Author's Note: I normally update the first of the month but...I couldn't wait. So here it is, everyone! The latest Once chap! Yay! Let me know what you think, okay? Hugs, bye!

PS - I'm at work, so I have to make this quick cuz I've got 2 min. left on my lunch break.

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Chapter One-Hundred-Eight

Fighting for True Love

that is

A Short Tale of Arranging for a Hospital, Gawain's Story, the Bucket Chain, Sisters Put to Work, Cornish Croup, Cleansing, the Unicorns' Offer, A'du'la'di's Disgrace, the Mother of a Halfling Child, and Talk of Dancing

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There was more work than Dylan could have possibly anticipated.

Leaving the unicorns to be stabled with the horses—they suffered this indignity quietly, since A'du and 'Sa'ti went with them—Dylan followed Oonagh into the tavern. Inside the stone building, which was easily four times the size of the largest cottage in Lallybroch, the first floor had been sectioned off, with the sick and injured gathered around a fireplace large enough to roast a fully-groan twrch trwyth—the magical Welsh boars from Annwn, the smallest of which was twice as large as an ox. Looking at the massive hearth, Dylan remembered the story Nuada had told her once of how he had saved King Arawn's life by incapacitating one of the massive boars, nearly dying in the process. Then she shook off the memory and took stock of the makeshift healers' hall.

As far as she could tell, none of those occupying chairs or pallets on the floor or tables had been sorted. The ill lay with the injured, assembled willy-nilly. There was barely enough room to walk between bodies. The air hung thick with smoke from the fire, stuffy from the smell of unwashed bodies and sickness. Dylan looked around, forcing herself to ignore the twisting of her heart at the sight of so much suffering. These people didn't need her sorrow or her tears or, Heaven forbid, her pity. They needed her help.

She turned to Oonagh, the Fomorian assigned by the steward to escort her here.

"Are there any children who aren't ill or injured that can be spared?"

The Fomorian Elf stared at her. "You want children to bear witness to what will happen in this place?" She demanded, sounding positively scandalized. She remembered belatedly to add, "Milady."

"No. What I need are children to find and bring clean cauldrons—at least six of the largest that can be spared. I want the children to bring me water, and if there isn't enough, to find clean snow and bring it to this building in pails. I need fires beneath the cauldrons to heat the water; two to boiling, two to steaming, one for broth for those who can eat, one for warming milk for those who can't. Is there any bread and milk to be had?" The Fomorian woman nodded. "If there's any who can't handle stronger food but need nourishment, please set someone to making milksops. And I need a cask of whiskey…are you going to remember all of this?"

Looking a little stunned, the brunette Elf nodded. "Yes, milady. Cauldrons. Water. Broth and milksops. Whiskey."

"Good. Linen bandages, fresh from the village laundress—"

"The laundress is dead, milady," Oonagh interrupted hesitantly. "And her daughter…well, her daughter is not fit to be of any help to anyone at the moment. She's being kept in seclusion by her father's order upstairs, away from…certain villagers."

Dylan frowned as a trickle of ice spilled down her back. "Why?"

Oonagh bit her lip. "There's a young man, milady. A gancanaugh." Oonagh spat the word like poison. "From the village outskirts. He's naught but a common criminal, he is. Her father wants him kept away, but he won't leave her be. Insists upon seeing her, he does. But the lass isn't right, hasn't been for months now. He'd only upset her if not worse. So we've made it as difficult as can be for him until His Highness arrives. The girl's father, Master Barinthus, means to speak to His Highness about the young man."

Something about that felt off to the mortal, but she didn't have time to dwell on it. Instead, she focused on the task at hand.

"All right. I need bandages—clean ones. As many as can be found." She stopped, listened to the sounds of sickness all around her. Somewhere among the sick, at least half a dozen very young children coughed wetly. "I need a pound of sugar, a lot of honey, and a jar of mustard seed paste. Did any of the herbalists or midwives keep cobwebs anywhere?" Oonagh nodded. "Good. I'll need those, as well. Strong soap. Fresh-washed cream pans for soaking. Wooden lathes, thread and sewing needles, tallow, and dried garlic.

"And we need to start sorting the people here: who is ill and can be helped, who's ill and beyond hope, who is injured and can be helped, and those who are injured beyond hope. Finally…" She looked down at her princess outfit. It was rough enough for traveling, but traveling in style. And though she was pretty sure Nuada wouldn't give two flips, she didn't want to wear silk and fine leather if she was going to be bled on, vomited on, or any of the other things that might happen today. "Finally, are there any simple clothes my sisters and I can borrow?"

Oonagh nodded again, this time a look of approval on her alabaster face. "I can take you upstairs, if it pleases you milady."

"Thank you."

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Every time Nuada gazed around the decimated village, a piece of his soul broke off, withered, and died. That his people should suffer so, and he could do so little, and all because of that blasted treaty…Why would his father do nothing? The humans couldn't be allowed to get away with these atrocities. Someone had to put a stop to it. Someone had to say, "Enough." Why wouldn't the king? Whole villages had been raised to the ground, children orphaned. A group of them had made it to Lallybroch; Nuada would have to speak with their leader, a youth barely out of boyhood by the name of William, to learn just how much they had suffered in their flight from their ruined homes to this new village.

So much death. So much wanton destruction. Surely now that the humans had moved against the glories, Balor would do something! Nuada had written to the king before falling asleep the night before to tell him of it, sending the letter off by will-o-the-wisp that morning. Surely…

Steward Gawain was still speaking as he—and the black faerie stallion that was a part of him—led the prince through the village. They passed the cemetery and Nuada's eyes burned at the sight of so many fresh graves, some of them so very small. His fingers convulsed into white-knuckled fists. Children…so many children lost…He knew the moment his lady's eldest sister noticed the graves. Petra barely stifled a gasp.

Nuada had to say this for her: she was keeping up well, no complaints. He'd seen the devastation wrought on Dylan's kin by the deaths of the unicorns. Though this travesty paled in comparison, it had still hit Petra hard. The prince remembered suddenly that she had children of her own. Perhaps maternal instincts could supersede the innate cruelty festering in the pit where her heart would have been, had she been aught other than human.

He wondered what Wink would have said about all of this…but Wink had been sent to try to help salvage what little was left of the village storehouses, which had been set ablaze by the bandits. The hope was that whatever had been stored in the cellars had survived, but so much debris kept anyone from getting through. A silver cave troll's strength was exactly what was needed for that sort of heavy lifting. He'd already enlisted his massive bonnacon mount and Lorelei's powerful indrik to help haul away timber and stone.

As for Lorelei, she was with Dylan, doing what she did best—soothing those in pain with the magic of her rhinemaiden's voice. But the Germanic faerie woman had an interesting perspective; perhaps she might have possessed the insight necessary to plead Lallybroch's case to the king, so cold and remote in the capital of Findias. Surely his father could not stand by and allow such wanton destruction. Not again. Not after all the lives shattered or lost during the final war.

But Nuada knew in his sinking heart that nothing he could say would convince his father to let them make war on the humans, or even simply defend this place as was the people's right. No, Balor expected them to fade into the twilight…or simply to die with human boots upon their necks and human blades in their hearts.

"We have reason to believe the bandits mean to return sometime in the next seven-day, Sire," Gawain continued. "Those who can still bear arms are speaking of rebelling against the treaty, fighting the humans."

Dark lips twisted. "Why do you tell me this?" It was the equivalent of waltzing up to a ranking member of the Lord Provost's Guard and tipping them off that you intended to commit a capital crime; why would anyone do that?

Gawain hesitated, then forged ahead. "After this last attack, Your Highness…I must ask…forgive my impertinence, Sire, but…but surely," and desperation burned in the dullahan's eerie voice, "surely the Crown does not expect us to stand by as all we own is destroyed by the humans."

Nuada gritted his teeth. Damn you, Áthair, for forcing me into this position, he growled silently, but said nothing aloud. Gawain waited, ebony brows furrowed. Silence was his only answer. Finally he spoke again.

