Author's Note: here I am actually updating on time! It's a miracle! Three cheers for my beta, Lorien13, who rocks my writer-kid socks hardcore! Thanks to her, I got this chapter out on time. And I think I said this already, but even if I didn't, the village of Broch Toruch (and the province of Broch Toruch), informally known as Lallybroch, is from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. But I liked the way it sounded, so I put it here.
Anyway, hope you guys enjoy the chapter! FYI on the audio books—I am terrible at guy voices. So I found someone to do the voice work for the male characters, but he's a busy guy, so today, the day I'm posting this chapter, is the first chance I've had to record him. So hopefully one or two chaps will be up by the end of the month on Youtube!
Loves to you all! See you at the end. And let me know what you think!
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Chapter One-Hundred-Seven
Lallybroch
that is
A Short Tale of the Whispers of Old and Twisted Suspicion, a Father-Son Chat, Riding the Unicorns, Girl Talk, Brother to Brother, a Madman's Promise, a Decapitated Child, Dylan's Kind Deed, and Words Fit for a Princess
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Exhausted and disheartened from the hasty funeral, the waggoners and other fae were relieved when Nuada bade them make an overnight camp in the woods on the other side of the Forest Road. Though still spring in that part of the forest, the nights were a bit chilly, so everyone wrapped up in woolen blankets when they laid down to sleep inside the wagons. Fionnlagh, Dylan's guard, offered to take the first watch. Eimh, still miserable and shivering after the burning of the unicorn corpses, hunched beside her, ears pricked and tail tucked against her body.
Supper was a somber affair, everyone eating in thick, almost choking silence while the smoky reek of death and burning slowly blew away on the icy wind. Nuada stood apart, eating on his feet, eyes fixed on the right-hand side of the Forest Road where the slaughter had taken place, his own fire burning low. Even Dylan did not approach him.
Petra huddled near one of the crackling fires, fingers curved around a mug of hot tea and…something. Dylan didn't know what it was. Caravan Master Iubdan had taken one look at the pale, glassy-eyed mortal and poured something out of a flask into a mug of tea and thrust it into Petra's hands, ordering in gruff Gaelic to sit down while one of his men got a fire going. Petra had stared at the mug for a long moment as if she had no idea what it was before her little sister led her to a fire-pit, sat her down, and coaxed her to drink.
Unicorns. All her life, she'd heard stories about unicorns. The three young ones—Duskshine, Fluttershy, and Shimmer—were glorious, beyond anything she could've ever imagined. A fully grown unicorn, in all its majesty…she couldn't even begin to picture it. How could anyone have hurt something so precious?
Francesca and Victoria sat with Petra, huddled together against the cold and the shadows of the day. Pauline hugged Petra, and Mary rubbed her back. Sétanta sat near the fire, guarding his mistress's family as she and Master had ordered. Eventually they would sleep…but not yet. None of them could even think of sleeping yet. After everything they'd seen, and the stench of burning on the air, ash drifting with a light dusting of snow…they couldn't sleep yet.
Dylan walked the perimeter of the camp, one hand ever on her dirk. She wanted to be with the children, but 'Sa'ti and A'du remained parked right beside the unicorns, and no adults—especially humans, even ones who followed the Star Kindler—were welcome. If she couldn't be with the kids, she wanted to be with Nuada, but he'd made it clear that although she'd comforted him in the woods, he needed to be alone now. She would respect that.
Unfortunately, it left her at odds as to what to do with herself. So she prowled, trying to listen to the forest the way the Elves could, to hear anything out of the ordinary. She didn't sense anything, but it was a way to pass the time. Tiredness deadened her legs and forced her into trudging rather than walking as the night grew dark and deep, but she kept at it, unable to settle.
Something—a sliver of vague, cloudy suspicion—niggled at the back of her mind. She poked at the whisper of thought until it gelled into a quiet murmur. She knew, thanks to the Spirit, that the people responsible for the massacre were humans. Maybe a few common fae scattered amongst the ranks of the bandits, but for all intents and purposes, humans. No human—and no common fae—possessed the ability to slaughter an entire glory of unicorns. It required great magic, Nuada had said. Dark magic. Terrible magic even madmen like Prince Shaohao would've likely balked at attempting.
So the bandits had had help. The question was, from who? And why? What fae would do this? Nuada hadn't been able to think of any, and neither had she. But one thing had stuck out in her mind, again and again and again, no matter how often she attempted to dismiss it.
Ledi Polunochnaya iz Lysaya Gora. Specifically, Polunochnaya's face when she'd embraced Nuada as if she'd never see him again just before he'd mounted his horse and led the supply caravan out of the palace courtyard. Dylan couldn't force that moment out of her mind.
Am I really that jealous of Naya? She wondered, shaking her head as she shivered with cold. Out of everyone who gives me the creepies, why am I focused on her? I should be worrying about Bres or Dierdre.
Except she knew Bres would never do something like this. It was one of the few things he wouldn't do. He loved his people too much, loved the fae and Faerie Realm too much. She knew that because of their conversation just before the supply caravan had set out, and because the Spirit's warmth reinforced her judgment. And Dierdre didn't have the resources with backing from Bres. Whoever had done this had to have a lot of power, not just in general, but in Bethmoora itself.
Someone at court. Whoever was working with the bandits. They'd learned from Ian Malcolm—one of the human assassins sent after her during the Midwinter Ball who'd later been captured by the Bucher Guards and interrogated by John and Dylan herself—that someone in the Golden Court was working with the bandits raiding the northern villages Nuada was directly responsible for. A nobleman, though that didn't narrow it down a great deal. Now this recent atrocity told her that whoever the nobleman was, he held high rank and a great deal of power.
And Naya had something to do with the unicorns.
The moment the thought popped into her head, a strange chill flooded her chest. No, the Zwezdan Elf had nothing to do with the unicorns. It wasn't something she could ever conceive of doing. But she was connected somehow. Did she know who'd done it? No. Instinct and the Spirit told Dylan that if Naya had known of the impending massacre, she would've told Nuada immediately. No, it was something else, some other connection. Dylan just couldn't figure out what.
Frachetty, feeling utterly useless, Dylan headed back to the carriage where maybe she could get some sleep when a shadow darting through the camp gave her pause. She recognized the wild, tufty mane and slight frame of her pageboy headed for the prince. Should she stop him? Nuada did not want to be bothered…but A'du had a keen sense for that sort of thing. He'd never bothered Nuada when he absolutely shouldn't have. If the cub wanted to speak to the Elf, it was either because he thought the prince needed him…or because he needed the prince.
