Author's Note: so I waited for the trickle of reviews to dry up (and for the month to end) before deciding, eh, what the heck? Time to post the fun stuff. And in time for Valentine's Day, too. I'll give you guys enough time to recover from sobbing your eyes out so you can enjoy the 14th. You're welcome. ;)
Oh, apparently there's a missing chapter, but there actually isn't. I mislabeled something...Le sigh. I'll fix it later.
Anywho, hope you guys enjoy this chapter and the next chapter will go up on St. Patrick's Day because...well, because we all love Faerie Ireland, even if its king is a ninny. The prince is awesome, so there! Let me know what you think! Reviews are love! Bye-bye! Huggles!
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Chapter One-Hundred-Fifteen
The Flame and the Void
that is
A Short Tale of Imprisonment, Regret, Comfort, Grief, a Hard Decision, Telling the Cubs, a Visitor, Shaohao's Oath, a Hard Task, the Visitor's Identity Revealed, and the Caves and What Is to Be Done There
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Ledi Polunochnaya iz Lysaya Gora shivered as the icy stones of her prison cell penetrated her thin dress to leach the warmth from her body. She closed her eyes and laid her temple against the stones, trying to ignore the cold. She tried to forget Nuala's expression when Naya had revealed that she'd been plotting against the crown prince. She tried to forget the frigid bite to Nuala's voice as the princess had ordered the Butcher Guards to take the Zwezdan noblewoman to the dungeons.
Instead she thought of Nuada.
If nothing else had come from her revelation, at least Nuada would be safe. He had changed so much since the mortal's arrival in Bethmoora. Lady Dylan. Somehow the human had changed him enough, purged the hate and darkness from him enough, that it was safe now to leave the fate of both realms in his hands. Naya no longer feared that Nuada would seek to bathe the world in innocent blood. Dylan would stop him. Nuada couldn't hope to stand against her. So long as the mortal lived, the realms were safe.
Which was why Naya had been forced to reveal the plot to kill Dylan to the princess. Someone had to warn Nuada. Someone had to save the mortal before anything could happen to her. If she died…Polunochnaya had seen the aftereffects of Nuada's madness before in the wake of grief. His mother's death had left him bitter and hateful, though there had still been a heart inside him then. But as the years had gone by, and more and more friends and loved ones fell to the swords of the children of Adam, Nuada's heart had shriveled and seemed to die, turning to graveyard dust. Somehow Dylan had revitalized it, but if she died…Nuada would be worse than ever before.
Nuala didn't understand how close her twin was to the darkness. Honor had demanded Naya and her master try to have the prince removed—as a threat to the humans—but the princess didn't see that. On his new path, Nuada would be a better ruler than Nuala. Nuala couldn't be relied upon to follow the dictates of honor when her heart was torn between love and duty. Naya could. Nuada could. And that was why Naya was locked in this freezing cold cell.
"You have brought this upon yourself, my dear."
That voice. So sad and gentle, yet Naya heard the undercurrent of rage there. She sighed but did not open her eyes to watch her master approach her cell. She didn't want to see the disappointment, the betrayal in his sloe black eyes.
He didn't understand, either. He didn't see the changes Dylan had wrought on Nuada. Her master loved the king, feared for the kingdom. He didn't trust what changes he'd seen in the prince. He hadn't trusted Naya's word when she'd brought him news that at long last the crown prince had abandoned his quest for the Golden Army, the one thing that could ensure both victory and merciless slaughter in any new wars between the humans and the Tuatha dé Danaan.
"Polunochnaya…Naya…" Her master sounded almost pleading. "Will you not look at me?"
No, she would not look. She would not let herself be tempted to plead for mercy or aid from him. He could give her nothing. He would give her nothing. Not after her betrayal. She still bore the bruises from when she'd tried to beg for Nuada's life. No, her master could not be prevailed upon.
But then there was an odd sound, the softest brush of velvet against ensorcelled iron. The crackle of iron against magic. Naya bit her lip until she tasted blood, but did not open her eyes. She sighed. "Leave me be, my lord. I have not given them your name. You have ensured I cannot expose you. What more do you wish of me? You will see my head fall from my shoulders as your revenge for my betrayal. What more do you want?"
"Naya. Little snowflake." And his voice was so tender that she found her eyelashes fluttering, her eyelids drifting up without conscious thought, and her gaze falling to his pale face on the other side of the bars. He knelt in a rustle of black velvet and the creak of leather. Long fingers, washed bone-white in the light of the moon, stretched through the rods of burning iron. Her master ignored the immediate sparks of pain. "Little snowflake. I did not want this for you."
A tear spilled down her cheek. Her lips trembled and she reached for those questing fingertips. Let her own fingers tangle with his. Another tear fell to drop onto her thin, wool prisoner's dress. "You gave me no choice. I had to tell them."
Her master sighed. Shook his head. "What has happened is for the good of the kingdom. The mortal is dead." Naya jolted, tried to jerk back. Her master's grip on her fingers tightened to the point of pain. "Nuada will break," he continued as she shook her head in mute denial. "He will drown this world and the human realm in blood. The king will have no choice but to execute him. You have given yourself to the enemy for nothing, my dearest."
She shook her head. "No. No, you can't…you cannot have killed her. Nuala would have warned him—"
"Whatever warning the princess might have given came too late. You are condemned, and for naught, Naya. I am sorry. There is nothing for you now but the axe. I wish it did not have to be so." Two tears came to her master's eye—two tears to match her own, because she knew they were both sorry, and there was nothing either could do. She was a traitor, to him and to the Crown. Death was her fate. She would accept that.
She only wondered if there was any chance, any at all, that Dylan still lived. If she did…would Naya see Nuada again before the end?
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"I cannot believe that Polunochnaya would do as you say, Daughter." King Balor studied the Bethmooran princess as she stared out a window at the world beyond, ethereal winter and lonely night. Tears stained Nuala's pale cheeks, but her voice had been dry and steady when she'd told her father everything the treacherous lady-in-waiting had revealed that night. "She has been your constant companion for centuries."
"She confessed it," Nuala murmured without looking at her father. "She is not royal; she cannot lie. She has been using me to eliminate my brother. To murder him. And all this time I thought she…" The princess pressed her lips together. Drew a shuddering breath. "Nuada must be warned."
Balor blinked. "You have not warned him yourself?" Yet, the king realized, he should have expected such. Nuala was barely holding together. Even before Na'ko'ma, Polunochnaya had been Nuala's dearest companion when the royal twins began to grow apart in the wake of their mother's death. Perhaps before Nuada's descent into madness and hatred, the princess might have sought him out for comfort and warned him then.
Yet not now. Nuala typically found her brother's mind a place to avoid. This was not so dire that an immediate warning was necessary. It was the middle of winter; the snows had been heavy since autumn, and the forests that remained unprotected by unicorn glories had been hit hard by blizzards. Traversing them would be difficult, more trouble than simple bandits were willing to put up with, no matter how much money they were offered. There was time to get a will-o-the-wisp to the prince to warn him of what treachery Polunochnaya had revealed. For now, Balor would focus on his daughter.
"I will have to speak with Polunochnaya myself," the old king told his daughter. "To understand the full depth of her guilt. But she has committed treason, Nuala. She has tried to kill your brother. You know what the law says."
