Author's Note: Look, everybody! I'm on time! Yay, me! So I really hauled butt to get this done despite being sick a lot and working a lot of overtime. This is the 2nd to last breather chapter before the deep, dark plunge and hopefully you guys enjoy it. This chapter would be twice as long and a week late but I wanted to be nice to my beta. Anyway, enjoy the chap, let me know what you think, and happy early Labor Day (and also Mabon). I'll pop back up with the next chap in a month. Possibly less if I manage to punch out the next chap super-fast. Love you all!
Last Time on Once Upon a Time: Zhenjin and Dylan engaged in their first romantic encounter to fulfill Shaohao's bargain, but once Zhenjin left, Dylan was attacked by the Darkness That Eats All Things for failing to keep her word. Receiving her earnest promise to rectify the situation, the Darkness leaves and Shaohao uses his royal magic to heal most of the damage from the attack. Downstairs in one of the tavern's private rooms, Francesca entertains commoners and nobles alike at a drinking party, where she notices Prince Dastan of Shahbaz paying flirtatious attention to her sister Petra. And down the hall, Nuada makes a deal with the young half-Fae Uilliam to delay King Balor's arrival in Lallybroch for a few days, which Uilliam and his friends manage to do with the help of some sympathetic trees, horse dung, and angry skunks.
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Chapter One-Hundred-Twenty-Three
I'll Spin You Mornings of Gold
that is
A Short Tale of Fear, Blood, and Questions, an Old Ballad, a Beast Who Is Not Joking, Whispers of Fear in the Dark, a Hopeful Vassal, Understanding, Letting Go, Promises of Later, and Strawberries
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Shards of panic bit into Dylan's skin when a gentle knock sounded at her bedroom door. It took her too long to lick her lips with a dry tongue, swallow the dregs of fear still choking her, and croak, "Who…who is it?"
"My lady," Nuada's warm, gentle voice rumbled softly from the other side of the rowan-wood door. Some of that fear eased its grip on her. "I wanted to be certain you were well after…" After her time with Zhenjin, but he probably didn't want to say that. "May I enter?"
She was suddenly, acutely aware of the blood drying to her bare, half-healed back and dampening her tunic. The sticky trails cooling against the sides of her neck and in the hollows of her shoulders. She swallowed again. "I…um…"
"Dylan?" A change in his voice now. A sharpness. He could sense the dull terror still thudding in her blood, a final sinister gift of the Darkness. He knew her so well; even just a tremble in her voice told him all he needed to know: she was in danger…or had been. "Dylan, what's wrong? May I enter?"
"I…" She tried to say she was fine, that he could come in, that things weren't as bad as he probably thought…but she couldn't get the words out past the sandy fear still clogging her throat. "I…"
Nuada opened the door and swore at the cold saturating the room. "Mo duinne, it's freezing in here. Why didn't you have someone build up a fire?"
Somehow she managed to rasp, "Nuada…"
He frowned, sniffed the air then; she heard the sharp, rapid intake of breath, and knew he smelled her blood, the sting of salt and the burning chill of iron. He was at her side in an instant, grasping her hands, heedless of the dim light and barely glowing coals. Careful fingers reached up to brush the cool stickiness on her skin.
"You're hurt," he breathed. "What happened? Your guards—"
"The Darkness," she gasped. "The Darkness That Eats All Things, it…it came here."
A long silence. And then…
"What?"
She told him all of it as he brushed his fingers over her skin, checking to ensure the injuries that had shed all this drying blood had been properly seen to. Then, as she talked, he built up the fire to drive the vicious cold from the room and then used a dash of magic to brighten the candle flames from the overhead chandelier and the lamps on the walls. The cheery light drove the lingering shadows away so that when the Elven prince returned to her side and took her hands in his again, chafing them gently to bring some warmth into them, she'd managed to stop shivering.
Nuada bent his head over their clasped hands, his pale fingers massaging hers while the long, silken strands of his white-blond hair tickled her wrists. When Dylan tried to reach out to him through their link, she smacked into an icy wall of gray, unfeeling stone. The link was broken; she'd forgotten.
At last Nuada asked in a low voice, "What do you think went wrong?" He said nothing about the shocking news that mad Prince Shaohao had made telepathic contact with her, healed her wounds from a distance, or shown her any sort of kindness. One thing at a time. The Darkness was the most pressing thing; when it might return was anybody's guess.
Dylan shook her head. "I don't know. I did everything I was supposed to. Zhenjin came, we talked to make sure things wouldn't be…strange between us. And then we kissed for a while and…and things, and then he left. I don't understand what we messed up, but we have to figure it out. And since Zhenjin didn't make the bargain, I did, it was probably something I did wrong. So this whole evening didn't even count for anything."
The prince cupped her chin in one hand and lifted her head to catch her gaze. She'd expected maybe that empty, glittering topaz stare that always looked out at the world when Nuada wanted to hide his emotions…but instead, she found herself caught up in a gaze of warm, honeyed amber.
"We have time," he murmured. "Time enough to discover what went wrong and correct it, so long as we make an effort. The Darkness will not return, so long as we make an effort to obey its decree. Until then, shall I send for some water and herbs to cleanse your wounds?"
She nodded. When the water arrived, he helped her to carefully clean away the drying blood on her neck and back. With every swipe of the soft cloth, the chill in her bones thawed a little. After a long silence, Dylan murmured, "I think I need to send a letter. A text, I mean." It was so strange to think of texting when in such Old World surroundings. "Not right this second, but soon. Tonight or tomorrow morning. It's important."
Nuada stilled. "A letter to whom?"
"My cousin, Renee; you met her, she was at my elevation ceremony. She has a PhD in Medieval Irish Law. She also has a Masters in medieval Gaelic mythology." At his look, she added, "Renee goes to school because she likes to learn. She's a professional academic. She has PhDs in a lot of things. But this means she can help me with a couple things—this stupid bargain with Shaohao, and possibly dealing with your father. She might be able to help me figure out what went wrong, and how to fix it. She's smart. Smarter than me. Smarter than anyone in my family, really. Fae-smart."
"You think it will truly help?"
"Yeah." Dylan lifted her hands to push her hair out of her face. Realized they still trembled. "Whoa. I just…I can't shake this. I…Can we go somewhere?" She asked, realizing even as the words left her mouth that it was an impossible request, completely unfair. But she couldn't stop herself. "I know we're needed but I just have a feeling it's safe to be gone for a bit and I just need to get away, I can't…I know we've only been here a few days and I know we have a duty to help these people and I'm not trying to shirk that, Nuada, I swear to you, but I just…I just need—"
He caught her hands. Folded his own around them and brought her fingers to his lips. Pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles, he asked only, "Where do you want to go?" She stared at him, hardly daring to hope. "Wherever you wish, mo duinne, mo crídh, I will take you there. Or if you wish me to stay here in this room, at your beck and call tomorrow, I shall. Whatever you ask."
It was only then that Dylan realized how late it must be. It had been nearly midnight when Zhenjin had come to her room. Night lasted longer in winter, and longer also in Faerie, where time moved in strange ways, but they both needed to sleep at some point. But what if now was the only time they had to take a break and find some peace from all the madness being kicked up around them?
Still…she was tired. And he certainly looked as if he could use some sleep…
I just want some rest, she thought. We both need it. All this with Sréng and the bandits and the battles…Heavenly Father, is there any chance we could just have a day to ourselves? Would that be possible?