Dylan ambled toward the place where Nuada stood brooding. The prince glanced in her direction but said nothing, only turned toward A'du when Dylan nodded in the child's direction. Dylan parked herself near enough to hear in case a more experienced hand was needed, but figured she'd let Nuada try to handle whatever it was first.
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A'du stood shivering on the other side of the low fire, gazing at the prince. Nuada raised an eyebrow. It took all the energy he could muster to do even that much. After watching the funeral pyre burn to smoldering ash, after nearly losing his way in the darkness brewing inside him—only Dylan's soft words had helped him find himself again—the Elven prince was exhausted. Yet he couldn't sleep. He doubted too many people would find sleep tonight.
"Your Highness…can I ask you a question?"
Nuada nodded wearily. The child looked moments away from crying. Thank the stars Dylan was only a dozen or so paces away. If the boy grew distraught, his lady could handle it far better than he.
"Whoever…whoever killed…killed the unicorns," A'du ventured. Nuada stiffened. What was the boy going to ask? "Whoever killed them…why did they do it?"
Sorrow whispered through Nuada's heart, but it was a soft, clean sorrow, not the shadowed pain he'd felt until now. Such an innocent question. Like Dylan's embrace earlier, it was such a little thing, but it reminded him that there was still some good in the world. A'du'la'di was part of that goodness.
The prince held out his hand to the boy. "Come here, A'du'la'di." When the child stood at his side, Nuada set his hand on his shoulder. "You've learned a hard lesson today, A'du'la'di," he said. "You have learned that sometimes in this world, dark and terrible things can happen without reason, without warning. Sometimes things happen because…" What had Wink told him when his mother had died? Words he'd wished his father would have said long ago… "Because just as there is good in this world, good like you and Lady Dylan and the unicorns, there is also evil. And sometimes evil finds those who are good and hurts them, and there is nothing that anyone in this world can do to stop it."
A'du said nothing for a long, long moment. He watched the fire smolder nearby, and Nuada wondered if the boy was as conscious of the prince's hand on his shoulder as Nuada had once been when he was a boy, and it had been his father's hand and Nuada's own shoulder.
"Is that what happened to A'ge'lv Dylan?" A'du'la'di asked at last. Tension whipped through Nuada's body and his grip tightened fractionally on the child's shoulder. "To her face? Evil got her?"
After a moment of silence, Nuada murmured, "Yes."
"How come you didn't save her? Wasn't she with you?"
Nuada shook his head. "I hadn't met her yet. It was the night I met her. I went to stop a pack of men from hurting her, but…" He swallowed hard. "I didn't make it in time. She was…already badly hurt when I reached her."
"But you saved her, right? Before they could kill her."
"Yes. I fought for her until I could fight no more, until she was safe. That is all we can do against evil, A'du'la'di—fight it until we have no more strength left. Sometimes it does no good, but most of the time…most of the time it helps."
A'du shuffled his feet in the thin brush of snow. "Shimmer and Fluttershy's mama and daddy got killed. So did Duskshine's." He hesitated, then added, "Like my mama and daddy."
The prince sighed. "I know. I am very sorry for that."
"Do you think…do you think they'll get a new mama and daddy? Like me and 'Sa'ti and Tsu's'di?"
Frowning, the prince asked, "A new mother and father? What do you mean, A'du?"
The little boy looked up at him with trusting eyes and said, "Like you and A'ge'lv Dylan. You guys said we're a family, right? Maybe they'll get a nice new family too. They'll still be sad," he added. "You always get sad sometimes when you lose a mama or a daddy, right? You get sad too sometimes. I can tell from your smells."
Nuada drew his hand from the boy's shoulder and turned away from that innocent gaze. In a cold voice he said, "Do not speak of my mother."
Expecting an argument, he was surprised when the lad only said softly, "M'sorry." A few seconds of quiet. Then, "I didn't mean to make you sad." More silence from the child until he finally asked, "Are you sad because you…because you miss your mama?"
Even though he'd just told the boy not to speak of the late queen, for some reason no chastisement came to his lips. He looked down at the child beside him, who eyed the prince warily, and Nuada sighed. At last, pulled by some instinct he didn't recognize or understand, he confessed something he'd never told anyone—not even Dylan. But this seemed a night for confidences.
"All the time."
Nuada laid his hand on the boy's shoulder again when A'du said, "I miss my mama too."
Somehow the prince knew what the child meant; he didn't simply miss his mother and father, he missed the days of his early childhood when things had been simple, when evil was a far-off thing, when bad things did not happen to good people as far as he knew. Nuada missed those days as well, though with the veil of childhood taken from him, he knew that evil had been in the world all his life, he had only been blind to it, blind as a child is blind. For him, that blindness was centuries past, and A'du'la'di…A'du'la'di's childhood innocence was gone as well.
But, Nuada knew with some relief, A'du's goodness had not been damaged.
From a few paces away, Dylan caught his eye. He nodded to her and she got to her feet. Nuada patted A'du'la'di's shoulder and said without thinking about it, "Your mother is coming." He'd meant to say your mistress, but somehow the word mother sat more easily on his tongue, and it didn't surprise the prince in the least when A'du turned immediately to Dylan and smiled. She drew near, and Nuada said, "Bedtime, my lad."
"Okay. G'night."
If the child noticed he'd forgotten Nuada's title, he didn't show it, and Nuada said nothing. Dylan caught A'du's hand in hers and glanced once at the prince as she led the boy away. Are you okay? Her look asked.
He nodded. Surprisingly, he felt better.
A new mama and daddy…like you and A'ge'lv Dylan. You guys said we're a family, right?
Family. What an interesting—and surprisingly comforting—idea.
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The next morning brought a shock Nuada would have never expected. Fluttershy and Duskshine insisted after breakfast, just when the entire caravan was about to go on the move, that A'du and 'Sa'ti travel with them. When the Caravan Master respectfully told the two young unicorns that the water-ponies the prince had brought for the cubs to ride might frighten little Shimmer, Duskshine fired back with a surprising reply.
