Author's Note: hey, everyone! Sorry for the delay in updating, I lost the chapter. I didn't know where it was. :( I found it, though. Obviously. Anywho, we're into the Northern Villages Arc and here we go with the next chapter in that storyline. Excitement! Hope you guys enjoy it, let me know what you think, okay? Huggles! Bye!
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Chapter One-Hundred-Nine
The Calm Before the Storm
that is
A Short Tale of a Serpent, the Command of Lord Famine, a Slur on Nuada's Honor, Blood Shed in Nuada's Defense, Dylan Accuses Her Prince of Something, Petra Shares the Secret of Rowan, Pillars of Salt, a Glimmer of Hope, Three Painful Words, a Lost Flower, a Lost Kitten, Out of Time, the Red Dragon, and a Matter of an Old Score
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Winter's chill hung like fog through the hall beyond King Balor's chambers, despite the feeble struggle of the corridor torches. Slithering like a ribbon of shadow along the floor where flagstones met the wall, Kadru the naga made her way back from the old king's chamber. Every night her mistress sent her to sink her fangs into the king's flesh. For almost two months now, her slow-acting poison had oozed through royal veins. Slowly, ever so slowly, the king was growing weaker. All according to the plan laid out by Kadru's mistress, Lady Dierdre—and Dierdre's master, Prince Bres.
Weaken the king to the point of death, dishonor the prince, and set Nuala on the throne with Bres as her co-ruler, combining the kingdoms…and then kill the prince and princess in one fell stroke, leaving Bres the king of Bethmoora and heir to Cíocal, soon to be king once King Elatha Redtongue died or stepped down.
In a way it was a beautiful plan. Nuala was so anxious to be wooed by someone so different from the courtiers of Bethmoora. Every nobleman in the Golden Court had some tie to the Silverlance—either as an ally or an enemy. Bres had known of Nuala's weariness of her brother's court machinations, and while he openly despised humans, thanks to Lord Cíaran's influence, it hadn't come up in conversation. It was almost as if the princess forgotten the Fomorian prince's loathing for the children of Adam. And because she longed so for romance from a new quarter, she played right into Bres's eager hands.
As did the king, who would never turn his suspicions to Dierdre, the so-called scarlet Fomori who so closely resembled the poor, lonely king's dead wife. Even Nuada, who'd been gently seduced into kissing the gancanaugh disguised as an Elf, would never suspect her of treachery. Kadru's mistress was clever, and the plan seemed foolproof.
Licking the last vestiges of amber blood from her lips, Kadru slithered on, glamoured to invisibility. Even the Butchers couldn't see her, although that was thanks to their stupidity—they never thought to look down, not for something as small as a naga serpent. Kadru only paused when two shadows cut through the torchlight illuminating a nearly deserted part of the royal corridor. No guards bore witness to the arrival of the pair, only the cold light of the winter stars frosting the castle windows with death-pale light…and one naga.
"My Lord Famine," a sibilant voice hissed as the first shadow, tall and doughy, knelt before the second. The second figure loomed over the first, his spiderlike hands clasped behind his back as he studied his servant. The sibilant creature hissed, "Is it true? You mean to send me on this mission? You would have me…speed things up, as the mortal slut would say?"
The one sometimes referred to as Lord Famine—a common nickname for certain ennobled fae—narrowed his dark eyes. "Has the harlot seen you, Hastur? Ever?"
Hastur shook his head. "Nay, my lord. And if it be true that she is marked by one of my kind—if she was in fact licked by a fear darrig—she would believe she has no reason to fear me. If I were any but Hastur, I would not dare make an enemy of her."
"Good," hissed Lord Famine. "I do not want her to suspect what is really happening to her when you strike. I doubt the prince's little slut could break free of your spell, but she has surprised us in the past. She even killed three of Shaohao's assassins. Killed three Téngshé. I refuse to underestimate her again. But it is the rare fear darrig that can take memories and twist them into new terrors. If the gods are willing, she will not suspect it is an illusion."
The fae known as Hastur cleared his throat. "I do not believe we can trust the Red Dragon, my lord. His loyalty to the Azure Dragon has proven a problem in the past. And if it should be known that the harlot is the plaything of both Silverlance and Azurefire—"
"You think Shaohao may turn against us."
Hastur lowered his numerous, beady, black eyes to the floor. "He is a madman, my lord. His only constant is his love for the Azure Dragon and the Serpent Empress, their mother. He is not a reliable ally. Nor, if I may be so bold, is the Star Elf."
Lord Famine stiffened. "You refer to Polunochnaya."
Kadru had to fight the instinct to pick her head up from the floor in order to see this Lord Famine's face. Abyssal fury growled beneath his words. The naga knew that Ledi Polunochnaya iz Lysaya Gora was one of the two ladies-in-waiting to Princess Nuala and an Elf of Zwezda, a Child of the Stars. According to Prince Bres, Polunochnaya was very dear to the princess…and, so it was said, to the crown prince. Was Polunochnaya involved in this scheme against the human Silverlance loved? Why? From what Kadru understood, Polunochnaya was a member of the pro-human faction of the Bethmooran court.
"What," Lord Famine snarled, "is your objection to Polunochnaya?"
"She is in love with the crown prince. She will not be able to bring herself to harm him when the time comes, even for honor's sake. When at last we can destroy the taint of the royal line, her courage and loyalty will fail her."
A low growl rumbled through the corridor. Kadru shrank into the shadows pooling on the floor, grateful for the dark scales that hid her from sight. If not for thoughts of her mistress, she would have slipped away while the two men were talking…but their schemes potentially stood in the way of Dierdre and Bres's plans. She would stay and listen.
Hastur had shrunk away from Lord Famine even as Kadru had cringed from the vicious snarl. Now the taller fae demanded in a voice that promised slow, torturous death, "What in the Thirteen Hells makes you think Naya is in love with that beast?"
Naya, Kadru thought. Not Polunochnaya, but Naya. Is he…jealous of the Silverlance? Could it be that this Lord Famine…could he be…
"I, I meant no offense," gibbered Hastur as he hunched into a ball. He yelped when his master raised a hand. Curling up tight as a snail, the creature whimpered, "I know she is your favorite, my lord. I only sought to warn you. I have seen how she looks at him! She loves him! I am not the only one who says so! Even your assassins that you sent at Midwinter knew it to be true! Please, do not use your Touch against me, my lord! Do not punish me! I sought only to warn you!"
Kadru watched as Lord Famine reached down and grabbed the front of Hastur's robes. Hauling him up, the creature bared its teeth. In the starlight, the naga caught sight of a pale face and teeth like bits of broken pottery in a raw-fleshed mouth. A fear gortach, she realized. Some of the most powerful fae in the Twilight Realm, but especially in Bethmoora. Some of the most powerful lords in the Golden Court were fear gortach, the Men of Famine, the Banquet Keepers. The Lord Provost, for example, and the Palace Steward. Normally they looked like harmless, gawky dough-creatures, but when enraged they became ravenous predators with a lust for blood and cruelty.
"Naya is loyal to me!" Yellow spittle splattered Hastur's lightly-furred, anthropoid face. The fear darrig cringed from its master. "She would never give her heart to that monster! One more word of this, from you or any of our compatriots, and I will rip out your lying tongue and make you eat it. Do you understand?"
"Y-Yes, my lord!" Hastur cried in a whisper. "Yes. I understand."
The fear gortach dropped the other fae in a heap on the floor. "Well enough. Let that be an end to it and all will be forgiven."
But Kadru knew that nothing would be forgiven this night. Lord Famine would not forget the words spoken here. Where once the air had tasted of darkness and anger, now hatred soured the shadows in the corridor. Slighting Ledi Polunochnaya would never be forgiven by the fear gortach. Hastur was simply too blind to realize that Lord Famine had marked him forever after as an enemy.
Turning away from his servant, the fear gortach went to stand at the window. Cold starlight cut a silhouette of him, all sharp angles and razor edges. Rage still pulsed on the air. Kadru tasted it like wormwood and vinegar. Those spiderlike fingers touched the glass.
