Author's Note: hey, everyone! I know, I know it's been so freaking long! Please forgive me! I've been having…a lot of issues. I've been really sick, then I got even sicker when I got hit with the flu – and no wonder I've been sick, I've been working 60+ hour weeks since like, April. And then, oh ho, and then! I got fired. Yep. Because I'm autistic, apparently I can't do my job. Yeah. They said that to me. Omg…it's been the absolute worst…few weeks…in my life, I think. So now I'm struggling to file unemployment while also struggling to find another job, I'm the sole breadwinner for my family – or I was, anyway – and now I don't have health insurance. Life is a bitch right now.
*pant pant pant*
So yeah, I got fired. The one upside of this is that it gave me time to finally finish this chapter. So I'm uploading it on Halloween, Samhain, for you guys as a treat. I'm sorry it's been so long. I'm hoping that I'll be able to at least take this time to write up a bunch of chapters in advance. I swear I'm not abandoning Once, though. I promise! BUT! There's an important thing.
Important Thing: guys, in a couple months (December 31 of this year) I'm going to be moving most of Once to a different platform. I'm moving it t because…well, I need the income. I'm not moving all of it. I'm going to keep the first 33 chapters and the latest 10 chapters up on this website. But Once is popular enough that I would like to put it on to help with our finances. I checked the legal stuff, I am allowed to post fanfiction o N.
But because Once has adult content, the rules say you have to be one of my Patrons in order to see it. It's not expensive at all, it's like a $1 monthly subscription. And you get a bunch of other stuff if you're interested, like other fanfics of mine, Once Upon a Time art and playlists and original music that I wrote for Once, and the new chapters will be released one week earlier than they will on Fanfiction dot net. My eventual goal is to have enough Patrons that I can put out a Once chapter 2-3 times a month. But we're in dire straits right now, so we need your help. Please support me o at: (colon) (forward slash) (forward slash) w w w. (forward slash) LA (underscore) Knight (forward slash) posts .
This is a matter of livelihood. Please help, you guys.
Clarification: for some reason it's not letting my name the site. It keeps blanking it out. I don't know why? Let's see...It's Pat. Re. On. But all one word without the periods. So the website is three Ws, then Pat. Re. On. (forward slash) LA (underscore) Knight (forward slash) posts . Except Pat. Re. On. is all one word, lowercase, without the periods. Freaking Fanfiction dot net causing me problems, blargh.
Last Time on Once Upon a Time: while Becan is escorted through a dark shadow realm in order to reach Dylan, Balor makes his way along the King's Road to Lallybroch on a mission to execute Prince Nuada for supposed crimes against the humans. Meanwhile, an oblivious Dylan and Nuada spent a lovely afternoon in a unicorn glade on their first real date in a while. Nuada opened up to Dylan about some of the horrors of the human wars and Dylan got to see some of the wonders of Faerie and meet some fae she'd never seen before. Now it's time for the mortal and her prince to go back to the village, where a surprise is waiting…
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Chapter One-Hundred-Twenty-Five
Would I Lie to You?
that is
A Short Tale of Party Planning,Him, Girl Time, Dancing, Drinking, Music, Screams, the Arrival, and Accusations
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The totoro lolled about in the sun with Dylan until well into the afternoon, when it was time for the mortal woman and her Elven prince to leave the unicorn glade and return to Lallybroch. Dylan offered the tiny, furry fae beast a short bow. The totoro and its horde of soot sprites bowed back to her before melting into the forest. With fey ease, Nuada helped Dylan onto her arion mare's back. The mare swished her long, celadon tail against the first edges of snow creeping into the ensorcelled glade.
*Did you enjoy yourself, my lady?*
Dylan's grin flashed bright and childlike. "I did, Maeve. Thank you. And thanks for being so patient and waiting for us."
The mare offered a snorting sort of chuckle. *I had other things to keep me occupied.* She arched her long, white neck and nickered at Lomán, the prince's stallion. Lomán cast her a sidelong glance from the corner of his eye while Nuada mounted up. *So, shall we be off then?*
It was barely half an hour's ride back to the village, a ride enjoyed in restful quietude between the prince and his lady. Occasionally Nuada or Dylan would glance at each other and smile softly, remembering the glade and the faeries they'd met there and the wonders they'd seen. The crystallized, shrunken crown of daisies and clover Dylan had woven for him glittered like pearl and gold against Nuada's wrist.
When they arrived, Dylan's mouth dropped open and she stared at the bustling village. Woven pine and fir boughs draped above the refurbished doors of the tavern, blacksmith's forge, wheelwright's shop, and most of the repaired houses. A'du'la'di, in his cougar form, was strapped into a leather harness alongside a shaggy, night-black colt with eyes glowing like ghostfire. Amaryllis, the young dullahan girl A'du had befriended, pulled on a third set of harness as together they hauled a bundle of half-logs to the town square. Dylan was pretty sure the colt took most of the weight, but it was still rather impressive.
She looked around to see tiny faeries the size of pencils—winged fae, brownies, and will-o-the-wisps—racing and flitting back and forth along rooftops, pinning tiny fairy lights to the eaves. 'Sa'ti streaked across the rooftops in a blur of tawny fur; every so often, she'd stop and smack a spot on the roof with her paw, and one of the Wee Folk would press a fairy light there.
"What's going on?"
Dylan gazed up in awe at the expertly carved wooden statue of a stag-horned king in the village square, strewn with garlands of holly and mistletoe, the berries white as the freshly-tamped snow and red as summer roses. Long, rough-hewn wooden boards had been laid down upon the snow surrounding the statue; wooden sawhorses with more boards atop them served as tables on one part of the improvised flooring. The rest of the floor remained clear of anything but three new poles cut from young pine trees. Sapling-slim tree maids clambered up the fresh, white wood to fasten ribbons to the poles: scarlet and amber to one, cobalt and alabaster to another, emerald and buttercup yellow to the third.
"I know Christmas and the solstice are both past," Dylan murmured to Nuada "and the fae don't really celebrate New Year's the way a lot of humans do, so what's with all the decorations? Are those May poles? It's January."
With his knees, Nuada guided Lomán closer to Dylan. "Only humans associate pole-dances with spring. While they are an oft-used fertility rite in the growing seasons, we fae of Bethmoora, Eírc, and Cíocal see it as a rite of prosperity and hope in times of darkness...which is one reason we dance the poles in spring, but also at other times. It's a symbol of blessings to come, a promise of love and joy and prosperity. These victories against those monsters are a good reason to celebrate. And besides, these people have had no chance to celebrate anything as lighthearted as the solstice for many months, and so they will celebrate it now. So we bring forth holly and ivy, hawthorn and rowan, oak and pine. Our music and our so-called May poles.
"Besides," he added with a wink and a grin fierce and fey, "we are the Hidden Folk, the People of Between Places. We live for revels. Tonight we sing our songs and light our bonfires, and you will see what a true faerie revel is like."
An answering grin unfurled across Dylan's face as her pulse fluttered. "That sounds awesome." A thought niggled at the back of Dylan's brain. "Was this what you were saving most of your magic for? You said you were going to be helping with something in the village."
