you, my lady? Ow." She'd thumped her forehead against his bicep. "And what was that for?"
"Oh, my goodness, shut up! Why do you always think I have a problem just because I'm talking about you? I like bragging about you, you know. You're perfect. I don't know why you don't see that. Why do you think I'm marrying you? Because I love you. You're the best Christmas present ever." She gave him a squeeze. "Relax. No, I was talking to your dad about last night." He stiffened in her arms. She sighed. "You might be surprised what he has to say."
In a voice carved from ice, Nuada replied, "I doubt that." Focusing on the king, he added coldly, "You made yourself quite clear last night, Your Majesty. As I am a man of honor, I must agree with my king's verdict. I see no further need for discussion. Now, if you will excuse me, my lady and I have somewhere to—"
Her hand on his arm silenced him. Dylan wondered if Balor had noticed that that was all it had taken. She hoped desperately that she wasn’t giving away too much about her relationship with her prince just from these small interactions. Ever since Nuada had talked to her about how she spoke to the king, she'd been considering all the different aspects and angles of politics and how she had to carry herself. Dylan would've never silenced Nuada this way in public, but he needed to listen to his father.
The prince looked at her. Sunlit topaz locked with moonlit blue. She took his hand. In his mind, Dylan whispered, You trust me with so much. Trust me with this. Listen to him. Talk to him. You need to talk to him. Please, mo airgeadach. Please talk to him.
He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. For you, a ghrá. Since you ask it of me. Turning to the king, he said aloud, "Majesty, my lady speaks for you. If you have something to say to me, I will hear it."
"I'm gonna step out and leave you two alone," Dylan said as the king opened his mouth. When Nuada shot her a startled look, she smiled. "I have a meeting with your sister. She wants to have a little Christmas tea party or something." Setting her hands on the Elven warrior's shoulders, she popped up on tiptoe long enough to brush a fleeting kiss across his lips. When she tried to slip away from him, Nuada caught her wrist. She raised an eyebrow.
"Mistletoe," the prince said with a smile.
Dylan frowned and looked up. The ceiling was bare. Dropping her gaze back to Nuada, she said, "I don't see anythi—"
Cupping her face gently in his hands, sliding his fingers into her hair, Nuada bent his head and kissed her full on the mouth. She made a small sound that only an idiot would've taken for protest and melted. Nuada's kisses were always, always magic. Dylan was fairly sure his Elven superpowers had something to do with it. Why else did she always feel like each touch of his lips against hers sent her careening into outer space? Getting a good handful of Nuada's velvet tunic, she pulled him close. She forgot about the king, about Nuala probably waiting for her, about the strange floral scent that clung to her prince's skin. She forgot everything and let herself drown in Nuada's kiss.
He murmured sweet things in Gaelic against her lips as he drew back a little to let her breathe, then pressed in again. Still gentle. Still hungry. His fingers flexed against her skin; he was lost, too, trying to remember to keep his hands (mostly) to himself. Dylan could feel Nuada's pulse throbbing against her cheeks from his palms. A low groan rumbled in Nuada's throat. Dylan sighed.
"Ahem," someone said dryly, breaking the spell. Dylan jumped and squeaked. Nuada tensed, then drew back from her, looking almost sheepish. Both of them looked at the king. Balor's brows had risen nearly to his hairline. "Say goodbye now, my son."
A giggle eked out of Dylan's mouth. "I think he just did," she said with a smile torn between embarrassment and exhilaration. She cleared her throat. "Um…I'm gonna…I'm gonna go now. Somewhere."
Nuada caught her eye and she froze, unable to look away. Her heart sped up. Nuada smiled and her knees turned to jelly.
Balor cleared his throat again. "Ahem. Goodbye, Lady Dylan."
Dylan shook herself. "Right. Going. Right. Bye."
Her prince caught her hand and raised it to his lips. Smug male satisfaction glinted in the depths of his eyes as he kissed each of Dylan's knuckles. "Until later, my beloved."
She swallowed. "Uh-huh…" Somehow she made it out of the room and into the corridor without turning into a puddle. Closing the breakfast parlor door behind her, she slumped against it and heaved a sigh. How did he always do that?
Uaithne cleared his throat. "Milady?"
"Hmmm?"
"Are you all right? You seem a bit…flushed."
Dylan touched a hand to her cheek. Yeah, her face was hot. Probably bright red, too. The king's look of wry amusement had been funny, but also humiliating. How did Francesca not get embarrassed anytime someone made some sort of comment about her nymphomanic behavior? And…and had Balor seemed impressed by Nuada's…enthusiasm?
What had they looked like? He'd kept his tongue in his mouth—thank goodness, or who knew what would've happened?—but it had been a close thing. She'd learned from Francesca that if a girl opened her mouth during a kiss, it was basically an invitation. But, strange as it might have looked on paper, every time Nuada kissed Dylan like that, it became harder and harder to remember to keep her mouth closed. Instinct kept trying to take over.