"Naya is a good girl," he said softly, almost to himself. "She would never betray me. She is a good girl. Loyal. She does not possess any tender feelings for that…creature. Not anymore. He seduced her with his darkness once, but I showed her the truth." Those fingers tapped against the glass. "He tried to twist my girl, make her like him…but I saved her." Hastur said nothing. He simply cowered on the floor, a mouse held paralyzed by fear of the hunting cobra. At last his master turned and added, "I am surprised Silverlance allowed the harlot to accompany him on this venture, as she carries his child. Does he not fear for his unborn heir and its whore of a mother?"
"P-Perhaps," Hastur stammered, "perhaps it is not the prince's child. Perhaps it belongs to the Dilong heir. The rumors—"
"Yes, yes, the rumors. Our spy among the Healers wasn't able to learn the demon-spawn's paternity before the prince and his whore left for the north. I had hoped Polunochnaya would have the chance to snake her way into the human traitor's confidences, but there was no time. And now we have too many unknowns on the playing field. Too much stands in the way of setting Nuala on the throne."
"What if…forgive me, my lord, but what if your forces are unable to kidnap the human? And if they do, what if they cannot keep Silverlance at bay long enough to dispose of her appropriately?"
Lord Famine turned, and in the torchlight his eyes glittered like the eyes of a spider. "Well, Lord Hastur, King's Punisher, we have enough spies among those men with the supply trains to sufficiently distract the prince, and if that is not enough…that is the other reason I'm sending you. If there is anyone whose glamour can fool the prince's magic and Sight, it is yours. After all, fear and illusion are what the fear darrig do best, is it not?"
"And when will I be expected to leave, my lord?"
"Now," the fear gortach murmured. "Leave immediately. Go not by the Forest Road, but by dark ways marked in unicorn's blood. You will reach the village of Lallybroch before sunset. Find a man, an Elf, named Barinthus. At present, if my sources report accurately, he has no love for the prince or his whore."
Kadru would've frowned if her face had been capable of it. As it was, her eyes narrowed. She flicked out her long tongue, tasting the air. Smug triumph thickened the air around her. How could this creature have received reports from his spies among the prince's men already? By Prince Bres's calculations, the Bethmooran prince and the supply caravans had only arrived that day. Did Lord Famine possess some form of magical correspondence with his spies? She would have to report this to Lady Dierdre as well. It could prove a useful secret to steal…or a hindrance worth killing for.
"Once you have found Barinthus, go in search of Sréng mac Úmhór, leader of our bandit pack. Tell him it is time to have his final revenge. He must be tired after so many centuries of immortality. Humans weren't meant to live so long, you know."
Hastur frowned. Kadru dared to inch just a touch closer. The minion ventured, "Immortality, my lord? How old is this Sréng mac Úmhór?"
Lord Famine's smile turned icy with hate. "He turned nine years old the day the queen died. How he has lived this long, I know not. Perhaps he tasted of the silver quert of Avalon; I don't know, nor do I much care. But he swore an oath that he would not rest until he had his revenge…and now it is finally time. Tell him Lord Famine says it is so."
"Yes, my lord."
When Hastur had scuttled away and Kadru was certain there was nothing left to hear, she started to creep along the floor again, hoping to reach her warm basket by Lady Dierdre's hearth before the winter chill penetrated her serpent magic enough to make her go torpid. But froze just once when the fear gortach, returned now to his usual unimposing shape, turned and began whispering to the window.
"Must I test you, Naya? Mo bheag gcáithníní sneachta—my little snowflake? I think I must. I think I must be certain you hold no love for Nuada in your heart. It will take but three words, Naya. Do not betray me…and if you still harbor some soft feeling for that monster, do not betray yourself, because I will kill you for the treachery if I find it out."
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Lady Dylan swept down the stairs, across the main room of the tavern, and into the room where Tsu's'di indicated Barinthus the Elf was waiting. Nuada came at her side, ready to stand between her and the no-doubt enraged Elf whose daughter now called Dylan her champion. As it happened, it wasn't needed. Dylan didn't quail when Barinthus surged to his feet. The stocky, grizzled Elf opened his mouth to speak, but Dylan intercepted his furious words with icy ones of her own that cut like iron blades.
"Before you say a word to me, I want you to know that I have made a decision regarding Iúile." Dylan's lip curled slightly when Barinthus's eyes widened. "Nothing you say or do will change that decision. She's going to marry Liam Uí Niall because she wants to. She is going to raise her child because it is her child and she has made her choice. And you will do nothing to interfere with their happiness or I will come down on you like a sledgehammer. Do you understand me, Master Barinthus?"
"You can't do that," the Elf hissed.
Nuada simply raised an eyebrow and wondered idly if he ought to interfere. Did the man deserve the tiny fragment of pity that Dylan's ire had produced in the prince? Nuada couldn't decide. And did the legendary Elven warrior truly want to risk the wrath of his formidable—at this point, stunningly beautiful—lady? Something about her anger struck him as almost exquisitely lovely. A warrior princess ready for battle.
He didn't want that wrath turned on him. And there was the fact that he agreed with and fully supported Dylan's decision to intercede for the young sweethearts. And she was just suddenly so beautiful, all flashing eyes and royal disdain. As soon as they dealt with this problem, he had every intention of kissing her breathless.
"I can," Dylan said coolly. "I did. It's done. You should be grateful for a son-in-law who loves your daughter that much."
"He's naught but a heathen and a criminal! The wretch is a slave to the Star Kindler, refusing to give honor to the old gods and the old ways, just like that ungrateful chit!" At this, Dylan's expression turned incredulous, but Barinthus wasn't finished. "And gancanaugh are twisted, tainted! He'll turn her into a whore—or more of a whore than she is already—"
Before Nuada even realized what Dylan meant to do, she'd closed the distant between herself and the other Elf, lashed out, and cracked her hand across his cheek hard enough to wrench his head to the side. Barinthus staggered back. Nuada rushed forward to see if Dylan had hurt herself, but froze when he saw the shadowed, half-mad rage smoldering in her eyes. Tears glimmered there, sparkling like glass-sharp shards of fury and despair. Memory danced in her gaze, taunting with vicious whispers. Dylan closed her hand into a fist and let it drop to her side. Nuada realized she'd hit Barinthus with her left hand. Her engagement ring had opened up a cut on the Elf's cheek.
Barinthus covered his bleeding cheek with one hand. He stared at the mortal as if she'd gone mad. For just a moment, Nuada himself wondered if his lady had rushed too close to the edge of rationality for comfort.
"You bitch—" The Elf began, but flinched at the murderous look on Nuada's face.
"How dare you?" Dylan whispered. Her voice rasped as if she had to squeeze it out of her throat. Her chest hitched with every breath. "How dare you talk about your own daughter like that? Your daughter was raped by the same monsters who murdered your wife and you dare say those things about her? Your daughter is a strong, beautiful young woman. You should be proud of her, not abusing her! How dare you? How dare you?"
"Hear this, Barinthus mac Eitidh," Nuada said coldly. Where Dylan's voice came soft as swan feathers, horrified and rife with anger, the prince's voice fell like an executioner's axe fashioned of black ice. It cut off the other Elf's fury at the knees, leaving him nothing but a growing fear and the realization that he'd pitted himself not against his daughter and a simple gancanaugh youth without allies, but against a ferocious, perhaps half-mad mortal and the crown prince of Barinthus's own country. He could not win, and he was only just now beginning to realize it.
"Here this," the prince continued. "From this moment on, you have no claim to your daughter. You forfeit the right of kinship. As of this moment, she is under my protection, the protection of Prince Nuada Silverlance, and a member of my household, as is Liam Uí Niall."
At this, Dylan blinked, but only interrupted to say, "And his mother," remembering what Iúile had said about the gancanaugh's mother and how the woman had cared for her in the aftermath of the attack.
Nuada inclined his head. "And his mother, and any other family he may have. You will cease to be their enemy from this day forward, or suffer the consequences. It is treason to act against the household of the royal family. Do you understand?"