Nuada merely smiled, quirked his eyebrows, and urged his horse toward the tavern stables. Dylan laughed, shaking her head, and followed after him.
It was true, though—faeries loved to party. And as long as she knew it was safe, so did Dylan.
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Apparently Francesca hadn't known about any of this until approximately sixty seconds before Dylan's arrival in the tavern, which she made very clear to her baby sister the minute Dylan stepped inside. A door to a private room slammed open and an explosion of black, green, blue, and tan raced for the mortal. Dylan let out a small squeak and Francesca jerked to a halt less than an inch from Dylan's face.
"They're. Throwing. A. Party."
Dylan cleared her throat. Francesca's eyes were unusually wide. "Yes...?"
"I have nothing to wear." She leaned in closer; Dylan smelled berries on her breath. "To a faerie party. My sister is engaged to the crown prince and I have no clothes. I will look like a homeless bag-lady. I will disgrace our entire family."
"I'm sure you'll look fine. You always do."
Cesca had the rare ability to club for a three-day weekend, get totally hammered, pass out in an alcoholic haze, roll out of bed the next afternoon absolutely hungover, and still look like a supermodel.
Francesca narrowed her eyes and suddenly Dylan knew an odd sort of sisterly fear, like adorable snakes coiling in the pit of her stomach. Cesca's sapphire eyes glittered as she said, "Don't you patronize me, Dylan Myers. I will wreak vengeance upon you and your household. A fluffy pox on you all."
Dylan smiled. "Say that one more time and don't laugh. I dare you."
There was a long silence and finally Francesca grumbled something obscene under her breath and grinned. "Seriously, though—this is a party. I'm a rock-and-roll party queen. Just like in the song." She grabbed Dylan's shoulders. "Help meee!"
Her sister gestured to the lamb's wool tunic-dress and trews Francesca wore in a blend of emerald and cerulean. "Those would honestly be just fine, Cesca. It's not a formal dinner or anything." From what Nuada had said, it was a village festival. A winter faire. Jeans and a thick, slouchy sweater would've been fine if it hadn't been too cold. "It's like going to a birthday party or a Christmas party."
"I dress up fancy for Christmas parties; how else do I get guys to go home with me? But fine," she mumbled. "What are you gonna wear?"
Sensing a way out, Dylan threaded her arm through Cesca's. "I don't know yet. Help me pick something."
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Becan Brownie shivered despite himself as he trudged along through thick underbrush that glowed with light the color of several shades of luminous mold. Before him darted the scaly, burgundy rabbit-like creature with the luminous yellow eyes and his slithering, black and white companion with her obscenely large mouth. Behind him tromped the periwinkle-skinned creature in denim.
The brownie couldn't understand why he'd agreed to follow these creatures into this...subterranean world full of glowing eyes in the dark and heavy breathing at his back. The denim-creature had already massacred Becan's poor, innocent hardwood floor. The pair of smaller creatures had threatened to eat him until he'd told them he'd called on them to help Dylan. The vermin seemed to have a soft spot for his mistress. It didn't surprise him as much as it might have when he first moved into her cottage. He hadn't realized the sort of human who'd taken up residence in the fae-friendly structure until much later. She was known even beyond Faerie and its denizens.
Becan wasn't quite sure what these beings were, exactly, but he could tell by the feel of them that they weren't faeries. They were helping him get to his mistress, however, so he wouldn't turn them away.
"Don't worry, snackling," the snake-like female monster called over her thin shoulder. "So long as dear Icky and I are here to protect you, you're safe enough."
"Comforting," Becan muttered.
The thing behind him cackled. "Don't be such a stick, old man. We're almost there. Seven or eight more hours."
Another laugh, this from the lady-snake. "Don't be so cruel to the little thing, Maurice. He's surrounded by things that like to eat the Wee Folk, including him. Be a dear and don't tease him too much; no mischief. We might attract his attention and besides, the little snackling is Dylan's servant."
Maurice snickered. "Doctor D's getting old if she's hanging out with this geezer."
Becan, who had barely seen the turn of his twelfth century less than a decade ago, sniffed and ignored him. He was a brownie in his prime, able to care for his house and his charge without issue—despite the number of enemies intent of killing his poor mistress.
Honestly, he was going to have gray hair at the end of this.
The brownie didn't want to think about who he was, that mischief might attract him. Best not to worry over it. Thinking of a thing could summon it just as surely as waving your arms and shouting at the top of your lungs.
Aye, best not to think him, whoever he was.
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"I need something I can get drunk in," Francesca said, staring at herself in the full-length mirror in Dylan's bedroom inside the inn. She smoothed her hands over the exquisitely soft, blue lamb's wool tunic-dress. "I don't want to mess this up."
Dylan kicked her feet lightly against the edge of the bed. "You...do realize Nuada and the other royals are going to be drinking in outfits even nicer than yours."
Black curls bounced as Cesca shook her head. "His Royal Hot Pecs isn't going to get drunk tonight. He's not the kind to drink and party." Dylan didn't bother stifling a snort. "What?"
"Nuada knows how to have a good time. He doesn't get drunk, per se, but he can enjoy himself when he wants to." Thinking back on some of the stories Zhenjin had told her—an intoxicated Nuada and friends trying to hunt down naked Greek fae dancing girls, serenading Princess Kamaria outside the window of the inn where they'd all been staying once, carousing with his friends until he got so drunk he fell into a pond—and the dancing and evenings out Nuada had taken her on, Dylan smiled. "Here's the deal. You want to look nice because you're my sister, but you don't want to look too nice or it will alienate the villagers. You don't want to wear too somber of colors because this is a festival, but you don't want to dress too brightly because the village has only started to recover from the raiding. And of course you want to be warm. So..."
Popping to her feet, Dylan moved to one of the cedar clothing presses Nuada had had brought on the trip for her clothes. Her siblings had been forced to make do with packs. She pulled out a burgundy leine and matching satin ribbon. Leines, plain Irish shift-dresses, laced up at the sleeves, hips, and along the spine. Because her weight kept fluctuating—a combination of meds, stress, forgetting to eat, and then finally remembering to eat—Themba, the Master Tailor of Findias, had always made Dylan's clothes a bit roomy, and she could lace them tighter if she needed.
Which meant this velvet-wool gown would probably fit Francesca. Dylan tossed it to her sister. "Try that." The velvet was the color of good red wine, soft as a cloud, and it would keep Cesca warm during any outdoor activities (and there would definitely be some; Dylan had attended enough winter faires to know that).
"What are you going to wear?"
"I'm thinking," Dylan said, rummaging through the chest. Hob magic was almost as good as brownie magic for household chores, and some of the hob maids had packed Dylan's clothes—which meant they'd managed to fit about twice as many dresses in the chest as she'd expected. She finally yanked out a soft sapphire blue leine and smiled. The silver and gold embroidery on the sleeves and collar and down the back artfully hid the woven silver and gold laces. She held it up for her sister's inspection. "Well?"