"All who dwell in Bethmoora know of Queen Cethlenn's fate." His voice came low as a cheap blow in an alley fight, and sharp as a poisoned blade. Nuada's eyebrows shot up. He jerked to a halt, pivoting to face the dullahan fully, ready to lash out with words edged by royal privilege, when Gawain added, "These humans did the same to my wife, to my Clíodhna."

The prince froze, fury pulsing in his blood in time with his suddenly raging heart.

Gawain's eyes blazed with crimson hellfire as he stared off into the distance. A black tear spilled down his cheek. "She was…so beautiful. With a voice like an angel, and the way she danced…and she loved me. Me. A dullahan. A Fomorian Elf, with hair like silken flame and eyes like moonlight through emeralds, slender as a willow tree, brilliant as a star. She loved me. She gave me five beautiful children, the pride of my heart. She would have given me a sixth, but…" He swallowed hard. Drew a shuddering breath. Nuada wondered vaguely if drawing that agonized breath hurt Gawain in that moment as much as it did the prince.

"They raped her in front of my youngest daughter, Fiona. She hasn't spoken a word since it happened; not one word in eight months. Those bastards raped and murdered my wife while she carried our newest babe; raped and murdered my eldest daughter, Aoibhín, who was to dance around the Beltane pole for the first time this spring. They tortured my eldest son for sport, crippled him. They burned our farm to the ground with…with my…with my youngest boy trapped inside our cottage. My little Declan, he…he'd only taken his first steps that day. I couldn't…I couldn't reach him, those monsters held me tied, I…I heard him scream…"

At last Gawain raised raw, tormented eyes to his prince. "Danu's mercy…does the Crown not care, Prince Nuada? Does the king not care?"

A shudder ripped through the prince as the dullahan's words beat him like fists. His pregnant wife…and the eldest girl. A girl was old enough at last to dance around the Beltane pole when she reached her thirteenth century—or the equivalent for her race. A thirteen year old girl, dead under twisted men…and an innocent child lost to fire…So much death, so much loss, and for what?

Does the king not care? The words echoed in his skull.

Drawing a shaking breath, Nuada whispered, "In this I can only speak for myself, Gawain…but I care. I…" When the words came, they seemed hollow, and yet he knew Gawain heard the aching sincerity in them. "I am sorry. I cannot replace what you have lost. I can only tell you that if the bandits return, we will do as my lady promised—fight them. As for your wife, your son and daughter, I swear to you as prince of Bethmoora that they will have justice."

After a moment, Gawain nodded. His shoulders shook, and the stallion at his back shuddered and hung its head, tail drooping to drag in the snow like a fallen banner of darkness. Gawain sucked in a breath. Cleared his throat. Wiped surreptitiously at his eyes while Nuada pretended to look elsewhere, a balm to the steward's pride. The dullahan eventually nodded and gestured to a large building Nuada realized was the tavern. In the forty or so minutes of the tour, a group of children had gathered outside, forming a chain. Buckets of snow and ice water were passed hand to hand before being handed off to Francesca, who stood outside the tavern doors. She handed each bucket as it came to her into the tavern.

"What's here?" Gawain mumbled, as puzzled by the chain of children as Nuada. Both men noticed a slender, wraith-like bean sídhe maiden rushing through the village square, a basket clutched to her chest. Ringlets the gray-green color of swamp moss streamed out behind her as she dashed toward the tavern. Gawain called, "Hai, Léana!" The bean sídhe skidded to a halt in the snow. "Where do you go to, child?"

"Her Ladyship has asked those of us with no chores to help set up a…a hospital," Léana stumbled over the unfamiliar word. "She's asked for bandages and soap and herbs and…" Eyes the dark, limpid color of wet bog-weed fixed on Nuada and blasted wide. "Oh!" She dropped her basket and plopped to the snow on her hands and knees. "Your Highness! Forgive me! I…I did not see you."

Inexplicably, Nuada found himself smiling.

"Mistress…Léana, was it?" He asked kindly. The maiden nodded. Snow was already melting against her, dampening her gray dress. Nuada said, "Come now, out of the snow. You wouldn't want to catch a chill, would you?"

Clutching at her reed-basket—which Nuada could now see held dried herbs; he recognized echinacea and goldenseal, as well as mint, cherry bark, and willow bark—she scrambled to her feet, eyes downcast. "Yes, Your Highness. I mean, no, Your Highness."

"Léana!" An Elven boy of perhaps fifteen centuries, one arm strapped to his chest and bandages wrapping one side of his head and covering one eye, leaned out the window nearest the tavern doors. "Her Ladyship needs those herbs!"

Léana flushed, her corpsely skin darkening with sluggish blood. "Ewan! I'm talking to the prince, you clot-head! Have you no sense?"

The youth's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of someone shouting his name from inside had him jolting back through the window, the shutters swinging after him. Léana turned back to Nuada.

"Begging Your Highness's pardon—"

"Not at all," he said. "Go on with your work, Mistress Léana. I did not intend to keep you."

She started for the carved stone steps leading up to the tavern, but stopped and looked back at the prince with something shining in her liquid eyes that made Nuada hurt, in the vulnerable part of his soul. She murmured shyly, "Thank you for coming, Sire. We all knew you would. Thank you." She turned and jogged up the steps, so she didn't see the pain flash across her prince's face. Likely as not, she wouldn't have understood its cause even if she had seen.

"It seems your lady has taken charge quite quickly," Gawain said, but there was an odd hesitancy in his voice that told the crown prince that even if the dullahan was acting as if he'd accepted the mortal as betrothed to his prince and the future princess of the kingdom, he still had his own doubts hidden away from the public eye.

"Perhaps," Nuada said mildly, "you would like to see what she's accomplished in the short time since we left her."

"If it pleases you, Your Highness," Gawain said.

The two men headed up the steps.

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Inside, Nuada was surprised to see half the windows open—the small windows with the quartered shutters, so that although it was bitterly cold outside, only fresh air as cool as spring came in through the windows. It helped alleviate the stink of unwashed bodies and illness redolent on the air. Gawain murmured to him that the sick and injured, resting now on pallets on the floor, had been moved. A few lay on cots, wrapped in blankets. A few not-so-terribly injured young people sat with them, speaking quietly or singing. The buckets being delivered into the tavern by the chain of children were then poured by thick-muscled farm youths and young maidens into steaming cauldrons. None of the helpers was older than fourteen, none younger than twelve, most of them injured in some way but still able to help with such light chores.

Pauline and Mary glanced up when Petra walked in behind Nuada and Gawain, her rifle slung by its strap from one shoulder, though Dylan's two sisters didn't pause as they carefully lifted a small child with a horrific wound down the side of its face onto a table. Victoria carried an armful of linens over to them. The Butcher guards assigned to the three women were busy nearby, administering water to a few sufferers who could barely sit upright, who sipped gratefully at the fluid.

Dylan was a few paces away, kneeling beside an Elf with a ruined face and a mangled arm. She'd changed into a simple, black wool shirt and trousers, and had tied back her hair with a kerchief to keep it out of her face. She spoke quietly to the warrior, who watched her warily with his one good eye as she nodded once in Tsu's'di's direction and then pointed to a second table. At last the Elf nodded, and she gave quick orders to the cougar youth and two of her Butchers, who went to the man as she moved on to the little girl atop the table. The blue wool cap sitting cockeyed on her head of curly brown hair told him the child was a bluecap.

Besides her face—which Dylan attended to at once, cleaning and applying ointment before carefully bandaging it—Nuada could see nothing that required Dylan's further attention until the child began to cough, a thick hacking cough that shook her small body cruelly. The only reason she didn't fall off the table was because Pauline held her, crooning something. He remembered suddenly that Pauline, like Petra, had children of her own.

Dylan pressed her ear to the bluecap's thin, spasming chest. Listened intently. A frown twisted her scarred features. Then she straightened and beckoned to Victoria, who brought the stack of linens over to her.

Nuada took a few moments simply to watch his lady. He'd never seen Dylan act as a healer like this before. She'd taken care of him on many occasions, of course, and she'd kept Zhenjin mostly conscious on Midwinter Eve, but this…somehow this was different. She was like a queen in her domain, with as much grace and poise as any of the master healers of Findias.