Copper eyes rimmed by black locked with a gaze darkening swiftly to crimson. The older Elf opened his mouth. Closed it again. Outrage suffused his face with dark color and for a moment Nuada dispassionately considered the idea that the old man might have a heart attack from sheer fury. Instead, Barinthus snarled, "Well enough. She's nothing but a harlot. She's no daughter of mine. Keep her, then. I care not. Makes sense, I suppose. Partial to the younger ones, are you, Your Highness?"
Nuada's eyes widened and his teeth came together, clenching in the face of the insult, but before he could do or say anything, Dylan let out a sound a wet, feral cat would've envied and punched Barinthus in the mouth. The old Elf staggered back, blood pouring from his mouth. Dylan yelped and hugged her hand to her chest. Nuada saw scarlet welling up from her knuckles and realized she'd cut herself on the Elf's teeth. Clenching her fist, ignoring the blood, Dylan started to stride to Barinthus, ready to hit him again. Nuada caught her around the shoulders.
He didn't even need to yell for the guards. Uaithne and Lorcc rushed into the room, followed closely by Acting-Steward Gawain. Seeing the prince inspecting the mortal woman's bleeding hand while Dylan glared pseudo-death at Barinthus, Gawain said, "Barinthus mac Eitidh, I believe you are under arrest for assaulting Her Ladyship."
At a nod from Nuada, Uaithne and Lorcc grabbed the other Elf and dragged him from the room. Gawain began mumbling hasty apologies. Nuada waved him off and let the acting steward bow out of the room. Then he turned to Dylan.
"Temper, temper, my love."
"Did you hear what he said?" Dylan demanded in a whisper, so furious she was positively shaking. "He practically accused you of…of…She's practically a child compared to you! That's disgusting! And she's pregnant, for pity's sake!"
Attempting to distract her—he had the sudden suspicion that if she worked herself up enough, she would attempt to track Barinthus down and try to beat him bloody—he said, "My love, for a while I often felt like a…what was it you called a man who finds his partners among much younger women? 'A cradle-robbing creep,' was it? You realize Iúile is several centuries older than you. As for the other matter," he added over the sound of Dylan sputtering, "if you were pregnant, I would still desire you." He paused to consider. "Perhaps even more so than usual, since I wouldn't have lain with you for quite a long time."
That distracted her. She stared him, baffled. "Why not? Women can have sex when they're pregnant."
He blinked. "But surely not…not…" For once at a loss for words, he floundered for a moment before concluding, "Not so close to confinement, surely."
"Yeah," Dylan said. Her lips quirked into a slightly befuddled smile, as if she couldn't understand how they had come to be talking about this. In truth, Nuada wasn't certain either. "They totally can as long as they aren't having any complications with the pregnancy. In fact, if the baby's overdue, sex can help instigate labor." Her smile morphed into a grin. "Bet you didn't know that."
"No," he mumbled, looking away from her dancing eyes. His face heated. "No, I did not."
Dylan folded her arms. "Wait a second. Wait just a second." She crowded close, peering up into his face. "Oh. My. Goodness. It's true!"
Nuada scowled. "What?"
"You're turning yellow!" She poked his cheek gently. "You're blushing!"
His scowl deepened. "Do not be ridiculous. It is simply overly warm in this room." And only, he growled silently, because thoughts of Dylan in his arms had suddenly decided to start dancing through his head. He tried to banish them—he'd promised her he would not think about her like this—but with her eyes so bright, her smile so happy, and still with that image of her as the fiercely beautiful princess plaguing him, well, he couldn't help himself. He ached to kiss her, just once…but it wouldn't be only once. He didn't dare attempt it, not with the tenuous hold he suddenly had on his control.
"It's not that warm," she said flatly. "You're totally blushing."
He wasn't. His entire body had suddenly gone warm all over as she crowded closer, peering at his face to catch a hint of the long-sought-after blush. He swallowed and tried to put some space between. She followed after, grinning. "Dylan…" There was no help for it but to beg. "Have some mercy."
Her eyebrows popped up. "Mercy?" She studied him for a moment before color exploded in her cheeks and she shifted backward. "Oh. I, uh…oh. Are you…okay?"
Nuada swallowed again. "Fine. It is simply that, when you hit him…you looked so lovely."
Dylan's mouth fell open and she actually laughed. "Are you serious? That's what does it for you? Me punching people?"
"Your bravery, mo crídh. That is one of the things that, as you say, 'does it for me.'"
"Okay, please don't ever use that phrase ever again," Dylan said. "That's going in the drawer with 'angsty panda' and 'icky-ful.'" Then she laughed and took Nuada's hand. "I love you. Just thought you should know. I'm only brave because…because you showed me how to be."
"No, my dearest." Taking a gamble, Nuada kissed her forehead. "You have always been brave. I have only reminded you of that from time to time. Now, I believe Iúile needs to be examined by a healer, and I think I need to have a talk with Master Uí Niall."
Unfortunately that would have to wait. Exhausted by months of emotional strain—and in Iúile's case, captivity—as well as the relief of being together again, Iúile and Liam had fallen asleep in another of the tavern rooms, the pregnant Elf maiden curled up on her side on a spare cot, with Liam on the floor beside her, his back propped up against the wall, clasping tight his truelove's hand.
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Petra Myers didn't mention to anyone that her feet hurt, her fingers were starting to go numb despite the thick gloves she wore, and that she was sick and tired of having to dodge sheep and cow poop mixed with ice-crusted snow. The only person in the group who she knew could understand her was Fionnlagh, the royal guard with the gray skin and the long, black hair spilling out of a beaked, iron helmet. Dylan had said Fionnlagh was a girl, and if Petra looked at her long enough, maybe she could see what might've been curves beneath the uniform, but she didn't have time to look at the other faerie. Right now, Petra Myers was busy playing escort to a dude with one eye who barely came up to her chest, a teenager with arms the approximate length and thickness of a gorilla (and some really pointy ears), an older guy who looked like a less angsty version of her little sister's fiancé—and minus the weird scar carving across the prince's face—and a pint-sized unicorn of all things. The mortal woman couldn't handle an in-depth study of the royal guardswoman who'd come along to serve as her protector and interpreter right now.
They'd walked to a tract of land about fifteen minutes beyond the village proper after taking the unicorn—Fluttershy, Dylan had said her name was—to the blacksmith's half-wrecked forge. In what felt like less than twenty seconds, the massive blacksmith covered in singed auburn fur had taken a piece of silver proffered by the gorilla-armed kid and, with the help of this squat dwarf-looking dude in a burgundy shirt and moss-colored trousers wearing some pretty fancy shoes, had hammered out four silver horseshoes sized for Fluttershy. In another twenty seconds, the hairy guy and the shoe-lover had attached all four silver shoes to Fluttershy's hooves and sent the group on their way.
Now Petra was starting to get that itch at the back of her mind that she hadn't felt since she was a kid: the itch to know something about the mystical creatures Dylan surrounded herself with. As kids, she'd loved hearing her sister's stories about the weird things she supposedly ran into. That was, until it started upsetting their parents. Then Petra had forced herself to stop encouraging Dylan after Mr. and Mrs. Myers had chewed out their other children for even mentioning the word "fairy" in the house. But now…now she wanted to know again, even though she suspected that meant she was just a little bit crazy.
"What was that guy?" Petra murmured as an aside to Fionnlagh as her eyes continually scanned the surrounding forest and empty stretches of snow. Supposedly—according to Dylan—Fionnlagh had four eyes that could act independently of each other. Since Petra couldn't see beneath the helmet, she had no proof…and she really didn't want any. "The hairy guy who helped make the shoes? What kind of fairy was he?"
"Faerie," Fionnlagh corrected. Her thick, hobnail boots crushed the snow underfoot. "That was a basajaun. Every village has at least two; they often find work protecting flocks from wolves and other predators, and their presence helps cereal crops grow faster and stronger. They love working metal."
"Can't other people help protect the flocks or whatever?"