Cesca raised an eyebrow. "Absolutely disgraceful," she said, and winked. "It's shameful how you're prettier than me. I'm the pretty one. You're the nice one."
"I thought I was the pretty one," Victoria said as she stuck her head in the door. "Also, what are you guys doing?"
"Dressing up," Francesca said. "Go get what you're planning to wear to this party."
Victoria stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind her. She indicated the slate-blue dress she wore. "I was going with this."
Her twin narrowed her eyes. "Go grab all the girls and bring the clothes. I'mma do a thingie-thing."
Fighting a smile, Dylan echoed, "Thingie-thing?"
Pointing dramatically at the bedroom door, she only replied, "Go forth! Bring me our kin!"
When a laughing Victoria had finally stumbled back into the hallway, Dylan eyed her sister. "'Bring me our kin?' Seriously? I think Faerie's rubbing off on you."
"Yeah, well, I think the Royal Sex Machine is rubbing off on you. If you know what I mean." Dylan rolled her eyes. With a wicked smile, Cesca added, "And you like it. Tramp."
Laughing, Dylan threw a pair of socks at her.
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Sréng mac Umhor swore under his breath as he hacked at the hanging vine coated in ice that had smacked him across the face. If he'd had the time and the means, he'd have torched this entire forest. A large number of his remaining men might die of smoke inhalation, but the hundreds he'd sired or the hundreds they had sired wouldn't die. His progeny were much harder to kill, thanks to the magic poisoning his blood with immortality.
His children and their children weren't necessarily immortal, but they were much hardier than their mixed fae-and-human heritage implied. Some of them—his brilliant daughter Oonagh, for instance—were stronger, faster, and simply better than any of the fae Sréng had ever encountered. Including Silverlance. If it hadn't broken oaths he'd sworn to himself centuries upon centuries ago, he'd have hamstrung the prince and tossed him in a pit with his daughter just to see how creative she could get.
But this thrice-cursed forest. In the middle of the night, halfway to that gods-forsaken village where the treacherous whore and her silver demon had bunked down, the forest had suddenly come alive. The muddy, packed snow had crackled as fresh frost spread in a needle-thin, knife-sharp blanket of hungry silver and diamonds across the ground. Where the company's horses stepped, the ice broke and cut through thin horseflesh; where his men stepped, jagged ice crystals cut through leather boots to slice shallow wounds at ankle and shin. The trees dumped loads of dropping-smeared snow on the lines of marching bandits.
And now these tangles of willow vines rustled, crackling with their own frosty armor, lashing at him and his men. He didn't see any tree-folk darting amidst the branches, and the sorcerous willow-maids and their lords tended to sleep in winter. But if he caught even one of them beyond the safety of their tree while they played this game with him...well, his men deserved some kind of reward for dealing with all this foul fae magic.
"At this rate, Father, it will be sunset tomorrow before we reach Broch Toruch."
That was Lieutenant Onilwyn, one of the bandit captain's many, many sons. A short man, a little on the thin side, nearly to his thirtieth century. Took after his mother, Sréng remembered. A short but comely wench with dove gray skin and long hair that sparkled like emeralds. The bandit leader couldn't quite remember what had happened to that one. Had he killed her? Had she fallen ill? The memories flitted beyond his half-hearted attempt to catch them. It didn't matter. The slattern had given him several children before she'd faded away to whatever fate had befallen her. Onilwyn was the smallest of that whore's get, but there was no fighter more ruthless, no raider more vicious.
Sréng gritted his teeth and reminded himself of all this, and that as a child his own dear father had never raised a hand to him simply for stating a fact. Sréng beat his children—even the grown ones—often enough when they displeased or disobeyed him, but Onilwyn had a point. Breaking ground like this was taking too long. He'd wanted to be at that wretched village just before dawn, to rouse those sheep-like fae from their beds and scatter their wits with his very clear message. And now it looked as if they wouldn't make it there in time.
Life seemed to be full of disappointments.
"May I make a suggestion?"
He eyed his son, who watched him with a mismatched gaze. One eye glittered like a blue jewel. The other was nearly obscured by the mounded scar tissue around the socket, but what little of it Sréng could see shone a dull slate gray in dim light from the winter stars.
Sréng himself had blinded his son in that eye for sporting with one of the captain's women. Onilwyn had forgiven him after a century. They were blood, after all. And an eye was a small price to pay for such betrayal. Sréng had killed the slave who'd dared to offer her favors to another man, even his own son.
The captain canted his head. "You know I value my children's input."
"Have the troll slaves break the path for us."
"We only have a handful of troll bratlings," Sréng reminded him. "No adults."
Onilwyn shrugged. "Silver cave trolls are fierce beasts. At least it should be faster going than it is now, Father."
Acknowledging this with a nod, Sréng gave the order. Whip-cracks, shouts, and curses drove the quartet of adolescent trolls to the front of the company. But even as the trolls thrashed against the thick, icy snow and frozen vines, the impediments seemed to pull away from the young fae, only to squeeze in behind them and attack the bandits again.
Sréng swore loudly and viciously. This was fae doing. Someone had set a spell on them. When he found out who, they would pay.
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Dylan still didn't understand why their parents had ever despaired of Francesca amounting to anything just because she adored fashion and makeup. It made sense, she reflected, that their parents would worry over their youngest daughter. Only luck and a refusal to be left behind by society had allowed Dylan to salvage what few opportunities she'd had access to in the institution. But Francesca...
She'd graduated from college with a 3.85 GPA, with a double bachelor's in social science and fashion merchandising, able to speak two languages fluently, and with a minor in massage therapy. She was as well-rounded, eclectic, and educated as they came.
So she'd wanted to do hair. She liked hair. It made good tips, and she loved making people look their best. Her foul mouth had lost her a job or two so she'd become a waitress, but she seemed to enjoy it.
But Francesca Myers was an expert at styling hair. Dylan admired her sister's handiwork in the mirror—an elegant nest of thin braids woven with silver and the occasional gold chain, understated enough that the villagers wouldn't take offense but with enough glitter to mark Dylan as a lady of standing. She wore no jewels in her hair or on her brow, but Francesca had insisted on a pair of sapphire earrings to match the silver, diamond, and sapphire necklace Nuada had made for Dylan with his own hands, delicate as a spider's web. Faint touches of makeup worked to give Dylan an air of mystery and wisdom her normally cheerful expression rarely offered. And while Francesca had softened the starkness of the scars on Dylan's face, she hadn't erased them.
Francesca, Dylan discovered, had picked up her own scar. A piece of hot glass had sliced the unblemished skin above her left eye during the fight with the bandits, and she'd refused a healer. Francesca, who was so very careful with her face, who was so proud of her beauty. To Dylan's further surprise, she didn't try to hide the three-inch white mark with makeup.
"I earned this kicking bandit ass, thanks," Cesca said when Victoria mentioned covering it. "I'm bodacious. Anyone who doesn't like it needs their head examined. Is anyone going to care Petra's not wearing a skirt?"