Of course, if instinct ever did take over, open-mouthed kissing would be the least of the mortal's problems…
"Milady?" Uaithne ventured. Dylan jumped.
"What? I wasn’t…" She managed to bite back the rest of the sentence trying to jump out of her mouth. I wasn't thinking about making out with Nuada! She was. Darn it. Luckily their wedding was less than two months away. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold out. "I'm fine. Um…I think the princess is expecting me?"
Her guards bowed. Sétanta, who lay on his back with Bat clambering clumsily over his stomach, made a dog-noise and rolled over, plopping the cat on the floor. The black cat crouched low, wiggled his butt in typical cat fashion, then leapt. He landed without claws on Sétanta's back.
"Made friends, huh?" Dylan asked, smiling.
Bat mewed. Sétanta wagged his tail. *We are partners to protect you, Mistress, because we love you. Bat says he will put up with me as long as I only lick him when he needs a bath.* The faerie hound pup gave her a doggy smile. *I have promised. Now we are friends." To Dylan's surprise, Bat licked Sétanta between the ears and mewed.
"Okay," Dylan said, relieved. That hadn’t taken very long. Huh. Not for the first time, she wondered if there was something different about Bat. He was pretty smart for a cat, and he didn't always act the way cats usually behaved…but Dylan put that aside for another time. "Let's go, then, shall we?"
As she and her retinue moved down the hall, Dylan cast one last look back over her shoulder. Give each other a chance, you two, she said silently. Please. You love each other so much. Just try…for each other. You need each other. Please try.
It was only as they were turning the corner that Dylan realized why the incongruous floral scent that had clung to Nuada had struck her so sharply. The moment understanding dawned, she felt sick, because she recognized that fragrance.
Lady Dierdre macAengus's perfume.
.
Nuada eyed his father warily as the king gestured him to a seat. Moving with all the fluid grace and alertness of a wolf stepping around a trap, Nuada took the proffered chair. He didn’t lean back. Didn't settle his arms contentedly on the arms of the chair. He remained coiled, ready to spring up like a wild thing. Nuada knew that Balor had noticed, too. Nuada was there, and he was willing to hear his father…but it wasn’t because he wanted to be, and it wasn’t because he actually cared about what the king would say. He knew what Balor would say. He was there because Dylan had asked him to be there. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t wish to hear his father harangue him yet again, on Christmas Day no less, about how the prince was responsible for his mother's death. He knew that. He didn't need Balor to remind him.
But the king didn't sit down. That in and of itself was unusual. Instead the old Elf went to the fireplace, gazing into the flames for a long moment in silence. Nuada noticed his father rubbing absently at his left shoulder, where the wooden arm attached to his body. The king had done that more and more often these last weeks. The prince remembered what Dylan had said about the king being ill. Sharp concern flooded him…but his father would not appreciate such sentiment.
"Is there anything I can do for Your Majesty?" Nuada asked at last when his father hadn't spoken for several minutes.
Balor's hand of flesh convulsed into a fist. When he turned away from the fire, toward his son, Nuada was surprised to see his father's eyes gleaming. Balor opened his mouth, closed it again. A strange sort of dread took hold of the Elven warrior.
"Father?" Nuada ventured. "What is it?"
"How could you ever think that I could blame you for your mother's death?" Balor whispered. Nuada jolted. He stared at the king, groping for words, unable to think of a single response. Balor shook his head. "I have failed you as your father if you could ever believe I would blame you for something like that. My son…forgive me."
Nuada's mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times before he managed to say, "What?" He ran a hand through his hair. This wasn’t what he'd expected. This was nothing like he'd expected. The room felt too close, too confining. The air seemed too thick, threatening to strangle him. He shook his head. Tried to speak. "I…you…but you…what?" He surged to his feet. Paced the length of the room. His legs ached to run, to retreat from his father's words…but that was the coward's way, and Nuada Silverlance was no coward, whatever Balor might think. He met his father's eyes.
"I do not understand," he said at last.
Balor swallowed. "Your lady came to me this morning. She said you believe I blame you for Cethlenn's death. She swore you sincerely believed this, and I believe she would know. Why would you think that? How could you? You were a child. A little boy."
The words came thick and choked when Nuada snapped, "I was a warrior. It was my duty to protect Máthair and Nuala. I knew that. You and every other warrior I knew had drilled it into my head often enough. I failed in that duty. Of course I am to blame. I am no coward, seeking to cast the blame on others. If I had not asked Máthair and Nuala to go with me, if I had gone alone to get those accursed flowers—"
"Then more than likely, I would have lost my only son, and perhaps my daughter, instead of my wife," the king broke in, stunning Nuada into silence. "And you know—or you should know—that though I loved your mother with everything I am, though I love her still, you and your sister always came first."