Warmth, gentle as spring sunshine, flared in her chest, easing some of the tension and tiredness. She smiled. Answers to prayers came in a variety of ways, but sometimes direct answers made her happiest. Her smile widened as an idea popped up in her mind.
"I think we both need to sleep, but…if there's time tomorrow, do you think we could maybe…go on a date?"
Dark lips curved into the brightest smile she'd seen from her prince in weeks. He pressed one of her hands to his cheek, turning his head just enough to press a swift kiss to her palm. "I would be honored, my lady." He hesitated, then said, "It would also be my honor to sing for you, to help you sleep. If you wish it." His singing often helped fight back her nightmares. Even with the sleeping draught prepared by Healer Táebfada, sometimes she still needed the help.
Her eyes settled on the chair in front of the low fire on the hearth. "That would be wonderful."
Nuada busied himself banking the fire to keep it safely burning through the night, keeping his back to Dylan while she quickly changed into a loose sleeping shift, offered a silent prayer, and climbed into bed. He wouldn't leave her; instinct warned against it, though he couldn't be certain why. The darkness—or the Darkness—seemed to breathe warm and fetid against the back of his neck. So he remained.
When the flames crackling merrily once more and the spell-warmed sheets pushing back some of the chill, the tension finally seeped out of Dylan's body. Nuada pulled the chair to her bedside and sat down. Tired topaz eyes studied her, and she studied them, noticing the deepening midnight circles around his eyes and the darkness shadowing his mouth.
"Do you ever think about running away, becoming a minstrel?" She didn't know why she asked such a silly question, but it had the desired effect: he snorted.
"As a boy, yes. Occasionally. But I haven't the skill to win my bread with my voice or an instrument, I'm afraid. Your opinion," he added when she opened her mouth, "is heavily biased thanks to all that human trash you listen to." He grinned when she shot him a scowl. "I haven't heard a decent song from a human in nearly a hundred years, my lady."
She simply shook her head. "You're such a stuffy old man."
"I?" Mock-outrage suffused his face. "Stuffy is a matter of opinion, but old? How dare you?"
Her grin promised unspeakable amounts of trouble. "It's not my fault you're a cradle-robbing creep who can't keep up with the hot, young thing you decided to marry." She winked. "If I wasn't so dead-tired, I'd let you try to prove how not-old you are, but if you kiss me, I'm sleepy enough we might get into trouble."
Nuada considered the half-dozen ways kissing her could lead them into said trouble and had to swallow back false promises of self-restraint. Instead he merely smiled and canted his head. "Close your eyes, mo duinne." When she'd settled comfortably onto her side—the only way she could sleep, with her back in such a state—and the weary lines smoothed away from her face, the Elven prince cleared his throat and began to sing.
"Sing me a song of a lass that is gone,
Say, could that lass be mine?
Merry of soul, she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.
"Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lass that's born to be Queen
"Over the sea to Skye.
"Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclouds rend the air;
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore;
Follow, they will not dare.
"Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep;
The ocean's a royal bed.
Rocked in the deep, our love will keep
Watch by your weary head."
A small smile curved Dylan's mouth as the mellow tune began to carry her gently into the first hazy stage of sleep. She reached up and caught Nuada's hand. He squeezed her fingers. Swept his thumb back and forth across the back of her hand in a tender caress.
"Sing me a song of a lass that is gone…
Say, could that lass be mine?
Merry of soul, she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.
"Mull was astern, Rum on the port,
Eígg on the starboard bow;
Glory of youth glowed in her soul;
Where is that glory now?
"Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclouds rend the air;
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore;
Follow, they will not dare.
"Give me again all that was there,
"Give me the sun that shone!
"Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
"Give me the lass that's gone!
"Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclouds rend the air;
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore;
Follow, they will not dare.
"Billow and breeze, islands and seas,
Mountains of rain and sun.
All that was good, all that was fair,
All that was mine is gone…
"Sing me a song of a lass that is gone…
Say, could that lass be mine?
Merry of soul, she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.
"Sing me a song of a lass that is gone…
Oh, aye, that lass is mine.
My bonny lass, come though what may,
I'll find thee at last in Skye."
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King Balor muttered viciously under his breath as he sat on the side his camp cot. By far the most luxurious bed available in the camp he and his men had set up, it was still closer to a cot than a bed, despite the piles of warm furs and velvet blankets.
The night gnawed with wintry teeth at the tent flaps and the few thin slits in the thick canvas not protected by beautifully embroidered tapestries. The old king rubbed his shoulder with his hand of flesh, eyeing the wooden arm laid in its elegantly carved hawthorn case that he blamed for the dull ache.
Sáruit, captain of the King's Butcher Guards, lifted out a long, lamb's wool sleeping shirt from one of his trunk. The Butcher captain, head of the king's elite guard, had often acted as his valet on such journeys where the Lord Chamberlain did not accompany him, ever since his last valet had died just before Nuada's exile. Sáruit, helmet set aside in the privacy of the tent, gave the sleeping shirt a quick, hard flick to snap the wrinkles from it and offered her sovereign the garment. Balor had long ago learned the art of shrugging into a shirt with only one working hand and dressed quickly, the shirt falling over the black sleeping trews he already wore.
"Your pain draught, Sire," Sáruit murmured with a small bow. The small cup, fashioned of carved Dwarven crystal that glittered with a thousand fractured rainbows, held exactly seven acorns' worth of Roan Inish river water sweetened with cherry bark syrup for the low throbbing in his bones and the ache in his shoulder. The cold chewed at his joints and worried at the marrow in his bones, still plagued by cold exacerbated by the once-fond memory of the bath he'd only recently finished ridding himself of the last of the stink. He'd needed one after a foul run-in with both a lowly skunk-fae and some little wretch that thought it amusing to hurl snow and dung at the crowned head of Bethmoora.
Quickly, he knocked back the small potion. Handed the empty cup back to his guard captain. She offered him a bowl of grapes (force-grown out of season by his Mistress of the Vineyard, a half-Elf whose mother had been a lenai nymph from Mytikas) and the king dutifully ate a few as Sáruit stripped off her leather gloves and bracers, poured liniment into her hands, and—slipping her hands beneath the soft wool shirt near the gaping open collar—carefully massaged it into Balor's shoulder.
They had done this often, the king and his captain, and so Sáruit never scratched him with her inch-long black talons as she kneaded the knots from the tense muscles. Balor groaned or grunted occasionally as she worked, but otherwise paid her hardly any attention. Other matters preoccupied his thoughts.
His son. His poor boy. The king knew it futile to pray that his son hadn't succumbed to madness in the wake of his beloved's death. It had been an agonizing contest of wills when Cethlenn had died and Balor had been confronted with a choice—wash away the pain of her loss in blood, bathe the world in salt and scarlet to force the mortals to atone…or hold to his honor and uphold the truce that had been in effect at the time. He'd chosen the truce. And his son, that proud and oft-times cruel Elven warrior, lacked Balor's own honor. The only thing that had held him in check was the human…but no longer.
Tired topaz eyes drifted to the sheathed claymore resting atop one of the king's trunks. The gold casing and scarlet leather bore a few scuffs the king's servants hadn't been able to buff or oil out, but it was a good sword. It had seen him through countless battles over his eighty-two centuries. He prayed to the gods that it would see him through this last: executing his only surviving son. He would ask no other to do it.