The five Myers sisters turned to the sixth, who leaned against the wall with her arms folded, watching them all with an indulgent smile. Unlike the other sisters, Petra had opted for black jeans (over long johns so she wouldn't freeze to death) and a midnight-blue velvet tunic embroidered in black and silver silk. When asked where she'd gotten it, Petra had shrugged and replied she'd just found it in her pack near the bottom.
Dylan suspected Becan. Part of his brownie magic allowed him to pick out things his mistress—or her guests—might need in the future, without quite knowing why he felt compelled to pack them. Like when he'd packed an abundance of bandages for Dylan for her trip with Nuada to the Royal Forest to see the unicorns.
"No," Dylan said. "Lots of women at court wear pants. Humans are the only ones who really care about that sort of thing."
"But..." Pauline hesitated. "They're jeans."
A shrug from the youngest Myers sister. "They'll understand she's still on guard. The female guards in mine and Nuada's entourage aren't wearing super dressy pants, either. And those are dress jeans. Besides, honestly, the villagers all love Petra so much she could wear a brown paper bag and they'd love it." A cheerful, rollicking tune on a set of fiddles picked up outside. "Now let's go. We don't want to miss anything."
Taking her cane just in case, Dylan grabbed Cesca's hand the way she had once as a little girl. Laughing, Cesca grabbed Victoria, who grabbed Petra, who grabbed Pauline, who grabbed Mary, and the Myers sisters rushed in a giggling line down the hall and down the stairs to meet up with Nuada, John, Davio, and the others.
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She'd never seen Nuada so happy before.
He laughed with the villagers, who all watched their prince with shining eyes and love in their hearts. He sang along to the celebratory songs, clapped for the musicians, congratulated the youngsters who entered into contests of skill with each other. He even relaxed enough that, after whispering for permission in Dylan's ear, he shared a mug of ale with some of the village men and older boys. Dylan stuck with cider, but Francesca certainly didn't.
"Drink! Drink! Drink!"
Half-inebriated faeries pounded tables and roared as Francesca, in her beautiful dress with her hair done up in a noble lady's curls, a simple silver necklace glittering at her throat and silver hoops jingling in her ears, tilted her head back and downed the last dregs of whatever had been in her mug without spilling a drop—unlike the leprechaun blacksmith and the basajaun Cesca insisted was named Bob, who spilled copious amounts of liquor into their beards.
Francesca daintily wiped up a single dab of alcohol at the corner of her mouth with the back of her wrist and burped behind her hand. Behind her, the scaly Davio roared with laughter and clapped as a middle-aged Elf participating in the contest stood up, lost his balance, and fell down in a snowbank. Even the leprechaun was starting to stagger a little.
Francesca smirked and gestured for another mug. The villagers laughed and clapped for her. Behind her, Dylan could see Davio pointing at Francesca and then thumping himself on the chest as if saying, "That's my lady there. Isn't she glorious?"
"How is she doing that?" Nuada asked in Dylan's ear. He sank onto the bench beside her, setting a wooden mug of something that smelled fruity next to her cup of virgin apple cider.
"She drinks a lot." Dylan frowned. "Sometimes I wonder if she's drinking for a reason...or just because she thinks it's fun. Which I guess it is for some people. She can hold her liquor, though."
Nuada nodded, eyes wide as Cesca drained another mug. The leprechaun shouted something in slurred Gaelic, gesturing at the human woman. More uproarious laughter. Dylan shook her head when her sister laughed along, even though Cesca had no idea what they were saying. It was the sort of ribald compliments she would've liked, though.
Dylan tilted her chin at Nuada's cup. "What's that?"
"Virgin perry," he murmured, eyes still on Francesca as she pounded Bob the basajaun on the back. "Pear cider. I allowed myself a little ale," he added, waggling his eyebrows, "but I know your preferences, and I would hate to lose a chance at a kiss for the sake of a drink."
She laughed, then squeaked when he pulled her up from the table. "Whoa!"
"Your knee does not pain you?" He asked. She shook her head, and he grinned. "Will you dance with me?" The prince gestured to the smooth planks of snow-damp wood laid down to make a dance floor. To Dylan's delight, among the swirling and jumping throng she spotted Mary dancing with Dylan's guard Ailbho and Petra dancing with Prince Dastan of Shahbaz of all people. In the golden light of the bonfires and torches, pleasure sparkled in her sisters' eyes—especially Petra's.
Dylan recognized the dance, a variation of Fiddler's Tangle but with lifts. Something she wouldn't normally try, but her knee had felt so good lately, she wanted to give it a shot. Grinning, she nodded. The delight in his eyes warmed her heart.
The song was winding down, but at a motion from Nuada, the musicians struck up another song for the same dance. Warm, vibrant string music hummed through the air. Small Irish drums set the tempo for the movements. Nuada took her hand, his fingers warm and callused against her own, and led her onto the floor. He nodded to Dastan, who whispered to Petra and the pair approached.
Fiddler's Tangle was a dance for three couples. Before Dylan could wonder who the third couple would be, Wink approached with Lorelei's slim, pale fingers resting lightly on his scaly, gray hide. A bright smile flashed across Dylan's face. She'd never seen Wink dance before.
Her prince nodded to the musicians. The pipes started. Then, hands clasped, Nuada led Dylan into the round.
The dance wasn't difficult to remember, but if she'd been too out of shape she couldn't have done it. Until the first refrain of music, Dylan danced with Nuada—a skipping, hopping little round that forced her to hold her skirts out of the way with her free hand. She dropped them when Nuada's hands caught her about the waist and hoisted her high. She squeaked and laughed at the unexpected rush of cool winter air against her cheeks.
Lorelei glided with fluid grace despite the jaunty tune and Wink, incongruous due to his impressive bulk, moved as lithe as a deer. When the tempo changed, Nuada spun Dylan toward the silver cave troll. The massive fae caught Dylan easily as Nuada caught Petra and Dastan caught Lorelei. Although Petra and Nuada moved stiffly with each other, Dastan seemed completely at ease with the rhinemaiden. Wink rumbled a laugh at Dylan and guided her through the next steps. Every bounce the troll gave made the dance floor shake; for some reason, Dylan found that hilarious.
She had nothing to complain about as Dastan's partner. The Shahbaz Elven prince's grin was infectious; she could see why Nuada liked him so much, as well as why her sister kept gravitating to him. He spun her expertly, lifted her with an ease that erased any fear of being dropped from her mind, and set her down so gently she barely felt it.
They changed partners a full nine times—so Dylan danced thrice each with Wink and Dastan—before the song ended. Dylan leaned against Nuada until the happy laughter subsided and she got her breath back. On the way back to the benches, several villagers complimented Dylan. She knew she hadn't done that well, but she also knew she was the prince's lady and she'd probably done fairly well for a human, so she nodded her thanks before sinking onto the bench.
"Is your leg hurting?" Nuada asked softly.
Dylan realized with a start she'd begun rubbing it once she sat down. A very soft ache had taken up residence behind her kneecap—usually a sign she needed to take care, or she'd be hit with intense pain later on. She shrugged. "Not yet. Just have to be careful with it." Considering how much abuse she'd put it through lately, she didn't mind this sudden twinge. And she'd taken her Vicodin dutifully every day to make sure the pain didn't flare up and incapacitate her. Nobody had time for that right now, least of all her.