Nuala squeezed her eyes shut. "I know it. Acting against the Crown is a crime punishable as the monarch sees fit. The fullest penalty would be…" She licked her lips. Hugged her knees to her chest. "Would be death for the perpetrator. That law is clear—you have the right to execute her if you wish, Father."
The king bit back a sigh. Leaning back in his armchair, the low fire barely able to chase away the winter chill, he wondered if there was any way to prevent the death of the Elven woman who'd been fostered in his palace without incurring his son's fury. Aside from her attempt to lure Nuada into a trap, Polunochnaya had endangered Dylan's life. Balor had seen what the proud prince would do to anyone who dared try to harm his human betrothed. Would he demand the lady-in-waiting's death if the king could find a way to spare her life?
But all the old king asked was, "And what do you wish, my daughter?"
The princess dropped her chin to her knees. "I wish…" Her mouth trembled and she shut her eyes tighter. "I wish this never to have happened. I wish Nuada home, and wholly sane, and to have never sought another war. I wish Naya to be as my sister of old, true and faithful. I wish to marry Bres and be happy. I wish no deceit, no treachery, no lies or half-truths. I…" Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks and she buried her face in her hands. "I don't know what I wish…"
He went to her and held her, though the cold made his bones and the shoulder with his wood-and-silver arm ache abominably. Nuala turned her face into his chest and wept while her father stroked her hair. Let kingly decisions wait until the morning, he decided. Let his daughter wear her crown again tomorrow. For now, he would let Nuala grieve.
"If it helps at all," Balor said softly a little while later, "I think Bres is a good man, your brother's reservations notwithstanding. I see no reason why you and Nuada cannot both marry on the night of the Frost Moon." It would be his gift to his favorite child, the one thing he could offer her to make her at least a little happier.
Nuala pulled back from him. "What reservations? What do you mean?"
Balor started in surprise. Had Nuada said nothing to Nuala of his concerns about the Fomorian prince? Why wouldn't he tell her? It was true Bres disliked humans, that he had a personal grudge against Lady Dylan. But those things were not reason enough to turn down a politically savvy match, especially one that made both royals involved so happy. Perhaps Nuada hadn't wished to dampen his sister's joy…but then why fight against the union at all?
"I thought your brother had spoken to you about all that," the old king said softly. "I would not have said anything otherwise. Nuada only seeks your happiness, my daughter. But he is concerned that you cannot be happy with Bres because he is so like your brother—disdainful and distrustful of the humans."
Fire flashed in Nuala's eyes. "He came to you about this? Without speaking to me first? How dare he even think of going behind my back to—" Suddenly Nuala stiffened in Balor's arms, a gasp strangling in her throat. He leaned back to look down at her. Her eyes were impossibly wide, a sickly gold burning like hellfire. She clutched frantically at his sleeves as her throat worked convulsively.
"Nuala? Nuala!"
"Oh, gods…" Tears poured like water, splashing Balor's wrist, but these tears were cold as ice, cold as grief. Nuala clutched at her chest with one hand as she gasped, "Nuada…Brother…Oh, Brother. Nuada…"
"Nuala?" Balor gave her the smallest shake. "Daughter! Was is it? What's wrong? Is it your brother? Is he hurt?"
She shook her head. Through gritted teeth she managed to whisper, "Hurt…but not hurt. He is bleeding to death from this, but there is no wound. He is dying, far to the north, drowning…" Her mouth fell open in a silent cry of pain as she clapped her hands to her face. "She's dead," Nuala breathed. "And he is adrift in the emptiness where she once held him anchored. She's dead. She is dead, and he is alone. Alone and in pain. So much pain…"
The king's eyes widened as his daughter's meaning crystallized in his skull. Dead. She…? The mortal. Dylan. The one thing keeping Nuada from butchering the humans like so much meat. He had thought they had time to warn the prince, thought the human would be safe for a little while longer, long enough that Balor could soothe Nuala's broken heart, but no. No, he'd been a fool. Polunochnaya had relayed the warning, condemned herself, and the message had been delayed by the king and princess too long. And now…now the mortal woman his son loved was dead.
So much pain…
Balor remembered the moment he'd felt Cethlenn die. He'd been on horseback, riding like a demon unleashed from the deepest pit in hell, trying to reach her and the children. Guards on either side, hounds barking and snarling as they loped at his heels. Her fear, her pain, all of it had burned through his mind, scouring the inside of his skull like acid. And there had been that moment when she'd begun to slip from life into death, and her mind had had just enough strength to touch his.
Balor…the children…promise you will hurry to them. Promise me…Her voice, still sweet and gentle even though it had been roughened by pain, shredded by the horrors ripping her to pieces. Her scent, a phantom-memory of lilies and asphodels and Fomorian roses and fresh, clean water. A flicker of a face, alabaster brow and curling hair as red as fire and eyes like emeralds shining under moonlight.
He'd promised her. He'd begged her to hold on, sworn he would come, sworn he would be there soon, any moment now, just please don't…But he'd felt a brush of lips against his, sweet and warm. A breath of apology and love so deep and sharp and breathtakingly beautiful and agonizing all at once that it had left an ache in his bones, an ache that had yet to fade even now, so many centuries after her death.
And then nothing. A deep well of icy, bitter, empty nothing. It had sunk into his body, ripping at his heart, searing his veins with a cold so merciless and brutal it had left him gasping, sagging in the saddle. Only Cethlenn's last words — the children — had kept him on his horse.
So much pain…
Nuada. This would break him as nothing else would or could. This would drive him mad. And once broken, once mad, Balor would have no other choice than to put him down like an animal.
Embracing his trembling daughter, Balor shut his eyes and forced back the tears that wanted to fall.
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The prince looked like crap, Petra thought as one of the fae—Nuada had said his name was Prince Taran, but he didn't really look much like a prince, or even a fairy; the guy didn't even have pointed ears or anything—leapt off his horse and went to support Dylan's fiancé. Nuada's legs shook as Taran got him to his feet. The other royal fae—some black chick with an impressive set of muscles, gorgeous hair, and a missing eye; and a big Viking guy riding what looked like a very hairy, bulky horse with claws and fangs—slid off their mounts and made their way to Nuada, too. Petra hopped down off of Dylan's horse and they headed for the prince.
Nuada had gone so pale he wasn't white anymore, but a sickly bluish-gray. His eyes had been a dirty yellow color, but now they reminded Petra of what gold would look like if it somehow managed to tarnish (which wasn't possible, but it was the closest comparison she could think of that fit the sick shade of his eyes). A trickle of amber blood dripped down his chin. Apparently he'd bitten his lip.
But what threw Petra for a loop was the tears. They glittered on his cheeks, frozen into little ice chips, but he made no move to brush them away or get rid of them, even though they had to hurt. What had happened? One second he'd been walking next to that black stallion of his that Dylan claimed could talk, and the next he'd made a noise like someone had punched him in the gut and he'd hit his knees on the snow. He'd gotten up for about ten seconds before falling down again.