His son could only look at him, baffled. "I…"
Pain swept into Balor's aged amber eyes and he shook his head. "I had no idea you doubted me so much. I grieved for your mother, yes. I grieve still. You know how it is with our kind. I know you do, because I have seen you with your lady. I miss your mother every day…but do you think I could have ever borne it if you had been lost? If I had lost you and Nuala? It would have been the death of both of us, your mother and I." The king passed a hand over his face. Closed his eyes. "By the gods…I had no idea you thought…you weren't a warrior, Nuada. You were a child. You fought like a warrior, but they were adults, men grown, against a little boy. What did you think? That I would judge you so unfairly? Have I been such a terrible father that you would believe me capable of condemning you so unjustly?"
There was something thick and choking lodged in Nuada's throat. He swallowed it down, tried to speak. The words refused to come. He could only shake his head helplessly. Do you think I could have ever borne it if you had been lost? Yes. Yes, he'd thought that…until now. Thought his father wished him dead, wished Nuada had died while Cethlenn had lived. But it seemed…seemed not. And the Elven warrior did not know what to say.
"You would not speak to me," Nuada finally whispered. "I tried to talk to you. I tried to apologize. To beg your forgiveness." Then the child, the lost little boy inside him that he'd always tried to keep silenced, finally broke free. In a voice thick with emotion, Nuada cried, "I needed you! We both did! Nuala cried every night for months! And I…" He'd been so angry. So viciously, hideously angry…and so afraid. All the time afraid. There had been no one to go to, no one to ease that fear. "I needed you! Needed you to help me! To explain things to me!" Voice breaking, he whispered, "And you wouldn't. You could not even look at me." He swallowed. "I was sorry for so long," he added. "Sorry I'd failed you, failed Máthair, failed Nuala. Sorry that I was the one who survived that day instead of Mother; I knew you would have preferred—"
"Stop," Balor said sharply. Nuada's mouth snapped shut. His father took five strides to him, gripped his shoulders. Gave him a little shake. "No. No, my son. I was glad you and your sister had survived. I never wanted to trade your life for Cethlenn's. Never! You're my son. And your mother was dead." Balor sighed. "How could I face you, knowing I had failed to protect you and your sister? Protect Cethlenn? If I had gone with you…she would still be alive. I am to blame, Nuada. Not you. I could not bear to look in your eyes and see the condemnation. I should have been there for you, and I wasn't."
Nuada shook his head. "Last night…but last night you said…"
His father offered a wan, rueful smile. "I thought you blamed me all these centuries." Nuada's eyes widened. His father sighed. "Why shouldn't I? Ever since that day, you drifted away from me. I could not understand it. Could not understand where my laughing boy had gone. I did not know what to make of this taciturn youth with so much anger in his heart. And you would not confide in me anymore, as you had when you were a child."
Closing his eyes, Nuada nodded. "I was angry," he confessed. "About so much. I…the humans. Mother. You. Nuala started to turn from me, you would not speak to me except…except twice. And you condemned me both times."
Balor frowned. "When?"
"I went to you a few weeks after Máthair's death." After the first time his father had turned away from him without a word beneath the Royal Eildon tree when a young prince had gone to him with tears in his eyes. "I wanted to…to understand. I scarcely understood any of what had happened and no one would explain anything. Why the humans had attacked us, why we were not going to war, what they'd done…all I knew was that humans had killed my mother, nearly killed Nuala, and it seemed no one…that no one even cared. So I went to you. You'd always explained things to me before. I thought you would make everything clear."
And his father had made many things clear that day. Nuada remembered, even now, how his father had come out to see his son in the formal receiving room. The formal receiving room. Nuada had never felt so small as he had that day.
His governess and his nurse had both refused to help him "pester" the king, but when he'd said he would go with or without their permission, Wink had interceded. To this day, the prince didn’t know what the silver cave troll had said to the Elven women, but in the end, they'd stepped aside and allowed him to leave. They hadn’t helped him dress—he'd done that himself, donning white and black tunic, shirt, and trews to symbolize mourning. Nuala had helped him braid his hair in the formal warrior's style. Wink had said he looked every inch the crown prince.
He'd limped to his parents' suite with only Wink and one the royal hounds—his mother's hound, Liadan—as a companion. He'd approached the chamberlain, who'd relayed his request to Balor. His knees had trembled the entire time. Why hadn't his father been to see him and Nuala in the Healers' Wing? In the royal nursery? Why did the king not come when Nuada and Nuala both asked for him every day? It had taken everything he'd had to not grip one of Wink's shovel-like fingers in his small hand. And only the prince had been permitted in the king's receiving room. Wink and Liadan had been ordered to remain out in the corridor.