Nuada casually brushed his fingers against her knee and the dull ache softened further until she barely felt it. She offered him a smile of quiet thanks and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. A flush of surprised pleasure washed through her when she felt his lips press against the top of her head.
They sat back and watched more dancing, and the youngsters of the village twining the ribbons round the stripped poles of pine wood, and more contests of skill: archery and staff-work, arm-wrestling, foot-races, even a race between five old women to see who could finish weaving a miniature basket first. Dylan's favorite had to be when 'Sa'ti and Amaryllis teamed up for a three-legged race against the other village children. Amaryllis's wight-colt stamped on the sidelines, blowing and whickering with nerves. A'du in cougar cub form curled up on the colt's obsidian back, watching his sister and his friend with gleaming eyes.
Amaryllis's family watched from the benches, her father and surviving brother cheering as loudly as any child could wish, and her surviving sister sucking her tiny thumb and jumping up and down in excitement. When the girls broke through the simple linen streamer set across the finish line, Amaryllis's wight-colt bugled a challenge and reared up on its hind-legs, dumping A'du'la'di into a snowdrift. The cub leapt out with an indignant screech.
"A'ge'lv! A'ge'lv!" 'Sa'ti raced over to Dylan and Nuada as soon as she'd untied herself from the dullahan girl. "Your Highness! Did you see us? Did you see? We won!"
"We saw!" Dylan lifted the ewah girl onto her lap and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Good job!"
"Very well done," Nuada said warmly. "A proud victory."
Amaryllis grabbed 'Sa'ti and yanked her off Dylan's lap so they could race over to Master Gawain, the acting steward and Amaryllis's father, and proclaim their victory to him before rushing off to find Tsu's'di by the food table.
There was more dancing—Dylan danced some easier dances with Guardsman Loén, Ailbho, and Uaithne; with Prince Günter and with Zhenjin's two younger brothers and with the leonine and exquisitely graceful Princess Kamaria; with Wink again, and Bob the basajaun, and with John, and several with her sisters. She noticed Francesca danced mostly with Davio or with the steward's eldest surviving son, the quiet one with the scar and lame leg. To Dylan's experienced eye, it seemed the youth had a bit of a crush on Cesca, who was nice enough to give the boy some attention without making things weird. And Davio watched his—girlfriend? Lover? Friend with benefits?—flirt with the dullahan youth without jealousy, only an indulgent smile.
After the dancing, for at least an hour the villagers were volunteered by their friends and family to sing in front of the gathered throng.
Dylan's brother and sisters didn't understand most of the songs, since nearly all of them were in Gaelic. But then Wink growled for Nuada to sing. At that, Francesca and Mary plunked down on either side of Dylan. Nuada had moved off to talk to a group of young village boys near Tsu's'di's physical age and now stood in the crosshairs of everyone in the village square.
"What's happening?" Francesca demanded. "Why is everybody staring at him? This looks juicy."
"Wink's asking for a song from the prince," Dylan whispered. "It's allowed, because of who Wink is and because this is a party, but I don't know if Nuada will do it."
Mary nudged her. "Can he even sing?"
Dylan nodded. "In order for a Celtic child to achieve their rite of passage and become a warrior, he has to be able to do a lot of things. One of them is sing and play at least one instrument."
Mary whistled at this. "Maybe I should get me one of them. Do girls have to do the same thing?" Dylan nodded. "I need to get me one of those. I want one."
Nuada called to Wink, "If my oldest friend so asks, of course I would gladly oblige. But I find that inspiration calls me from another quarter." He glanced at Dylan. Heat rushed into her face when the villagers either sighed or chuckled or nudged each other with sharp elbows. "A song for you, my lady, if it pleases you."
After a long moment where Dylan tried to force the blush to go away, she nodded. "I would be honored, Your Highness."
Francesca smacked her on the shoulder while Nuada made his way to the little stage where the village musicians had set up. Dylan bit back a yelp. "What did he say?" When she'd translated, Francesca sighed. "Ohmigawd, I hate you so much. So jelly right now."
"You have Davio," Mary said.
"Davio doesn't sing to me in foreign languages, you tramp."
"Ohmigawd, you're so demanding. What about that jailbait you were flirting with?"
"Finbar?" Cesca laughed. "He digs me. He's a sweet kid, but that would make things weird. He knows it's just a bit of fun. He seems lonely, anyway."
Up on the stage, Nuada said something to the lead violinist before turning to face the villagers and, more specifically, Dylan.
"Tar thar na cnoic, mo bhean dubh álainn na hÉireann;
Tar ar na cnoic ar do stór!
Roghnaíonn tú an rós, grá, agus beidh mé a dhéanamh ar an mhóid,
Agus beidh mé do ghrá fíor go deo.
"Tá Dearg an rós a in úd thall Fásann ghairdín;
Is cóir an lile an ghleann;
Is Glan an t-uisce a shníonn ón Bhóinn,
Ach tá mo ghrá níos cothroime ná aon.
"Bhí sé síos ag coillte glasa Chill Airne go seachrán againn,
Nuair a bheidh an ghealach agus na réaltaí a bhí siad ag shining.
An ghealach Scairt a roic ar a cuid glas na gruaige scáth,
Agus mhionnaigh sí gur mhaith léi a bheith ar mo ghrá go deo.
"Tá Dearg an rós a in úd thall Fásann ghairdín;
Is cóir an lile an ghleann;
Is Glan an t-uisce a shníonn ón Bhóinn,
Ach tá mo ghrá níos cothroime ná aon.
Níl sé an scaradh go mo pianta dheirfiúr,
Agus ní le haghaidh an bród ar mo athair.
'Tis go léir le haghaidh an grá mo bhean dubh a álainn na hÉireann,
Is é sin mo chroí go deo áthasach.
"Tá Dearg an rós a in úd thall Fásann ghairdín;
Is cóir an lile an ghleann;
Is Glan an t-uisce a shníonn ón Bhóinn,
Ach tá mo ghrá níos cothroime ná aon."
Francesca swallowed hard. Pauline and Victoria, who'd come up behind the other three, sank onto the bench. Petra cleared her throat and whispered, "Wow. I have no idea what he said, but wow."
"Gaelic is pretty," Victoria mumbled. Then she turned to Dylan. "That was Gaelic, right?"
Dylan nodded and wiped at her eyes with the tips of her fingers, laughing a little, very softly. "Yeah. It's a song called 'Red Is the Rose.'" She slowly but softly translated the Irish love song into English.
Come over the hills, my bonnie Irish lass;
Come over the hills to your darling!
You choose the rose, love, and I'll make the vow,
And I'll be your true love forever.
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows;
Fair is the lily of the valley;
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne,
But my love is fairer than any.
'Twas down by Killarney's green woods that we strayed,
When the moon and the stars they were shining.
The moon shone its rays on her locks of shadow hair,
And she swore she'd be my love forever.
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows;
Fair is the lily of the valley;
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne,
But my love is fairer than any.