"Nuada?" Taran gripped the Elf's shoulder. "Nuada? Cousin?" Petra raised her eyebrows. They were cousins? They looked nothing alike. Nuada was all pasty fish-face and gimlet eyes and Elf ears and black lipstick (or so John joked; Dylan insisted the coloring was natural). Taran was slightly tanned, mouse brown hair, mud brown eyes, and looked like a normal person as far as Petra could tell. No extra fingers or clouds of sparkly Tinkerbell dust following in his wake or tusks sticking out of his face like the troll guy. Shelving those observations, Petra focused on the glassy look in the Irish prince's eyes. She'd seen that look before—he was going into shock.
Petra cleared her throat. The fairies all turned her way, except Nuada. He stared at nothing. "We need to get him inside. I don't know what happened, but he's going into shock."
"She is right," the black woman said. Coming up on Nuada's other side opposite Taran, she took some of the Elven prince's weight. Judging from the way she moved, Petra had a feeling the princess or whatever she was could've taken the dazed Elf's weight by herself if she had to. She looked like an Amazon. "Our rescue mission will have to wait a while longer. At least until we get Silverlance out of the snow."
Uneasiness churned in Petra's stomach as she watched them help Nuada stagger back to the tavern. Whatever had happened to him in those ten or so seconds, it was bad. Why else would he be stumbling around like Francesca after a weekend of barhopping and boy-shopping? And the human couldn't shake the feeling that whatever bad thing had just happened, it had something to do with her youngest sister.
Please, Petra prayed as she followed the fairies. Please be okay, Dylan. Hang on. We're coming.
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Nuada didn't know how he made it back to the tavern. He had a vague memory of Taran on one side and Kamaria on the other, both trying to coax an explanation from him, but he couldn't focus beyond the vicious throbbing beneath his ribcage. As if someone had reached inside him with cruel talons and ripped away something vital. He felt intangible blood flowing into the gaping hole left behind, ice cold. Bruises covered the shredded remains his heart.
His heart…The prince flinched away from the thought of hearts. Somewhere in the world, somewhere so near he could almost taste it, a familiar heart had stopped beating. Now there was only silence where once had been steady and comforting rhythm, because Dylan was…
Agony pulsed through him in sharp, jagged bursts. He drew away from Taran and Kamaria, forced himself to take actual steps. He couldn't show them…He couldn't let anyone see…If he broke now, he would never be able to put himself back together again.
"Nuada?" Taran, so concerned. Nuada shoved the sound of the other man's voice away. He'd known Taran since the Welsh fae prince was only in his seventh century. He'd saved Taran's life once. But Nuada hovered on the verge of breaking. Cracks splintered his fragile self-control. He needed to get away before anyone saw him break.
Kamaria called his name, and so did Günther, but he ignored them as he half-stalked, half-stumbled into the private room where he and Dylan's sisters had held their conference less than an hour ago. The room was mercifully empty. Nuada kicked the door shut with a slam and staggered to the window at the far side of the room. He scrabbled at the window sash, splinters biting into his fingers. He finally managed to throw the window open. Bone-pale moonlight streamed down on him as he sucked in great gasps of frigid air.
Dylan…He called to her across the vast emptiness. Her name echoed in the silence. Dylan, please, I beg you…answer me! Nuada sank to his knees, his forehead dropping to the rough wooden windowsill. A dry sob shuddered through him as the truth tried to rake him. But it couldn't be true. He wouldn't let it be true. Dylan! Mo duinne, mo cridh, please! Dylan, answer me! Please…
"Please…" The word scraped in his throat and cut his tongue when it fell from his lips. "Please, Dylan…My love, I beg you, please. Please don't leave me…"
Only silence, fathomless and dark.
Another of those rattling, tearless sobs crawled out of his mouth. Nuada gripped the windowsill until his fingers ached. Until his joints creaked. Each breath rasped in his lungs as that bruising ache intensified, crushing his heart, squeezing like a cold, taloned hand.
Gone, she was gone, she was dead. Oh, gods, this was his fault. He'd let her convince him to bring her here, even knowing it was a trap, even knowing the bandits wanted her, he'd still let her come with him, because he hadn't wanted to go alone, because he had been so proud of her courage, and now…
Now there would be no more stories by the fire. No more gentle brushes of her fingertips against his jaw or the back of his hand in silent comfort. No more words of faith and encouragement in the dark hours when doubts assailed him. There would be no more welcoming embraces, no more kisses. No more light, no more hope, no more love. There was nothing. She was gone. She was dead. Duty and honor had killed her as surely as the bandits had. As surely as Nuada himself.
The Elven warrior bowed his head as tears fell unchecked down his face. Dead. She was dead. The only person who loved him without reserve, without qualification…and he'd killed her. It was his fault. Dylan was dead because of him.
Then came the rage, scalding bitter, underscored by fear and aching. He had killed her, but so had the bandits. The humans. They had dared to lay hands on her, harm her. They had stolen the one most precious to him, but they would pay. They would pay and pay and pay. He would make the bandits suffer…as she had suffered. He would soak the earth in their blood to make sure they never again had the chance to snatch away someone's child, someone's parent, someone's brother or sister, someone's truelove…
Truelove…Oh, gods. Dylan…
Pain lanced him, sliding between his ribs like a blade, slicing deep into his heart. His hand spasmed toward his chest as the breath caught in his throat, suffocating.
Nuada didn't remember smashing the table and chairs to splinters. Shattering mugs to jagged shards. Didn't remember what he roared at the fae who came in the room to defend against an imaginary threat, only that they scurried away like mice. Wink stayed and watched him for a few moments but Nuada didn't care. He couldn't stop. His fists rammed into the furniture until blood dripped from his shredded, throbbing knuckles. He beat the pain in his chest back and further back and further still with the pain in his hands, his arms. He bit his lip until blood came. His teeth clenched in a snarl, he smashed every piece of furniture and crockery in the room.
In the end, he sank to his knees amidst splinters and chunks of twisted, broken wood and slivers of broken pottery, shuddering, tears coursing down his cheeks as he struggled to breathe past the agony that had returned full-force, slicing up his heart piece by piece. There was no escaping it.
Wink came fully into the room and shut the door. Took a single step toward his prince. "Nuada…"
"She'd dead," he choked out. The words hit him like double blows to the belly. He hunched, trembling. Shook his head and fought against the sobs building inside him. "Oh, gods, they took her from me." He slammed his fist against his thigh. The pain barely registered. "They stole her…" Nuada bowed his head. Made a sound as if he'd been stabbed. "They stole her away, and they killed her, Wink, she's dead, oh gods, she's dead. I swore to protect her…My love…mo duinne, aghra mo chroi, mo calman geal…Oh, gods, I'm so sorry." And the prince buried his face in his hands and wept.
His brother-in-soul came to him then, carefully, slowly, as if approaching a skittish horse. One gentle, massive hand settled on Nuada's shoulders. The prince shoved Wink's hand away with an anguished snarl.
"Do not comfort me," he growled, turning his face away. "I deserve no comfort." He drew a rasping breath that sawed through his chest, almost choking on it. "I carry sins on my heart that can never be erased, Wink, but this…" Nuada shook his head. "I love her…loved…and yet, I couldn't protect her. I couldn't keep her safe, when I swore to her…" His nails dug into his palms and his hands shook. "I failed her. I have failed my people countless times. Failed my kingdom. And now…now I've failed her, too. I killed her as surely as if I'd strangled her with own two hands."
"That is not true—" Wink began.