As he watched, she folded a towel and laid it on the child's chest. Then, with an apologetic look at the girl, she scooped a spoonful of something gelatinous and vile-looking out of a jar and coaxed the child into swallowing it. The bluecap coughed until she was flushed as a spring rose, and black slime spilled out of her mouth to spatter the towel. Pauline petted the child's hair and Dylan gave her another spoonful of the coughing potion.

After a few minutes with the bluecap, Dylan said something to Mary and then turned to the man on the other table. Two large pots of steaming water had been set on a long bench next to the table, along with what looked like a shallow dairy pan that held wooden lathes, needle and thread, clean bandages, and several cloths. Dylan accepted a candle from Tsu's'di and leaned over the wounded Elf. She moved the candle back and forth across his face, smiling when the Elf said something. Setting down the candle, she grabbed a cake of the harsh soap often used in tavern kitchens and plunged her hands into one of the pots of steaming water, lathering her hands thoroughly to clean them before she even attempted to see to the man's wounds.

The prince saw several fae attending to other injured and sick—the herbalists and midwives, Gawain explained. The two healers they'd brought from Findias were near the massive fireplace, attending to those too near death to be helped by non-magical means. He realized with a pang when he saw Lorelei that the young people speaking with and singing to those on the cots as the rhinemaiden did were there only to help make those beyond aid more comfortable in their last hours.

Victoria scurried over to an elderly woman on a cot, kneeling beside her and speaking quietly. She snagged a bowl of what appeared to be warm milk when a youngster carrying a tray of bowls walked past. To Nuada's surprise, the mortal patiently began spooning the milk into the old Elven woman's mouth.

Francesca darted past him with a mumbled "excuse me, Your Highness" and rushed over to Dylan. The youngest Myers sister glanced around the room, then pointed to a young bodach barely past manhood, whose arm had been thickly bandaged. Francesca arrowed for him, a Butcher guard at her side. At first the young man tried to shy away from the human woman, but Francesca's quick smile and soft voice slowly calmed him as she unwrapped his bandages and inspected the arm strapped to wooden splints. She checked his forehead with the inside of her wrist, looked intently into his eyes, and made him stick out his tongue. Nuada realized she was checking for signs of fever.

He turned his gaze back to Dylan, who had the Elven man's arm stretched out on the table so she could inspect the wound. At her elbow was a nearly-full flagon. The prince approached, knowing what it was for and how it would be taken. The Elf's single eye widened when he caught sight of the Silverlance striding toward him. He tried to sit up. Dylan shoved him back down.

"None of that," she said firmly in Gaelic. "You'll hold still, Master mac Éssit, or I'll know why. I may be human, but I can henpeck as well as any dwarf wife. Ask His Highness."

"That she can," Nuada said, and Dylan jerked a look over her shoulder. A brilliant smile flashed across her face like a shooting star before she turned back to the Elf on the table. Nuada came to stand at her side. "Please do not trouble yourself to rise, Master mac Éssit," the prince added. Dingy, gray-yellow eyes widened. Nuada could practically see the thoughts running through the other Elf's head—the crown prince knew his name. It apparently didn't occur to him that Dylan had just used it. Nuada didn't ruin the man's illusions, only said, "You've earned some rest, my friend."

The Elf swallowed and his eyes darted to the flagon Dylan picked up. His fingers twitched spasmodically, and Nuada knew there was a great deal of damage there. "Sire, this mortal…I mean, Her Ladyship says she'll have to cleanse my wounds. I…I do not wish to harm her—"

Dylan interrupted, "He's worried about thrashing around and smacking me in the face. Your Highness, can you hold him down, please? Tsu's'di," she added when the prince nodded. "Ailbho. Please come help the prince." Her young Butcher Guard and the ewah youth came at her call. Nuada offered mac Éssit a reassuring nod. Dylan laid a hand on the unblemished skin at the wounded Elf's wrist. "I'm not going to lie—"

He laughed, then winced. "There's a first—a human who doesn't lie."

Instead of taking offense, Dylan smiled widely. "Well, I do try to be honest. We're not all scurvy, cross-eyed, stone-hearted, snaggletoothed, egg-sucking, lily-livered, yellow-bellied—" At that point mac Éssit was laughing again, and Dylan grinned. "Ready?"

The Elf took a breath. Nuada tightened his grip on the other man's arm. Mac Éssit said, "Get on with it, milady."

A thin stream of hot water, whiskey, and herbs poured from the flagon, splashing onto the Elf's mangled arm. Dylan had folded a thick towel underneath the wounded limb before starting, so the excess soaked into the cloth. At the first drop of disinfectant, mac Éssit let out a roar an Irish black bear would've envied. His body convulsed under the burning. Nuada, Tsu's'di, and young Ailbho held him down as Dylan washed out the oozing gashes on his arm.

Nuada grimaced at the implications of the wounds. These weren't from battle; these injuries were from torture. Long, deep cuts made by a sharp blade, meant to cripple, slicing through muscle and carving deep into bone, leaving the arm practically useless. Unfortunately the healers the king had sent with the supply caravan lacked the power and skill to mend such injuries. Nuada wondered if it wouldn't be better to simply amputate the arm? But then he realized that Dylan would have thought of that, and would have asked the Elf about it, and unless he'd agreed or his life was in immediate jeopardy, she wouldn't have done it.

Dylan? He tried to touch her mind, though their hands did not touch. The first time it had happened purely by accident. The second and third time, she had been the one to initiate the touch. He still wasn't sure how they'd done it. Dylan, the bluecap child…

She has a bad case of Cornish croup, Dylan replied absently. Gotta get it under control or she could die, she's so young. She'll be okay, though. Mary and Pauline know what to do; Pauline's kids have had mortal croup before, it's pretty similar.

When the fire of the cleansing had eased and Master mac Éssit's thrashing had subsided, Nuada stepped back and allowed Dylan to get on with her work. She didn't need his help. She was in her element here. If anything, he realized that without her, he would have been the one in trouble. None of this would have been possible without her.

Thank You, Nuada prayed silently to the Star Kindler without even quite realizing he did it as he went back to Gawain. On behalf of my people…and for my own part…Thank You for her.

Aloud he said to Gawain, "The first thing to do is have Caravan Master Iubdan's quartermaster assess the damage to your crops and food stores. My guardsman, Erik, will arrange work parties to begin repairs to the village." Nuada caught Erik's eye. The dökkálfar had been corralled into helping Francesca set up a station where those who could feed themselves could get bowls of hot soup. Noticing the prince's glance, he excused himself to the mortal woman and made his way toward the Elven warrior. Nuada added, "As for the village's defenses, I will take a small party of guards, as well as Mistress Petra and Master John to see what needs doing."

Gawain nodded, looking more relieved by the second. "Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you."

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They found Iubdan and his quartermaster, a tomte named Julenisse Gårdsrå, inside the tavern's stables. Julenisse's single, tawny gold eye fixed instantly on the black dullahan stallion walking at Gawain's side and his gaze lit up with pleasure. All tomte, being barn sprites, had a fondness for horses of any kind. The stallion whickered to the tomte before turning its own fiery gaze to the beasts the prince had brought, including the trio of dozing unicorns.

"Iubdan, Master Gårdsrå," Nuada said as the two men rose to their feet. They'd been perched on a pair of hay-bales, discussing something in quiet voices before the prince's arrival. "Master Gårdsrå, you'll be going with one of the steward's men to the village fields and the farms that have taken the most damage and see what can be done for them. I—"

*Fields?* Duskshine, who Nuada had thought to be asleep, raised his head. The prince suddenly noticed the absence of the ewah cubs. *What is wrong with the fields?*

Three of the men seemed taken aback by the question, but Nuada narrowed his eyes and studied the unicorn colt for a time before replying, "Humans have attacked the village fields and destroyed their winter crops, young lord."

"They've salted the earth," a senior stable-hand added bitterly from where he was currently giving Lòman a thorough grooming that had the arion stallion's eyes rolling with pleasure. At the sight of such equine delight, the grief and fury smoldering in the Fir Bholg lad's eyes eased a little, but it returned when he added, "Begging Your Highness's pardon, but it'll take seven years at least before the fields can be sewn again without poisoning folk hereabouts."