It's not for the parting that my sister pains,
And not for the pride of my father.
'Tis all for the love of my bonny Irish lass,
That my heart is joyful forever.
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows;
Fair is the lily of the valley;
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne,
But my love is fairer than any.
Victoria poked her in the ribs. "But you're not Irish."
"Technically I'm a naturalized Irish citizen now—or would be, if the mortal Irish government had any clue Faerie was actually a thing. I went on a trip to Ireland once; you'd be surprised how in-tune with the old ways a lot of people still are over there," Dylan replied absently, but her focus was fixed on Nuada as he gave a short bow and endured companionable ribbing from the other princes and fond looks from the villagers. She and her Elven prince were quite the love story. Considering all they'd endured, even just the things the common people of Bethmoora knew of, Dylan understood why. Their story was like a fairy tale.
She pressed her palms to the rough-hewn table, ready to get to her feet and head over to Nuada to kiss him—any condemning public eyes could get over themselves, after a romantic gesture like that song—when a scream shattered the peace. Every head jerked toward the village gates as they slammed open.
"What?" Petra choked out, surging to her feet. Her hand went first to her hip, where she usually kept her handgun, and then to the knife strapped to her thigh when she remembered she'd set her pistol aside.
Dylan's other siblings jumped up and so did every adult in any shape to fight, but no attackers barreled through the open gates. Instead a sturdy girl with skin like burnished copper under frost-kissed glass raced into the village, hands outstretched, black hair streaming behind her. The gates crashed shut behind her as she stumbled toward the faire, yelling her head off.
It took Dylan precious seconds to realize she was shouting, "McBás! McBás!"
The mortal woman stilled. McBás. The halfling boy, Uilliam, the one in Nuada's service—that was the name the other refugee children had given him. Son of Death. Because of his origins, which the children had kept secret from everyone but the prince and his lady, and because of the mortality and insanely powerful magic mingling in his blood.
Uilliam dashed out of the crowd and caught the girl. "What is it? Sorcha, what's wrong?"
"It's him! He's coming!"
In that instant Dylan tasted blood in her mouth, felt it trickling hot and sticky down her back from the gaping lash wounds. Blackness pulsed at the edges of her vision and she bit back a scream because she would never, ever give him the satisfaction of ringing more pain from her than he could rip out with his bare hands. He was coming. Sréng mac Umhor. The man who'd tortured and murdered her.
Bile surged up in her throat and she gasped, swallowed. Fell back onto the bench as her stomach churned. She heard the sound of her own bones breaking under his fists, the roar of her own pounding heart and the blood roaring in her ears.
Oh, Heavenly Father, help me. Help me, please!
"Dylan? Honey?"
Cool, gentle hands touched her face and she flinched as fingertips brushed ever so lightly over the healing slashes. But she blinked and managed to focus on the loving gray eyes studying her. Petra knelt in the snow, her elbows on Dylan's knees, cradling her face.
"Focus on something here. Listen." The eldest Myers sister cocked her head. A snowflake came to rest on her temple. "Hear that? It's snowing. It's very soft. Try to listen. Focus on the sound." She pursed her lips, glancing around, then made a gentle shushing sound. Dylan pinned her gaze on her older sister's face and listened. Another, softer shushing noise filled the air even over the murmurs of the assembled villagers. Petra was right—it was beginning to snow.
There had been no snow falling in the bandit camp. No worried murmur of voices or the gentle hush of snowflakes sweeping down from the night sky or the sound of Nuada's voice as he ordered the villagers to make way for him so he could question the frantic Sorcha. She wasn't trapped in that tent with the blood and the death and the fear anymore.
If Sréng was coming, Nuada would kill him. Somehow Dylan was sure the king would let him this time. The knowing of it burned in her soul, searing away the chilly dread that this time Sréng had come to finish her off and kill everyone she loved.
A different sort of dread surged up when Sorcha cried, "No, not him! The king! The king is coming!"
Even without their magical soul-to-soul connection, Dylan knew a blade of icy horror had cut Nuada to the heart. Her prince caught her gaze and then, as if the pair of them were drawn by the same merciless magnet, they looked to Tsu's'di where he stood with his brother and sister and little Amaryllis. Tsu's'di's fur bristled and A'du and 'Sa'ti huddled against him. Dylan shot another look at Nuada and felt her heart twist a little when she watched him stare at the cougar youth for a long moment before nodding to himself and resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.
If the king tried to punish the ewah for killing a human bandit in defense of two Faerie children—one the daughter of Nuada's steward in this village and one Tsu's'di's own little brother—Nuada would fight for him. Mercilessly. Perhaps even kill for him.
The fate of Bethmoora hinged on the king's decision about a single boy.
Nuada straightened his shoulders, glanced at the village gates, then turned to the villagers.
"We desire that everyone should return to the festivities. His Majesty will rejoice to see Our people with light hearts, and a village filled with hope. No doubt His Majesty will even wish to participate in some things." Nuada nodded once in reassurance and then strode over to Tsu's'di while the crowd of villagers broke into whispers amongst themselves. Only when, at a glance from the Bethmooran prince, Prince Dastan motioned to the musicians and beckoned to Petra did a new song begin and the tension eased somewhat.
Dylan kept her eyes on her betrothed and her young guard. Nuada whispered something to Tsu's'di; whatever it was had A'du and 'Sa'ti clutching at him with desperate fingers. Nuada rested a hand on 'Sa'ti's head and tilted his chin toward the tavern. Tsu's'di inclined his head and escorted his siblings inside, away from the party. If the ewah weren't out in the open when the king arrived, it might delay any punishment. King Balor had once left an innocent Butcher Guard in the royal dungeons for more than a week because he'd forgotten about the guardsman, so "out of sight, out of mind" truly held water in Bethmoora.
As the children went in, Nuada came to Dylan's side and sank onto the bench with all the weight of a dropped stone. They didn't speak as the village folk began dancing and talking (some even laughing) again. But when she laid her hand on the table, he slid his own over to grasp it. Even without the bond that allowed them to read each other's emotions and speak to each other in their minds at a distance, by clasping hands they could still whisper to each other in silence.
My father is coming.
Do you know why? What he wants?
I have no idea. His fingers tightened a little around hers. Dylan, the people of Lallybroch despise my father, and though the law says they should love him, I cannot fault them for their bitterness or the way they feel he has betrayed them. He has. He's failed in his duty to them; why should they love him? But my father has never before been somewhere so isolated. These are my lands and he does not come to them, because I have kept them running smoothly since they were given to me as a boy. I fear my people's wrath. I do not wish to punish them when my father is the one who is wrong, but if they lash out in their anger…
And of course you can't tell any of them the truth because they wouldn't understand why we don't press the advantage and remove your father from the throne. After a moment, she dropped her head to his shoulder. I wonder why he's come. If we knew, we would be prepared to deal with whatever came…She trailed off, eyes widening as her head shot off his shoulder. Oh my gosh, I know why he's here.
Nuada turned to her. You do?