"Spare me your platitudes!" Nuada yelled, despising the rawness in his voice, despising the burning in his eyes and the searing in his chest. "I knew, dammit! I knew this was folly! I knew she should have stayed behind and I let her follow me into this warzone—"
Wink rumbled, "She followed you because she was loyal to you, because she believed in you as a prince—"
"And I led her to her death! That is all I can do—drag those I love, those I am sworn to defend, into darkness and despair and death! The gods laugh in their temples and the Fates sneer and the Star Kindler…" The words hitched in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut. Drew a breath that hurt. "He has turned from me, surely. If I had any doubt before, there is none now. He found me unworthy of her…" Nuada's mouth trembled. He pressed a shaking fist against his lips. "I was never…I never deserved…I should have known I could never hope…The gods—all the gods, the old ones and the High King of the World—the gods, the Fates, angels, whatever, they have all turned from me. My father was right," he mumbled, bowing his head again, gritting his teeth. "In the end, I destroyed what I loved most."
The troll made a sound, sharp with negation, but Nuada didn't acknowledge it. He merely shook his head again as his shoulders slumped. He said nothing more. After several long moments, Wink murmured, "I will tell Dylan's family—"
"They already know," the prince muttered. If he had felt that vicious wrenching and that yawning emptiness, so had John. He would have known what it meant and he would have told his sisters.
"As you say, my prince. Then I will write to the king and tell him what has happened…unless you do not wish it."
Nuada sighed. "It doesn't matter. Do what you think best and leave me be for a while."
So Wink left and Nuada was alone with his grief. The prince didn't know how long he hunched there, weeping silently, drowning in the realizations that he would never hold Dylan again, never see her smile, never hear her laugh, never look into her eyes, never fall asleep to the sound of her singing, never…
He didn't know how many minutes or hours or eternities dragged by while the silence in his head echoed and the pieces of his heart struggled to keep him alive. How many times was he expected to lose what he cherished most before Fate let him be?
Dylan…Her name flayed him alive. But he could not help calling to her, Dylan…my love…Dylan…please come back. Please, Dylan, my love, I need you, you must come back. She couldn't be dead. Not really, not for true. She couldn't be. There would have been proof. The stars flickering out like someone blowing out candles. The night turning dead and killing cold and sere. The world would have stopped spinning, the moon would fall from the sky, something!
She couldn't be dead. He couldn't bear for her to be dead.
Wink came back at one point. Nuada wasn't sure what he said to make the troll leave, but after a few moments, Wink rumbled gentle words and left him alone again with a promise that he would be right outside the door if Nuada needed anything.
But Wink couldn't give Nuada what he needed—Dylan alive and well and safe once more. No one could give him that.
Nuada didn't hear the door creak open, didn't sense an intruder poke their head in. He only forced himself to swallow the silent sobs and hold himself still, no longer shaking with the force of his grief, when a soft, uncertain voice murmured, "Your Highness?"
Oh, gods. The children. Shades of Annwn, he hadn't thought…hadn't realized he would have to speak to them, to tell them their mistress wasn't coming back. Nuada lifted bleak eyes to see 'Sa'ti hovering uncertainly in the doorway, face pale and fur bristling with agitation, tail lashing back and forth. A'du'la'di stood with her, a too-adult fear in his gray-blue eyes. The head-wound he'd received during the magical explosion had been bandaged. Tsu's'di was behind his brother and sister, his blistered arm bandaged as well, and understanding had already etched grief across his features.
Why had they come? Why couldn't they leave him be? He hadn't the strength to pretend to be unaffected so that he could comfort them. He could barely process the truth as it was. His world lay in pieces, shards of shattered hope all around him, and they wanted him to comfort them? When surely they knew he was to blame for this?
He opened his mouth to rage at them, to order them back wherever they had come so he could have some peace—as if he would ever know peace again—but then 'Sa'ti stepped further into the room. Tears glistened against her cheek-fur. Confusion and dread warred in her bright turquoise eyes.
"Your Highness?" The cub quavered. "Where's the a'ge'lv?"
Leave me be, he wanted to snarl at her. Vicious child, begone. Must you force me to say it aloud again? But those words were cold and cruel, and he realized with a sharp, stabbing pain that they were the sorts of words his father had thrown at him in the wake of his mother's death.
Broken his honor might be, his heart bruised and his soul in tattered pieces, but he would not be his father.
Swallowing hard, he held out his hand to the children, but he kept his eyes locked on Tsu's'di's tired, pain-worn face. The youth's whiskers quivered and his lips trembled. He already knew. Nuada murmured, "Come here. All of you. There is…" The words were like stones in his mouth, leaving his tongue bruised and bleeding, but he managed to say them. "There is something grave that I must tell you."
And in short, empty words, he did. Somehow.
'Sa'ti stared at him uncomprehendingly. A'du shook his head, whiskers practically vibrating and fur bristling. "No. No, that's not true. You're lying! That's not true!" Tears sprang to his eyes and he sobbed, "Stop lying! Stop it!" 'Sa'ti began to cry.
Nuada didn't know what made him do it, but on instinct he pulled the two children into his arms and held them tightly. 'Sa'ti sobbed into his shirt. A'du struggled against his hold for a moment before falling against him, weeping too.
"I want my mama," he moaned. "I want my mama."
"Mommy," 'Sa'ti wept. "Want mommy."
"I know," Nuada whispered, feeling his own eyes burn with new tears. But he couldn't let them fall anymore. Not now. He had responsibilities now. He had to pretend at a strength he did not possess, for the children. He had promised them—and Dylan— that they were a family. And he would not be his father. "I know."
Behind his little brother and sister, Tsu's'di bowed his head. Tears of grief dampened his cheeks as he sank slowly to the floor.
.
Francesca sat back in her chair and leaned her head back. It couldn't be true. After all this work, after everything they'd tried to accomplish…her little sister couldn't be dead. She looked over at Victoria, who stared numbly out the window as snow fell in thickening flurries. She looked to Petra, who sat at a table with her head down, pillowed on her folded arms; Mary, who rubbed Petra's back while silent tears coursed down her face. Pauline was out among the fairies, helping with the sick and injured. Francesca had never seen the other woman so focused on anything. It was as if she was trying to outrun the grief.
But they knew it wasn't going anywhere. John had told them what Nuada couldn't. John slumped on the floor, trembling as the pain swept through him. Francesca couldn't imagine losing Victoria. They were two halves of the same whole. Non-multiples might have considered that an unhealthy way to think, but Cesca didn't care. Those people could take a flying leap off a rolling donut. Tori was her other half. If she ever lost her…So how must John be feeling? He'd felt their connection break with Dylan's death. What would that do to him?
And the prince. How was Nuada? Cesca had seen over the course of the last few weeks how much His Royal Hotness loved her baby sister. He'd let that douche canoe king flog him, for crying out loud—all for protecting Dylan. Francesca still couldn't think about that without wanting to rip off the jerk's antlers and turn them into a hat rack. Or she could Taser him. Could you Taser old people without them dying of heart failure? Better question: if she gave him a jolt like she'd done to that homicidal whack-job Ian Malcolm—a few perfect shots to the nuts when Dylan had her back turned during that interrogation; the nutcase deserved it for calling Dylan some pretty foul names and threatening to kill a lot of people, including Dylan—and the king had a heart attack as a result, would she feel guilty? Right now, Francesca didn't think she was capable of feeling much of anything except grief.