"Do not despair, my lord," Sáruit murmured. He bit back a rueful smile; of course she'd noticed the direction of his gaze. "You know my lieutenant and I would gladly take this burden from you."
Balor didn't bother shaking his head. Only sighed. "He is my son." The little boy he could still remember offering to go easy on his "poor Áta" when, for the first time, the little prince had thoroughly bested him at chess. The same little boy who'd cried, "Look, Áthair, look! Look at me!" and come racing out of the Royal Stables on the back of Donás, the largest and most ornery horse in the king's livery. He could still see his boy's brash smile and flashing eyes. Where had that little boy gone? "I cannot abandon him in his last moments, Sáruit."
"As you say, Majesty."
He would lose Nuala, too. Their bond ran so deep…How could he do it? How could he execute both his children in one fell stroke? And then to return to Findias to bury them, and execute Ledi Polunochnaya…Young Naya, who'd been like a second daughter to him, a sister to his children. Three of his children, gone. His progeny, spent. Their allies, turned against them or gone.
Oh, my children…my son…Please. Please do not turn to butchery to appease your pain and soothe your hate. It might have been folly to pray for such things, but even now he couldn't help himself. Nuada, my son. My son. Only stay your blade, and I will do all I can to help you bear this grief.
"Thank you, Sáruit," he said at last when the pain in his shoulder had withered to almost nothing. "That feels much better. You may assign my nightly guard to stand watch outside my tent. I shan't be needing anything more tonight."
She canted her head, the shaggy strands of black hair falling across her forehead and the four obsidian eyes glittering from her ash-gray face. The three gills slashing across her face, where a nose would be on another fae, flexed and flared—a sign of amusement among the Butchers. But she only offered a small smile with her lipless mouth full of rows of teeth and pulled her helmet back on. Pressing her fist to her chest, she bowed to the king and walked out of his tent.
And then she swore so colorfully that the old king briefly considered blushing.
"Sáruit?"
"A moment, Sire. I must—come back, you wretched little beast! I say thee, nay! You shall not pass!" A clang sounded from outside the tent and the flap whisked open as Sáruit surged back into the tent, hot on the tail of a small, furry, black animal with a white stripe down its back.
Balor took one look at the skunk and snarled, "You must be joking."
The skunk was not, in fact, joking.
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In the gloomy darkness pooling at the edges of the empty village streets, a lean shadow in a dull yellow robe scurried along, carefully avoiding torch- and moonlight. Thin to the point of emaciation, with hunched shoulders and eyes glinting like polished obsidian, the fae slipped past the watchful eyes of the lone fae guard standing watch outside the tiny village prison. The door barely opened a hand-span before shutting again with nary a sound. A single torch illuminated the chilly stone building with its tarnished, bronze bars on cell window and door.
Barinthus mac Eitidh paced like a caged animal beyond the bars. Fists the size of small boulders swung at his sides as he made it to one side of his cell, turned on his heel, and marched back the other way. The trespassing shadow watched deep lines furrow Barinthus' brow and disgust twist his features into a sneer.
"Jumped-up human slut," he growled low in his throat. "Take my daughter from me…And Silverlance…He's a disgrace…Treacherous wretch."
The shadow stepped fully into the light, revealing a faerie that cleared his throat delicately. "One ought to watch their tongue when they're under guard, Master mac Eitidh."
Barinthus jumped and stumbled back. Wide, amber eyes stared at the other faerie. "You…I know your kind…"
The other fae buffed his long, jagged black nails on his amber robe. Offered a lazy smile. "Do you?"
He nodded, trembling. Whispered in a voice hoarse with something too primal to be mere terror, "Fear darrig."
"Very good. Now, the illustrious lord who is my master has heard of your predicament, Master mac Eitidh: a disobedient daughter sullying your line with corrupt offspring, Silverlance humiliating you and stripping you of your rights as a father, then imprisoning you for speaking the truth. Is this not so?" The fear darrig asked softly. Barinthus nodded again. "Then I believe we share a common enemy—Prince Nuada. Nod your head if this is so." Another nod. "My lord has a job for you. Succeed, and you'll be richly rewarded."
"A…a job?"
The fear darrig, the Nightmare Keeper, smiled and canted his head. "There will be an attack on this village in four days' time, at dawn. If Silverlance survives that battle, he will be moving on to other towns, but he will come back through Lallybroch again. You are our secondary plan. If and when he comes, kill him."
Barinthus stared at him. "I…kill…" His gaze darted around the room. "I am imprisoned, lord. Even were I to possess the skill to execute such a fearsome warrior, I have not the means—"
"Leave that to my lord," the fear darrig said. "He will see you are released before the attack comes. He has influence with the king."
"The king?" Barinthus echoed. The Nightmare Keeper nodded. "The king is…coming here?"
"Yes. And then there will come the attack—after your release, of course."
"Those human scum again?"
The fear darrig canted his head. "A few of them will target your daughter and her spawn. Fae, of course, to avoid any untidy questions. They're merely fodder, and they'll die before they can harm you."
"Me?"
"Yes. You'll stand guard outside your daughter's door. Try to see her before that, of course, but she'll no doubt rebuff you. This will get you close to her. After the bandit sheep are dead, she'll be so touched by your fatherly love that she'll forgive the punishments you so rightfully laid on her for her wanton behavior."
Barinthus hesitated. He remembered the long days and weeks of trudging up those stairs to knock on Iúile's door, to ask her to please reconsider. Didn't she understand? She was dishonoring herself, her family, her mother's memory. Shaming their bloodline. Allowing an abomination into the world. But she'd refused to hear him. Refused to speak to him. Somehow, she simply hadn't comprehended the true severity of what she was doing.
And then that wretched gancanaugh…enticing his little girl with poisonous promises of an outcast life, defilement as his bride…The very idea made bile rise in the back of the old Elf's throat. His daughter, the wife of a gancanaugh? A common woodcutter, no less? And a Christian? Never mind that Iúile had allowed herself to be seduced by those newfangled ideas of the Star Kindler actually caring about the Fae; the Star Kindler was a human god, for all that various Fae had worshipped him for millions of years. He would always be primarily the humans' god. Barinthus couldn't understand how she could swallow such trash. One only had to see the plight of the fae, the atrocities committed by humans—many in the ancient days perpetrated in the name of the Star Kindler—to see the truth.
But it was Iúile, Barinthus remembered, who'd been entranced by the quartet of Star Kindler's servants that had come to the village perhaps a year ago to "preach the Word." In all fairness, the gancanaugh wretch had had nothing to do with that. Her mother had said she was old enough to decide for herself, but the path she was on was all wrong. Didn't she see that?
She had to be shown. Once the wretch was dead, once the abomination was dead, she'd see reason. She'd understand. And if selling himself to this Nightmare Keeper and the Keeper's nameless liege lord was the way to do that, then so be it.
"How am I to kill Silverlance if the time comes?"
"We will give you the means if it becomes necessary," the fear darrig replied. "In the meantime, do you swear yourself to my lord? If you do, you must wear this." He held up a flat, metal disk on a hemp cord. The mark of bondage, commoner to noble. Barinthus couldn't quite see the crest etched into the metal. "Do you accept it?"