Duskshine and Fluttershy exchanged a glance. Fluttershy trembled, but when Duskshine nosed her shoulder gently, she sighed. Her glance brushed over Nuada and the assembled men with the quickness of a timid, wild thing.

*I…I will fix the fields. I can do it.*

Nuada's brows rose. The others remained silent, stunned by the offer. Unicorns did not venture from their forests, save under dire circumstance. No one had heard of a unicorn offering aid to ordinary fae except in legends. But the prince loved his people, and so only asked what the others no doubt considered it impertinent to ask. "Are you certain you are capable, milady? Will not the salt harm you, or at least interfere?"

Fluttershy shook her head. *Not if I have shoes. They will protect me from the salt. If someone gives me shoes, I will go and fix the fields.* She hesitated, then added, *Humans hurt us…but a human also helped us. We will help her. And we will help you.*

The unicorn colt nuzzled his glory-mate's neck with his muzzle before fixing Nuada with eyes that seemed to mirror eternity. He'd forgotten, the Elf realized. Though he'd addressed Duskshine as young lord, though he called Fluttershy my lady, he had forgotten the vast wealth of magic that saturated every cell in the unicorns' bodies. He'd forgotten the majesty of the creatures he currently held under his protection. Duskshine and Fluttershy were young, but when they grew up, they would truly be glorious in their power.

*There is sickness in the land,* Duskshine said. Nuada's heart twisted. How often had he told his father the same thing? The colt continued, *A famine of the sweet, secret things under the skin of the world. It cannot continue. There is a poison creeping across the land, fouling the air. I can push it back a little but…but only a little. I am sorry,* he said, lowering his gaze to the fresh straw under his hooves.

Gawain shook his head. "You needn't even think of being ashamed, young lord. The people of Lallybroch would be eternally grateful for aught you could do to cleanse our village and our lands. Thank you."

Duskshine nodded and Fluttershy stepped forward. Nuada turned to the stable-hand.

"What's your name?"

Started at being addressed by the heir to the Bethmooran throne, the Fir Bholg hastily dropped his eyes to the earthen floor of the stables. He cleared his throat, then realized he still wore his cap and yanked it off his head, revealing large pointed ears jutting through his hair. He twisted it between his long fingers. Cleared his throat again. At last he said, "Seamus Muldoon, m'lord. Erm, I mean, Sire."

Nuada blinked. "Second cousin to Sean Devine of the Fianna?"

Seamus's head shot up and he blinked, too, just as startled as the prince. "Yes, Sire. My cousin serves as lieutenant under Captain Cabhán mac Oísin. You know Sean?"

The Elven warrior had ridden with Cabhán mac Oísin—who happened to be Isibéal ingen Cabhán's father—and his band of Fianna more than once in his life, and he'd met the brash Sean Devine. Sean was a good fighter to have at one's back in battle, and always willing to buy a round for a weary soldier when they tired of shedding blood. Sean was an Elf the prince was proud to call friend. He remembered now—the other Elf had written to the prince directly, bypassing Nils Fjøsnisse, to inquire about a position at the palace for his cousin. With everything that had gone on in the last months, Nuada had forgotten all about it.

He nodded to Seamus. "I do. He's a good man. He speaks highly of you." The young Fir Bholg flushed nearly as scarlet as his hair. Nuada ignored that and added, "If you would escort the Lady Fluttershy to the farrier, Master Muldoon. When you arrive, give him this." Nuada unsheathed the Silverlance, welcoming the familiar weight in his grip. Grasping the tip of the leaf-shaped blade, he spared a flick of royal magic, and the silver blade cracked in half, leaving behind two pieces of Elven silver each the size of Nuada's palm. The spear-blade's tip slowly reformed as the prince tossed the broken-off piece to Seamus, who fumbled to catch it. "Tell him to cast four silver shoes from this, fitted to the Lady Fluttershy."

Seamus bowed. "Of course, Sire. At once. Erm…follow me, if it pleases you, milady." He cast a furtive, adoring glance at the unicorn filly, who stepped daintily out of the stall and moved to Seamus's side. He swallowed hard, shot Nuada one panicked look, and obeyed the prince's order.

Nuada turned back to Gawain, Iubdan, and Julenisse Gårdsrå. "Master Gårdsrå, you will take one of your clerks and accompany Lady Fluttershy with a retinue of guards to the village fields and those farms in need. Bring back an estimate of what is needed to help the families through the winter."

"What if we are attacked by human bandits, Your Highness?" Julenisse asked.

The prince scowled. Blasted humans. None of the guards Nuada could send with them could protect the unicorn or the fae in her company without risking punishment for their "crime." Which left him but one choice.

Turning to glance over his shoulder toward the stable doors, he called, "Petra."

Petra Myers stood at attention, cutting a rather lethal-looking figure in her charcoal and slate-blue leathers, her rifle slung over her shoulder and four guns holstered at her sides. Humanity notwithstanding, the mortal had discipline. Nuada remembered that Dylan had wanted her sister with them to begin with because of her years in military service.

When Nuada called her name, her head snapped toward him. Tucking her thumb beneath the rifle strap, she strode over, moving with predatory grace the prince would never have believed her capable of. She jolted back to attention as soon as she came near.

"Your Highness."

"You will accompany Master Gårdsrå and Lady Fluttershy," he commanded in English.

Petra nodded crisply. "Yes, Your Highness."

He had to fight the urge to raise one eyebrow. Clearly Dylan had taken the time during their trip to drill proper etiquette into the harpy-shrew's thick skull. If she behaved like this every time she was in Nuada's presence, he might learn to tolerate her with only clenched teeth instead of the urge to hit her every time she looked in his direction. He would never forget what the vicious harpy had done to his lady, but this was a vast improvement.

All relevant tasks seen to, Nuada headed for the stable doors when a familiar voice caught his attention. He had many things still to do, but he'd wondered where A'du'la'di had gotten to, and the cub sounded…actually angry. So instead of walking on and ignoring the kafuffle, he exited the stables and went searching for the source of the voice.

.

He found it in the alley between the tavern stables and the tavern itself. A'du stood between 'Sa'ti and a small figure in an off-white dress with dark hair. She seemed vaguely familiar. The harsh whinny of an angry colt brought her identity to the forefront of his mind. It was Amaryllis ingen Gawain, the acting-steward's daughter. Her wight-horse stamped the dirty slush angrily but stayed back from the trio of children. Amaryllis clenched her fists and stamped her own foot.

"I just wanted to play! You don't have to be so mean!"

"Go away!" A'du'la'di growled, shocking the prince, who'd seen the cub with dozens of other children over the last two months. He'd never spoken so coldly to someone he barely knew before. "We don't play with things like you!"

Amaryllis jerked back. The colt shook his head as if trying to shake away flies. The dullahan child lifted her chin. "You're just rude. Fine. Be that way! I don't want to play with you anyway. I was just trying to be nice."

"I'm not rude!" The ewah snapped. "And you're not nice! You're a monster!"

"No, I'm not! I'm a dullahan!"

"Dullahan are monsters," A'du fired back. "You're mean and you hurt people!"

"No I don't! You're a liar!"

"Am not!" A'du yelped. "I know about dullahan! They attacked me and my brother and sister and almost killed us! You're bad! You hurt people! Bad things happen when dullahan are around!"

A tear spilled down Amaryllis's cheek. "That's not true! You're just stupid!"

"I'm not stupid! You're a freak! Your head comes off!"

"It's supposed to, stupid! You're a freak 'cause yours doesn't!"

"Of course it doesn't!" A'du yelled. 'Sa'ti trembled behind her brother. Nuada had the feeling she was more upset by her brother's anger than anything else. The prince knew he needed to intercede—the cub was acting like a callow youth, not the brave and honorable warrior Nuada knew and respected—but the sheer shock of the usually kind little boy saying such cruel things held him in place. A'du'la'di continued, "It's not supposed to!"

"That's stupid!"