What must Dylan's loss be doing to Nuada? She'd overheard the sounds of an angry and broken man breaking stuff to chase away pain—she'd been a waitress in enough bars to recognize that sound—and known what had finally made Nuada fall silent. Would he be all right?
And who was going to pay for all the broken furniture? Well, he was a prince. He probably had money.
A knock sounded at the door. When no one spoke, Francesca sighed. "Come in." Whoever it was, she couldn't figure out what they could possibly want. If there was another attack, what were they supposed to do? And wouldn't someone tell Nuada first? Or was he in any shape to be handling that sort of thing?
The door opened and Lorelei, who looked like a fae Snow White—alabaster skin, metallic gold eyes, thick black hair to her waist, and lips red as fresh blood—poked her head in. Francesca was the only person among her siblings besides Dylan who'd known Lorelei before all this. She still wasn't sure how she'd missed the delicately pointed ears or the slightly pointed teeth. According to Dylan, that was typical for a rhinemaiden. Siren fae tended to be the epitome of "carnivorous beauty," whatever that meant.
"Lorelei," Francesca said, straightening in her chair. "What's up? Is the prince…?" She wasn't sure what to say. She'd have to be as dumb as Pauline's ex-husband to ask if Nuada was okay. But she also wasn't sure if Nuada would let her come in to check on him. She felt kind of responsible for the guy. Dylan would've wanted someone to look after him now that she was gone.
The rhinemaiden bit her lip. Glanced down the hall toward the room where Nuada had taken refuge. Francesca realized the fae woman looked like she was in pain. Sweat stood out on her forehead and her eyes glistened almost feverishly. Had she been hurt during the fight with the bandits? But Lorelei shook her head. "The prince is…as anyone could expect. But that is not why I've come. There is a visitor here, asking for you."
Cesca frowned. "For us?" She glanced at her siblings as Petra picked up her head and John stared listlessly at the rhinemaiden.
Lorelei shook her head. "No. Just you, Francesca. Come with me."
She glanced at her twin, then at John, then back to Victoria. "Can I bring Tori with me?" She never wanted to let her twin out of her sight again if it was at all possible.
"Of course."
Silently, Francesca and Victoria followed the rhinemaiden into the hall that led toward the tavern's common room.
.
Amidst the smoldering ruins of a bandit camp, the snow dancing with firelight and spattered with crimson blood, Prince Zhenjin Azurefire of Dilong raised wet eyes to his insane brother's face. "Do something, Shao. Please."
Shaohao quirked one dark brow, and then dropped his gaze to the dead mortal in his little brother's arms and said nothing.
"Please, Brother! You can't let her die, please! Your healing skills are extraordinary, your magic is some of the most powerful I have ever…please. Shaohao, I beg you…please. You can't just let her die!"
He sighed. Met his brother's eyes. "Yes, I can, seeing as she's been dead for approximately a minute already. Another three or four minutes and there really won't be any point in fretting about it." Zhenjin flinched, and Shaohao sighed again. "If you give me something in return for her life, I'll bring her back. And when she wakes, I will take payment from her as well."
Zhenjin swallowed hard. He had learned in his thirty-odd centuries not to make bargains with his brother. The Red Dragon prince was mad, unpredictable, even by fae standards. But Dylan lay broken and far too still in Zhenjin's arms. He couldn't simply do nothing.
"Anything but Mïng Xiàn's life or the throne," he rasped. "Anything but that. Please, Brother, do not force me to choose…"
Shaohao sighed in exasperation. "Oh, bleeding hearts of the world unite! You and your precious honor. Fine! From you, I require only a head start when I decide to skip about on my merry little way once more. You take yourself far too seriously, di-di. You're going to wind up in an early grave. As for your mortal's price…I will discuss that with her once she's conscious." He laid one hand over Dylan's heart and gripped Zhenjin's shoulder with the other. "Brace yourself, little brother. I'm going to need to borrow some of your fire and it's going to hurt."
That was all the warning his brother gave him before needles of magic flooded through Zhenjin's blood, catching his veins with their hooks and yanking blood and fire to the surface of his skin.
Zhenjin Azurefire could hold his hand over a candle flame and not be burned. He could walk on hot coals barefoot without pain. He could stalk through a burning bandit camp, ash and embers raining down in a whirlwind of hellfire sparks and death, as if strolling through a summertime meadow ruffled only by a lazy, sweet-scented breeze.
But he could not suffer Shaohao Tilung, Red Dragon Prince of Dilong, ripping away pieces of his dragonfire and his magic without screaming.
The Dilong crown prince fell to the snow as agony sizzled in hellish ley-lines beneath his skin, as the liquid fire of his blood surged hot through his veins. Heat flooded his eyes as his spine bowed, as he thrashed in the snow, as his brother's fingers bit into his shoulder and continued to suck out the fiery magic that made him dragon prince, immortal Elf, fae royal. Shaohao unmade his magic, unraveling it smoldering thread by smoldering thread, plucking here and snipping there, before reweaving the remains of fire and sorcery back together. Zhenjin felt the power draining from him like blood from a fatal wound. His heart shuddered in his chest, his muscles screamed, and for a moment he could only thing, This is how I die. Tricked by his brother. Dylan was dead, and Shaohao had used her death to trick Zhenjin into letting the insane prince kill him.
"Don't let go of yourself!" Shaohao's voice, hot with that mad rage that always simmered under every word and expression and gesture, punched through the swirling vortex of pain searing Zhenjin from the inside out. "You want her to live? Then stop acting like the world revolves around you, you selfish, half-licked dragon kit! Your death isn't the highlight of anyone's existence, so sorry to disappoint! I'm not trying to kill you, whatever Father might think."
Irritation at his brother's snide words quickly morphed into fury as the pain began to build again, rising like an infernal tide. Liquid fire flooded his veins again and Zhenjin vaguely realized the snow around him was steaming. Dylan lay limp and bloody in Shaohao's arms. Zhenjin focused on her face. Traced the familiar features with eyes that seemed to be melting from their sockets. Whatever Shaohao was doing to him, he would survive it. He would. Dylan needed him. And if this was a lie, if Shaohao couldn't resuscitate her with whatever he was doing…then someone needed to bring Dylan's body back to Nuada.
"Stop thinking about failure and start thinking about something useful!" Shaohao snapped. Embers so hot they glowed blue and white danced in sparking furies all around him. Zhenjin could just make out the heat shimmer pouring off the older prince. Shaohao's other hand was still pressed tight against Dylan's heart. The heat shimmered hottest there. "Think of life! Think of our brothers, think of Mother! Think of the pestilent little weed if it helps! Think of something! Because this will kill you if you don't!"
Think of something. How was he supposed to think of anything while fire wyrms gnawed his bones and scorched the marrow to ash, while demonic heat crackled along his burning skin until it felt like every inch of him had to be charred and blistered?