*Then A'du can ride on me, and 'Sa'ti can ride on Fluttershy. They are small enough and we are big enough.*
Caravan Master Iubdan sputtered for several moments out of pure shock at such a sacrilegious idea before managing to wheeze, "Only a few very special people—legends among the Fair Folk—have ever ridden a unicorn, young lord."
Duskshine tossed his silver mane, which caught the glow of dawn and turned it to the cold light of the stars. *My glory-mates request it. A'du is my comrade and helps me protect my glory. 'Sa'ti makes Shimmer happy. We want them.*
Iubdan looked desperately to Nuada, who was as startled as anyone. Dylan took charge quickly.
"Of course, my lord. If that is what you and your glory-mates wish." As an aside to Nuada, she added, "We don't refuse unicorns, right? I mean, that's a no-no, right?"
"Yes," Nuada muttered. "But they are very young unicorns. If we run into another glory, I have no idea what they might think. Riding a unicorn…it simply isn't done, my love."
"I think Duskshine will take care of any unicorns who might take offense," Dylan replied with a smile as the faintly glowing colt helped 'Sa'ti mount up on Fluttershy's back. "I don't know what exactly you said to A'du last night, but I think he repeated it to Duskshine this morning." Nuada raised an eyebrow. "I think it helped both of them. Do you mind telling me what it was?"
Golden eyes drifted to where a silver cave troll helped a slim, smiling rhinemaiden into the saddle. "Something an old friend once told me, that's all." He offered her his hand. "A few hours after midday, we'll near Lallybroch. You'll enter on horseback beside me."
She nodded. "Got it. And the miniature glory?"
Nuada sighed. "They'll come with us. There's nothing else we can do with them." He glanced at Erik Ashkeson, the dökkálfar who'd come on the trip to guard Nuada. Erik shot the prince a pointed look with his garnet eyes. Since Erik's indomitable wife Brunhilde was one of the only people who could actually make the Elven prince cringe, Nuada wasn't certain his returning look would get him anywhere.
He didn't want to order Erik to guard the unicorns—Erik was one of the few fae Nuada considered a friend, no strings attached. The only bone of contention ever between them was Erik's attitude towards humans: live and let live; kill the ones who actually harmed the fae, but leave the rest alone, no matter the potential risk. It had irritated Nuada for so long because Erik's point of view had been one the prince had long wished he could adopt…but there was too much at stake for him to be so casual about the children of Adam.
After a pause, Erik nodded and spurred his mount—a shaggy wolf-horse hybrid with an impressive set of iron teeth—towards the trio of unicorns and their ewah entourage. Dylan smiled and stepped into her carriage. Nuada mounted Lòman, signaled the caravan master, and the supply train started off.
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At midday when they stopped to eat, the triplets asked if they could ride with their youngest sister. With Nuada's permission, Petra, Pauline, and Mary followed Dylan into the carriage. The children were still riding with the unicorns, so the women had the carriage to themselves. Dylan settled into her seat, the triplets on the opposite bench where the cubs would've normally sat. The mortal woman knew her sisters hadn't just asked to sit with her for no reason. They'd needed to speak with her about something. Sitting sideways and drawing her good knee up to her chest, she waited for one of her sisters to say something.
"What happened yesterday…" Petra trailed off, chewing her lip. Dylan just waited. It was a trick she'd picked up during her time as a psychiatrist; sometimes children simply needed time to let the words come, to let them spill out after so long in the darkness of secrecy. After a time, Petra continued, "What happened with those…those unicorns…that was a really bad thing, isn't it?"
Dylan let out a slow breath and nodded. "It's bad. Worse than just the killing, though that was really bad."
"'Bad' doesn't seem bad enough to describe what I saw back there," Petra murmured.
Mary ventured, "You said yesterday a glory was killed." Out of Dylan's family, only John and Petra had actually seen the carnage. "How many is a glory?"
"A lot," Dylan replied. "A herd. Dozens. I couldn't count them, it was just…" She swallowed. "Just too much in the way. Too much…badness. And then A'du needed me and Nuada needed me and I didn't look again. When I went back, they'd already burned the bodies." Remembering ash on the air, the taste of smoke, Dylan closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"So what's the other bad thing?" Petra asked. "Besides the killing?"
Curling her arms around her updrawn knee, she rested her chin on it, and let out another long breath. "It's not just the killing; it's how it happened. It shouldn't have. The unicorns' magic should've been enough to protect them…but it wasn't. Only strong magic—very, very strong—could've broken through their defenses. The humans bandits we're going to help fight, they're responsible for the deaths, but…but some powerful fae had a hand in this. And neither Nuada nor I know who it is."
"Do you think it'll be a problem later?" Pauline asked, and Dylan nodded, dropping her head back against the window frame and sighing. She closed her eyes. Clasped her hands atop her knee.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered. "It's all connected somehow, I can feel it. This, the assassins at Midwinter, the dipsa serpents in the Royal Forest, those shandymen attacking John, the shoggoths, Prince Shaohao…it's all connected. But I don't know how!" She sighed again. Ran a hand through her hair. "I wish Zhenjin was here—and don't tell Nuada I said that."
Her sisters blinked. Pauline asked, "Who's Zhenjin?"
"He's my friend," Dylan replied, trying to ignore the sharp needles sliding into her heart when she thought of the crown prince of Dilong. She had the strange thought that knowing more about Shaohao would help her understand what was happening, would help her make the right connections…
But she couldn't think about Zhenjin for more than a couple minutes at a time just then. She could still see the torment on his face when he'd whispered, I love you. It was funny in a way, because she'd never thought someone like Nuada could ever love her, yet he did, and Zhenjin was just like him. It was almost inconceivable that two such honorable fae could feel the way they did about her, and to have to rip out Zhenjin's heart like that…it was almost as bad as when she'd refused Nuada's first offer of marriage.
"Ex-boyfriend?" Pauline hazarded.
"No!" Dylan snapped, then realized how sharply she'd spoken when her sisters leaned back from her. She cleared her throat. "No. He's just a friend."
"Then why don't you want us to mention him to Prince Prissy-Pants?" Mary asked with a raised eyebrow. Then she crossed her eyes and waved her hands vaguely through the air. "Oh, oh! I am Madame Fortuna, mistress of psychic powers, and I see an illicit love affair in your past—" Mary went abruptly silent when Dylan swung her feet off the carriage seat and kicked her in the ankle.