With trembling hands, the Elf accepted the necklace. His tongue tripped over the words of a vassal's vow, but his voice came strong despite this. If this noble, whoever he was, could help Barinthus get his daughter back, then he would swear the faceless courtier anything.
When it was finished, the fear darrig turned to walk away. Barinthus called to him and he turned back.
"What is the name of my new master? And who are you?"
The fear darrig smiled, a cold and terrible smile that sent ice skittering down Barinthus' spine.
"My name is Hastur," he said. The Elf's golden eyes widened and fear spilled icy and poisonous in his guts. "Lord of the fear darrig. As for my master…do not attempt to tell anyone his name. It can only be spoken between those of us who bear that token." He nodded to the hemp-and-faerie-metal necklace around Barinthus' throat. "But I will tell you his name, and perhaps you will have more confidence in this plan to eliminate the Silverlance."
The name Hastur spoke then was one Barinthus knew well. Everyone in the kingdom old enough to know the names of the royal family knew this name as well. Fear slithered away from Barinthus, leaving him smiling too. The influence of a powerful lord like that was a guarantee of success. Silverlance would die. So would the gancanaugh wretch and the abomination.
Wonderful.
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Dylan woke the next day to soft, wintry light striping across her face and winking through the slats in the shutters. She stretched, but shortened it when her back twinged. Still, it only hurt her healing lash-wounds a little bit when she stretched her toes enough to brush the footboard of the bed. With a contented sigh, Dylan slid out of bed and hurried to dress and get ready for the morning and say her prayers.
Today, she and Nuada would go on a date.
She wondered where they could go in the village that would afford them even a modicum of privacy. The villagers tended to worship the ground their prince walked on—and with good reason. He fought for them. Bled for them. Suffered for them. They all knew he would willingly, even gladly die for them if it would make any difference. And so they adored him.
A swift glance in the mirror told her that she'd seen better days. Her face still held traces of the deathly pallor she'd acquired in the caves while Shaohao was bringing her back from the brink of death. Thanks to Francesca and her magical comb, Dylan's curls had grown out supernaturally fast and it now hung to her waist—exactly as it had before that monster Sréng had hacked her hair off. But suddenly she wanted to do something with it. With herself.
Something had changed. Dylan had a few ideas as to what: the chance to have a break, however brief, from all the darkness and sorrow, but also getting to write to her favorite cousin. If Renee could come to Lallybroch…There were no words that could possibly come close to expressing what just the idea made her feel.
So after texting Renee—thanks to the magical lapis lazuli charm her pixie friend Kaye Fierch had given Dylan before she'd come to Findias—the mortal combed, pinned, and braided her hair; she used her own simple, copper bobby-pins instead of the ornate ones she'd brought from Findias. She added a bit of foundation, concealer, and blush she'd purchased a few weeks ago at the Night Market to give her face some color and to help dull the cruel starkness of the fresh cuts on her face. And she very deliberately picked out a simple, wine-dark leine to wear, with only a simple, charcoal-gray kirtle to wear over it and charcoal trews beneath that tucked into her boots. A softer version of Nuada's own sable and scarlet. Her back was healed enough that the touch of cloth didn't hurt anymore.
Studying herself in the mirror, Dylan couldn't help but smile. Last of all, she donned her golden Young Women's medallion with its simple gold chain. She didn't think the elegant chain with the topazes, carnelians, sunstones, garnets, and rubies would be appropriate. Smoothing her hands over her skirts, she smiled.
It shocked her, how easy it was to smile at her reflection.
Eímh and Sétanta both leapt to their feet as she stepped out into the hall. The white and black tails wagged furiously as the pups wriggled. Dylan knelt, still surprised by the fact that her knee had yet to give her any complaint since Shaohao had brought her back, and stroked the milk-white and night-black heads.
*Your smell is different today,* Eímh said, dropping her chin on Dylan's shoulder.
*You are happy again?* Sétanta asked.
It wasn't happiness so much as relief, the thought of some time away from the shadows and the sorrows, but it was close enough, she supposed. "Yes. Come on; take me to your master."
*Master is not here,* Sétanta said as they moved down the hall. Dylan's guards fell into step in front of and behind her. *He went out when the sun came up.*
*We don't know where he went,* Eímh added. *The raven-Fae don't know, either.*
Dylan's brows drew together as she digested that piece of information. Where would Nuada have gone at dawn? And raven-fae: the hounds' word for the Butcher Guards, because they were named after butcher-birds—ravens. Nuada had left the inn at dawn without his guards? He wouldn't have dared to go out into the forest in search of any remaining bandits…would he? But at least no whisper of warning chilled her heart. Wherever he'd gone, he was safe enough.
The main room downstairs fell silent the moment Dylan appeared on the final step. Unease thudded in her blood, mimicking her suddenly racing pulse. When she'd first come back to the village, she'd thought she'd been imagining it, and over the last few days of mending the last of the damage to Lallybroch, she'd been too tired to pay it much attention, but now it became glaringly obvious—the people had become suspicious of her again.
She just didn't understand why.
Swallowing, Dylan headed for an empty table in the common dining room—which had been put back to its original purpose now that the sick and wounded were all well enough to go home or stay with neighbors. Her guards lounged oh so casually against the wall or at nearby tables while her hounds crawled nimbly onto the bench opposite the one Dylan took for herself.
The innkeeper, a fae woman whose hair hung in two braids like golden rope down her back, approached and bobbed a curtsy, wiping her hands on her apron. Her dove-gray skin, luminous yellow goat eyes, and gray-green told Dylan she was a glaistig. If she'd been rude enough to bend over and check, Dylan knew she'd have been able to glimpse slender goat hooves peeking out from the hem of the moss-colored skirts. She'd introduced herself at the beginning of their stay in Lallybroch but suddenly Dylan couldn't remember her name.
"Will you be wishing breakfast, milady?" The woman's voice came soft and low, almost like a lullaby. But there was a hesitancy there that made a cold lump settle in Dylan's stomach.
"Yes, please—if there's any left." She flashed the glaistig woman a smile.
The answering smile seemed oddly forced. "There's eggs and potatoes, bannocks, and some good, fresh milk left in the creamery from this morning. We've no sugar for the bannocks but there's a few autumn berries—"
"That's all right," Dylan said. Hoping to put the innkeeper at ease, she added, "Plain bannocks are nice, too. But the eggs and potatoes sound wonderful. And I love milk."
The innkeeper offered another curtsy. "As you like, milady."
Dylan forced the frown from her face as the woman hurried off. A quick side-glance at the other people in the room told her that though they'd gone back to their conversations, they all kept an eye on her.
*They are confused,* Sétanta murmured. Dylan wasn't sure how, but she knew the hound pup spoke only to her. *The two-leggers that den here are confused about you, but they still like you, Mistress. Don't be sad.*
She flashed a smile and nodded. Confused. Okay, then. She didn't know why, but maybe one of her guards would know. Ailís had been the one to help her navigate things like before. Dylan caught the guardswoman's eye and the tall Butcher tossed her braids over her shoulder and headed for the table.
"Eímh, Sétanta, make room for Ailís," Dylan commanded softly. The hounds wriggled and shuffled until they'd made enough room for Ailís to sit down across from Dylan. Propping her elbows on the table, Dylan raised her eyebrows. A low, rough, chuffing sound echoed inside Ailís's helmet—laughter.