But he tried. He thought of his father's pride when Zhenjin had lost the duel against Nuada for Mïng Xiân's honor, because Zhenjin had done his best and fought with all he had, even though Nuada was his dearest friend, and the emperor was proud that his heir was willing to break his own heart before breaking his honor. He thought of his mother, so young-looking despite her many centuries, her eyes as green as polished jade and so sad when she'd kissed his forehead and told him that this journey to Bethmoora would change him in so many ways and to please remember who he was and what mattered most. He could still smell her perfume, chrysanthemums and asters and wet bamboo after the rain. His brothers: Shaohao, mad and vicious but always so protective of Zhenjin; Gaôzu and Hôu Junjï and Cao Pi and Yao and Tien Po, those closest to him in age, those he trusted to have his back; his countless other brothers down the line until the youngest, Qing and Shang, who were still little enough to beg for dragon-back rides and bedtime stories and extra sweets after dinner. He thought of Mïng Xiân, his little orchid, with her giggles and her hugs and the joy that always flashed in her eyes when she saw him coming.
He thought of Nuada, comrade and brother-in-arms, friend and ally since childhood, for centuries. More than three thousand years of loyalty, shared adventures, shared goals and dreams, shared battles and heartbreaks. And Dylan. He'd known her for such a short time and yet, thanks to Nuada, he'd known her for weeks, months. More than a year now. And he had seen the beauty and compassion in her. He couldn't let that simply be snuffed out. He couldn't let pain, or fire, or magic stop him from saving her. Without her, Bethmoora fell. Zhenjin knew that deep in his bones. And if Bethmoora fell, so would the rest of Faerie.
Fire coalesced in his chest as he realized what was riding on this enchantment. Not just Dylan. Not just his love. Nuada's sanity. The fate of a kingdom. The fate of the Twilight Realm. And that was enough. That knowledge burned in him, sharpening his will to a razor-point that punched through doubt and pain and confusion, to sweep aside the agony of his dragon fire unspooling and respooling inside him. Crimson flecked with blue like fire flashed across his vision, blinding him. The snow sizzled as his flame melted it to dirty, bloody slush.
And when he came back to himself, he felt…different. He crouched in the slush, water soaking the hems of his sleeves and the knees of his trousers as he huddled and shook on hands and knees. Sweat beaded his feverish skin and didn't freeze in the winter air until it had dripped off his body. The breath scorched in his throat, but it wasn't quite painful. He felt weak as a kitten in his bones, hollowed out, but strong in a new way, as if his magic had been flooded with a king's power.
Zhenjin glanced at Shaohao. His brother still cradled Dylan in his arms. The knife that had been lodged in her back lay on the snow, stained with her blood. Shaohao, Zhenjin noticed, had somehow lost an eyebrow to the fire that had torn through the Dilong heir's body. Now the Red Dragon Prince's features looked lopsided and comical.
But in his arms, though the bruises remained and the blood still smeared her skin, Dylan's chest rose and fell in deep, even breaths.
"Don't you dare venture a word about my eyebrows, you ungrateful brat," Shaohao muttered. "I sacrificed my good looks for you and you had better appreciate what a sacrifice it was. I shan't be able to look in a mirror for weeks." He touched the skin where his eyebrow had been. "Ugh. I'm hideous. Don't look at me, Zhen-Zhen."
Zhenjin shook his head. "You did it," he whispered. Joy tasted sharp and hot as mulled cider on the back of his tongue. His voice rasped in his throat and he wondered how much damage the screaming had done. It didn't matter now. "You did it. You brought her back. You did it."
Shaohao sighed. "Actually, I didn't. Or not yet, anyway."
The elation fizzing in Zhenjin's blood cooled abruptly. "What are you talking about? She's breathing. She wasn't before, but now—"
But his brother shook his head. "That's not how it works, little brother. If she'd simply drowned, or been struck by lightning, what we just did would have brought her all the way back. But not this. There are hurts to mend before she can come back all the way. Her heart is beating because I am forcing it to with the magic I took from you. She breathes because I am forcing air into her lungs. She isn't bleeding to death all over again because I am keeping her from doing so. This way she won't suffer any damage while we get somewhere safe and I heal the injuries she's incurred. But this may yet fail, Zhenjin. Right now she's in a magical coma."
"What happens when you bring her out of it, if you can't heal her?" A stupid question, perhaps, but he needed to make certain. He had to brace himself on the off-chance that she didn't…And if there was another way to prevent that off-chance from occurring, Zhenjin needed to know before Shaohao started.
Another sigh. "All the bad things turn to butterflies and rainbows and we all live happily ever after in a marzipan castle floating atop a fantasy landscape of pink clouds." When Zhenjin glared at him, Shaohao rolled his eyes. "She dies, Zhenjin. I'm not a miracle worker. I examined her while you were busy rolling around making snow angels. She has four broken ribs, a punctured lung, a cracked cheekbone, a dislocated knee, dislocated shoulders, broken toes and fingers, severe internal bleeding from a ruptured liver, bruised kidneys, severe lacerations to both wrists, a serious concussion, a cracked vertebrae, a nicked artery in her face, dozens of lash wounds on her back, and a stab wound that lacerated a major artery and a few internal organs, including her spleen and her pancreas. She was tortured, and that knife in the back was her torturer finishing it all off with murder. As I say, I'm not a miracle worker."
Zhenjin's mouth trembled. He hadn't realized…She'd looked bad, he knew that she'd suffered greatly, but he hadn't known just what the bandits had been doing to her…The prince stared at Dylan's battered face before dragging his gaze back to Shaohao. The exasperation in the other man's expression faded and he sighed, sympathy flooding his bronze eyes.
"I swear to you, di-di, I will do my best. But you must prepare yourself."
He nodded as he and Shaohao got to their feet. Prepare himself that Dylan might yet die. That this might not work. That he might lose her after all. It couldn't happen. Please, gods, don't let it happen.
.
The children had curled up together on the floor, shapeshifted into their cougar forms, and had fallen asleep after crying themselves out beside the prince. Now it was only Nuada and Tsu's'di awake in the private tavern room, and Nuada wished that the red-eyed youth would fall asleep as well and leave him in peace. But he would not send the boy away. Not when the lad reminded him so much of a young Elven prince drowning in the loss of a mother. Nuada had been sent away often enough in those weeks and months following Cethlenn's death.
Tsu's'di sat on the floor beside the prince, his arms draped across his updrawn knees. His head rested against the wall. He hadn't spoken while his little brother and sister sobbed for Dylan. He hadn't said anything to Nuada when the prince had managed to explain in halting, broken words that she wasn't coming back. His silence beat at Nuada like an accusation.
"What's going to happen to us?" Tsu's'di's quiet words broke the silence, and Nuada fought against an instinctive flinch. "A'du and 'Sa'ti and me. Are you…sending us back to the Troll Market?"
Nuada shook his head. "Absolutely not. I made you a vow," he said softly. "You and your brother and sister. And I swore to…" Dylan's name lodged in his throat like a sharp bone. He cleared his throat. "I swore that I would always take care of the three of you. That you would always have a home with me."
The ewah youth nodded and didn't speak again for a while. Finally he whispered, "What happened to her?"
Nuada swallowed. "I…do not know." He wasn't sure his sanity could take knowing.
Tsu's'di straightened. His brows furrowed and his tail lashed. "What do you mean, you don't know? How do you know she's…that she's not coming back if you don't know what happened?"
"I…" How to explain the yawning emptiness where Dylan's presence had once resided in his mind? It was like trying to explain to someone that you knew your hand had been cut off without having seen or felt the strike of the axe, that you knew because what was once there simply wasn't anymore. "I felt her…" He could not force his lips to form the word die. Just the shape of it threatened to carve him to the bone.