"No it's not," A'du said, fur standing straight out. His tail lashed back and forth like an angry, serpentine bottle-brush and his ears were pressed flat to his skull. "You're stupid!"

"Am not! You're stupid because you work for a human! That makes you extra stupid! Stupid-head!"

"She's a nice human! There's nothing wrong with humans! And I'm not a stupid-head!"

"Yes you are!" Amaryllis yelled, practically beside herself with fury. Her eyes glittered with the threat of more tears and she stamped her foot again. "You're a big, ugly, stupid-head coward because you work for humans and humans are bad!"

A'du nearly leapt at her. His claws popped out and he snarled, "Take that back! What did humans ever do to you?"

This seemed to be too much for Amaryllis. "They killed my Máta!" Then she burst into tears.

A'du's entire attitude changed; his fur flattened out, his ears pricked up, and his tail went still. But before he could say a word, Amaryllis raced down the alley—right toward Nuada. She barreled into the prince's legs, crashed to the snow, scrambled to her feet, and fled before Nuada could catch her to calm her down. Her colt bolted past, hot on her heels. The sounds of her weeping faded in a few moments. Nuada turned a gaze like glacial topaz to the pageboy in the alley, who stared back at the prince with a look halfway between defiance and panic.

The prince crooked his finger. A'du gulped. He actually took a step back. The warning blazing in Nuada's eyes told him that trying to run away would be a very, very bad idea. Gulping a second time, the ewah child approached the prince, ears drooping. 'Sa'ti clung to the back of his shirt. When they were practically at Nuada's feet, the prince spoke.

"'Sa'ti, go back to the stables and stay with Lord Duskshine and Lady Shimmer." The little girl opened her mouth, and Nuada added, "Now."

She fled. A'du watched her go with a look of abject pleading on his face, as if begging her to come back. Then he ever so slowly raised his gaze to the prince staring down at him with icy anger.

"What," Nuada growled so low that only someone with the sharp ears of a cat could hear him, "was that?"

"She's a dullahan," A'du muttered, looking away.

"A'du'la'di Ewah," the crown prince of Bethmoora rumbled dangerously, "of the Children of the Cougar, you will look at your liege lord when he speaks to you. And you will address me properly and with respect. Do you understand?"

A'du's eyes widened as his gaze shot back to the prince's face. "Y-Y-Y-Yes, Your H-H-Highness."

Nuada's face could have been carved from stone. "Explain yourself this instant."

Looking betrayed, the boy cried, "She's a dullahan!"

The prince remembered very well the night just before their return to Findias. He and Dylan had been attacked by dipsa serpents in the royal forest, Dylan barely escaping with her life. That was the night he'd shown her the unicorns, the night he'd nearly confessed his love for her. The night he'd ventured into Central Park to save her brother at her behest—the brother who'd layin dying beneath the winter-barren trees, bleeding out on the snow from the wounds inflicted by a pair of shandymen. It was the night Wink had gone missing after being attacked by a full company of Butcher Guards, all of whom had either been killed in battle or died after returning to Bethmoora under mysterious circumstances.

And it was the night A'du, his brother and sister, Lady Kaye of the Unseelie Court and her sister Kate, Lady Peri—a sídhe neighbor of Dylan's and a member of Roiben's Unseelie Court—and her young son Bean, a pair of human youngsters whom Dylan periodically counseled, and the hamadryad whom Tsu's'di had just begun courting were all attacked by dullahan.

It was the night Nuada had begun to suspect his father might try to have him killed; after all, who else could command the Butcher Guards? And the shandymen had spoken of "the king's servant." Dullahan as powerful as the dryad had described to him and Dylan later that night could only be compelled by a monarch, and why else but compulsion would such fae attack a group of innocent children? Yes, Nuada remembered that night, and he remembered well enough how frightened A'du'la'di had been, and with very good reason. He and 'Sa'ti had been badly hurt. Tsu's'di had nearly died.

But that did not excuse the pageboy's behavior now.

"Because you were attacked by dullahan, you believe this gives you the right to treat an innocent person—a lady, who deserves your kindness and respect—so shamefully? You had no right, A'du'la'di. None! Think shame to yourself for such callow behavior! You will find Mistress Amaryllis and apologize immediately."

The child actually shook his head. "No way! I'm not apologizing to her!"

"You will," the prince commanded, voice low and dangerous, "and do so graciously! A page in service to a future princess does not—"

"She's a dullahan! They're evil!"

Nuada dropped down in front of the youngster so quickly A'du flinched. Grabbing the narrow shoulders, the prince squeezed until he was certain he had the cub's full attention. Then he gave A'du'la'di a quick, careful shake. In a low, intense voice, he said, "You cannot condemn an entire race based on the actions of but a few! That is a worse evil!"

A'du'la'di scowled. "You do it!"

Bafflement briefly displacing his anger and condemnation, Nuada demanded, "What in Danu's name are you talking about?"

"The humans," the child said, and the words were like a slap. "Not all humans are bad, but you hate them all! People talked about it all the time at the castle. They said you were going to kill all the humans, even A'ge'lv Dylan! They said you were gonna take soldiers and kill them all! Just because they killed your mama!"

Nuada's arm jerked out of reflex and it took all of his self-restraint not to strike the boy. He only managed it because A'du'la'di cringed as if expecting the blow. What did the child see in Nuada's face that made him afraid? That thought helped curb the sudden, vicious impulse. The Elf curled his fingers into a fist. The boy paled at the sight, but Nuada simply rose to his feet. His voice came as cold and cutting as a knife of jagged ice when he spoke again.

"You will not speak so of my mother ever again, A'du'la'di Ewah. Nor will I will have my honor impugned in such a way." When A'du opened his mouth, Nuada snapped, "Silence."

The cub flinched again. Nuada fought for control and finally settled on the most painful words he could think of, that he could deliver with truth and without dishonor. When he let them drop into the stiff silence, he could see they broke the child's heart.

"You dishonor yourself, you dishonor your mistress, and you dishonor me. I am ashamed of you, A'du'la'di Ewah."

A'du's face crumpled. Tears welled up, and he scrubbed his fist across his face, dashing them away. More rose up in their place. He stared up at Nuada's implacable expression, at the frigid disdain in his eyes. He made a forlorn noise in his throat. When his hero did not relent, the little boy's tears fell. With a strangled cry, he rushed past the prince and into the stables. Nuada turned to watch him go and realized Dylan was there, looking tired and disappointed. A'du'la'di skirted around her in his headlong flight; Nuada had to wonder if the boy even realized what and who he was dodging around.

How long had Dylan been listening? Did she approve of what he'd said to the child? Did she know what A'du'la'di had said to the steward's daughter? Why did she look disapproving?

She stepped into the alleyway and said, "I need your help with something if you have a minute."

Her tone gave nothing away. Nuada cleared his throat, suddenly discomfited. "What can I do for you, my lady?"

Dylan sighed. "There's a room upstairs that the villagers are saying I can't enter. There's a young lady up there, or so they all claim. I want to talk to her, but her father's ordered that no one see her without his permission. I don't want to let him know I'm planning on talking with her. Something strange is going on. So I need some royal authority."

"They ought to let you pass," he replied, puzzled. "You're a noble of Bethmoora, a very powerful one."

She shook her head. A wry smile tugged at her mouth. "They're claiming that her father's right of kinship gives him the privilege of denying even someone as lofty and impressive as my aristocratic self. Maybe it's the human in me, I don't know. But I need to speak to this girl, Nuada," she added, sobering. "I don't know why, but something's wrong. She's going to need my help fairly soon. Maybe even yours, too. I'm just not sure why. And apparently she's being stalked."

Every male protective instinct rose to the surface as the full implications of that word manifested in the Elven warrior's brain. Dylan had been stalked for years by that beast, Westenra. His shadow had dogged her footsteps for such a long time…And before that, in the hell of the institution, those monstrous whelps Patrick and Xander had hunted her for their sick and twisted sport. Then there was Eamonn, or even the human wolves that had brought them together during that night of blood and pain and fear. He knew full well that Dylan wouldn't use a word like "stalked" unless she meant to convey such an idea to him.