Fionnlagh nodded. "Oh, of course. Many shepherds' children have work enough guarding their sheep, but by their very presence, basajaunak frighten away wolves. They're also helpful for predicting the weather."
Petra blinked. "Uh-huh." How did Dylan just take stuff like this in stride? Scaring off wolves, predicting the weather, improving crops just by hanging around? How did that even work? But all she said was, "And the other guy? With the shoes?"
The royal guardswoman shot Petra a disbelieving look; at least, Petra thought it was disbelieving. It was hard to tell, considering Fionnlagh still wore that helmet. The other woman demanded, "You can't recognize a loúgh bhréghain when you see one? But even humans nowadays still have legends of their kind! How did you not recognize him?"
Baffled, Petra cast her memory back to when she'd seen the little man in the shoes. His hair had stood on end, shocks of russet like fire, and his eyes had been the warm, golden-brown of dark champagne. He'd had several tacks decorating the collar of his dark red shirt. His moss-green trousers had been patched in places with maroon and dark brown, and with leather at the worn knees. The laces on his shoes, she remembered, had glinted beneath the soot and ash from the forge. Glinted like gold. Around his neck she'd glimpsed a gold coin with a hole bored through it, a leather cord tying it around his throat. A stylized Celtic tree had been engraved in the metal. But there was nothing to tell her what kind of faerie he was supposed to be.
Fionnlagh mumbled something and shook her head. Petra caught Dylan's name somewhere in all that deprecating muttering. Something like, How can she be Lady Dylan's own flesh and blood? Petra opened her mouth to snap off a retort when Fionnlagh said, "He's a loúgh bhréghain."
"What's that?"
"What is…" Fionnlagh sighed. "Oh, that's right—you're from Elphame. Alright. Say it fast, over and over again. You'll figure it out."
Trying not to roll her eyes, Petra said, "Okay. Loúgh bhréghain, loúgh bhréghain, loúgh bhréghain, loúgh bhréghain…" She trailed off suddenly, then said it slower, almost mangling the pronunciation. "Loúgh…leph…Bhréghain…bregcaun…leph-bregcaun…Holy shhh…" She bit back the word on the tip of her tongue. She had to represent Dylan as a noblewoman, which meant she, Petra, had to act like a noblewoman too. So she couldn't swear. But she turned wide eyes to Fionnlagh and said, "He's a leprechaun. He's a f-f-f-flipping leprechaun! Holy crap, that is cool!"
She couldn't believe it. She'd actually seen a real live leprechaun.
"That is why he was there—to help the farrier make the shoes." Seeing the return of Petra's confusion, Fionnlagh added, "Loúgh bhréghain are typically cordwainers. Shoemakers, you'd call them. Leather-workers for the most part, but making shoes for the like of Lady Fluttershy requires a deft hand. The farrier wanted to be certain they would turn out well."
"I…see. That's really cool, actually."
"I have heard Her Ladyship use that word before: cool. What does it mean in your tongue?"
"Uh…" Petra considered. "It means…like, you're impressed or pleased with something. It means it's good…whatever it is."
Fionnlagh nodded. "I see," she said, in a tone that told Petra she didn't see at all. "So, then…cool is good. But I have heard Her Ladyship refer to His Highness as 'hot.' Cool is the opposite of hot, yet this seems to be a compliment to him."
The eldest Myers sister briefly considered whether it counted as murder if she strangled her youngest sister for putting her in a position this awkward. Then she tried to smile while also trying to hide how awkward it was to talk about how "hot" or not her baby sister's fiancé was. Petra still didn't know how she felt about the prince. After seeing this village and what human bandits had done to it—and the slaughtered unicorns were never far from her mind—she understood why he despised humans so much, but…well, he loved Dylan. He'd given her a chance. Why couldn't he do the same for the rest of them? At least Dylan's family. They'd already apologized for the big misunderstanding. They were here, in Faerie, trying to help. Dylan had forgiven them. So why did the guy have to look like he wanted to chop her into tiny pieces every time he glanced her way?
"Yeah," Petra murmured. "It's a compliment. 'Hot' means physically attractive."
"Ah." Fionnlagh nodded again. "I see. But…well, that's so odd."
Petra raised an eyebrow. "Why is that odd?"
"Well, from the neck down, Prince Nuada is considered quite handsome, yes. But his face…by most fae standards, he's considered quite ugly."
Surprised—and more than a little in agreement; the guy looked like a complete freak, with his stark pallor and those dark circles around his eyes and the black lipstick or whatever that made his mouth so dark—Petra asked, "Oh? Why?"
"His darkness," the guardswoman replied with a shrug. "No one knows what he did to make his eyes and mouth look like that. It isn't cosmetic, and he wasn't born that way. He returned briefly from his exile approximately…hmmm…seventy decades ago, with deep shadows around his eyes and mouth. He was very ill when he arrived. It was the only reason he came back—he needed help. Some said he was dying. And even after he got well again, the darkness only deepened. Some people say it's a curse. I for one don't know and don't care. All I know is that the darkness seems to have lessened a little at times when His Highness is with Her Ladyship."
That was another bizarre thing about all of this: the whole "Her Ladyship" thing. Petra was happy, so very happy, that her baby sister had found a place where she seemed to be helping people, finding happiness, finding a place where she fit in. Despite everything, Dylan seemed to be thriving here—now that she didn't have to juggle two lives. For so long, Petra had been terrified that one day Dylan would be cast adrift and she would end up with nothing. But that fear kept crashing into the magnitude of Dylan's success. Dylan was a noble, for crying out loud. She owned enough land to make up Texas. Dylan basically owned Irish Faerie Texas. She was marrying a prince, a crown prince, and soon she'd be a princess. If Nuada's father died anytime soon, Dylan would be a queen. Her baby sister, a queen. Of a country bigger than the United States. Full of faeries.
It was just…so bizarre to think about.
And the fact that Dylan had lived with one foot in this world full of…of…of Elves and leprechauns and hairy guys who could predict the weather and unicorns and four-eyed, gray-skinned royal guards was just…sometimes it seemed like way too much to process. So far, Petra was handling everything by pretty much not processing everything and just letting it happen. She'd probably have hysterics later and need therapy and Valium.
Up ahead, the pointy-eared kid with huge, super-long arms said something in that flowing, lilting Irish that Dylan could speak as fluently as English. All this time, Petra had told her sister that learning Gaelic of all things was stupid. Look how it had paid off.
"What did he say?" Petra asked.
"A few of the farmers on the Village Council are waiting for us just there, Mistress Petra," Fionnlagh translated, pointing to a quarter of…people? One was another leprechaun, a woman in a green and red plaid dress with lovely black shoes; the silver buckles sparkled in the late afternoon sunset. She wore a tartan cloak that to Petra's eyes looked more Scottish than Irish, and her auburn hair had been pulled up in back so a few stray curls tumbled around her ears. Her eyes glinted hawk-like when they settled on Petra's face.
Near her was a tall, slender woman whose legs, revealed by her shortened emerald wool skirt, tapered to delicate goat hooves. Her eyes were the lambent yellow of a goat's, and gray-furred goat ears peeped through her golden curls. Flanking the goat woman were two…things: a guy maybe three feet tall, his weathered face scruffy with silvery beard, wearing a wooden helmet and holding a pickaxe; and a mass of black feathers gleaming like polished jet in the light, about the size of a large bull, with one muscular arm covered in fuzzy, black down jutting from one side of the feather-ball and a muscular leg thrusting down on the other side. To Petra, it looked like a giant, über-fluffy, black flamingo with no head. She thought the guy with the pickaxe might've been a dwarf, but he didn't have a real beard. Weren't dwarves supposed to have beards?
"Well, what might you be lookin' at then, human?" The leprechaun woman demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. She glared with some scorn at Petra. Petra lifted her brows. The words were spoken in Gaelic, but Fionnlagh translated. "You never seen a leprechaun afore? Or a glaistig? Or a knocker? Odds to bodkins you've never seen a fachen, then! What're you even doin' in our village in the first place? What connection have you to Her Ladyship exactly?"