"You're getting better at this, my lady—knowing when questions need to be asked. You confuse the people here."
"So Sétanta said." Dylan pitched her voice low, wondering if the other fae in the room could hear even though she whispered. But if this wasn't a conversation that was safe to have here, Ailís would've told her to wait and talk upstairs. "Why?"
Ailís ran a hand along Sétanta's flank. He made a happy-dog noise. "No one the bandits have taken has ever returned alive…except you. The villagers wonder how it is that you escaped death at the hands of the monsters that have plagued them for so long. But they also see how you pushed through pain and exhaustion to help them these last days. They will not forget it."
After a long moment, Dylan asked softly, "Do they hate me for surviving?"
"No, milady. They simply wonder how it possible. Give them time and they will come around…" Ailís's violet eyes sliced to her right and she pushed away from the table. "Such as this one here."
Dylan turned to the old Elf with his arm in a sling who limped over and offered a deep bow, a hand over his heart.
"If I may approach Her Ladyship?"
"Master MacEssit!" Dylan grinned. "You're looking well." Especially well, considering the last time she'd seen him for more than ten seconds, she'd been pouring simmering whiskey into the vicious wounds on his arm to cleanse them of infection. The sickly gray pallor had left his skin and though he still wore the sling, he carried himself with more surety and strength than before. "Please, sit down."
The old Elf's golden eyes widened. "Oh, milady, I couldn't possibly—" He trailed off when Dylan gave him a look, equal parts pleading and exasperation, which spoke volumes. "You know, my grandson Iubdan used to give me the same look when he wanted something," MacEssit mumbled, sliding onto the bench.
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Used to?"
Sorrow stole into the aged, golden eyes. "He was killed by bandits, milady, trying to save his young man from them. Killed them both, and Iubdan's father, my third son."
"I'm sorry."
He shook his head. "No need for such words from the likes of you, milady. After all you've done for us, you've nothing to be sorry for. I, uh…That is, I wanted to see how you fared, now that things have calmed a bit. Wanted to be sure you were well."
Another smile stole across her face. "I'm well, thank you. And you? Your arm, is it doing okay?"
He flexed his fingers, grinning. "Better and better every day, and I thank you. I'd surely have lost it without your help. But uh, there was something I wished to ask you, milady. A boon, if I may be so bold. Forgive me if I speak out of turn, of course, but…"
"Go on," she prompted when he fell silent.
MacEssit cleared his throat. "Well, now…The damage to the village in this recent attack was tallied up just yesterday and, well…it seems my family's farm was lost."
"Oh," Dylan whispered. "I'm so sorry."
He waved that away. "It was good land, and a good farm. Many good memories I've made there, but…well. My wife is gone these many centuries and my children are all grown and gone, and their children. And now that the farm's gone, too, well…There's nothing keeping me in Lallybroch anymore. So I thought…pardon my boldness, Your Ladyship, but I thought perhaps you could use an old Elf in your retinue."
Dylan's mouth fell open. She blinked. "Pardon?"
The old Elf cleared his throat. "I know it's forward of me, and I know I'm naught but a common old soldier and farmer, but…but I'd serve you well, milady. By my name and honor, I swear it. You've done me a good turn and I pay my debts."
"Master MacEssit, I didn't help you to get something from you—"
"Aye, that I know. Excuse me for interrupting," he added belatedly, alarm suffusing his face. "I meant no disrespect. But milady…the Silverlance holds a very special place in the hearts of his people. And you hold a special place in his heart. You're a lady His Highness can be proud to ally himself with. A lady his people can be proud to call our own, begging your pardon. And it seems to me…well, it seems to me, milady, that you could use some friends around you. Folk you can trust. And I hope I'm such a person, is all. And if it doesn't offend you, you remind me a bit of my daughter. And it makes me smile. At my age, living the sort of life I have, precious little makes me smile these days."
"I…" Even with the warmth of the Spirit assuring her that this wouldn't come back to bite her in the butt—or rather, if it did bite her, it would all be worth it—this felt like something she should talk to Nuada about first. She didn't really understand what it meant to take a vassal. The cubs didn't really count; that had been Nuada's idea, and besides, their relationship both with Dylan and the prince was a little unorthodox. But the old man looked so earnest and he seemed so kind. "May I talk it over with His Highness before giving you my decision?"
A bright grin broke out across the wrinkled face. "Absolutely, milady. That would only be right, of course. Thank you for your consideration. Thank you. I shan't keep you any longer from your breakfast," he added as the glaistig innkeeper arrived with a rough-hewn wooden plate piled with scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. "Thank you again, milady. Good day."
A little dazed, Dylan nodded. "Good day. Thank you," she added to the innkeeper. "This looks delicious."
This time, the woman's smile seemed a deal less forced. "Enjoy, milady."
She'd made it through most of her plate—most because certain guard dogs were apparently expert at begging for a bit of spiced potato—when Nuada returned. And the people who'd been surreptitiously studying Dylan all morning found themselves softening, smiling at the look of pure, guileless joy that suffused her face when the prince entered the tavern and strode toward her table. The prince leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her lips.
"Good morning, beloved," he said in English, and slid onto the bench beside her and snagged a bannock off her plate.
"Hey!" She said in the same language—mostly so the villagers wouldn't understand what they were saying, and because Nuada had been the one to switch from Gaelic. "Get your own."
Nuada raised his eyebrows, the bannock halfway to his mouth. He seemed to consider her order for a moment, and everyone watching them held their breath, anxious to see what the prince would do.
He lowered the sweet cake and leaned in, so close Dylan could almost count each of his silvery-gold lashes. His breath was warm against her mouth. She drew a shallow breath.
"No." And he stuffed half the bannock in his mouth before she could do anything but blink.
Her mouth fell open. "You…!" She pushed her plate away from him. "No more bannocks for you, Your Highness."
"Give them here, by order of the crown prince."
"No," she replied with a sniff. "By order of the future princess."
Nuada lifted his chin. "I believe my authority trumps yours."
"Not when it comes to my breakfast, it doesn't," she replied. "You eat like a teenage boy; get your own plate." Acting on instinct, she stuck out her tongue at him. He pretended to attempt to bite the tip and she squeaked, laughing. The villagers, Dylan noted, were all grinning and whispering to themselves, clearly charmed despite the language barrier. And Nuada seemed to be in a better mood than she'd seen him in since the snowball fight in the garden he'd commissioned for her.
The prince cleared his throat. "If I truly wanted some, you would share with me, would you not?" The look he gave her was positively pitiful, and she told him so. "All the more reason to be benevolent."
"Oh, for goodness' sake," she said, laughing. "Here, you big baby." She pushed the plate over to him. He took another bannock. "Since you're an adult, I assume I don't have to tell you to eat real food, too?"
He eyed her. "Today let us pretend we are but a pair of young lovers—you a spring maiden and I but an adventurous youth. According to Wink, it will make things more fun."
"What things?"
Dark lips curved into a grin. "You'll see. I'll meet you outside in five minutes. Hurry up." He brushed a kiss against her cheek, careful of the nearly-healed knife wounds.
"Why are you in such a good mood?"
"Because I found something I simply must show you. Hurry." Another kiss and he was on his feet. He whistled softly and Eímh squirmed off the other bench in a spill of white puppy to plop onto the floor. She immediately trotted to Nuada, staying at his side as he strode back out through the tavern's front door.