"But it could've been a trick!" The cougar youth lunged to his feet. His siblings barely stirred, exhausted by their storm of crying. "What if the bandits tricked you? They might still have her! They might be hurting her! We have to go find her."
It hurt, the possibility. That he could be wrong. That Dylan could be alive. That somehow the bandits had tricked him. But there was no tricking Nuada's mind-touch without the glamouring abilities of a fae monarch. He opened his mouth, shut it again. Realized that it actually didn't matter if he'd been tricked or not. Tsu's'di was right about one thing—Nuada had to go find Dylan. He couldn't leave her there, in the bandit camp, surrounded by enemies, alone. It didn't matter if she was…It didn't matter.
He remembered his father. It was one of the few clear memories from the day his mother died that occurred after Wink's arrival, after the death of the human beasts that had nearly killed them all. His father and Butcher Guards and even the chamberlain had thundered into the clearing. Balor had leapt to the ground and run to the royal twins. Gathered them up, tears glittering on his cheeks in the dying sunlight and dampening his beard. Shouting their names, he'd kissed Nuada and Nuala's faces, weeping when it took them a while to stir, weeping harder still when their eyes fluttered open and they croaked together, "Áta?"
And then Balor had looked at Cethlenn. She'd lain on the blood-spattered ground, her eyes staring vacantly at the darkening sky, bruised and broken and far too still. Balor had given Nuada and Nuala to his guards, ordered in a brittle voice to see them safe. That he would bring the queen home. Then he'd gone to her. Fallen to his knees in the dust at her side. Nuada remembered the last vestiges of light dying in his father's eyes as he leaned down and gathered her so gently and carefully into his arms.
It wasn't the first time he'd seen his father cry, but it was the first time he'd seen his father weep like that—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent wail of anguish, rocking the queen in his arms, his cheek pressed against the auburn tangles of hair. Nuada had never been able to forget the agony in his father's face.
Would it be that way for him? He would have to go and find Dylan's…He would have to find Dylan. Bring her back. He couldn't just leave her to rot in the bandit camp. The thought left him sick in the belly and at heart. Leave her? How could he? Never, he could never.
Would it break him, to see what his enemies had done to her? How bad had it been at the end? He had been on the receiving end of human tortures more than once. He knew it could have been worse if they hadn't wanted him alive. So then…
He couldn't think of it. He swallowed and looked to Tsu's'di. The youth watched him with a terrible hope in his eyes. Nuada could not force himself to murder that hope. Time would do it for him.
Feeling unutterably weary, the Elf got to his feet. "It is as you say—we must go after her."
Tsu's'di's look of gratitude burned like iron. Nuada could not look the boy in the eye. The ewah didn't understand; they were not going to try to save Dylan. It was far too late for that. They were venturing out now to bring back her corpse.
.
Victoria didn't know what she was expecting when her sisters' friend Lorelei led her and Francesca to the common room, but Francesca screeching like a cracked-out banshee and then slapping her hands over her mouth certainly wasn't it. She stared at her twin, but Cesca wasn't looking at her. Victoria followed her sister's line of sight. Her mouth dropped open.
Standing in the middle of the swath of clear floor space in the common room was the weirdest looking guy she'd ever seen in her life. Maybe because at least that big, bristly troll-guy didn't look very human, it wasn't such a shock to her system. But this guy was almost entirely human—at least in build. He towered over most of the fae by about six inches and he had muscles like a professional wrestler. His limbs were fairly normal—two arms, two legs, two eyes, a nose—but his human-shaped mouth bristled with razor-sharp teeth; when he grinned, he reminded Tori of a hyena. A scaly hyena. Because boy, was the guy scaly. Like a crocodile, except greener.
The only thing was, Francesca hadn't screamed like she was freaked out. She'd screamed like Benedict Cumberbatch had just dropped down on one knee and proposed marriage after offering her a vacation in Maui. And when Crocodile Man let his snow-dusted pack thump to the floor and held out his arms, Francesca whooped and ran to him, leaping into his hold. Her legs went around his waist and her arms around his neck, and she clung to him like a rabid spider-monkey. Crocodile Man buried his face in the crook of her neck and held on tight.
"Who," Victoria mumbled, "is that guy?"
"That is Davio," Lorelei replied, watching the hyperactive love-fest with a small smile. "Francesca's boyfriend. He is not fae, but he knows ways of passing between our realms. He is a friend of mine. I had told him Francesca would be here for a few days."
"This is better than watching Titanic."
Victoria jumped when Pauline came up beside her, watching their sister try to squeeze the mutant croc half to death. They weren't even kissing, just holding each other. On the Francesca Scale, that upped the relationship to pretty serious. But…"He's a crocodile."
Lorelei shrugged. "Your sister is…was betrothed to an Elven prince. The enemy who attacked Bethmoora so recently is wedded to, among many things, a firebird. I myself am partnered with a troll."
That got Tori's attention. "Wait, say what? A troll? What troll? You mean…" She glanced back to where Wink stood guard outside Nuada's room. "You mean that troll?"
The rhinemaiden nodded. "He is, I must confess, a most excellent kisser. And he is quite deft with his hands."
Victoria stared at Wink's bristly mouth, the jagged tusks on his chin, and the three shovel-like fingers on Wink's hands. Then she tried to imagine the massive fairy beast doing anything romantic or sexual with the humanoid rhinemaiden and just…couldn't. Not that it was so mentally scarring that it hurt to think about, she just…couldn't even figure out how that would happen. How did Lorelei even kiss him?
And how did someone marry a firebird? Was that like a phoenix? What was that like? How did they deal with babies?
She thought of a button Dylan sometimes wore pinned to her messenger bag that showed a baby dragon holding a teddy bear that was on fire, with the words This is why dragons can't have nice things. Did the firebird and its spouse have that problem with their babies?
"Is she getting down anytime soon?" Petra asked, coming up to the group. Pauline immediately put an arm around Petra's waist and laid her head on her twin's shoulder. It was so weird, Victoria thought: Petra and Pauline were identical twins, but Mary had been born at the same time, a fraternal triplet. The odds of that happening were something like a trillion to one. But the three of them were just as intimately connected as the rest of the Myers siblings. Petra sighed and laid her cheek on Pauline's head. "What is she even doing up there?"
"I think she's smelling him," Tori replied. "Or crying. I'm not sure. With her it could be either."
"Maybe they should get a room," Mary suggested, joining the group will a pale and silent John in tow. "How long before her clothes come off?" The others eyed her. "Come on. This is Francesca we're talking about. Her idea of a fun first date is strip poker or naked water polo."
"How do you even play naked water polo?" Pauline asked. "Don't you need horses for polo? Because horses and nudity don't really go together."
"And," Mary added, ignoring the question—probably, Victoria thought, because she didn't actually know the answer—"she reads books like Scaly Seduction in the Deep Dark Night and whatever. About snake shapeshifters and mummies and passionate flings in the Gobi Desert."
Petra tilted her chin in the couple's direction. "Well, that explains her obsession with sexy, scaly romance heroes."
Lorelei shrugged again, still smiling. "They are merely holding each other. Once they remember there's a world beyond embraces and whispered words, they'll let each other go. But for now, let her find comfort."