"I'm her oldest sister," Petra said, trying to ignore Fionnlagh repeating the words in the leprechaun woman's language. "And she asked me to come fight the monsters who've been attacking your village, since apparently there's a law that says you're not allowed to. Who are you?"
"Whuppity Stooree," the leprechaun woman said. Then, in accented English, she added, "I've had dealin's with humans afore. Your kind isn't usually so concerned with kin. Hmmm. Well, no matter. You've no magic, so you can't help with what's doing right now anyway. As for this one," the woman's expression softened considerably when she focused on Fluttershy. She actually curtsied. "My lady, you are most welcome in our village. You honor us."
"Mistress Stooree," the gorilla-kid broke in, with a glance at Petra and an adoring gaze in the unicorn's direction, "Lady Fluttershy's going to fix the fields for us on behalf of Lady Dylan and His Highness the Silverlance. She's promised."
The leprechaun's eyes widened. They were as golden as newly minted coins. She turned to the goat-woman, the little dwarf-like man, and the mutant flamingo. "D'ye hear that, Firtha? Seán? Dáithí? His Highness has sent someone to mend the fields!"
Petra was getting a little tired of Fionnlagh having to translate everything. How did Dylan's three servants do it? The cat-people? They spoke English, but everyone seemed to understand them, and they seemed to understand everyone who spoke Gaelic to them. Was it some kind of spell? Because if it was, Petra wanted a piece of that spell so she didn't have to wait around to find out what was going on.
But she didn't say any of that out loud. She just asked, "Where are your fields?"
The goat-woman—Firtha? And what had Mistress Stooree called her? A glaistig?—gave Petra a pitying look, then swept her arms wide and gestured to the open expanse of snow and mud.
"This is what's left of our village farming fields," she said. Petra frowned and looked around at the barren stretch of land. She didn't see a single plant other than a few charred trees for at least a mile. Firtha continued, "The humans burned our crops to the ground just before harvest time. They salted the earth to prevent us from planting for the winter, and they…" The woman suddenly snapped her mouth shut. She closed her eyes and turned away.
A hoarse, rasping voice croaked, "They murdered our families and burned the corpses to ash and sludge with black dragon's blood." The words scraped like icy talons along Petra's spine. Every pause between words rattled like death. It took her a minute to realize it was the giant demon-flamingo talking. "Then they spread the ashes and salt across the land. They poisoned the soil. Saturated it with death and filth. And the snow buried it all."
"Enough, Dáithí," Mistress Stooree whispered. "We all lost loved ones to these monsters. My son Mickey and his wife, Jessica…their wee bairn, my own grandson, Jack…my wee Jackie…their ashes are here, too."
She didn't know what made her say it, what possessed her to interject—it was obvious these people had every reason to despise humans—but Petra murmured, "I'm so sorry for your loss."
The leprechaun's eyes flashed. "Are you now? And what would the likes of you know about losin' a child? Seeing your own wee babe, that you carried and birthed and nursed and loved and raised, murdered by monsters comin' out of the dark like demons? Beasts that know naught but rapin' and killin' innocent people—"
"I had four children once," Petra said too softly, and the leprechaun fell silent. "Two daughters and two sons. Now I have three children because two men, two monsters who despise my family, came out of the dark and shot my little girl. So yes, I know."
It was strange—she'd never spoken of her younger daughter, Rowan, since the trial when the Blackwood brothers had been acquitted of murdering a four-year-old girl in cold blood, never…except to Dylan, because it was something Dylan hid deep down inside of her. Guilt. Petra knew it was there. How could it not be? The Blackwoods had targeted Dylan's family because Dylan had had the nerve to try to escape them. It was the one thing, oddly enough, that Petra had never blamed her for. Not after what those twisted freaks had done to the youngest Myers child.
And even with Dylan, it had been two years. Nothing Petra had said had allowed Dylan to let go of her guilt. Did Dylan ever talk about it to anyone? Had she told the prince? The prince knew so much about her, and yet…Petra had the feeling Rowan's death was still a secret between them. Dylan still had a few secrets left. Why? Petra thought she'd have to ask her sister one day.
But this wasn't the time to dwell on secrets. This was a time of shared sorrow. Yes, Petra knew what many of the women in this village felt now, having to bury their babies. She'd done it once. She hoped none of her sisters ever had to do it themselves.
Mistress Stooree let out a long, slow breath. Then she said, "We've work to be getting' on with, we lot—don't we? Mistress Myers, you may stand with us if you like, Mistress O'Clyde and me."
It sounded pretentious, but Petra recognized it for the compliment—and apology—it was. So she stood with the two women, the men a little ways apart watching with an eye to the lists needed for the dispensing of supplies. And they all watched as Fluttershy stepped slowly forward. Her head hung low, casting a soft shadow across the snow drifts. Her silver shoes crunched the snow down. Petra knew when she found the salted earth because tiny sparks shot up and sizzled on the cold snow. Fluttershy startled, prancing sideways a little, before shaking herself and moving forward.
Absently, Petra became aware that the very soft wind that had whispered through the trees had fallen away. No birds chirped. The noises from the village had gone muffled and distant.
Fluttershy lifted her head and faced west, toward the sun slowly descending toward the horizon. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. It was almost as if she were drinking in the light. Gentle gossamer shimmers danced across her cream-colored coat, catching in the iridescent strands of mane and tail that unfurled on a nonexistent wind like silky banners. Her horn glinted crystalline in the light, limned with molten gold. She opened eyes that glimmered with captured starlight. A spear of exquisite pain pierced Petra's heart as with a graceful arch, Fluttershy reared up and cried out, half bugle and half starsong, a sound that echoed across the snow and through the barren husks of trees and beyond. Sunlight caught on the silver shoes like shooting stars.
In that moment, Petra knew she was about to see something few had ever seen. Real magic.
Dropping down to all four hooves, Fluttershy touched the tip of her horn to the snow.
The ground bucked, heaving beneath Petra's feet. She staggered and nearly fell as mounds of snow cascaded and crumbled, flattening the land. White pillars, thin as bones, shot up out of the snow, spearing toward the dove-gray sky. At first the gray veins within the spiraling pillars made Petra think they were marble…but then she touched one, and realized it was hardened salt laced with ash. She noticed the faeries eyeing the salt spires nervously. What was it about salt that was so bad? She'd have to ask Dylan later.
The unicorn wasn't finished. She tossed her head, her mane flying in the sudden up-kick of wind, and plunged her head down. Her horn thrust deep into the snow and earth. Blackness spewed up from the ground, geysers of rich dark earth that quickly swallowed up the whiteness of the snow. Green threads crept through the soil, glowing with the same ambiance that pulsed from Fluttershy's body like faint moonlight. More green spilled out of the ground, pumping like from a thousand hot springs, twining up and around the pillars of salt. Vines bursting with life gripped the salt and ash. Offshoots pierced the salt and light flooded through the cracks left behind by the vines. The veins of ash flooded with brilliant silvery light. The light grew brighter and brighter until Petra had to cover her eyes and look away. When she looked back, in place of those salt-pillars stood towering trees bearing apples the color of alabaster. Somehow, instinctively, the mortal knew they were safe to eat.
Beside Petra, Mistress Stooree caught her breath. Petra realized when she felt a tickle on her cheek that she was crying, though she had no idea why, and she realized that the tear hadn't frozen because the air was warm as spring. The scent of fresh sap, tilled soil, and starlight flooded the fields as vibrant plant-life poured out of the ground. Grass bunched thick around Petra's boots. Corn, wheat, barley, beans, tomatoes, squash, pumpkins—practically every sort of crop Petra could've imagined sprouted and grew rampant, fed by the magic filling the air. Petra could taste it, sweet as summer apples and rich as honey.
By the time Fluttershy stepped shakily out of the wild growth of the field, the snow was gone, the air hung warm and a little damp around them, and the fields were thick with ripening crop. The unicorn fell to her knees in front of the awe-struck fae and human and bowed her head.