I think…maybe. Nuada, when I…The mental words stumbled and she had to swallow. When I died, you felt it. I know what it must have done to you. The agony you felt. What if your sister felt it, too?
But I tried to shut it off from her almost instantly. I needed only a few moments to get myself under enough control-
Which would've frightened her more, Dylan said gently. This sudden rush of anguish, abruptly cut off? Shaohao said…Shaohao said you were on the verge of taking your own life. She didn't press him when he looked away, silent acknowledgement washed with shame. They would have to talk about that shame—later. Instead she continued talking while he studied the scarred Uilliam and the tree-spirit girl he comforted beside one of the winter bonfires. If you were that devastated, and Nuala felt it through your bond, and then suddenly it was gone and she couldn't talk to you or contact you? It would've terrified her.
The prince swore under his breath. I see what you're saying. She would have gone to my father, and now my father is here…because Nuala would have known what that agony in my heart meant. She's felt such a thing from me—briefly—a few times before when I have lost those I love. She would know, and tell my father you were dead, and I was suffering. And my father would come then in my weakness to kill me.
Wait, what? He would do what?
Think of it, beloved. There was no bitterness in his voice. She stared at him with wide eyes. How could he sound so calm? If you had died at the hands of the bandits, the human bandits, I would have gone mad. I did go mad…for a while. The only thing that kept me from butchering them all like meat was that damned storm. If a blizzard hadn't started, I would've hunted them through the forest and found them in their camp and in their tents and carved them up like beasts for the slaughter, until the air bled from their screams and the snow turned black with their gore—
Nuada. At her sharp command, his eyes snapped open. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. Listen to me. Listen. You cannot let yourself sink into rage. If I'm not allowed to do it, neither can you. And I'm not, she added sharply, because it's not helping anything to simply fall into fury and let it take me over. We have enemies to take out, people to protect, and a king to placate so I have to keep my rage focused, sharp as a blade. You taught me that.
A small, chill smile tugged at his dark mouth. Did I? I don't recall.
You taught me simply by standing there breathing on me, Your Highness.
The smile thawed a little and he turned to kiss her temple. Did I, really? And what else did I teach you?
How to kiss, she replied. Her lips brushed his jaw and he actually chuckled. If you remember, I'd only ever kissed drooling idiots or complete jerks before you. You're much better at it than they were.
I should hope so!
Laughing, Dylan pushed to her feet. Grasping his hand between hers, she tugged on him. Dance with me, Nuada. We have a few minutes until the king comes, right? And you told everyone to go back to partying. If your father's expecting murder and doom, let's give him mischief and dancing. Let's play this right. Come on.
For you, my dearest, anything.
It was in the middle of a sweet, slow roundel dance that the gates swung open once again and the king and his entourage stepped through.
.
Balor was not a stupid king (for the most part). He noticed when the revelry fell silent at his appearance in the village. No, King Balor was not a stupid man by his own standards. So he knew exactly why all laughter died, murdered by the sudden tense silence that fell upon the village of Lallybroch. As the old, careworn king urged his horse in the crown prince's direction, a low buzz began in the depths of the crowd. Balor ignored the whispers, ignored the villagers that called his son "lord" completely. He kept his gaze locked on Nuada.
Nuada, his only surviving son. Heir to his throne. Nuada, who'd nearly drowned his twin sister with that brief wash of impossible agony and despair. Nuada, the son he'd come to execute as an act of mercy, to save him from his own madness.
An act of mercy that was – apparently – unnecessary, as Nuada's human truelove stood at his side, fingers curled around the prince's hand in a childish gesture only a blind fool would miss.
The mortal chit was alive and well, if a little on the thin side. Nuada must've been pushing her too hard with whatever tasks he'd set for the girl. Her kin seemed well enough, too. The villagers, frozen mid-revel, were in rough shape but since they could throw a party, they were obviously fine, as well. The village square had been decked out beautifully for the faire. Everything looked…just fine.
Had Nuada lied about the dire straits of the northern villages? Both to his king and his sister? But Lady Dylan had petitioned for aid for the villages, too. Had she been in one the falsehood? Or had Nuada deceived her as well?
The Bethmooran king forced a broad smile to his face. His son answered with a hesitant smile of his own.
"Hail and well met, Prince Nuada. Are We welcome at your revel?"
"Hail and well met, Majesty. My father is always welcome."
Balor didn't miss Nuada's omission of the royal plurality or that he'd only said his father was welcome. The lines were drawn. Well enough. For now – until the time came that the king discovered Nuada had lied in order to butcher the human so-called bandits he claimed roamed the north – Balor would simply be a father.
An old, travel-worn father who wanted answers.
"Join the festivities as you will," the king ordered his retinue. The command rippled through the assembled soldiers at his back. To his immediate guard, he added, "I'm going inside. I need out of this beastly cold." Absently, he rubbed his shoulder where the wood-and-silver arm hung.
Nuada and his betrothed had come forward, along with a dullahan. The dullahan swept off his black hat and bowed low to the king, one hand clasped to his head to keep it from tumbling off. Nuada introduced him as Master Gawain, the village steward.
A dullahan as a steward? Balor wondered, but didn't say. It was Nuada's choice. He simply nodded once to the dullahan, whose fiery scarlet gaze sent a skittering chill down the king's spine.
"My son, Finbar, will see to your steed, if it pleases Your Majesty," Master Gawain said softly. "There's not a soul better with horses, or one more trustworthy."
At the steward's gesture, three figures stepped out of the still-wary crowd: a black wight-stallion that hobbled as he walked, noticeably favoring a hind leg; a slender, scarred dullahan youth with his arm in a sling, who walked with a pronounced limp; and Mistress Francesca, Lady Dylan's sister. Balor didn't miss the utter loathing in the mortal's gray eyes.
Balor dismounted as Gawain said, "See to the king's horse, Finbar."
The boy nodded to his father and bowed, awkward and stiff, to Balor before taking the reins.
"Mistress Francesca-" Balor began, attempting to greet her despite the contempt in her gaze.
"Finbar's my date for the evening, so I have to go with him. Excuse me, Your Majesty." And she turned on her heel and followed the boy, one hand on the wight-stallion's sleek, dark, cold neck. She didn't seem to notice – or really to care about – the Butcher Guards muttering at her back.
"I'll escort you to a private room while preparations are made for your stay, Father."
Nuada didn't comment on Mistress Francesca, the dullahan steward's icy gaze, or the wary villagers. Balor was too cold, tired, and wary still to say anything, either. Once inside, after he'd had a mug of hot mulled cider and warmed up a bit, he would confront Nuada about all this.
But as they headed for the tavern, his son walking a respectful step behind him, Balor couldn't ignore the hostile stares of the villagers and Lady Dylan's kin.
What had Nuada been telling these people?
.
Tension whipped through Nuada's shoulders the moment Master Gawain bowed to the king and prince and closed the door to the private room. Now it would come out, all of it. Now his father would confess what he had come to do to his only living son and heir. But instead of condemnation, instead of harsh words, the old king sank into a cushioned oak chair with a groan.