"Do not joke like that," Dylan ordered coldly. "Enough people think Zhenjin and I were doing things we shouldn't, I don't need you guys stirring it back up. Serious things could pop up if you joke about that because what you're talking about is treason. Zhenjin's the heir to the Chinese fae throne, Nuada's best friend, and a good friend of mine, okay? He was one of the only people who was nice to me back at the palace. Nuada was engaged to his little sister but that fell through, and his oldest brother tried to kill me. There, all you need to know. Now I don't want to talk about him anymore."
After a long, long silence, Petra mumbled, "Geez. Okay. Sorry."
Dylan swiped at her hair. "Sorry for losing my temper. Zhenjin's…a touchy subject." Because she missed him. Because he'd hurt her with that brush of his lips against hers, gentle and apologetic because he'd known it was wrong of him to kiss her. Because he'd made her feel guilty for making him fall for her even though she wasn't sure what she had to be guilty about. Telling Nuada to show Zhenjin those memories? Being someone Zhenjin could love in the first place, despite the repugnance of her humanity?
Jerk should've stuck around to talk to me, she grumbled silently, settling back in her seat. Instead he leaves after freaking me out, right when I need him the most, to chase down a nutcase. She glanced out the window at the passing forest and wondered, Zhenjin…are you okay?
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The Stygian iron blade—where had Shaohao gotten such a thing? Stygian iron was only found in Mytikas, and Anterion would never allow a madman like Shaohao to get his hands on it—sliced across Zhenjin's belly, left to right, easily cutting through his Elven bronze armor for the dozenth time. Fire flared across his abdomen and he felt the hot slickness of his own blood soak his tunic. He staggered back, dashing the sweat from his eyes before it could freeze to his eyelashes. Steam blew from his mouth with every gasping breath.
"You look a bit like a horse, Zhen-Zhen," Shaohao murmured, flipping the black-bladed chokutō by the hilt and catching it again, "blowing like that. Getting tired?"
Zhenjin wondered where his comrades were—Princess Kamaria of Nyame, Prince Dastan of Shahbaz, Prince Günther Wolfjarl of Álfheim, Prince Taran of Annwn, and Zhenjin's own two brothers, Gaôzu and Hôu Junjï. His guards lay dead, butchered by Shaohao. The others had been separated, he thought, chasing the Red Dragon's soldiers and shadows. Thank the stars, Shaohao had no shoggoths with him.
The Stygian iron was enough.
The crown prince of Dilong stumbled when he took a step forward. His arms shook as he strained to lift his sword. Blood had frozen to the side of his face where Shaohao had punched him—relatively lightly—in the left temple. The world spun in sickening circles, smearing sideways before focusing again. He had a concussion. No doubt, if Dylan were here, she would know exactly how bad of one. His left leg trembled badly when he tried to put weight on it; a deep gash across his thigh smoldered as poison seeped into the wound, mingling with his dripping blood.
"I don't understand why you're chasing me, Zhen-Zhen," Shaohao muttered, actually pouting a little. "I didn't actually manage to uproot the pestilent little fungus. I even let the human go when you asked. Oh, wait." Shaohao frowned. "Is that what this is about? Me hurting your human pet? I didn't actually bite her, you know. And I told you I'd get you a cat!"
An image flashed across Zhenjin's mind, seared as if by dragon fire: Dylan, mouth working soundlessly as Shaohao strangled the life from her, her slender hands clawing in an attempt to loosen his merciless grip, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes…
Zhenjin bared his fangs, slick with dragon venom, and launched himself at Shaohao. His elder brother sighed and dodged out of the way, tripping the exhausted prince with one outstretched foot. Zhenjin went sprawling, pain erupting across his slashed and bleeding body as he hit the frozen earth. Fireworks exploded across his vision. He yelped when his brother's foot crashed into his side, fracturing two ribs. A second kick broke two more. Zhenjin shoved to hands and knees and Shaohao's fist drove into a spot to one side of his spine, sending blue fire ripping through the other prince's back from his liver. Zhenjin screamed and fell to the dirt.
"Stop getting up, Zhenjin!" Shaohao snapped. "If you keep fighting, I can't keep protecting you! My comrades want me to kill you as it is, because of your friendship with Silverlance! Stay down, and I won't have to hurt you."
Zhenjin spat blood from where he'd bitten his tongue and managed to scrunch onto his elbow. He spat again. Growled in Chinese, "Do not act as if you care whether I live or die, Shaohao. I'm in your way to becoming emperor. Don't deny it; you'll kill me eventually. You know you will."
Shaohao muttered something vicious under his breath in Gaelic—Gaelic? Zhenjin thought wearily. Why Gaelic? Something about banquets…or food, perhaps—and delivered a swift kick to Zhenjin's belly that would've had him spilling his breakfast if he'd eaten anything that morning. There hadn't been time. Bile burned his throat as he dry-heaved onto the frost-chilled ground.
"Who said I would?" Shaohao demanded, actually sounding hurt. "I would never hurt you like that! But my allies…they might. Lord Famine…that fish-pale wormling wants you dead for rutting with the human thing." He sighed. Pulling out a handkerchief, he wiped down the iron blade and sheathed it. Squatting next to his brother, Shaohao propped his forearms on his knees and added, "What possessed you to do that, anyway? I thought Silverlance was your friend, and you're bedding his woman? Did he offer her to you as a gift? Shady business, that. I've killed more than one of our brothers for even looking at one of my women."
Drifting in a sea of pain, the agonizing tide rushing through his back and ribs and threatening to drown him, Zhenjin managed to lash out with his sword at his brother's ankles. Shaohao snarled something uncomplimentary and broke Zhenjin's wrist with an audible snap!
"Stop being a brat," Shaohao snapped after Zhenjin's cry faded. Then Shaohao laid a gentle hand on Zhenjin's head, skimming his palm over the coat of frozen sweat glittering in the raven-dark hair. "Please, Zhenjin," Shaohao whispered. "Please. Stop fighting for Silverlance. My allies will leave Dilong alone—they'll leave our family alone—but only if you stop fighting for Silverlance and the human. They want both the Silverlance and the human dead. It's the only way, they say, to save Bethmoora."
Zhenjin shuddered at the gentle, fraternal touch. How could Shaohao do this? How could he be so kind, so brotherly one moment, and then so taken by madness the next? The crown prince still remembered when he'd rushed into Mïng Xiân's room that first time, prepared to turn aside Shaohao's blade to protect their sister, only to see Shaohao bending over the tiny, half-swaddled form of Mïng Xiân, his fangs already golden with her blood, and the infant princess screaming because Shaohao had bitten her.