*It…is finished,* she whispered. *The crop will last for thirteen days before the cold sets in again.* Then she sighed and closed her eyes. The glow flowing around and through her slowly faded. Still whispering, she added, *Can someone get me an apple? I'm awfully hungry.*
.
Skirts held up practically to her knees, Polunochnaya raced down the steps to her master's suite, heart thudding practically in her throat, the secret burning in her mouth, relief flooding like heady wine through her veins. They could spare him. They could spare him.
Thank the gods, Nuada didn't have to die.
No one did. Nuala had just told her as they were readying for bed—Nuada, thanks to the gentle persuasion of his human lady, had given up his mad lust for vengeance against the humans. He'd backed down, changed his course. He would not be the one to push the fae into war with the humans. He'd held onto his honor! He would do what was right! He would find another way to protect his people without shedding innocent blood.
Naya could have cried. He was safe. He was safe at last. Her friend, once her love, dearer to her than nearly any other save Nuala, Na'ko'ma, and her master, was safe at last. He'd returned after decades, centuries lost to whatever madness had festered inside him.
At the door to her master's suite, she paused to catch her breath. When she touched her face, she realized she was crying a little. But Nuada…Nuada was safe. Polunochnaya had been ready to break her own heart to preserve her honor and the honor of Bethmoora, but now…not she didn't have to! Nuada had been guided back to the light. Everything would be all right.
Swiping carefully at her cheeks and patting down her hair, she composed herself as best she could. Her hand still shook slightly when she raised it to knock on her master's door.
He opened the door himself and ushered her inside. Took both her hands and kissed them gently. He had always been so kind, her master. Like a father to her. He'd been the one to recommend her as one of Nuala's ladies-in-waiting when the Elven princess and the Zwezdan noble were both just girls. It had been his idea to keep Naya and Na'ko'ma with the princess in the wake of her mother's brutal death. And it had been her master who had protected Naya when her distant uncle had written to demand she return to Zwezda to marry a man she did not know, a man reputed to be a womanizing brute with a heavy hand and a cold heart. A punishment, Naya thought, for daring to come to Bethmoora in the first place. A revenge centuries in the offing. Her master had been the one to protect her from that fate, to allow her to remain at the Golden Court with her new family.
That had been a few centuries before the first steps in Nuada's descent into vengeful madness. By the time the truce had been called, the Golden Crown broken into its three pieces, she and Nuada had broken off their relationship…but she had loved him and worried for him, prayed for and missed him, every day that he was gone in his exile. She wondered if he'd ever thought of her beyond a few fond, fleeting memories.
She was glad, so glad, that he'd found this mortal. Lady Dylan. At first the Elf of Zwezda hadn't been sure, with the way the human always leapt to Nuada's defense and disrespected the king and seemed to despise both Balor and Nuala. But now…how could she doubt Dylan again?
"Naya, you're trembling," her lord murmured, frowning. "Whatever is the matter? Sit down, my dear. Sit down."
He ushered her to a sofa and she sank onto it gratefully, feeling as if at any moment her legs would fold beneath her. She didn't know how to tell him…didn't know how to explain…She could scarcely fathom it herself. Finally she blurted, "He's changed his mind."
Her master, whom many of his servants called Lord Famine—a common enough epithet for a fear gortach, a Banquet Keeper—went very still. She beamed at him, nearly breathless with delight and relief. The stone of guilt that had hung around her neck ever since her master had told her that Nuada—her prince, her friend, her former-to-the-public-but-never-truly-out-of-her-heart love—had to die…that stone was finally gone.
"What do you mean? Who changed his mind?"
"Nuada," Naya whispered, beaming even brighter. "Nuada changed his mind. She did it! The human! She really did it, she got him to change his mind! The king was right, his plan did work!" When her master said nothing, she grabbed his hands. "Remember, my lord? Nuala told me at Samhain that the king meant to use Lady Dylan against Nuada, to make him stop, to force him down a different path. It worked! He can't bear to lose her, so he won't awaken the Golden Army! He won't instigate war. He's done it for her."
In a very small corner of her soul, it hurt that Nuada hadn't done it for her sake, but for the human's…but Naya's happiness outweighed that jealous resentment too heavily for it to really matter. She tightened her grip on her master's hands.
"Don't you see? We're safe. Our honor remains intact. No one will get hurt now. Isn't it wonderful?"
Why was he looking at her like that? As if she'd driven a knife into his heart? Why wasn't he smiling too? Didn't he believe her? Polunochnaya's joyous expression faltered. She peered up at her master.
"My lord? What is it? What's wrong?" Surprised at her own daring, she laid a hand against his pale, clammy cheek. He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh that seemed to swell up from his very depths. "My lord," Naya murmured. "What troubles you? Please tell me."
For a long time there was naught but silence, filled only with the crackle of the fire on the hearth and the thud of Naya's heartbeat in her ears. Why didn't her master speak? Why did he look so…devastated?
When at last he spoke, his words served to cut out her heart.
"Mo scáth leannán."
Naya tried to jerk back from him but he held her fast, his long fingers biting deep into her wrists, bruising practically to the bone. Her breath hitched in her chest as she stared at the familiar face of the man who had been father and protector to her all these years. She couldn't breathe past the shard of pain lodged in her throat, choking her. She shook her head so fast the world swam.
"No. No, he has not called me that in centuries, my lord. It is not what you think. I am still loyal to you, I am not—"
"'My,'" the fear gortach hissed, face contorting with rage. He jerked her close as he snarled, "'Shadow.'" Clutching her wrists until the fragile bones ground together, he whispered, "'Lover.'"
The Elf tried to twist away. "Please, my lord. You're hurting me. I am still loyal! I'm not lying to you!"
"Mo scáth leannán," Lord Famine snarled. "'My shadow lover.' That is what he called you in the night when you gave yourself to him. When you let him seduce you. Stupid girl!"
Fresh tears stung her eyes, but no relief brought them this time—only panic and a biting wash of shame. She shook her head. "I was young, my lord. I did not know, I did not realize…but that's in the past, I swear to you. On the Darkness That Eats All Things, my lord, I swear, Nuada and I have not lain together in centuries. Please, you're hurting me, please!" She didn't ask how he knew of those sweet words Nuada would whisper in her ear in the darkness, the name he called her by in the old love letters that warmed her heart even now. She didn't want to know how he knew. It made her sick to think of the possibilities. "My lord, please…"
Abruptly he released her in the same instant she tried to jerk away. Naya tumbled off the sofa to the floor, hitting her head on the wooden sofa arm. Stars exploded across her eyes. Something warm and sticky trickled down over her temple. She flinched when she touched her temple and found a raw wound and blood. Her fingertips came away stained with silver. She turned stricken eyes to her master.
"M-M-My lord…my lord, I…I would never betray you. How could you think…"
The fear gortach surged to his feet. "Do you love him?"
Naya choked on a sob. "He is as dear as a brother to me, but I would not sacrifice this kingdom for a dozen brothers, I swear to you!"
Her master's hand jerked up and she flinched instinctively away, anticipating the strike that would turn her flesh to fire. But the blow never came. It only hung poised like a snake waiting to strike, and her master demanded, "Are you in love with the prince?"
She tasted iron on her tongue as she tried to form the word no and realized she could not push the lie out of her mouth. She had to think of something. Had to think of the right words or…or what? Or her master might hit her. Might cast her aside, throw her beyond his protection.
Might kill her?
"I do not love the prince," she whispered, thinking of Prince Bres. For some reason, every instinct prickled when he came near. She almost hated him. But he made Nuala so happy…"How could I? Master, my heart is faithful to our cause. I stand for this kingdom. Why are you angry with me? I don't understand." He said nothing. Tears slipped down her pale cheeks. "Please…if I have offended you, my lord, please tell me so that I might beg your forgiveness."
At last he sighed. Turned away from her. "You are so tenderhearted, my little snowflake…but Nuada is beyond saving."