Nuada could still remember the feel of his small heart galloping in his thin, bruised chest. Remember the way the tall, hard, uncomfortable, grim-looking furniture had made him feel even smaller than his nine-century frame. Remember how his father's eyes—dead, cold as topaz, gray as an Elven corpse—had fixed on him sluggishly before the king had demanded to know what the crown prince wanted. Those had been his exact words. What is it you want, Crown Prince? His father had never spoken to him like that before.
So he had explained to the king what he wanted, small voice quavering a little. He'd wanted to know if the humans were going to attack the fae again. If the recent peace was over now. If they were going to war, or if the humans were going to do something about the attack on the queen; make a formal apology, perhaps, or pay some sort of tribute, as was traditional. The young prince had given his questions a lot of thought. He'd needed to know if his mother would receive the full measure of justice. If he'd lost not just his mother, but the peaceful days he'd grown accustomed to in the last century. If his people, for whom he was responsible—his parents had taught him centuries ago that princes, especially heirs, owed their people and their kingdoms their protection and love—would be forced to fight again. And he'd asked if his father would take him to see the queen's grave so he could put asphodels and roses on it, his mother's favorite flowers.
Balor's words had been short, sharp, and cold as a blade of ice. No, there would be no apology, no tribute paid. There would be no cessation of the current treaty. They were not going to war; only fools sought war. Justice had already been delivered swiftly. The Crown Prince needn't concern himself with such things. And no, he was not allowed to take those flowers to the queen's resting place. If the prince had nothing better to do than waste the king's time trying to play soldier or uprooting the queen's garden, he could go and apply himself to his studies and get out from underfoot.
"But Áthair," young Nuada had cried, the first time he'd called the king something other than Áta in private. "Máta deserves to be—"
And the king's temper had snapped. Rounding on his son, he'd thundered, "I know what your mother deserves! Better than an interfering child who should keep himself out of the way! You and your sister will stay in the nursery!" Then he'd roared for the chamberlain while tears had burned in Nuada's eyes. When the fear gortach had entered, Balor had snapped, "Take the prince back to his room! See he stays there; I cannot abide him now."
"But…but Áta!"
"Out!"
It had taken the entire trip back to the nursery for Nuada to swallow his tears and scrub his face dry on his sleeve. In his mind, Nuala had been poking and prodding, demanding to know what had happened. For the first time in his life, he'd shut her out completely. He'd refused to even let her feel the pain pressing and pressing on him until he'd thought he might crumble beneath it. And when he'd come back to the nursery, he'd refused to speak to anyone at all. Instead he'd kicked off his boots and climbed into bed, where he'd cried silently because he'd understood at last that his father knew the truth—that it was Nuada's fault his mother was dead.
The next time the king had spoken to him had been two weeks later, after Nuada had run away and been brought back by Wink. As before, the king had had no soft words for his son. Instead, he'd delivered a blistering lecture about honor, wasting everyone's time, being responsible, and not being a coward. That had confirmed everything Nuada had feared: that Balor believed he lacked courage or honor. Little wonder, the boy had thought, that his father wished he was dead instead of Cethlenn. Cethlenn had been brave, honorable. Everything Nuada wasn't.
In the present moment, Nuada explained all of this in careful, halting words to his father. When the recitation was over, Balor simply looked at him, stricken, amber eyes full of pain. Then he embraced Nuada.
"You are my son," Balor whispered thickly as Nuada stiffened, then relaxed. "I am so sorry, Nuada. I did not realize…it was not your fault. I…I could not face you. And it seemed too soon to let you wander around when I had come so close to losing you and Nuala as well. I wanted you to be safe. I did not want you out and about, but I could not bear to have you near when…when you looked…You still had bruises on your face when you came to see me that day. You arm was still in a sling. It hurt to look at you and see what they'd done to my boy. And then you ran away and I was…I was terrified that something would happen to you. That I would lose you after all."
Arms trembling, Nuada returned his father's embrace. "I thought…I thought you hated…because I let Máthair—"
"No," the king said. "Oh, my son. My poor boy. No. Forgive me for never telling you…for never explaining…forgive me. I am so sorry that you thought, even for a moment, that I could ever blame you for such a thing. You did your best. You fought like a warrior, you saved your sister. You did more than anyone could have ever expected of you. You made me proud that day, my son. I am sorry I never told you."
Pulling back, Balor gripped the back of his son's neck. The look in the king's eyes was one Nuada hadn’t seen in many centuries. Softly, Balor murmured, "If I never say it again, hear me now—I was proud of the way you fought that day. I was proud of your courage. I was proud to call you my son."