His fingers itched to curl around the haft of his lance.

"By whom?" He asked, voice deathly quiet.

"Some gancanaugh. I haven't had time to get all the details. Can you come with me real fast to get these people out of my way? I'm feeling like I need to hurry or something terrible might happen."

Ever trusting in that sixth sense of hers, he nodded. "Of course, mo crídh."

Dylan turned to walk out of the alley, then hesitated, biting her lip. She glanced at Nuada and echoed, "'I am ashamed of you?'"

He bristled. "Did you hear what the boy said to that little girl?"

"Yes," Dylan replied. "I did. And no, I don't approve and I don't think he should get away with it. But you broke his heart, Nuada. He adores you. You're his hero. And you shattered him."

"He will recover," Nuada growled.

Her eyes flashed like blue steel and she demanded, "Oh? Will he? The way you did whenever your father cut you down with words?"

Taken aback, the Elf stared at her. "I am not the boy's father."

She just looked at him for a long time in silence. Then she dropped her face into her hand and sighed. "Ugh. Men." Lifting her head, she added, "Normally you're a genius, but sometimes you can be really oblivious. We're a family—right?"

Nuada's eyes widened. His mouth opened, closed. No sound emerged. What to say to such a thing? A'du had said those words only the night before, and Nuada had gripped his shoulder like a father would a son, as his own father had done to him when he was but a boy…and like his father, when A'du'la'di had done something to disappoint or vex him, he'd turned on the child and hurt him.

Meeting Dylan's eyes, he murmured, "I will speak to him later."

She nodded. "Good. And Nuada? Thank you for not hitting him. I know…I know your father used to hit you when you were young. Thank you for not hitting A'du."

The prince frowned, an uneasy sort of hurt twisting in his stomach. "He flinched from me. As if he were afraid. I only meant to cuff him. My father did the same often enough to me when I forgot my place, but I never flinched from him. Not like that. I frightened the boy."

Dylan took his hand. "A'du isn't used to being hit. He shouldn't ever get used to it. And you were angry. No doubt, living on the streets as he has, he expected you to beat him."

"I do not beat children," Nuada growled. "I suppose I need to make that clear to him."

"Couldn't hurt," she replied with a shrug. "But I don't want you laying a hand on him in punishment ever. Not even just to cuff him."

Nuada scowled more fiercely. "The boy cannot disrespect me as he did."

"No," she said. "He can't. But let's try to find another way to teach him that fact, if it's at all possible. Okay? I know that sometimes, because of the royalty thing, physical force is necessary, even with children. I know that. But it we don't have to use, I'd rather we didn't."

At her words, the prince actually smiled. "I confess, I feel the same way."

Dylan smiled back. "Good. And Nuada? I really am grateful—and proud of you—for fighting that first instinct. I know what A'du said hurt you and made you angry. I know. And I know that in your culture, striking a child for something like that isn't considered taboo, so you had no reason to hold back…but you did. So I'm very, very proud of you."

Warmed by her praise, Nuada offered her his arm and escorted her back to the tavern.

.

In the tavern, Nuada stopped to speak to a few of those most gravely wounded by the human bandits on his way to deal with whatever fae were stupid enough to block Dylan from where she wanted to go. The mortal watched her prince talking quietly with his people, offering words of gratitude and encouragement. More than once she saw him clasp the hand of a wounded farmer-turned-soldier. She made her own brief stops; though she chafed at the delay, the Spirit told her that it was necessary to help reinforce the proper impression on the Fair Folk of Lallybroch, and that the event creeping toward her regarding the young woman upstairs wouldn't collapse into an irredeemable crisis in the next few minutes. But at one point as they neared the stairs, the tugging sense that she was needed suddenly transformed into a blaring claxon inside her head. Ice-water rolled down her spine and her muscles locked at the sharp, stabbing command to go, go now.

Dylan snagged the prince before he could approach anyone else. She didn't speak, but the look in her eyes begged without shame for him to come with her. His brows knitted together. He opened his mouth to ask her a question, seemed to think better of it, and simply took her hand and hastened with her up the stairs. Every thud of her right foot on the wooden steps sent tremors of pain sizzling up her leg. Dylan ignored it as they reached the landing on the second floor. She hurried down the hall to skid to a halt in front of the heavy-set, elderly Elf standing in front of the door to the private room.

"Milady," the Elf murmured with a sigh. "Why'd ye have to go botherin' His Highness for, eh? The girl's father said—"

"I don't care if her father said the king himself gave him permission to keep me out," Dylan replied coolly. Fury flared in the Elf's eyes, but he said nothing. "Unless he shows me a formal decree complete with royal seal and signature, you're moving. Which is why I brought the prince—he's the only one here who outranks everybody, and he wouldn't have any trouble picking you up to get you out of my way. Now move."

"That gancanaugh wretch might come back and try to—"

"Let His Highness and me deal with the gancanaugh if he returns," she said.

When the Elf opened his mouth to argue again, Nuada interjected. "I do believe the blacksmith is in need of someone to do some heavy lifting to expedite the repairs to his forge. Why don't you go see what can be done?"

The burly Elf hesitated. Firegold eyes narrowed and chilled to glacial topaz. The air in the corridor was suddenly thick with princely ire.

"That," Nuada said too softly, "was not a suggestion."

With one angry look shot at Dylan, the thick-set fae took himself off to do as his prince commanded. Dylan turned to Nuada. Keeping one eye on the retreating Elf, she said, "I need you to stay out here."

He frowned. "Why?"

She made a face. "I don't know. But I need you to."

For a moment she thought he might refuse. If something was wrong, surely she would be better off with help? But that innate sixth sense of hers, the warning of the Spirit, told her that she needed to go in alone. It hadn't led them wrong yet. So he canted his head and murmured, "As you wish, mo mhuire."

Popping up on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, a fleeting brush of petal-soft lips and breath like a warm breeze. "Thank you." Then she opened the door and darted inside. The door latched shut behind her.

.

The Elven girl on the far side of the room froze with the blade of a dirk an inch from her bare, too-thin wrist. A thick, faintly purplish scar ran almost half the length of her exposed forearm. A barely-healed, potentially fatal cut. The sight of it made the mounds of scar tissue at the bends of Dylan's elbows tingle with phantom pain. Moonbeam tresses hung in thick tangles down the girl's back. Her dirty, moonbeam skin appeared bluish in the dim light of sunset filtering through the shutters. Shutters which, Dylan realized, had been bolted from the outside, not the inside. Hollows in her tearstained cheeks told the mortal healer that the young Elven woman—she looked no older than eighteen or nineteen—hadn't had a decent meal in a long time. A thin, shabby dress hung from the girl's frame, but it didn't hide a pregnancy that looked well into its sixth month.

"Stay back," the Elven girl cried, jerking away from Dylan. Her back slammed into the wall hard enough to make the mortal wince. She thrust the knife between herself and the human woman, waving it haphazardly with a trembling hand. "Stay away! Leave me alone! Don't touch me!"

Dylan blinked back the sting in her eyes and held up her hands palm-out in the universal gesture of no-harm. "I'm not going to hurt you," she murmured in Gaelic. "I promise. I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, I mean you no harm. Okay? You know what that oath means, right?" The Elf nodded. "All right, then. It's all right—"

She didn't try to get any closer to the girl, but the Elf gasped and scrunched along the wall away from her, trying to shove distance between them. She shook her head as fresh tears spilled down her gaunt cheeks. "Get out! Tell my áthair I won't let him do it! I won't let him! I'll kill myself first!"

"Do what?" Dylan asked, keeping her voice gentle. "What is your father trying to do?"

A sob scraped from the girl's throat as she curled her arm across her distended midsection. She hiccuped on another sob and moaned, "He wants to kill my baby."

Dylan's mouth fell open. Remembering herself, she snapped it shut. Her teeth clicked together. Some things were starting to make a lot of sense. The Spirit had wanted her here to stop this girl from committing suicide; the Elven maiden would've rather killed herself and her unborn child then let the father who'd locked her up in this room—for how long?—take the baby from her and murder it. Dylan saw no wedding ring on the girl's finger. Was that why her father had imprisoned her here? Because she was pregnant out of wedlock? No. No, there was more to this than that. Had the gancanaugh youth everyone kept mentioning gotten the girl pregnant and then abandoned her? But why punish her then and not him?