Dilong royals were immune to the venom of other Dilong royals. Mad Shaohao might have been, but he'd known that. And the bite on Mïng Xiân's tiny arm had been too ragged and savage for a simple poisoning. Shaohao had intended…had actually meant to…
Even now, centuries later, Zhenjin still couldn't think the words. Not about his little orchid. Not about his brother.
Every time Zhenjin blinked while Shaohao stroked his hair, his eyelids grew heavier and heavier. His hands were so cold. He couldn't seem to lift his limbs anymore. Too much blood lost, too much damage. He was dying, then. Shaohao would kill him after all.
He tried to flail at his elder brother, but Shaohao only hit him, breaking his nose. Spots danced in front of his eyes and blood gushed into his mouth, making him choke. He felt his head being cradled by tender hands and his brother set Zhenjin's head in his lap. Zhenjin tried to breathe, but a tickle in the back of his throat made him cough. Warm wetness spattered his lips and chin, mingling with the blood from his nose. The blood chilled almost instantly to amber ice. Shaohao pulled off Zhenjin's helm and tossed it onto the dirt and frost, shushing him softly.
"You're all right, Zhen-Zhen. Shhh. You'll not die this time, I promise you. Just breathe while I heal you."
"My…my friends…" Zhenjin wheezed, thinking of Kamaria and the others. Thinking of his brothers. Shaohao had every reason to want Gaôzu dead, and as for Hôu Junjï…did he hold the fourth Dilong prince as blameless for his arrest and exile as he did the current heir to the throne? "Where…"
Shaohao looked off into the distance before meeting his brother's eyes again. "Still alive at the moment. Clever them. Even our treacherous brother and young Hôu Junjï. Now hush, little dragon. Hush and heal."
Magic twined inside the Dilong prince like ribbons of soft fire, and Zhenjin blinked, trying to stay awake. Shaohao always healed him if he was hurt during their battles. He would beat Zhenjin nearly to death, then heal the damage enough to keep the crown prince alive. Why? Why did he never finish his younger brother off?
Dylan's words from Midwinter's Eve echoed in his skull. Maybe he really cares for you…
"Why…are you…doing…this?" Zhenjin slurred. Shaohao sighed, but said nothing. After a few minutes, he started humming a little tune under his breath. The wounded prince recognized it as one Shaohao had always sung to him when he was a child, whenever he'd had nightmares. "'Sao…Tau…Hay,'" Zhenjin whispered.
"'Sao Tau Hay,'" Shaohao replied, cleaning the frozen blood from Zhenjin's face with magic. "Now promise me, Zhen-Zhen…promise me, my little dragon…that you will not fight for the Silverlance anymore. I do not want to find your corpse on any of the battlefields in this new war." Zhenjin shook his head, though the effort left him gasping in pain. Shaohao growled, a volcanic rumble that whispered of infernos, charred remains, and gray ash. "Why not? I know Silverlance is your friend, but you can make new friends. You're very charming. Why won't you stand down?"
Though there were a thousand other reasons, the memory of laughing eyes like the moon over Bethmoora shimmered into his mind, and his heart leapt, twisting in his chest. Barely conscious despite the healing magic flowing through him, he mumbled, "I love her."
Shaohao's hand smoothing over Zhenjin's hair went still.
Fear needled through Zhenjin's heart as he realized what precious secret he'd spilled into the world like lifeblood. "Don't…don't hurt her, Shaohao, I beg you."
"Mïng Xiân must die, Brother. Resign yourself to it. I do not wish to cause you pain, but she must die."
Zhenjin hacked up another mouthful of blood, warm quicksilver sweetness freezing on his lips. He shook his head slowly back and forth. "Not…not Mïng Xiân. Not…my little orchid. Moonlight…my moonlight…Please, Shaohao…"
He barely registered his brother's lips silently forming the word moonlight. Shaohao stared at his younger brother, eyebrows slowly rising toward his hairline. "Moonlight…You mean the human? Silverlance's betrothed? You little idiot, Zhen-Zhen. She is just a human. It is a passing fancy, nothing more. I'm sorry, I cannot help you; my allies wish her dead. We're all in agreement on it."
Lifting one trembling hand to his brother's wrist, Zhenjin clutched it as tightly as his numb fingers would allow. "She…is…everything…to me. Please. Please, Shaohao…don't. If you have…ever loved me, don't…"
"Everything?" Shaohao's voice was deathly soft.
In his mind's eye, Zhenjin saw his brother hunting Dylan down and driving a sword through her chest; holding her against him as a shield while he taunted Nuada before running his blade across her throat, unleashing a lethal fount of blood; skinning her alive and making boots out of her skin, as Shaohao had done to his fourth wife for birthing daughter after daughter instead of the sons he wanted; crimson mortal blood dripping from the Red Dragon's mouth as he bit into Dylan's vulnerable flesh…
His grip on his brother's sleeve somehow tightened. He wasn't sure if his brother's magic could heal him this time; the blood filling his lungs—a familiar sensation after the assassination attempt at the Midwinter Ball, like a cruel and too slow drowning—made him doubt even Shaohao's incredible skill. And if he were to die here, now, in his elder brother's arms, while Shaohao contemplated whether he ought to keep his word to his allies and murder the woman Zhenjin loved…If there was anything the crown prince of Dilong could do to stop it, he would do it. Fighting was pointless now; he was too badly hurt. That left only words.
"Please, Shaohao," Zhenjin rasped, coughing on the blood in his chest. "Please, don't hurt…her. Please, Brother." Something warm trickled along the wounded prince's temple and his eyes stung. "I would…do nearly…anything…"
"Shhh. Hush, now. Hush, di-di—little brother. Little dragon. Shhh." Shaohao brushed the tear away with his thumb before it could freeze and went back to running his hand over his brother's hair as Zhenjin began to drift away under the magic of the healing spells. Gently, in a crooning voice like a deathly lullaby, Shaohao whispered, "Lord Famine didn't tell me you loved her. I wonder if he knew. And I wonder what else the little fear gortach has been keeping from me. But for now, sleep, Zhen-Zhen. Sleep, and wake whole again when your comrades find you."