Feeling his eyes sting, Nuada nodded, looking away. When he was certain he could speak without his voice shaking, he replied, "Thank you, Áthair. I…thank you. I am sorry that you thought I blamed you. I never did."
Balor nodded. "And Nuada? I do love you. We may disagree on much, and you may disappoint or worry me at times, but never doubt that I love you, my son. I thank the gods every day for you and your sister. I love you both very much. You are the pride of my heart. Do you understand?" Swallowing hard, the Elven prince nodded. His father gripped his shoulder. "Come then. Sit with me and we will…discuss things." Leading Nuada back to the breakfast table, Balor added, "Tell me why Bres has suddenly become such a scoundrel."
Feeling more confident than he had in a long time, Nuada began, "Dylan and I have discussed him over the last few days and she has told me…"
.
At that moment, in another part of the castle, 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 the glossy black and white feathers that served A'ge'lv Na'ko'ma, a Native American thunderbird, for hair.
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, bacon and sausage, shelled 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.
She understood why Na'ko'ma didn't like Nuada on a purely intellectual level. Nuada had already explained it to her—the thunderbird loved Nuala. She was as loyal to the princess as Wink was to the prince (and Dylan had already figured out that although Wink didn't loathe Nuala with the same intensity the lady-in-waiting reserved for Prince Nuada, Wink really didn't like the princess). The Elven warrior was often a source of pain to Nuala. Therefore Na'ko'ma despised him
Dylan understood it. That didn't mean she didn’t want to scratch Na'ko'ma's eyes out almost every time the thunderbird opened her mouth.
"So, has Nuada taken you to his bed yet?" The fae woman in question 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," she replied, hopefully hiding discomfiture with dryness.
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 but said nothing. Dylan kept her face carefully neutral and didn’t say anything, either. 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," the lady-in-waiting replied in a placating tone. "He is a warrior. He's a very hard man, you must admit. You have said so yourself. And he despises humans. I simply do not 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. What did he do to win you?"
She blinked. "Win me?" That wouldn’t have been her first choice of words regarding how Nuada had managed to make her fall in love with him. He hadn't really done anything…but it was true that she'd been afraid of him at first. In fact, she remembered how she'd been so sure he would either rape and/or kill her the night they'd met.
Na'ko'ma nodded and said in a voice reserved for a mentally deficient child, "Yes—how did the legendary Silverlance, scourge of humanity, manage to win your heart? Especially since, by your own admission, he frightened you. What changed?"
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, I realized I could trust him to keep his word. He swore to protect me, and he proved it the very night we met. He risked his life to save mine. He almost died," she added softly. "It was a pretty close thing."
Both ladies-in-waiting glanced at the princess before focusing on Dylan. Na'ko'ma said, "A little more than a year ago, we learned the prince had been badly hurt. Was that—"
"When we first met, yes," Dylan said. "He was shot eight times, if I remember correctly. He was sick at the time, too. He…" She swallowed, remembering the first several days in the sanctuary, when she'd been so afraid Nuada might die. He'd been so weak for the first ten days or so, and being a macho idiot and pretending he was fine…though he hadn’t started training again until later. Good thing, too, Dylan thought to herself. If the prince had put that much strain on his still-healing body, he probably would have died. Aloud, Dylan concluded, "He was in pretty bad shape for awhile. He was surly about taking care of himself, too. The big baby."
Three pairs of eyes widened at Dylan's epithet. Nuada, collecting herself, said, "He was surly with you. Did that not frighten you? Weren't you the least bit intimidated by him? Nuada can be…commanding when he chooses. Imposing."
A fond smile tugged at Dylan's mouth. "Imposing. There's a word for it. Yeah, he made me twitchy at first when he would snarl at me or whatever, but I just dished it right back out. He wanted to be a jerk, but I was the healer, and I was in charge, prince or no prince. He had to learn that the hard way."
Polunochnaya leaned forward, obviously fascinated. "What did you do?"
"I threatened to beat him up."
Na'ko'ma's expression was clearly skeptical. "And he was afraid of that? The Silverlance?"
"I doubt it," Dylan replied cheerfully. "But it got his attention. And at least then he was busy growling at me while he was doing what I wanted. And it wasn't as if he ever threatened me or anything." Well, he had…but nothing overt or imminent. Just the typical why should I let you live sort of thing. A pulse of warmth in her chest had Dylan reconsidering. She took another sip of cider as she chose her words.
"There was a time near the very beginning when he asked me why he shouldn't kill me," Dylan said after a moment. The three other women all leaned forward, eyes widening further. Dylan thought they might've been holding their breath. She took a breath and continued. "And that scared me. I mean, I'm not an idiot. I knew that even in the shape Nuada was in, he could seriously hurt me if he wanted to.