"People are staring," Mary said.
"I doubt either of them care," said Tori dryly.
"He's going to put holes in her sweater," Petra pointed out. It was true—Alligator Dude's fingers ended in sharp nails, and they'd already punched through the folds of the thick cable-knit sweater Francesca had been wearing, which Studly McScales gripped so tightly that both hands shook. "Aaand he put holes in her sweater."
"Like I said," Pauline replied, "this is better than watching Titanic."
.
"I do not believe I signed up to carry a hippopotamus," Shaohao muttered as he and Zhenjin stepped into a cave cut deep into the Barr Trí gCom mountains of northern Bethmoora.
How the older Dilong prince had known the caves were here, Zhenjin didn't know. But the province of Broch Toruch, where the village of Lallybroch was situated, hugged the base of the Barr Trí gCom and stretched tendrils of forest up over the first rows of peaks before fetching up against the borders of Eìrc, kingdom of the Fir Bholg. Was this where Shao had been hiding? Why not flee Bethmoora altogether? He'd spent decades orchestrating his schemes from his imprisonment in Dilong.
"Shouldn't you be carrying her?" Shaohao added, hefting the unconscious human. "This is like hauling a pregnant star-cow."
Zhenjin bared his teeth. "Watch your tongue, Brother. And I can't carry her." Not after what Shaohao had done to him in order to hold Dylan's life force inside her body. He could barely feel his fingers, and his legs shook as if he'd been forced to run the distance from Bethmoora to Dilong and back. It hurt to draw breath. "Now stop complaining. You weigh more than she does."
Shaohao scoffed. "I most certainly do not. I've had to maintain my svelte figure out here in the wilds, thank you ever so much. Have you ever seen an exiled prince on the run who looks half as fashionable as I do? As for my complaining," the sarcasm turned into something sharp and cold. Zhenjin couldn't tell if his brother was joking when Shaohao added, "I can let her die, you know. It's nothing to me."
There was a long silence before Zhenjin said, "It would break my heart to lose her."
"You don't have her to begin with," his brother groused. "Honestly, di-di, what do you see in her? She's busy rutting with Silverlance and all you can do is pant after her like a stray dog—"
"No, she isn't," Zhenjin muttered wearily as they trudged deeper into the network of caves. The dragonfire Shaohao used to light the way cast rainbows dancing across the crystals and different colored minerals embedded in the rock walls. The younger prince sighed, focusing on the limp form in his brother's arms instead of the beauty around him. He didn't much care what Shao said about him "panting" after Dylan, but he knew the mortal despised it when people assumed Nuada was bedding her. "She doesn't believe in intimacy outside of marriage."
Shaohao made a noise like someone had just told him the sky was heliotrope and that his mother had the face of a yak—confusion and outrage all tied together. "She what?" He scoffed again. "Well, no wonder you're in love with her. Both of you have about as much understanding of how to actually enjoy yourselves as a castrated monk. You're perfect for one another."
Zhenjin growled at him. "I know how to enjoy myself."
"Really?" They turned a corner and came to a cave that held a small camp: a bedroll, a banked campfire, and a pack stuffed with gear. A small spring bubbled up from a split in the rock a few feet from the little camp. A wooden cup sat on a jutting lip of stone just beside it. Setting Dylan on the bedroll, Shaohao added, "And yet every time we meet, I catch you castigating yourself, flaying your very soul with regrets and doubts, etc. Etc. Etc. You're never doing anything fun. As the humans say, 'lighten up,' Zhen-Zhen."
"You keep getting away," Zhenjin retorted, coming to slump to the stone beside his kneeling brother and the catatonic mortal. "How am I supposed to feel about my prowess as a warrior when my quarry keeps escaping me?"
Shaohao smirked. "I cannot help that I excel in all things. It's a curse, I grant you, but I have come to accept it. Even embrace it. You'd be much happier if you did, too. Now," the Red Dragon Prince lost his smug expression. Bronze eyes focused on the mortal lying unconscious on the ground in front of him. "Let's see what can be done here." He glanced at Zhenjin from the corner of his eye. "You might want to lie down. I'll need more of your fire later."
His body jerked instinctively at the memory of all that pain, of the agony of unmaking and reweaving. But Zhenjin looked at Dylan's face. His eyes traced over her bruises, her cuts. In his mind's eye he pictured Nuada's look of anguish if she never returned. He thought of everyone in her life, fae and mortal, who needed her.
At Shaohao's direction, he pulled out a second bedroll and laid down on it, near enough that his brother wouldn't have to strain or distract himself in order to touch Zhenjin to borrow the dragonfire. He mentioned his surprise that Shao had two bedrolls instead of only one. The other man grinned.
"You think I spend all this time out here alone? I am married, you know," he said. Zhenjin stared at him. "You remember Golden Sparrow?"
Of course he remembered Golden Sparrow. She was Shaohao's second favorite wife (the first one having been made into a pair of boots). A young firebird fae who'd come to the palace with the eldest prince under mysterious circumstances a few centuries before Mïng Xiân had been born, Golden Sparrow had been like Zhenjin—one of the few people who could usually calm Shaohao's homicidal rages (though she had less success than the prince or Shaohao and Zhenjin's mother, the Pearl Snake Empress).
Zhenjin remembered a short, chubby fae woman with dimples and sparkling black eyes who wore vibrant gold and crimson feathers in her hair. How she'd remained so cheerful while married to Shaohao, no one had ever been able to understand. But Shao had seemed to adore her, even though she'd never given him any children. Golden Sparrow was one of the few in the prince's household who'd been allowed to write to him during his exile to the Yué Mountains. She was the only one who'd begged the emperor to be allowed to follow him, but Huizong had refused, fearing for her safety.
The pieces clicked into place and Zhenjin realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. "She's a firebird," he finally managed. And a traitor to the royal family, he didn't add. Threatening Golden Sparrow in any way would have been…unwise. "She can travel the Realm from one end to another in a night."
Shaohao nodded, smoothing back Dylan's hair from her battered face with surprising gentleness. "Or in a day. She comes to see me sometimes, brings me fresh supplies. We tend to magic the bedrolls together." A dreamy smile stretched across his face. "Of course, then we typically need new ones. It's a bit of a messy business when a firebird and a dragon make love. Phoenix fire and dragonfire, plus magic and all that. Mmmm. Such delicious flames."
Zhenjin cleared his throat. "Thank you, Brother. I'm sure that very educational and disturbing image will be seared into my brain forever."
Shaohao snorted. "You're welcome. And don't act as if you don't think about making love to your mortal until she forgets all about Silverlance." Zhenjin looked away, clenching his jaw. "Don't lie to me, little brother. I know how a man's mind works. There's always some part of him—of you—that will wonder if you can't compete with Silverlance. If maybe you can kiss away the phantom of his lips, erase her memories of his touch with your own."
"Shut up. I would never attempt to woo her away—"
"And that," Shaohao said brightly, "is why you are so adorably and enchantingly miserable, Zhen-Zhen, you idiot. Your precious honor gets in your way every time. Now, all comfortable? Ready for agonizing pain? Good. I promise you won't die, even though it might feel like it."
With Shaohao, Zhenjin thought as the elder prince began working his healing magic, that was usually the best you could hope for.