It didn't matter. Juggling all of these thoughts in the back of her mind, Dylan took a single step. The girl's cry of despair was muffled behind her clenched teeth. She thrust the knife at Dylan again, but there was enough space between them that the mortal wasn't that worried about it.

"I won't let that happen," Dylan said softly. The girl's amber eyes widened and she stared, disbelief and anguish warring with the first glimmers of hope in her gaze. "I promise you, I will not let that happen. Do you know who I am?"

The girl nodded. "The prince's lady. His betrothed." A shake of the Elf's head. "My áthair's spoken to the prince. He's going to kill Liam! Áthair said he'd told him all sorts of things and the prince agreed to…to have him…k-k-killed." Fresh sobs smothered the rest of the words. The dirk slipped from the girl's hand and she slid down the wall to crumple on the floor. Covering her face with her hands, she wept. Dylan heard the name Liam every few moments between sobs.

"What's your name?" Dylan asked gently.

Sniffling and weeping, the girl managed to whisper, "I-I-Iúile, milady. Iúile ingen Barinthus."

"Do you mind if I sit with you for a bit, Iúile?"

When the girl shook her head, Dylan made her way over to her and, ignoring the twinge in her knee, dropped to the floor also, though a bit more slowly. Because she'd been downstairs working with the sick and the wounded, she still had a few random clean cloths tucked into various pockets. She plucked one out and handed it to the Elf. Iúile wiped at her face. Sniffled. Underfed as she was, she didn't have the energy to sustain a good crying jag. Dylan waited until she'd grown quiet before speaking again.

"Who's Liam? Your baby?"

Iúile's face crumpled and a few tears escaped, but she didn't break down sobbing again. She shook her head. Whispered, "My truelove. Liam Uí Niall."

Dylan frowned. Among certain fae, instead of the surname mac Niall to indicate "son of Niall," they used Uí. Translated directly into English, her truelove's name was William O'Neil. A name like that usually meant some of the northern Irish fae.

Like a gancanaugh, for example.

"Is he a gancanaugh?" Dylan asked. Iúile nodded, twisting the tear-soaked bit of cloth between her trembling fingers. "Is it Liam's baby?" Miserably, the girl shook her head. "Whose baby is it? Do you know?" Iúile shook her head again and for the first time, Dylan noticed a glimmer of gold around her neck. It was a circular medallion, about the size of a nickel, with a tiny red stone set amidst a circle of laurel leaves. Dylan reached under the neckline of her own borrowed dress and withdrew her own medallion. "Wow. You have the new one."

Iúile saw the medallion dangling from Dylan's fingers on its slim, golden chain and her eyes widened. Then she looked at Dylan and sniffled, swiping at the new tears on her cheeks, before dropping her head to Dylan's shoulder. Dylan slipped an arm around her.

"Is your father angry because you don't know who fathered your baby?" The psychiatrist kept her voice carefully neutral. If she was going to help Iúile, she needed to show the girl that she was her friend, not an enemy.

To Dylan's surprise, the Elf shook her head. "Áthair said he'd disown me if I kept the baby," she whispered. "He took me to the midwife when my courses were late, and she said I was…And then Áthair said I had to take one of her potions so I'd lose the babe. He said it's cursed because of its father and it needs to…to die, that it's an abomination. He said I was a harlot for wanting it."

Flabbergasted, Dylan asked, "Why would he say something like that?" She had half a mind to go hunting for Master Barinthus so she could punch him in the teeth for saying something so vicious to his own child. As hurtful as her own parents had sometimes been, they'd never said anything with that level of sheer meanness to her. "Does he know who the baby's father is?"

"No," Iúile whispered. "Not…not his name, but…but my baby…it's…it's half human." She spat the confession and then hugged herself, squeezing her eyes shut. "The humans came and they killed my máthair and then…then one of them grabbed me and he hit me and he dragged me into the house and he…he hurt me. I screamed and screamed and nobody came until…until Liam."

The anguish in Iúile's voice dulled a little when she spoke the name. Dylan knew then that the girl loved this Liam—could he be the gancanaugh who'd been trying so hard to see her?—with the same intensity and strength that Dylan herself loved Nuada. Her voice had sounded the same all those months ago when she'd told John about the Elven prince saving her from the wolves.

"Liam came for me. He'd heard the humans in the woods. He came running to warn the village but we were already under attack, so he went looking for me. He saw them put the laundry-house to the torch…our livelihood. Then he saw me, trying to fight back when…He killed the human who hurt me. He took me back to his cottage and his mother took care of me until Áthair came and dragged me here. At first I was all right and Áthair calmed down but then midwife said…" Iúile shuddered. Her breathing hitched. "I want this baby. Áthair said I'd be as good as a whore for keeping it, and it wouldn't have a respectable father if I let it live but…but Liam said he didn't care if people thought his child was cursed or that they thought I was a whore, as long as I didn't care that he didn't count as respectable to most of the village folk."

Dylan's instincts prickled. "You mean Liam offered to marry you? And accept the baby as his own?"

The Elf nodded. "We plighted our troth before I was attacked, and then…and then after, when I told him I was with child…he said it didn't matter to him. He loves me. Us." She hugged her stomach. "He even built us a house just beyond the edge of the village. It's beautiful. There's a g-garden, just like I always wanted. He…he planted Canterbury bells for me, and crocuses. My favorites. I told Áthair that Liam and I were going to get married a-a-and he locked me in here and wouldn't let me see Liam again. What must he think?" She shook her head in soft despair. "I just disappeared…what if he thinks I d-d-don't love him anymore? He always said I was the only reason he stayed in the village; so many people here are so cruel to him for being a gancanaugh. What if he left?"

Dylan couldn't help it—she chuckled just a little. "Oh, trust me, I don't think he's left. I've had reports that a gancanaugh's been making trouble trying to get up to see you. When's the full moon?"

Iúile blinked. "I…I don't know, milady. Why?"

"Isn't it tradition in Bethmoora to marry on the full moon or something?"

Eyes once dingy gray with sorrow suddenly brightened to gold. "Yes…but gancanaugh marry on the crescent moon, milady. That's the night after tomorrow night."

A grin spread across Dylan's face. "I think we can plan a wedding in two days. And don't worry—I will personally see to it that your father can't interfere. No one is going to take your baby, no one is going to keep you and Liam apart, and don't worry about the whore comments. You learn to ignore them."

Golden eyes widened. "Milady? You mean…? But who would dare to call you…?"

"Stupid people," Dylan replied, "who've never had their nose broken by a mortal before." That was what had happened to one of the last people to call her a whore, after all, although she'd punched the assassin more because he'd insulted Nuada's honor. "That's who. Now, I'm a healer, which is exactly what you need right now. How far along are you?"

"Eight months," Iúile murmured, resting her hands on her belly. "Elves carry babes for a year and a day, but with human blood in its veins…I don't know how long I'm supposed to carry."

"Ten and a half months," Dylan said, patting Iúile's shoulder. "I've seen my share of half-human, half-fae pregnancies. Trust me—none of them turned out to be harbingers of the Apocalypse, I promise. All right. First things first: you need a healer, a bath, and food in that order. And a haircut, I think. These tangles…your father didn't even give you a brush for your hair?"

She shook her head. "He hoped to bully me into giving in, but Mistress Oonagh wouldn't let him starve me."

Dylan was going to have something to say to Mistress Oonagh. But all she said aloud was, "Iúile? Listen to me. A young woman who's survived what you've survived, and come out of it like you have, is tougher than that. No one can bully you. You should be proud of that. Now come on. I'll get you that bath."

Just as the two women had gotten to their feet, a booming voice echoed through the tavern and rattled the door to Iúile's prison. "What are you doing here, you wretch? Get out! I'll not have you near my daughter!"