"But the way he worded it…I don't know. I could tell he was just going through the motions. He didn't want to kill me or hurt me. He was just mad about the whole situation. I was hurt, which made him angry because he'd wanted to rescue me before I got hurt and he hadn't made it in time. He was hurt, which of course made him mad. He had to look after me while I recovered, and he needed my help—both of which ticked him off. And I think he was testing me, too, when he asked about that. See, what he said was, that technically I knew too much, and the right thing for him to do would be to execute me, to protect the world of the fae."
Nuala opened her mouth, outrage on her face, but the mortal held up a hand. "You have to remember," Dylan added, "he didn't know very much about me, except that a group of men had attacked and hurt me. I could have been a serial killer for all he knew. So he basically gave me this rehearsed little spiel about how he hated humans and they couldn't be trusted, so he really ought to kill me, but he owed me a debt, so he technically couldn't, and he wanted my advice on what he should do about the whole situation."
The princess asked in a hushed voice, "What did you tell him?"
Dylan smiled. "I basically told him he needed to listen to what his honor demanded." She shrugged. "And obviously I'm still alive, so it was the right answer. Which made him grumpy," she added. "That a human could give such a good answer. Basically no matter what I did, I made him mad. He wanted a reason to hate me, and I wasn't giving him one, and he was honorable enough to acknowledge and accept that…but it confused him, which made him grouchy."
"Then," Na'ko'ma said with an undercurrent of triumph in her voice, "he was unkind to you. Rude to you. Yet you care for him. Is that a human characteristic, to love what is bad for you?"
Was it rude to smirk? Maybe, but Dylan couldn't find it in herself to care much. "He actually wasn’t rude. Just taciturn. He's not exactly a poet with people he doesn't really know. And I was so skittish, the best thing for him to do was to not talk to me much. He was kind, though." Seeing their shock, she bit back an irritated sigh. "There were little things that made everything better. He let me have as much time in the bath as I wanted; I spent hours there every day. He let me sleep on the bed in the…in his lair. It was the only bed, too. He slept in a chair, the macho idiot. He was going to sleep on the floor but I put my foot down at that point. And I can't count the number of times I fell asleep somewhere else and he carried me to bed. Never complained about it, either. And I never woke up; he was always so gentle, even back then."
"Then why were you skittish of him?" Na'ko'ma asked with a hint of challenge in her voice.
Nuala looked as if she might reprimand the thunderbird, but Dylan caught her eye. Let the other woman talk for now. Dylan's plan was to shoot down whatever snide comments and objections Na'ko'ma might have before shutting the lady-in-waiting down completely. If she didn't address the "issues" that were in Na'ko'ma's mind—and Nuala's—before squashing the woman like a bug, there would be no change in attitude.
The mortal wanted that attitude shift. But in order to answer this particular question she would have to remember…
"Because…" Dylan hesitated, then reminded herself that everyone in the Bethmooran court who'd been at Nuada's so-called trial back in October—and probably everyone who hadn't been, because nobles loved gossip—knew most of the details of her attack last year. And she wanted Nuala to understand (and for Na'ko'ma to stop being, as her patients often said, "a hater"). "Because I'd been raped," Dylan said softly, never taking her gaze from Na'ko'ma's. "And Nuada was a man. Edginess in masculine company is a common reaction among rape victims. Nuada accepted my fear and worked around it."
Was that shame in Na'ko'ma's dark eyes? The thunderbird bowed her head, nodded. "That was kind of him," she said. Tucking a few ruffled feathers behind her ear the way another woman might tuck back a lock of hair, she asked, "Was that what made you stop fearing him?"
After a moment to consider, Dylan nodded. "Among other things. There was just…a lot that told me I could trust him. 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 of course I was a bit…fragile at the time. So was he. We were both still beat to crud. He was in horrible shape still." 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 tried so hard to be nice afterward, to calm me down. He was all stiff and standoffish later, after I'd calmed down—his typical taciturn self—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, dark eyes intent. Dylan realized all three women were still 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 after we first met. 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…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, but most of the damage had come from an infection she hadn’t even known about because he'd refused to let her treat it up until that point. "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?
It was so strange…Dylan felt that Polunochnaya was dangerous, yes. That was prevalent, that she was dangerous to both the mortal and to the prince. But she could tell that the woman loved Nuada very much, and legitimately liked Dylan herself. And for some reason, Dylan got the strangest feeling that the Elf of Zwezda desperately needed help.
"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, and realized the Elven lady-in-waiting was taking a subtle jab at them. 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. Bat was curled up in a sleeping ball against the lounging dog's belly. "And he gave me the most wonderful birthday celebration."
Nuala's golden eyes widened. "Your birthday? He didn't tell me!" Sisterly outrage vibrated through the words. "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." She sounded as if the words simply couldn’t possibly fit together. "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.
Still smiling at the mortal, the princess said, "Now, Dylan. Tomorrow is your elevation to peerage. Are you excited?"