"Just…don't…harm her…"
"Shhh…For you, Zhenjin, I will do what I can."
Then there was only blackness, and the phantom of a hand smoothing over his hair.
.
As predicted, a few hours after midday the carriage rolled to a halt and Nuada tapped on the door. Dylan poked her head out to see Nuada with Lòman and the white arion mare, Maeve, standing behind him, Maeve wearing a beautiful silver-tooled saddle dyed in rich shades of blue. On the wintry breeze, Dylan caught the smell of a large number of bodies, smoke, cooking food, and animals. It wasn't the stink she'd expected from descriptions in fantasy and historical novels, but then, the fae had medieval towns with indoor plumbing and a higher standard for hygiene.
Francesca came over before Dylan got in the saddle and slid a few extra pins in her hair to hold down stray wisps that had gotten loose over the last couple days of traveling. A bit of magic from Nuada smoothed out any wrinkles in her clothes. Then, with Maeve and the prince's help, she mounted up on the arion mare's back.
Unlike a normal horse, Maeve didn't prance or shy at the extra weight. She held still until Dylan was settled, then nickered at Eimh and Sétanta, who came to flank the prince and his lady—Eimh on Nuada's right, Sétanta on Dylan's left, so that the white hound trotted beside the black horse, and the black hound trotted beside the white horse. Nuada leapt into the saddle, then whistled for the cubs, who reluctantly dismounted their unicorn companions to climb onto their water-ponies. Tsu's'di spurred his own horse to ride beside Dylan. Lorelei joined him on Dylan's side of the procession at Nuada's gesture. Wink and Erik took up Nuada's side.
When everyone was in place, the crown prince of Bethmoora looked at Dylan, who nodded that she was ready. Nuada offered her a small smile. She could see how tired he was, how much he was dreading seeing the damage done to his people and this village, but there was no mistaking the pride in his eyes when he looked at her.
*Sit up straight as you can, milady,* Maeve suggested, and Dylan squared her shoulders and straightened her spine. *Very good. You'll not jounce so much when I walk. There, now. We both look marvelous. Remember, the villagers are a lot like children.*
Dylan frowned at that, but she sensed amusement from Maeve, so she wondered if there was a joke there. "Like children?" Dylan echoed. "How do you mean?"
*They can smell fear.*
Dylan had to cover her mouth to hold in her laughter. How many times had she, Petra, and Pauline said the same thing about kids? Feeling a bit better, the mortal didn't even jump when Nuada gave the signal and Maeve fell into step beside Lòman. They maneuvered along the last stretch of the Forest Road in procession, with Dylan looking every inch the future princess and feeling as if any second she might vomit.
Gossamer brushed against the inside of her skull, a warm breath against her mind. It felt familiar as a long-kept dream, gentle as a lover's touch, sweet as a drop of honeysuckle on her tongue. Her eyes widened, but somehow she managed to keep her face mostly straight. It couldn't be…could it? She wasn't touching him…
Nuada?
Lòman whickered and shook his head quickly, as if something had startled him. Dylan glanced at Nuada and saw his grip tighten on the reins. He shot her a shocked glance from the corner of his eye and then he smiled, looking a little confused but extremely pleased. A smile stole across her own face at the realization of what she'd done. What they had done. Somehow, without the aid of their clasped hands, Nuada had touched her mind
And she had touched his mind back.
Suddenly, it seemed like she could do anything. Impress a village of downtrodden Fair Folk who had every reason to despise humans and hate her because of the iron in her blood? No problem. Defend a village using Home Alone devil-child tactics without breaking the stupid treaty? Piece of cake. She could do it all.
She held onto that confidence until she saw the village of Lallybroch, formally called Broch Toruch, head village of the province of Broch Toruch.
A double-ring of sturdy, white oaks had once formed the defensive wall around the village, but save for a few trees that still possessed strong trunks, most of the oaks were nothing now but charred husks with blighted branches. The snow around them was dirty with ash. As the procession came toward the line of trees, two of the oaks—the least decimated by fire—shuddered and shook off their cloak of ice and snow, yanked their roots out of the earth, and moved aside with a great groaning and rustling, leaving just enough space for the prince and his entourage to enter the village.
Ash and bits of charred leaf drifted up on an intangible wind in front of the entryway to Lallybroch, coalescing into two slender shapes. Nuada reined in Lòman, and the rest of the group came to a halt. The shapes of ash and leaf gave the vaguest idea of humanoid forms, one slender and curvy and the other thick and tall. They had blurred faces, as if they'd been molded out of wet clay and then doused with pitchers of water.
Your Highness, a sound like the hush and shush of wind through the trees held a creak to it that made Dylan think of towering oaks and redwoods, trees so old they made fae like Moundshroud look young. She was pretty sure it was the thick, tall one talking. She had the faintest inkling it might be male. You are long looked for and most welcome.
"We are long looked for," Nuada admitted, and though regret made his voice soft, it still carried. Behind the gray shapes—wood sprites? The spirits of the injured trees?—the villagers had noticed the procession. People were rushing back and forth, knocking on doors, dragging children and spouses from behind homes, and arranging themselves in the middle of the village square. "Yes," Nuada continued. "We are long looked for, but We are here now. Broch Toruch, and the village of Lallybroch, are never forgotten."
The ghillie dhu—the tree spirits, so old that even the bandits' fire could not kill them—moved aside. Nuada clucked to his horse, and Lòman walked with as much calm and stateliness as a lord into the village. Dylan, spine straight and praying she looked as regal as she hoped, rode at his side.
*Chin up, milady,* Maeve murmured. *Don't show them fear, but do not be afraid to show them you care for them.*
Even without the arion's advice, Dylan wouldn't have been able to hide her sorrow for these people. Children hid behind their parents, all thin limbs and big eyes and slightly swollen bellies. Many of the elderly leaned heavily on crudely hewn crutches, and Dylan saw more than a few youngsters and adults missing limbs or eyes, sporting terrible scars, or wearing slings and braces for injured limbs and bandages for fresh wounds. Many of the small cottages surrounding the village square were badly damaged, broken windows and doors ripped off their hinges, shutters splintered and thatch burned black in places. It took everything she had not to stare at the destruction. The last thing she wanted was to make any of these people feel ashamed for what they'd suffered.