Dylan frowned and Iúile went pale, but color flooded her cheeks the next moment when a younger voice yelled, "What have you done with her? Where is she? Iúile! Iúile, my love! I'm here! It's Liam! You won't keep me from her any longer, Barinthus! Iúile!"

Iúile clutched Dylan's hand. "He's here," she breathed. "He's here. Oh…Liam!"

"Told you," Dylan replied, feigning casualness. Inside she was shaking. This was about to either go exactly how she wanted, or blow up in her face. Disengaging from the Elven girl, Dylan went to the door and poked her head out. Nuada had one hand on the hilt of his sword, one eye cast down the corridor toward the sound of the ruckus. When he noticed her, he raised an eyebrow. She held up a finger. Sucking in a breath, she pitched her voice down the corridor.

"Liam Uí Niall! Iúile is up here, second floor, third door on the left! Master Barinthus, if you would kindly attend upon His Highness and me downstairs, we would be much obliged."

There was a thunder of hard-soled boots on wooden steps, a snarled curse, a thump like a fist meeting flesh, another curse, a hollow thud, the sound of a body hitting a few stairs, and then boots on steps again. A lean figure clad in brown trews and a torn homespun shirt rocketed into the hallway so fast he hit the wall opposite the staircase. His head whipped around. Sclera-less black eyes with slitted crimson pupils fixed on her. Dylan stepped fully into the corridor and jerked her thumb at the door. Liam rushed to the door, sliding along the wooden floor. An older Elf with a grizzled beard and fury blazing in his eyes clambered up the steps behind the gancanaugh. Dylan was fairly sure it was Master Barinthus. She considered whether it would be unchristian to despise him on sight and couldn't decide.

"Stop him!" Barinthus yelped. "Stay away from my daughter, you son of a whore!"

Dylan fought against rolling her eyes. She had to be a noblewoman right now. Dang it. So she only said, "You can do all the bowing and stuff later," to Liam. To Nuada she added, "Right?" Her prince canted his head. She gestured for Liam to proceed through the door. "Go on in. She'll be happy to see you. She's been through a lot but—"

"I know," Liam said, glaring over his shoulder at Barinthus. He turned back to Dylan. "I know, and if she wants me to leave, I'll leave, but I just want to see her for a few minutes. Please, milady! Is she all right? Are she and the babe both all right?"

Nuada started at the mention of a child. His gaze chilled as he fixed it on the Elven man puffing toward them. Dylan ignored them and said, "As far as I can tell. She'll need to see a healer, and she's malnourished, but they both seem all right. Go on."

She noticed the gancanaugh's hand shook as he lifted the latch. The door creaked open. Barinthus opened his mouth to roar a protest, but found himself suddenly speechless under the quelling gaze of the crown prince of Bethmoora. Liam saw Iúile—disheveled, too thin, hair tangled, and very pregnant—and his mouth fell open. Iúile's eyes filled with tears. And then the youth rushed into the room and enfolded her in his arms, pressing his cheek to her hair, oblivious to the tangles.

"Oh, mo ghrá. Tá grá agam duit, shíl mé riamh ba mhaith liom a fheiceann tú arís , tá mé chaill tú chomh mór! Tá grá agam duit. Iúile, oh, Iúile…" Liam murmured, kissing her hair, her forehead, her face. Iúile's fingers twisted in the sleeves of his shirt as she pressed against him as close as she could manage, simply whispering Liam's name.

Dylan closed the door on the pair. She wondered absently if Nuada would ever react that way if she'd been kept from him for upwards of six months. Probably. Unless he was covered in her kidnappers' blood. Then she wasn't quite sure.

Barinthus opened his mouth again, tempestuous fury in eyes directed at the mortal woman who'd so blatantly disregarded his orders. Nuada fixed his gaze on the other Elf. The prince raised an eyebrow, a subtle challenge that anyone would have to be suicidal to accept. The older Elf swallowed. Muttered, "I have rights. She's my child—"

"Yes," Dylan said with sweet venom. The heat in her chest warred with the icy cold fury churning in her stomach. "She is your child. We'll discuss your rights downstairs. Kindly remove yourself." When the fae shot her another savage look, she added frostily, "Be gone."

She wasn't sure it would work, but it did. With one last furious look at the closed door, Iúile's father went downstairs. Dylan sighed and slumped against the wall.

"Now what," her prince asked, folding his arms across his chest, "was that all about?"

"Fighting the good fight for true love," Dylan mumbled, and explained everything to him. When she was done, she said, "Thank you for backing me up like that. Thank you for trusting me."

"Of course," he replied. "I have faith in your judgment, beloved."

"Thanks. So…in addition to all the incredibly depressing and difficult things we have to do…how do you feel about planning a wedding with me? Or at least defending their right to have one in the first place?"

Nuada considered. "Would you be willing to dance with me at this wedding?"

She blinked. "Uh…sure. I guess."

He offered a regal nod. "Then I think it is a fine idea."

Both her eyebrows shot toward her hairline. "Wait…so just because I agreed to dance with you, you're willing to help fend off the Dad from Hades and help Romeo and Juliet get hitched?"

"And because it is the right thing to do…but mostly because you will dance with me, yes."

A laugh bubbled up in her throat. She shook her head, smiling ruefully. "Why, though? What's so great about dancing with me?"

Settling his hands on either side of her waist, he drew her too him. Touched his forehead to hers. Exhausted from the day—more like a quarter of a day, though it felt like an eternity—of dealing with those downstairs and this whole situation, she draped her arms around Nuada's neck. Sighed when he fitted himself to her, a warrior's hard strength to brace her up. She twined her fingers in his hair out of habit. Dropped her head to his shoulder.

"When we dance, I can touch you," he whispered. "Do you know how grateful I am for that? For the longest time, for a cursed eternity, I had to guard myself around you. Touch you too often, and I would begin to crave the feel of your skin under my fingertips, the silk of your hair against my cheek. Yet I already craved you. I already yearned to touch you. To hold you in my arms, to drown in your scent. Dancing gives me a chance to touch. To torture myself with those fleeting caresses that always serve to make my blood burn. Has no one ever told you? Dancing is where seduction begins. It draws you in," he pulled her a little closer. His voice dropped an octave. "The music whispers under your skin and your heartbeats find the rhythm, your breath mingles, and you lose yourself, shed the shell of your soul and find refuge in another…just for a moment. At least," he added, "it is so when I am with you. And for that, I am eternally grateful, a ghrá mo chroí."

My heart's beloved...

Dylan swallowed hard and gazed up at him, at the too-intense ivory eyes kissed with gold. She tried to clear her throat but only managed to squeak. Tried again and managed it this time. "Are we still…talking about...dancing?" She asked, more than a little breathlessly.

He smiled, a slow curve of smug male satisfaction. "My love, if I weren't, I promise you that you wouldn't have to ask. You know, you look quite fetching when you blush. Such a perfect shade of pink."

"Shut up," she mumbled, trying and failing to hide her smile. "You know, one day I'm going to find a way to make you blush."

"It will never happen, darling. I am sorry to disappoint you."

"I'll find a way. Don't think I won't." When he only smiled at her, she added, "I'll ask Francesca for tips."

The horror stealing across his face almost made her crack up. "You would never do that to me." She started giggling. "Dylan? Dylan. You would not do that. Not to me. You love me. You would never betray me like that." A laugh hiccupped out. "Do you have any idea what she would do to me? Or make you do?"

Dylan laughed again. "Probably try to convince me to seduce you."

He narrowed his eyes at her. Considered. "In that case, maybe you should ask her." He grinned when she laughed, but then had to chase the merriment away with, "We must deal with Master Barinthus."

To his obvious surprise, Dylan grinned, sharp and feral. "Oh, goodie. Abusive parents are my specialty. Let's do this."

Dylan knew from the new depth of their connection that Nuada had decided he felt sorry for Barinthus, mainly because the prince respected his lady's ferocity in defending those to whom she gave her protection. But that didn't stop him from escorting his lady downstairs to deliver the other Elf's doom—human-flavored and fun-sized. Dylan thought that just perhaps, beneath the meager pity, Nuada was looking forward to a mortal-style smackdown.

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