"Excited about the dog-and-pony show and all that brouhaha? Not really. Excited to be one step closer to marrying Nuada?" Dylan grinned. "Yes." She couldn't help it—she sighed. "I can't wait for February."
Nuala matched Dylan's grin. "He is also excited." She laid a hand against her heart. "I can feel him. He is happier since knowing you than I have felt from him in many centuries. I thank you for that, Dylan. Now Themba has finished your gown for tomorrow, of course. And you have your jewels selected? Who will see to your hair and makeup? Surely not your young handmaiden."
"My sister," Dylan replied. "She did my hair and stuff for the Midwinter Ball."
Golden eyes widened. "Did she? Your sister?"
Even Na'ko'ma looked impressed. "I had wondered. You looked quite fine that night."
"Do you think she might do ours for us?" Polunochnaya interjected. "'Ko and I will, of course, see to the princess, but we normally do our own makeup and I think that perhaps we might look better if someone else saw to us for something so important. The way she did your eyes was marvelous."
"Mmm," Na'ko'ma said, taking a sip of cider. "I agree. It was beautiful. Almost fae. Would you speak to your sister about perhaps assisting us? There should be time; the ceremony isn't until sunset tomorrow."
Dylan nodded. "Sure."
Nuala said, "Well, that's settled, then. Now, once the king grants you your title, it is customary for you to ask him for a boon. Do you know what you're going to ask for?"
Thinking of young Guardsman Loén, unfairly imprisoned and practically left to rot strictly because of his assigned partnership with the secretly treacherous Siothrún, Dylan nodded again. "Yes. Nuada and I discussed that already."
"Good. Let me think…did my brother tell you there is a surprise for you after the ceremony?"
Dylan arched a brow. "A surprise? No. What is it?"
"That would be telling," Nuala replied with a smug smile. Dylan groaned.
"Oh, you two are evil," she mumbled. "You and him. Sneaky, sneaky Elven royalty."
Nuala and Polunochnaya laughed. Even Na'ko'ma smiled a little.
.
Around midday, Dylan found her prince in his study, seemingly examining a glass of amber liquid by bright candle- and lamplight. When she poked her head in, it took him a moment to realize she was there. When he noticed her at last, he smiled—a warm, loving smile that thrilled her right down to her toes. The conversation with the king had gone well, then. Good. A weight she hadn’t even realized she carried fell away from Dylan's shoulders as she stepped into the study. Nuada set his glass down and got to his feet.
"Thank you, mo crídh," he murmured when Dylan came over to him. Cupping her cheek, he brushed his thumb over her lip in a slow caress. "Thank you so much. You have helped to begin healing some very old, very painful wounds. You have given me back my father yet again. Thank you, Dylan."
She smiled and cuddled against him. "I'm glad you guys had a good talk," she said, laying her cheek against his chest. "Is everything okay between you two now? Or at least better?"
He pressed his lips to her temple. "Much better. He does not blame me." There was an undercurrent of wonder in his voice. "I never thought…we have been at cross-purposes, he and I, it seems. But I think that is over now. You have helped it to be so. We talked a great deal about many things. We do not see eye to eye on all things, but he has said he will consider my words regarding Bres. He wishes to speak to you on the matter, as well."
Dylan nodded. "Good. That's good that he's willing to listen. I'll speak to him about Bres, too. But I need to talk to you about something really quick." This had been lurking in the back of Dylan's mind since the prince had found her in the king's breakfast room. She couldn't ignore it any longer.
What would her prince say?
Nuada clearly sensed Dylan's sudden seriousness, because he looked down at her, the smile slipping from his face. "What is it?"
Swallowing hard, she whispered, "You smell different."
He frowned. "What?"
With trembling hands, she touched her fingertips to his throat. "I can smell perfume on your skin." His eyes widened. She looked up at him, gaze uncertain, before whispering, "Dierdre's perfume."
Nuada jolted. "What? Dylan, no. I swear to you, I have been faithful. I have not spoken to her at all today, have not even seen her. I promise you, Dylan. I made a mistake once, and I have regretted it since. I will not make it again. I promise you. Mo duinne, please believe me."
Studying his face, she saw that he spoke the truth. He wouldn’t lie to her outright. There was simply no way he would. When he'd kissed Dierdre nearly a week ago, he'd confessed to it the very next day. He hadn’t tried to hide any part of the truth, even though Dylan had been furious and heartbroken, and even though her reaction had pained him. It just wasn’t in his character to lie to her outright.
But—and it was a very large but that kept trying to trip her up—he'd lied to her before. About the Golden Army. Maybe not outright, but that was a huge lie of omission. And a lie of omission was still a lie. If he could lie to her about that…
No. No, Nuada wouldn't lie to her about something like this. He hadn't lied before. He wouldn’t lie now.