Shoveling the last of the food on her plate with as much dignity as possible, Dylan drained the last swallows of milk from her cup and smiled when the innkeeper was suddenly there to take her dishes. Tying back her hair with the scrunchie around her wrist, Dylan called Sétanta to her and they hurried outside to meet Nuada.
.
Francesca yawned and stretched as luxuriously as a cat, wincing when her spine popped. Despite the wintry cold outside, her room in the inn was still crisp and warm and toasty from the fire. And from the scaly stud-muffin snoring beside her. She grinned and kissed Davio's forehead. He made a snuffling noise and his forked, black tongue flicked out. Most girls probably would've been freaked completely out, but for some reason the sleepy, snake-like tongue-flick made Cesca smile. She'd really hit the jackpot with this guy.
Slipping out of bed, cringing at the icy bite to the floor, she hustled to her slippers and bathrobe and yanked them on to escape the chill. What time was it? Judging from the pale yellow beams of winter sun, couldn't be too late in the morning. Was anyone else up yet?
She peeped through the curtains on the bedroom's single window, smiling at the traceries of delicate, glittering frost still gracing the cheap glass. They didn't get this intricate diamond filigree in Alphabet City, where Victoria lived, or in the Bronx where Cesca lived. The steam from the buildings seemed to turn the loops and whorls of sparkling hoarfrost to simple sheets of ice.
Through the tracings of ice, Francesca spotted some of the healthier fae villagers doing…village things. Someone dragged a cow through the main road, ignoring the way it lowed and tried to pull away. Children carried bundles of sticks from the edges of the village where towering trees draped their branches over the now-repaired village wall. The occasional child rushed up to a woman on the tavern steps, just beneath Cesca's window, to hand her something.
Francesca's eyes widened when she recognized her sister, who accepted a tiny sprig of green and white—flowers?—from a little kid in a green kilt and white shirt, his flaming red hair bright in the winter sun. Kilts were Scottish, Cesca thought, which meant the boy was one of the northern Fae Dylan talked about. Red hair, green kilt, white shirt…Petra had met an older woman with red hair, who wore a green and white dress. A leprechaun? Clurichaun? Something like that. The boy bowed to her and Dylan's laugh trilled up to Francesca's window as her sister bobbed a quick curtsy and kissed the kid on the cheek. The boy bowed to the blond man next to Dylan—had to be His Royal Hot-Pecs, dressed in all that black—and then raced off to join a group of other kids watching from across the street. The kid threw his hands up in the air and whooped and his friends cheered for him. Some of the adults in the street laughed good-naturedly.
The waitress shook her head. Dylan was remarkably good at this whole lady-thing. The village children seemed to adore her. And thanks to the battle that had been fought, the people healed, the damage repaired, these people could get on with their lives. Prince Zhenjin, Dylan's Scaly McHotness friend with the dragon eyes, had assured the villagers that he'd razed the bandit camp to the ground. So while another attack might come at some point, everyone was pretty sure it wouldn't be anytime soon.
It was nice here. Cesca enjoyed the simplicity of things—no distractions, no pollution, no traffic, no dick-weasel guys trying to slip their hands up her skirts—and magic apparently took care of all the things she couldn't have done without, like indoor plumbing and central heating.
And the work she and her sisters and brother had done here, helping these people…it was good work. This was what Dylan had dedicated her life to do. What their parents had inadvertently punished her for. This was why the prince loved her so much.
But now Francesca understood. She didn't just know. She finally understood.
Smiling, she watched the Elven prince help her sister climb on the back of a white horse like something out of a fairy tale. Cesca wasn't worried about them going somewhere; they'd be back, since they'd left all their stuff behind (not to mention Francesca, Victoria, Petra, Pauline, Mary, and John). But after all the crap they'd gone through, they deserved some alone-time. And Zhenjin had made sure the forest was safe enough, so more power to them.
As for her, she was going back to bed. It was still cold enough to make her a little sleepy, and jabbing Davio in the ribs with her elbows was always fun. He made the most hilarious squeaky noises.
"Dude!" She cried, hopping on the bed. She shoved him. He grumbled something unintelligible and obscene. "Wake up!" She tried to bite back a yawn, clenching her jaw to keep it in, but to no avail—it escaped, big enough to make her ears pop. She blinked sleepily. "I'm bored and it's cold. Stop being torpid so you snuggle me."
A snake-slit eye popped open. "It's cold. Of course I'm torpid."
"Wake up, I'm lonely!"
He sighed, smiled, and lifted an arm. Francesca snuggled down next to him, her head on his chest, and sighed. Davio asked, "Still lonely?"
"Shush. I'm sleeping."
She drifted off again to the sound of him chuckling in her ear.
.
Pale sunlight dappled the snow as Nuada led Dylan through the trees, guiding his stallion Lomán with his knees. Dylan, astride the white and green arion mare, Maeve, relaxed in the saddle as they passed beneath the icicle-strewn boughs of pine and fir. The sharp scents of ice and evergreen spiced the air.
They weren't going too far—near enough that, should something happen, they could race back to the village—but Nuada knew it was safe enough because of the discovery he'd made just that morning as dawn was breaking over the world. It was exactly what Dylan needed. What they all needed. But he would save the first glimpse of this perfection, this wonderment, as a gift for his lady.
They reached a small meadow perhaps twenty minutes' ride from the village. Here the air warmed and the snow melted to slush before soaking into the ground a few feet beyond the trees. And beyond the snow, slush, mud, and then damp earth lay only soft, vibrant grass and honey-sweet heather, wild Irish roses in a thousand shades of pink and cream, and summer-sweet dandelions like gold coins sprinkled across the green. A tiny brook burbled across the meadow, the spray from the rocks beneath the surface of the water casting up fractured rainbows.
Dylan didn't bother stifling a gasp at the sight.
Nuada slid from Lomán's back and helped Dylan slide from the saddle; even with her knee working oddly well, mounting and dismounting still gave her trouble. She scanned the meadow, mouth half-open.
"Ohhh…Nuada, it's beautiful. How…did you do this? With your magic?"
He shook his head. "I have something planned with Master Gawain that will require a good deal of my power. At least, the power I carry that ties to the land. No, this is something else. Someone has pushed back the grip of winter here."
"But I thought only unicorns could…do that…" Dylan's eyes widened and she sucked in a breath as a slow grin unfurled across Nuada's face. Eyes the amber-gold of carnelian stones shifted to look over her shoulder. The prince nodded to something behind her. Dylan turned and her heart stilled.
They glided into the meadow from the shadows of the trees, powerful bodies forged of starshine and pearl. They seemed different than the last time she'd seen them, though Dylan couldn't put her finger on why. They moved like luminous shadows, bending their arching, graceful necks down to drink from the brook. But one stepped across the water, crystalline hooves chiming softly against the grass with each step. The sunlight shone on the pearly coat, a lilac so pale it was nearly white. The iridescent horn gleamed like a spire of lavender-tinted diamond as the unicorn drew close to them. Eyes of vivid amethyst warmed at the sight of the fae prince and the mortal woman.
*Good morning, Prince Nuada of Bethmoora. Good morning, mortal child, Star Kindler's disciple.*
Nuada went to one knee before the unicorn mare. He pressed a hand to his heart and bowed his head. "Lady."