A man in black wool trousers and a high-collared coat with silver buttons, wearing a silver chain around his neck, stood at the end of the aisle the villagers made for the procession, beside a roughly-hewn stone carved in the likeness of a tower with a window facing northward set on a set of three steep steps. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat and a belt crafted of wooden toggles like long, skinny dominoes the color of bleached bones. A shaggy black stallion, half-again as big as any Clydesdale, stamped the snow beside him. When Dylan glanced at the horse, its eyes flashed, infernal crimson in their depths. Steam billowed from its nostrils. It stamped one hoof and a puff of smoke wafted up from the frost-hardened earth.
*That is not the steward,* Lòman said. Dylan realized he was speaking only to her and Nuada. She noticed a small frown-line crease Nuada's forehead before smoothing away.
They were maybe half a dozen feet away when the shrill whinny of a panicked colt split the air. Dylan's first thought was that Duskshine was in trouble, and she started to turn to look back over her shoulder for him, when a little girl from beyond the lines of villagers squealed, "No!"
A small group of villagers—Elves, forest fae, beast-fae, every kind of fae Dylan could've imagined—gasped and cried out, backing away from something the size of a soccer ball and as white as alabaster, which squealed like a panicked child as it rolled across the earth. Something shining and black flashed around it in the dim afternoon sun. A colt the size of a Shetland pony, shaggy as a sheepdog and black as midnight without moon or stars, trotted after the rolling thing. Hard on the colt's heels came a headless child, arms outstretched, little fingers grasping desperately.
"I'm over here!" The round thing cried as it rolled to a stop two feet from Lòman's hooves. Dylan realized with a numb sort of shock that it was a child's head, complete with shining dark hair and the most beautiful, otherworldly green eyes she'd ever seen. There was no blood from the severed neck, and no protruding vertebrae. It was instead a smooth cover of flesh the same alabaster color as the rest of the head—and the same color as the decapitated little girl rushing after it. It took her several seconds that felt like brief eternities running through quicksand, but Dylan at last realized that the severed head, the headless child, and the colt were one being. It was a little dullahan. The dullahan's body stumbled as the head cried, "Here! I'm here!"
Without thinking, Dylan dismounted, crouched down despite the spasm through her knee, and picked up the child's head. The head gasped and the green eyes widened in momentary panic. Dylan murmured, "It's all right," in Gaelic and then reached out and took hold of one of the questing hands. Murmurs went up from the crowd. The head gasped again, but cried out in utter delight when Dylan set it in the outstretched hands. The child put her head back on and the colt whinnied, nudging her slender shoulder with his nose.
"Here you go," Dylan said.
The child smiled shyly. "Thank you, milady," she murmured, curtsying prettily. Her off-white dress, stitched from a linen funeral shroud, made a rustling sound like winter wind through dead, barren branches. The child's head started to tumble off again, but Dylan caught it and righted it on her neck again.
"Careful," she said. "Don't want to lose your head a second time."
The little girl giggled and was about to say something when the man in black called sternly, "Amaryllis." The child ducked her head and scrambled back to the rest of the villagers, followed by the black colt. Dylan noticed an Elven woman, Fomorian by her coloring, reach out and take the little girl into her arms. The man wearing the steward's chain nodded to her, and the Fomorian nodded back.
With a small sigh, Nuada dismounted. Dylan fell into step beside him as he covered the final stretch between them and the man in black wearing the silver chain. The man bowed, holding a hand to his hat, and Dylan realized he was a dullahan, too, trying to keep his head from falling off.
"Thank you for coming, Your Highness," he said in that slightly echoing voice Dylan associated with the eldritch fae from Moundshroud's kingdom. "You are most welcome. And thank you, milady, for your kindness to my daughter. She is still young, and it is difficult for her to…erm…keep her head."
Dylan smiled. "No trouble at all, Master…?"
"Master Gawain mac Gan Ceann, Your Highness, milady. I was Master mac Doyle's second."
Nuada's face grew drawn. "Was?"
The dullahan swallowed. "My apologies, Your Highness, but Master mac Doyle was killed three nights past during a raid by the human bandits. I was elected acting steward until we received word from you as to who should replace him. We sent a missive the morning after, but hadn't received word…"
The prince nodded, his eyes distant. "I see. Well, for now we've brought men to help with repairs to the village; food, blankets, and clothing for those in need; and medicine for the sick and injured. Have you any healers?"
"Only a few herbalists and midwives, Your Highness. No one with the magical gift of healing by touch. We've set up an impromptu healers' wing in the tavern for those too sick or too injured to be left to their own devices, but we can do little for them beyond see to their comfort."
Nuada took Dylan's hand and drew Gawain's full attention to her. "My lady is a mundane healer. She will organize the two healers we have brought, as well as what help you have here. Have someone escort her to the tavern." As Gawain beckoned to someone in the crowd, Nuada added to Dylan, "Will you need any help?"
Dylan nodded. "I want the girls, except Petra. She should stay with you. And…" Dylan bit her lip, but she felt somehow that this was the right decision. "I want Tsu's'di. I think he can help. We'll probably need a couple men to help with any heavy lifting, anyway."
Her prince offered her a nod as the Fomorian woman who'd taken charge of the dullahan child came over with Master Gawain. The older dullahan said, "Milady, this is Oonagh, my wife's sister. She will take you where you need to go."
"Milady," Oonagh murmured with a curtsy.
"Thank you," Dylan said, turning to follow after the brunette Elf. Her sisters were making their way toward her along with her retinue of guards and the two healers they'd brought from Findias. Tsu's'di prowled after them, silent as a stalking cat. Nuada had just turned to speak once more with Steward Gawain when a steely voice issued from the crowd.
"Them's humans. What're their kind doin' here?"
Dylan froze. The heckler had spoken in Gaelic so that even though her sisters and brother didn't understand, she absolutely did. A few feet away, her siblings had all gone still, conscious of the mounting tension in the air even if they didn't speak the language. John and Petra shot Dylan uneasy looks. Dylan looked to her prince. Nuada's eyes flashed molten bronze as he turned to the assembled villagers. In a voice with all the warmth of cold iron, he called, "They are here to offer their aid."