So where had the perfume come from?
She suddenly felt very, very cold. Stepping back from Nuada, she hugged herself, moving toward the fire as she tried to get warm. Polunochnaya had said that Dierdre was looking for Nuada…and that she'd sent the Fomorian noblewoman to the prince's suite. Nuada's guards hadn’t said anything about her being there…but Dylan hadn't asked them, and even if she had, they probably wouldn't tell her if they were honestly loyal to the prince. If they weren't loyal, they might try to trick her into thinking Dierdre and Nuada had been together just to screw with the Elven warrior.
Twice in the last six days, Nuada had taken some very hard shots at the trust she had for him—once with Dierdre, and then again when he'd confessed to his plan about the Golden Army. She'd promised she would let him earn that lost trust back. Would he really risk losing her faith even further by trysting with Dierdre? On Christmas Day?
Was she really going to suspect him of something so awful? Really? He loved her; she didn't doubt that. But men who loved their wives still cheated on them. What if he was seeing Dierdre behind Dylan's back?
Gentle hands fell lightly on her shoulders. Nuada drew her back against his chest and leaned around to kiss her cheek. "I love you, Dylan," he whispered. She hugged herself tighter. Nuada's arms came around to hold her, too. "Please believe that. You must never, ever doubt that I love you."
"I don't," she whispered back. "I know you love me. I love you, too."
"Please trust me," Nuada said. He pressed his cheek against hers, and together they watched the flames dancing in the fireplace. "Please believe me. I have been faithful to you. I have kept my promise. Dierdre is nothing to me. You are everything."
After a long minute, she nodded. "I believe you."
And she did. She had to. Nuada wouldn't lie about something like this. But she hoped she wasn't being one of those women people saw in soap operas all the time, the wives with the cheating spouses who willfully blinded themselves to what their husbands were doing.
"Mo ghrá," Nuada added softly after a moment. "Did you want to see Niamh today?"
Dylan thought of the halfling child she had brought to Nuada nearly half a year ago after Eamonn had killed the little girl's parents. She'd been to see Niamh several times over the last month or so, little five-minute visits to see how she was getting on, whether she was recovering from the strange illnesses that had nearly killed her. Dylan had even brought a few toys from one of her trips to the Floating Night Market in Manhattan for the baby as Christmas gifts. They weren't wrapped, but sat in bright, festive bags under the Christmas tree.
Seeing Niamh would be nice, the mortal decided. Seeing the baby enjoying the new toys would be fun to watch. Children that young never reacted to new toys the way adults expected. Sort of like cats. For all Dylan knew, Niamh would be more interested in the brightly-colored bags than the stuffed toys.
The mortal smiled. "Sure. I'd like that."
She started to step away, but Nuada didn't release her. Instead he turned her toward him. Gazing into her eyes, he said, "For as long as I may, I am with you. Until the stars themselves fall to earth and the world turns to dust. For as long as you will have me, I am yours."
With stinging eyes, Dylan nodded. "And I'm yours." He'd made that vow once before, and so had she. Did she really need anything? If she couldn’t trust in that promise, she couldn’t really trust in anything. "You always know what to say. I love that about you."
Nuada smiled. "Is that all you love about me?"
She grinned, surprised she could. "Are you fishing for compliments?"
The prince gave an offhand little shrug. "Perhaps. Stroke my ego, darling."
"Yeah, 'cause that doesn't sound dirty at all," she said, sliding her arms around his neck. He was telling her the truth. He was. She would trust him. "And like your ego needs any help from me."
One star-blond brow winged upward. "Nevertheless, my love…" Mischief glinted in his gold-kissed ivory eyes as he leaned in and touched his lips ever so lightly to the spot just underneath Dylan's ear. She gasped softly. Sighed. Nuada whispered, breath warm against her skin, "I love that you do that."
"What?" She managed to ask.
"That you melt into my arms when I kiss you here. Or here," he added, brushing his lips against the edge of her jaw. "No one else has ever fired my blood as you do, Dylan. No else has ever strained my control to the breaking point. No one else haunts my dreams this way, keeping me awake long into the night, my very soul burning within me. No one. Only you. Only my lady, my love." He trailed kisses along her jaw to the corner of her mouth. She tried to remember how to breathe. "There is only you."
Somehow Dylan managed to swallow with a suddenly dry mouth and mumble, "Good. That wouldn't be fair to the rest of the female population if you turned all that charm on them, too. How do you do that? This should sound totally cheesy, but…"
"But I am wholly sincere," he replied. Then he grinned. "And I am an Elf. Of course you find me irresistible."
"Be quiet and kiss me before you get in trouble for being so smug."
He heaved a melodramatic sigh. "Well...if you insist."