"But Nuala said—"
"He is damned," the Bethmooran lord snapped. "Resign yourself to it. He will die because he must die. Do you think he will keep his word? Do you truly think he will leave the humans be? He will not! Eventually his hatred and madness will consume him again and he will flood the world with innocent blood! You know it is true, Naya! Now, I will hear no more of this. No more talk of sparing the prince. He must be put down for his own good and the good of both Realms. Go from me."
She whispered, "But…please, my lord—"
"Go!"
She left, nearly falling in her haste. Only when she was safe again in her own chamber did she shut and lock her door before collapsing against it and sinking to her knees. Covering her mouth with both hands to muffle the sound, she wept hot tears that nearly burned her cold cheeks.
Not safe, she thought. He would never be safe. Her master would see Nuada dead, no matter what. Even if…even if there was a chance to save him…her master didn't care. This wasn't for the good of the kingdom anymore. This was treason. This was murder. It was one thing to sacrifice a friend, someone she loved, to protect billions of lives, but if that massacre was no longer a certainty? She couldn't…she couldn't let her master kill Nuada. Not Nuala's twin. Not the prince who had held her the night she'd discovered her uncle demanded her back in Zwezda, the prince who had offered to duel her future husband to save her from that fate. The prince who had kissed her that night, so gently, so sweetly, in an alcove in the gardens blanketed by shadows. The prince who, not many nights later, had become the first man to ever make love to her. The man who was her friend even now.
Oh, gods, Naya thought, trembling as she huddled against her bedroom door. Oh, gods, Nuada…what have I done? What do I do now?
.
Nuada was about to sink down at a table in a private tavern room, Dylan and a few members of their entourage with him, when Acting Steward Gawain burst into the room. Irritation skittered down the prince's spine until he saw the terror on the dullahan's face. Nuada leapt to his feet. Dylan pushed to hers. Gawain didn't even bother to bow before he burst out, "Sire, my daughter—she's missing."
Dylan's mouth popped open. Nuada frowned. "Amaryllis?" The prince demanded, remembering the child A'du'la'di had given a cruel tongue-lashing. Gawain nodded.
"We have looked all over the village, Sire, but we cannot find her! She was upset, she may have run off into the woods, she sometimes used to go there to hide and to think, but the bandits…Shades of Annwn, my little one, my Amaryllis! If those monsters find her, they will—"
"I'll find her," a firm voice said from behind Nuada. The Elven prince turned to see Tsu's'di grabbing a couple journey-bread rolls from the small basket on the table. "If it's okay with you, Your Highness." The Elf nodded. Tsu's'di continued, "I know how to track through the forest. In my cougar form, I should be able to pick up her trail. Do you have anything of hers I can use to catch her scent? That'll help a lot."
Gawain paused to think. The prince noticed the way the dullahan's hand shook when he raked his fingers through his thick, black hair. He said, "Her favorite doll. It's upstairs in the room the village children have been sleeping in. I'll fetch it." He rushed out of the room again, Tsu's'di following after. Taking a good look at the prince, the pair of guards who'd been in the room—Loén and Scathach—saluted and stepped out to flank the door. Loén shut the door behind them.
Nuada heaved a sigh and sank down into his chair again. "We haven't had a moment's peace since we arrived in this place."
His lady offered him a tired smile. "Did you expect to? These people need our help." She hesitated, then added, "Nuada? I don't think we have enough time to go to all the villages and towns in trouble before…well, before we have to get married. It's the twenty-ninth of December," she said when his eyes widened and he opened his mouth to protest. "We're supposed to get married on the seventh of February. That gives us only six weeks to visit every village and town in every province you control and be back to Findias in time for the wedding. I just don't see how we can do it."
A thought struck him then, an icy knife crystallizing in his brain and sending sharp pain lancing through his temples. He swore under his breath and reached for his cup. Remembered belatedly that it was cider, not ale or wine wait for him to drink. Stars curse it anyway. At the moment he would've welcomed the sharp burn of alcohol. He slammed the mug down on the table. Dylan said nothing, simply waited.
"He knew this would happen," Nuada snarled. "My father. He knew we would run out of time, and if we put off the wedding, the gods only know what sort of trouble that will bring us. Even in this simple thing, he seeks to hem me in, to stop me from helping my people. Damn him!" Lunging to his feet again, he paced the length of the room twice before ramming his fist into the wall. "What does he want from me? I agree not to root out the bandits and butcher them like the rabid dogs they are, I forfeit my claim to the Golden Army and give up my plans to attack the humans, I give up the war, I sacrifice my honor to be the obedient son—"
"You have not sacrificed your honor," Dylan said sharply. Nuada shot her a look that she returned with cool equanimity. "You were stuck on the edge when you told me about what you planned to do to the humans," she said. "You didn't want to do it. You were desperate. You only wanted to protect our people—"
"Who are now in danger and dying because my thrice-cursed king refuses to let me off my leash long enough to actually do something!"
"We are doing something," Dylan cried.
"Not enough," Nuada snapped. "Nowhere near enough, Dylan! You think Lallybroch is the worst? You think the damage is greatest here? It's not." He sighed and slumped against the wall, dropping his head back against the polished wood. He let his eyes drift closed. "I've had worse reports. I've dreamt of worse. Remembered worse in my nightmares. Streets running with blood in the gutters like rain…corpses stacked like cordwood." His voice turned hollow as his memories clawed at the inside of his skull, screeching at him like harpies. "I walked by the cemetery today with Gawain. So many fresh graves. So much death. It's all so…so pointless. Gods, if not for you here with me now, Dylan, I think I might go mad at the futility of it all."
Gentle hands alighted on his shoulders, kneading briefly before sliding up along his shoulders, over his neck, to frame his face. He opened his eyes to see his lady, his so very human lady-love. Her eyes were soft and sweet, rainswept lakes of impossible blue. How he yearned to fall into them and drown his sorrows there. To forget, even for a moment…
Or perhaps he simply needed to get good and drunk, as he hadn't done but once in a long, long time. After that little incident with the likho barmaid that had been old enough to be his grandmother—only he'd been too drunk to care—he never indulged that much again…except the night he'd asked for Dylan's hand and she'd refused him. He'd gotten close after the gods knew how many glasses of whiskey. The burn of alcohol running down his throat had seared away the sharpest edges of the pain.
Maybe he ought to do that again so he could stop seeing the images running through the back of his mind again and again: Gawain's wife and Nuada's own mother, as well as Gawain's eldest daughter and the Elven maid sleeping upstairs, all victims of the predations of human men; Gawain's youngest son only just learning to walk, dying trapped inside a burning cottage; unicorns butchered and left in bloody pieces across a profaned grove; Lady Dierdre, covered in bruises inflicted by her own honor-less brother; the original steward of Lallybroch, Iubdan mac Doyle, murdered by humans; and of course, Dylan. So many images of Dylan, nightmare and memory mingling to birth new horrors. Sometimes, if he didn't push the images away fast enough, he could actually smell Dylan's blood, burning with iron. Sometimes he could even taste it. Hell's teeth…
He shuddered, and Dylan ran her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, a gesture like soothing a wild horse. He closed his eyes again and let out a sigh that was almost a groan. Dylan continued running her hands up and down his arms.
"Gods, Dylan, I don't know what to do. Sometimes I just…just don't know."
"You're doing your best."
He shook his head. "That is not enough and you know it. I…Dylan?" Her hands had gone still and when he opened his eyes, a familiar look of dread was spreading like a shadow across her face. "What is it? What's wrong? What do you sense?"
She sucked in a breath, pressed her lips together until they were nearly bloodless. "A'du'la'di," she whispered. "He…he's going to be in trouble."
Nuada frowned. His brows knitted in confusion. "A'du'la'di is in the stables. He ought to be safe enough."
But Dylan shook her head, gaze going distant, as if she were listening to something only she could hear. "Not in the stables. He's gone."
"Gone?" The word strangled in Nuada's throat. "Gone where?"
She could only shake her head again. "I don't know. I think…I don't know. And we can't go looking for him," she moaned, voice cracking. "We don't have time. There's no time."
Grasping her shoulders, he said, "Fear not, a ghrá. We will make time…" He trailed off when she shook her head vehemently.