Restless murmurs rose from the crowd. The heckler didn't come forward or speak again, but from the other side of the crowd, another voice came, sharp with bitterness like wormwood, heavy with sorrow. "What help are humans? They do nothing but destroy! Rape and pillage, tear down what we've spilled our sweat and blood to build—"
More whispers from the assembled fae, this time of approval and agreement. Nuada's brows drew sharply together, but Dylan saw resignation in his eyes. He'd expected this. Worried about it. In truth, what had happened with Amaryllis ingen Gawain, the steward's daughter, had been the best thing that could happen—it had shown Dylan as a gentle lady who cared for those weaker than herself. But in a place as beaten down as Lallybroch, one act of kindness wasn't enough. These were his people, and he expected their loyalty, their faith in him…but at the same time, how could he not understand their doubt? The Crown had essentially abandoned them to this slow death by humanity's hands. How could they trust? He was not his father, and perhaps they ought to have known that…but how could he punish them for forgetting him, their prince, when the Crown had forgotten them?
"Why should we trust humans to help?" Another villager yelled, safe in the shadows of the crowd. Murmurs, louder this time, demanded an answer.
Nuada opened his mouth, and Dylan tried to reach out with her thoughts and touch his mind. He glanced at her, baffled, then closed his mouth. He inclined his head, and Dylan nodded to him. Then she glanced at the rough carving of a tower on steps. She looked to Gawain. "Will it offend anyone if I stand there so I can be seen?"
"No, milady," he murmured, obviously puzzled.
Dylan took a breath, pressed her hands against her thighs to keep them from shaking, and ascended the three steps, each more than a foot high. They were obviously more ornamental than functional, she thought, because who else built steps this freaking tall? Her bad leg ached by the time she was at the top. The stone tower was cold at her back. Broch Toruch, she thought. Gaelic for "north-facing tower." It felt like being at the top of a tower, now that she was so high up that Nuada's head was level with her knees and everyone could see her. She swallowed with a throat suddenly gone dry.
Heavenly Father, she prayed. Please let me do this right. Please let me say the right things to inspire these people, to gain their trust. I want to help them. Please help me to help them. Please.
"People of Broch Toruch, of Lallybroch, you ask why we are here," Dylan said in sharp, strong Gaelic after clearing her throat twice. "You ask what help we can be. You ask why you should trust humans when they have wronged you so terribly. I will tell you. Many of you probably know who I am, but just in case you don't, I am Lady Dylan Myers of Central Park, Fionntrá, Éas Ruaíd, Inber Scéne, Macha Chroí, and Luácha Hanráhan. I am Crown Prince Nuada's betrothed…and I am here because I have seen his love for this kingdom, for this province, for each village within its borders. Because I have seen him stand and fight for each one of you again and again. Because he has shown me this kingdom through his eyes and he has taught me to love this realm and its people as he does. Because I can do no other than come to the aid of a kingdom that someone I love…loves so dearly.
"Yes, I am human, as are these few who have come with us—my brother and sisters. They, like me, are here to help." Sweat chilled on the back of her neck. She remembered what Maeve had said: they can smell fear. She'd only been joking, but if the villagers caught sight of her nervousness, if they noticed her shaking knees, would they dismiss her as a silly child? Shoving that thought aside, she continued, "I know your legends about my race. I know of the hole burned into the human heart." At this, the crowd began to whisper amongst themselves. Dylan wondered if they'd ever heard a human say something like this before. "I have striven to fight that curse every day of my life, in my own heart as well as in the hearts of other humans. What better way than to help the victims of human cruelty?
"People of Lallybroch! If my imprisonment or death would help fae in need, I would offer myself up gladly, but as a healer, I can do more. My brother and sisters are warriors, and they can do more! Your prince heard of your suffering and brought you exactly what you needed. We humans have a saying: fight fire with fire. Prince Nuada has brought us here so that we—you of Lallybroch, we of Findias, my kin from the Mortal Realm—can fight humans with humans! We are here because of your prince. Because of Prince Nuada, who loves this realm with all his heart! For I know what he knows of this kingdom. I have seen what he sees in you. I love this realm—this kingdom—this people—as he does.
"I do not ask you to trust blindly in me or my kin. I ask you to trust in Prince Nuada, who has never forgotten you, never forsaken you. Who has sworn to stand by you to the last drop of blood in his veins, as I have! Who has fought for you for centuries, never giving up no matter how long the odds, no matter how hopeless the fight, no matter how deep the darkness! I ask you, people of Lallybroch, to trust in the prince who loves and defends you. He has brought me to you. I ask only for the chance to serve. To help. Will you prove yourselves to him and give me that chance?"
Her legs were seconds away from folding beneath her when she stepped off the platform onto the uppermost stair. Her hands trembled so hard she had to hide them within the folds of her cloak. She had no idea where any of that had come from, and she didn't know whether she'd sounded humble or accusatory or ready to faint from sheer nerves. Had she been melodramatic? Did she sound like a kid playacting at being a future princess?
The people of Lallybroch were silent as stone, absorbing both her words and her reaction to their silence. Her heart beat sharp and staccato all the way up in her throat as she descended the steps to stand beside Nuada. She longed for him to turn to her, to say something, to praise her words or her courage in getting up in front of all these people…but he merely scanned the crowd, and so she did, as well. Waiting. Straining for the first flicker of reaction. What would they say to her words?
A murmur began in the depths of the assembled villagers. A hiss and a slither of sound, like the whisper of Elven silver, like a lance being drawn from its sheath. Dylan tensed, the nerves knotting in her stomach like barbed wire as the sound swelled. Beyond the broken homes of the village, the trees shifted and rustled, though no wind moved through their branches. The sound took form, shaping into a word.
Silverlance…
One by one, the villagers knelt. Those who were too injured bowed as low as they could. Many pressed a fist to their hearts, the salute of any fae who'd served in some branch of the Bethmooran military. Nuada lifted his chin. Dylan followed suit, prompted by a soft brush of his thoughts against hers. Her knees slowly stopped shaking.
She'd won them over. She'd actually won them over. Maybe not for her sake alone, maybe only because of her words about the prince, but she'd won their trust in him if nothing else. She'd given her first speech as a noble, impromptu though it was, and it had worked great.
At last Nuada offered her a look positively glowing with pride. They needed no words between them. She could easily read his heart in his eyes. Then he turned back to the crowd.
"Well, then," the crown prince of Bethmoora said. "We have work to do."
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Author's Note: whew! We're finally in the villages! So what do you guys think so far? Let me know what you want to see, what you think is going to happen, what you wish would happen, blah-blah. Love you all! Happy fourth of July (whether you live in America or not, lol).