Dylan couldn't move. She'd seen unicorns before—twice: once alive and vibrant and brimming with the ancient magic that made them shine like muted stars brought to earth, and once butchered and mutilated and left to rot in the snow—but even now, the beauty and majesty of them held her immobile.
*You have known such sorrow since last you saw one of my kind,* the mare breathed. Her voice seemed to shimmer on the air like pure power. *Sweet, human child. Brave prince. We see how you struggle.*
The Elven prince's head snapped up. He stared at the unicorn. "My…my lady?"
Those fathomless, amethyst eyes filled with shadows and two tears as pure as crystal welled up and flowed down her cheeks to fall to the grass. Where they fell, flowers like white stars pushed out of the earth. Their centers glittered like crushed jewels. The unicorn moved to stand directly in front of him and lowered her horn to his chest.
*Be still, little prince.*
Despite the awe stealing most of her thoughts, despite the shock on Nuada's face, despite the unicorn's tears, there was still something about anyone referring to Nuada as "little prince" that made Dylan smile.
And then the unicorn thrust her horn through Nuada's splayed fingers and into his chest, straight through to his heart.
Heat flared in Dylan's chest, the assurance of the Spirit, but it didn't quell the spike of fear drilling right through Dylan before she remembered—in all the stories of unicorns, in all the legends, the piercing of a unicorn horn never harmed the one being pierced…unless the unicorn was interrupted. It was a requirement for deep healing. Only Nuada wasn't hurt…
Nuada sucked in a breath. Blinked. "What…" He whispered. His hand twitched. A look torn between wonderment and pain twisted his face. The words came strained when he gasped, "What is happening?"
Dylan did move then, just a twitch in his direction before the unicorn commanded softly, gently, *Hold, mortal child. He is not hurt. Silverlance, you carry darkness in your heart. You must let at least a little of it go—for your own sake. Otherwise it will destroy you. Let me help you.*
"I…" He seemed to choke on the words in his throat. "I…cannot…"
Instinct and the warmth of the Divine pushed words out of Dylan's mouth before she could think of them. "Nuada." His eyes slashed to her face, glazed with some internal struggle she vaguely recognized. "Nuada, it's okay. Whatever it is…it's okay."
They hadn't been expecting this. Dylan hadn't expected to see a unicorn at all, but the prince clearly hadn't anticipated this moment. He stared at Dylan with the wounded gaze of a beast caught in a trap. But something he saw in her face seemed to break through the splinters of what could only be fear in his eyes. He took a breath. Closed his eyes. His brows drew sharply together and the pain on his face intensified for a brief moment before he gasped, his eyes flying open, to stare up at the unicorn as she slowly drew her horn from his chest. No amber blood marred the tip.
Right before her eyes, the darkness staining Nuada's mouth and the skin around his eyes dulled from deepest obsidian to charcoal and then to stormy gray—the lightest Dylan had ever seen it. Gasping still, he sank to the grass, one hand pressed to his chest.
Whatever kept Dylan immobilized faded. She knelt beside him, sliding her arms around his shoulders. "What happened?"
"My…my rage…it is not gone, but…I feel…lighter. As if some great weight has been lessened." He looked at the unicorn. "Forgive me, Lady, but I do not understand."
*Dark times are coming for you, little prince. For you and your chosen mate. The peace of this grove is a gift from my people to you for the good you have done for this kingdom and for the foals you saved from the killing fields. This cleansing…it can be a hard thing for you shorter-lived beings, but it was necessary. What I have helped you rid yourself of shall only be reaped again, but without this gift, you would break beneath it.*
The blood drained from Dylan's face as the unicorn's meaning crystallized in her brain. "What's going to happen to us?"
Nuada laced his fingers with hers, holding tight, a silent promise. Whatever came, they would face it strengthened by each other. Dylan pressed her cheek to his shoulder.
The unicorn turned to the glory behind her. Having drunk their fill of the brook, they waited at the line of trees for her to finish with them. She fixed those brilliant, violet-star eyes on the prince and the mortal once more.
*My kind possesses knowledge of only the vaguest shadows of the future. Whatever comes, you will survive it. Because of my gift, you will not break beneath it, Silverlance. But it will test you to the utmost. It will not come today, or tomorrow, or the next day, but it will come. Until then, little ones…live your lives. Enjoy this time together. Be happy in your love for one another, in the beauty of this place, in all you have accomplished here. It is not meaningless, and it is not futile.* The unicorn started to move away, but paused and glanced back at Dylan. *Mortal child, where is Rowan's mother?"
Dylan flinched. Nuada frowned at her. She swallowed, unable to break away from that intense, jewel-like gaze. After a moment, she managed to whisper, "How do you know about that?"
The unicorn didn't answer. Merely waited.
Dylan cleared her throat. "She's back in the village. In Lallybroch."
*Bring her and your kin here tomorrow morning. They have seen the darkness of the Twilight Realm, and thus have earned the right to see what wonders Faerie holds.*
Silver-blue eyes snapped wide. "Thank you."
Somehow, the unicorn smiled at her, though Dylan couldn't have said how she knew. A sweet ache flooded her body, equal parts comforting warmth and soothing coolness, and the unicorn lowered her head again. Dylan braced, waiting for the stab of the crystal horn, but instead the unicorn merely nuzzled her lacerated face ever so gently with her silken muzzle. Dylan's breath escaped in a slow exhalation of disbelief and awe.
*Until tomorrow, mortal child, fae child. Remember what I have said. Enjoy this time together. You are safe in this grove; revel in this peace while you have it.*
And with that, the unicorn cantered away, hooves ringing musically against the grass, and the glory vanished into the forest.
Dylan let out a long, slow breath. "Wow." Laying her palm against Nuada's cheek, she studied his face. She could still feel the silky warmth of the unicorn against her own cheek. "Are you okay?"
"I…I believe so. I feel well enough. Odd, but…quite well. Which is honestly what makes the feeling so odd. I have never…never felt anything quite like this before. I…As I said, I feel somehow lighter."
"Less angry?" She ventured. He nodded. "What were you angry about?"
He huffed a laugh tinged with bitterness—but perhaps less bitterness than it might have carried. "So many things, mo crídh. I carry my rage with me always. It is a beast I keep leashed within, caged by my will and my honor, to draw out only when such things are needful. Sometimes it slips its leash when provoked but now I think I may have an easier time controlling it. I am…less angry at myself than I was."
She cocked her head. "Angry at yourself? For what?"
A rueful smile, there and gone. "Promise you shall not henpeck me like some shrewish dwarf wife." In answer, she poked him in the ribs and he laughed. "Come, let us find a more comfortable camp, and I shall explain myself."
He'd brought a thick woolen blanket along, and he laid it upon the grass near the babbling brook. Dylan flopped onto it on her stomach, allowing the sunshine to warm her back through her dress. Nuada stretched out on his back, folding his arms behind his head. He offered her a small smile, but she sensed the tension in him still, and the shadow of the unicorn's gift and warning. Propping her elbows on the blanket and her chin on her fists, Dylan focused on her prince's face.
"You've been angry at yourself," she said. "Let's talk about that."
He sighed. "Ever the mind-healer. It is only…All my life, I have been reminded that I am responsible for so many. My royal blood, my title, my crown—they all make me so. My skill with a blade, my skill with tactics and strategy, all of it leaves me with a responsibility to protect and defend those weaker, less skilled than myself. And yet always I fail."