"No, I mean there's no time! We're needed. Now. They…" She looked toward the door leading to the rest of the tavern. Her cheeks drained of color and fear slithered into her eyes. "Nuada…they're coming. I think they know you're here, so they're coming back. Tonight. They'll be here by sunset."
He didn't ask who she meant. He already knew. The human bandits, knowing the mighty Silverlance was now in the village, were bringing the slaughter to him. They would be here in less than an hour.
And A'du'la'di was out there somewhere, missing. So was Amaryllis ingen Gawain, and Tsu's'di had no doubt already left to search for her. Fluttershy and the others hadn't returned yet from the fields. They were scattered. While Nuada had been in the stables dealing with the caravan master and quartermaster earlier, Dylan had set John, Francesca, and Victoria to setting up—with the help of the village children—some rudimentary defenses, but he knew there wasn't enough. If the bandits attacked tonight, if they weren't all to be slaughtered in the streets, the fae would have to fight.
If the fae fought against the bandits and killed any of them, those responsible would be arrested, tried and sentenced, and executed for their so-called "crimes." For Danu's sake, why was the king forcing him into this? Why? Stand back and watch his people slaughtered, or let them stop the bandits and watch those without hope be murdered by the Crown.
"Nuada," Dylan said, dragging him back from the brink of half-mad despair. "Nuada, I think I know what to do. Set all the Butcher Guards to nursing the sick and wounded. The girls and I will go out and put more work into those traps of Cesca's. I—"
The door slammed open. Dylan jumped and yelped, then she and Nuada relaxed when they recognized Liam Uí Niall. Dylan smiled. Frowned when she caught the panic in the young man's eyes.
"Liam? What's wrong?"
"Forgive me, Your Highness, milady, but it's Iúile, milady! The babe…I think…I'm not sure, but she's having pains, and…" He swallowed. Nuada realized the youth looked almost corpsely, he was so pale. "She's started bleeding. Please…I don't know what to do."
"Oh, frack," Dylan said, detaching herself from Nuada without a second thought. Twisting around to walk backwards, she said, "Send the girls up to me. I'll be upstairs with Iúile. I'm going to need 'Sa'ti, too," she added, but this time she spoke to Guardsman Loén, poking him in the chest. He nodded and hurried off. To Nuada she added, "Tell everyone to keep their eyes open for A'du, Tsu's'di, and Amaryllis. I have to go."
Nuada nodded, gesturing toward the stairs. "Go on!"
"Okay," he heard her say as he headed out of the room and she headed up the stairs. "Don't panic, okay? I'm going to need a lot of clean linen, a cauldron of hot water, thread, a sharp knife…"
.
"Zhen-Zhen. Zhen-Zhen, wake up."
The voice pierced the thick darkness crowding across the Dilong prince's eyes, fogging his brain. He groaned. Tried to turn away from the voice. What did Shaohao want right now anyway? It was too early for kung fu practice. Why wouldn't his big brother leave him alone? The sun was barely rising above the western horizon, surely Shaohao could let him sleep in a little…
The western horizon. The sun didn't rise over the western horizon.
Not sunrise. Sunset. Why was he asleep at sunset?
"Zhenjin," not the cajoling voice of his older brother now. This voice was sharp, cold, deadly as a serpent's tooth. "Zhenjin, my brother. If you want your precious moonlight to survive the night, you need to wake up now."
Moonlight. Precious moonlight.
Dylan.
Zhenjin jolted upright, gasping for air as his head tried to roll of his neck and spin like a rabid top. Pain throbbed in a sheet of pulsing fire through his skull. He groaned and clutched his head as memories flooded back. Shaohao, the duel in the Bethmooran woods, nearly dying, his brother healing him. Shaohao insisting Mïng Xiân had to die but swearing he would never kill Zhenjin, not even to take the Jade Dragon Throne. Zhenjin's half-delirious confession of love for Dylan, and begging Shaohao not to hurt her. Shaohao's promise to do what he could…
"Shaohao," he rasped. A friendly hand slapped him on the back, jarring the fragile pieces of his skull. "Ugh…what are you still doing here?"
"Your friends haven't returned," his brother said, squatting down beside him like a frog. "I have just heard from my…ally…that an attack on a Bethmooran settlement is about to take place. My ally's forces are targeting this place because the moon appears to best affect there."
The crown prince blinked, trying to make sense of the words. "The moon…what?"
Shaohao clucked. "Honestly, di-di, you claim to be such a moon-lover yourself. Do keep up. Your truelove is there. My ally's men mean to capture her. Possibly rape her. Most certainly torture her. Definitely kill her. They may even make Silverlance watch; Lord Famine's a vindictive sort…oh, do stop me if this doesn't worry you," he added as Zhenjin forced himself to stand on unsteady legs.
"I have to get to her," Zhenjin mumbled, taking a few uneven steps. "I have to help her. Protect her."
The Red Dragon sighed. "You're in no shape to protect anyone. I suppose I'll have to go with you, to make sure no one kills you while you're busy tripping over yourself. Come along, young lovesick idiot. Let us go save your truelove or what have you. I'm as romantic as the next man. We have thirty minutes. Shall we?"
.
"You are Sréng mac Úmhór?" Lord Hastur asked, eyeing the thickset human covered in a blanket of meaty scars. When the mortal grinned, he revealed the stumps of rotted teeth intermixed with teeth filed to deadly points. A long scar ran down his face across one eye socket.
"I am," Sréng said. "What of it?"
Hastur deigned to bow. The man stank of blood and salt and rotting meat; the stench of torture. From inside his canvas tent—the biggest among those belonging to the group of bandits, cutthroats, and murderers under his command—Hastur heard the sound of hysterical weeping. Ignoring the sound, the fear darrig said, "My master, Lord Famine, bids me give you a message. He says your revenge is at hand."
An unholy light kindled in the single functioning eye. Sréng licked his thin lips. "Wonderful. I'll rip Silverlance's heart out and eat it."
Hastur growled, "You're not to kill him yet! Your target is—"
"I know," the human said with a flat, cold smile. "The little bitch. Scars on her face, wicked hand with a dirk if you get too close. Don't worry, m'lord." He patted an iron-tipped whip coiled and hanging from his belt. "I know how to make a slut behave. Least, I can keep the whore down long enough to cut her heart out. Maybe I'll feed it to him."
"Kill the spawn first," Hastur said, trying not to touch anything around him, to avoid letting it taint him. "Make sure Silverlance knows you've murdered his unborn heir. Then kill the harlot."
Sréng spat on the snow. "Won't be no murder. It's justice. It's what he deserves. He took everything from me," the human added with a low, wolf-like growl. "I'm going to take everything from him."
Slightly unsettled by savage way the human said this, Hastur ventured, "What did he take?"
"Killed my father, he did," Sréng snarled. "My uncles. My older brothers. Butchered my family. And," he added, touching his thumb to the scar slicing down over his eye, "he gave me this, and took these." He held up his right hand, which was missing the index and middle finger. "All I gave him was a scar, right here." He poked his thumb into his own chest, just beneath his heart. "He deserves more. A lot more. So I'm going to give it to him."
Hastur fought a shudder—the man was positively vile—and turned to leave when a scream suddenly ripped the night. He turned back toward the tent as the weeper raced out.
It was a boy, a Tuathan Elf, maybe thirteen-hundred years old. Starved to the point that Hastur could count his ribs. Frantic animal fear screamed in his eyes as he darted away from the tent. Sréng swore, lunged, and caught the youth around the waist. The Elf sank his teeth into Sréng's arm. With a roar, Sréng covered the boy's face with one meaty hand, squeezed, and then wrenched his head to one side with a sharp crack. The Elf went limp and Sréng dropped him to the snow.
"Little bastard," the human grumbled, glaring at the blood oozing from the bite mark. Then he smiled. "Let's go catch us Silverlance's whore, huh, lads?" He yelled to his men. "Lord Famine'll pay a lot of money for us to hurt her!"
Hastur scurried away as the monsters behind him cheered.
.
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