"You blame yourself?" She asked. "Not Fate or your gods or my God or even the perpetrators of evil you punish, but yourself? Why? That's a bit arrogant of you, don't you think? That you, one man, could defy beings so much more powerful than you?"
His smile returned, ever more rueful. "Touché. I cannot explain it so that it makes sense, but…ever since the first time I found myself unable to protect someone I loved, that anger has taken root in me and only grown."
Folding her arms and laying her head down, she reached out and brushed the tips of her fingers against his elbow—the easiest part of him to reach at the moment. "You need to learn to forgive yourself for that."
"I know," he surprised her by saying. "I think…I think that, more than anything else, was the unicorn's gift—the knowledge that forgiveness for such things lies within my power. And it makes the anger lighter. A little easier." He shifted, clasping her hand and kissing her palm. "Tell me truly, mo duinne. Do you think that there is a way to let this rage slip from me? You are a mind-healer, and you know my heart and soul better even than I myself do. Is there a way to let my darkness go? Would it weaken me beyond reckoning to do it?"
After a few moments of silent pondering, she replied, "I'd have to think about it. I think there's a way, certainly, but…I don't know what effect it might have you. Whether you would, to use your words, 'be weakened.' I don't know if traditional therapy would be right for you. It isn't for everyone. And a lot of your darkness…you carry it…well. If that makes sense. You carry it, but it doesn't haunt you. You know?"
"Some things haunt me," he confessed. "Some of those lost will never leave me. And some of them truly are my fault. Like y—" He bit back the word.
Dylan frowned. "You weren't going to say me, were you?" He shook his head. "What were you going to say?"
A sigh, and he turned on his side, his head cradled in one hand. With his free hand he reached out and traced the deepest, widest cut on her cheek. A topaz gaze edged with melancholy gray studied her face.
"Now is not the time to speak of…this," he said at last. "The unicorn spoke truly: we have a rare chance today, precious time to spend together without repercussions or fears. Shall we not enjoy it? I promise you," he added when she opened her mouth, "my word as prince of Bethmoora, that I will tell you of whom I speak. But not now. Will you indulge me in this?"
"Okay." He'd given his word. She knew he'd keep it. "So, what do you want to do with our newfound freedom?"
He smiled, and somehow there were no shadows in it. "What would you like to do?"
Dylan sat up, looking around the meadow. "I don't know. I want to find something cool to goggle over…found it." She pointed to something near the wall of the forest, where shadows stretched from the bases of the trees and slush still clumped along the grass, frost edging every frozen blade. "Do you see that red stuff?"
Nuada frowned, peering into the gloom near the trees. "Are those…strawberries?"
"Yup."
"But…it is December."
She poked him again and he quirked a slender, blond brow at her. "Your Highness," she said. "Have you forgotten who I am, exactly? Because in case you did, let me remind you—I am one blessed to pick strawberries in December's frost."
In truth, he had forgotten. She'd told him once, during that brief stay at her cottage before the argument that had sent him running off to hide in the New York Underground like some feckless, callow boy. He'd half-thought she was joking. Apparently not.
He followed her to the edge of the trees, where she hiked up her wool skirt so the slush only dampened the knees of her lambs' wool trews. Ignoring the bite of ice against her skin, Dylan leaned over the half-blanketed strawberries, carefully brushing the slush from the plump, red fruit.
"Ooh, they're ripe. And ginormous. Awesome…whoa. What's that?"
"What?"
Dylan pointed to something curled up atop the biggest, most luscious of the strawberries—a berry nearly as large as Dylan's hand. One of the large, green leaves poking out from the stem at the top had been dragged across the curled-up thing like a blanket. Dylan stared at it, trying to make it out in the shadows, when Nuada grinned. Very gently, he poked a pale green thing sticking out from underneath the strawberry leaf.
"Shame on you, slug-a-bed," he murmured as the green thing jerked beneath the leaf. "If your berries are out, the sun shining, the air sweet with spring, then you should be awake, growing even more fruit for passing travelers. Wake up, now."
A soft, chirping sound issued from underneath the leaf. Dylan could almost—but not quite—make out the words.
"If I say please, my fine lady, will you come out?" The prince asked.
Another chirp and the strawberry leaf folded back to reveal a person half the size of Dylan's pinky, her hair as dark as aged strawberry ale and clad in a dress made from bright green strawberry leaves. She sat up slowly, lifting golden-brown arms in a slow stretch—only to freeze midway, scarlet eyes wide as she stared up at Nuada's smiling face. The little fairy squeaked and yanked the leaf down to cover herself.
Nuada chuckled. "Pray, your pardon, my lady. We didn't mean to frighten you. Do come out again."
The leaf scrunched down tighter.
"We couldn't help but admire this fine crop you've grown," he explained. At that, the tiny fairy peeked out from behind the shield of her strawberry leaf and gave a soft pip! sound. Nuada canted his head to her. "My lady, you honor us with your presence."
The fairy glanced at Dylan and cheeped, a trilling bird-like sound.
Nuada smiled. "This is my truelove, my betrothed. I brought her here to see the beauty of the meadow and she noticed your fruit."
Feeling oddly shy, Dylan offered a little finger-wave. "Hello. You've done a lovely job."
The fairy stepped into full view, spreading diaphanous wings like leaves of ruby glass that buzzed into swift motion, fluttering so quickly they blurred as she shot up into the air until she hovered at Dylan's eye-level. Up close, strangely enough, Dylan realized she looked Latina—dark auburn hair, golden-tan skin, dark eyes. All with tints of strawberry-red, but still Latina. Something to look into, she decided, when she had access to her phone and the internet back at the inn.
After several chirring sounds Dylan didn't understand, the tiny fairy gave a melancholy whistle and looked to Nuada, who translated, "She says her name is Ailín, and that you may try a strawberry if you promise to give her your honest opinion. She says she fears this year's crop isn't quite up to her usual standards," he added with a small smile, "because the unicorn glory's presence has brought spring on so early and she hasn't had adequate time to prepare."
Dylan grinned. "Which one should I try?"
Ailín flitted around the small bunch of strawberries, occasionally prodding them with her tiny finger or shining them with a huff of warm breath and a rub of her forearm. At last she wrapped her little arms around a berry the size of a golf ball and heaved. A high-pitched squeak escaped her; it reminded Dylan of a muffled teakettle. The strawberry popped free of its stem, sending Ailín tumbling a few inches through the air.
Finally coming to a stop, she hefted the berry and studied it gravely in the spreading golden glow of the sunlight. After several minutes, she gave a sharp nod and dropped the strawberry into Dylan's open palm.
Dylan took a bite, acutely aware of Ailín watching from the air, hovering in a ball of nervous scrunched-up berry fairy as Dylan's eyes widened and she stared down at the fruit.
"Oh, my gosh," she breathed. "This is amazing!"
And at that moment Dylan became Ailín's new favorite person.
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Author's Note: huggles for all of you guys still with me! And a shout-out to the artist Amy Brown (who is not reading this fic, but still) because she draws the most amazing fairies!
Concerning the Title: "I'll spin you mornings of gold" is a line from the David Bowie Song "As the World Falls Down," which is from the movie The Labyrinth.