"It has been several decades at least, since I sat on a horse for that long," Balor grumbled. He shifted and a cracking sound split the air. Nuada turned and raised an eyebrow as his father groaned again. "Ugh! My bones appreciate the rest at long last. Beastly weather didn't help anything, either."
"Hard journey?" It was all the prince trusted himself to say.
Balor inclined his head. "Harder than anticipated, despite using the King's Road. Did you know a skunk attacked us on the trip? And some malicious magic made the road impassible for an entire night. We actually had to make camp on the Road itself."
Somehow keeping his voice light, Nuada said, "I'm surprised you even bothered continuing onward, if the journey proved so inconvenient."
Silence from the king. Silence from his father. Not a word broke the sudden quiet in the little tavern room, only the crackling and popping of an applewood fire warming the hearth and scenting the room with a sweet smell. At long last Nuada met his father's shadowed, weary eyes. He did not look away, even though the old king seemed to be silently pleading with him for something. Nuada kept his face empty of all emotion and simply looked at his father until the king finally broke from his son's gaze and turned away, shamefaced.
"You know why I've come, then."
It wasn't a question, but Nuada nodded once sharply. Long white fingers convulsed into trembling fists. It was true then. He ignored the ache throbbing behind his breastbone and slashed his father with a look like glacial topaz knives.
"To murder me," Nuada hissed. "To kill your own child, the heir to your throne, and for what?"
Balor shot him a look that might have left a lesser man bleeding. But Nuada still tasted Dylan's kiss on his lips and the phantom brush of her fingertips burned yet on his cheek. He had done no wrong, broken no laws. He had even managed to miss killing any of the human bandits that had raided Lallybroch the night Iúile's baby had been born and Dylan had been taken. So by what right, by any standard, did Balor have to come here and challenge him?
"You know why."
"Oh?" The Elven prince raised a knife-sharp brow in challenge. "Enlighten me, Majesty."
Balor surged to his feet. "Do not play games with me, boy. I know what you've done. And without the provocation I originally imagined, so you cannot even plead that as any sort of excuse."
Nuada scoffed. "You know nothing of what has transpired here."
"Don't I? Your sister felt your rage and despair. We thought it was because the bandits had murdered your lady and for that I was willing to be merciful, to offer my son a swift death and an escape from misery, but when I arrived your lady looked quite hale for a dead woman."
The blood in the prince's veins began to crystallize as icy calm stole over him. If Dylan had been there, seen his expression turn chill and empty, she might have been worried. He thought she likely would have been.
But the king did not know him. The king didn't know anything.
"Was it some sort of trick?" Balor demanded. Nuada didn't flinch under the whip-crack of accusation. "That flood of false pain—did you use it to force your sister to break her connection to you so that we couldn't monitor the situation here from the capital? Did you think I wouldn't suspect something was amiss and come here to make sure you kept your honor and did not shame our family?"
Dark lips twisted into a cruel smile. "You're right, Father. I have shamed our family."
The old king's brows rose. "You admit this freely? Do you mock me, Nuada? Do you think I will not demand justice from you simply because you are my son?"
Nuada canted his head and that smile turned vicious. "I shamed our family when I didn't gut every single last one of those wretched monsters preying on our people and leave them for the sport of the carrion-fae of the forest, Majesty. When I didn't hang them all by their heels like pigs and flay them alive for the sins they've committed against the people of my lands. I shamed our family and dishonored myself when I allowed that hollow piece of paper representing a truce, that disgusting vow that spits on the bones of our fallen ones, to stop me from doing what I knew to be right simply because I valued your thrice-damned opinion of me!"
The hollow crack! of the king's wooden hand smacking against Nuada's cheek echoed off the wood walls. Nuada didn't stagger back, but he gave a single step of ground beneath the pain suddenly blossoming in his face. He'd half-expected the king to strike him...but with his hand of flesh, not wood.
"You miserable, spoiled brat," Balor snarled. Shadows bruised beneath his eyes and his breath came in harsh wheezes. Against his will, Nuada felt a twinge of concern. "You think you can mock our honor? You think, what? You're entitled to throw your bloody little tantrums when something angers you and be damned the dead left to rot? Care you nothing at all for the pain of others-"
"You wish to speak to me of the dead?" Nuada took back the step he'd given, and took another, and another, and another, until he stood mere inches from his father, shaking with rage. "You speak to me of tricks? Of tantrums? Of shame? Of other people's pain? Do you know what they did?"
"Do not interrupt your king—"
"Do you know what they did to her, damn you?"
The raw agony in his voice scraped at his throat and stung his eyes so that he whipped around and stalked toward the fireplace, away from his father's startled, half-bewildered expression. Bracing his hands on the fire-warmed stone of the mantle, he fixed his gaze on the crackling flames and tried not to think of past wars, past tortures. Although Dylan hadn't told him even half of what that bastard had done to her, Nuada remembered the torments of humans. He'd lost most of his scars as centuries separated him from the horrors of it all, but if he let himself dwell on it for too long, the stench of burning flesh and the sound of his own screams would come back to scratch and claw at him.
He had to calm down. Had to focus on the here and now because he could now show this weakness to his father, to the king. Could not show anyone except Dylan how the shadows of the old wars still prowled in his mind. How having her nearly snatched from him had reminded him of too many dark times before.
"Nuada...my son...who are you talking about?"
A shake of his head was the only answer Nuada felt steady enough to give. How could he speak of it? Any of it? The horrors of the past, the fresh horrors he'd witnessed in Lallybroch? There were sweet joys, too—A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti's friendship with the young Amaryllis; the birth of the halfling child everyone had begun to call Baby Dylan and the rescue of the child's mother from unlawful imprisonment and abuse; the winter festival the king had interrupted tonight. But a true prince never forgot the plight of his people and the need to move on had begun to twist inside his belly like snakes, reminding him that the dead and the sick and the wounded still remained in other parts of his lands and he needed to leave, to bring them help.
But Dylan had been taken and so everything had crashed to a halt and now his father was here and it was all too much, too terrible, too stars-cursed complicated and he'd let his father see him vulnerable. So now what? Now what?
Rustling told him his father had approached him, but Balor didn't touch him, either to soothe or to strike. Instead he asked again, "My son, who are you talking about?"
He bit his lip until he tasted the fey sweetness of his own blood. Took a breath.
A little of it. He could explain a little of it so that his father would stop assuming it had all been some elaborate trick of some kind. It would buy him some room to breathe, to maneuver. Taking a deep breath, he blew it out and straightened up. Let his hands fall to his sides.
"Dylan is not well, Father."
Balor made a sound, half-scoff and half-question. "I saw the pair of you dancing together, she seemed well enough to me."
Nuada shook his head without turning around. He couldn't meet his father's gaze and say this. Somehow that seemed too much to attempt. To hear the king's disbelief was easy enough but to see it in familiar eyes of aged amber...no.
"The village was raided after we arrived," Nuada said. Balor's shock hit him like a physical blow but he continued to ignore it, keeping his eyes on the dancing flames. "Very few lives were lost, as most of the villagers hid." Had to be careful, so very careful not to implicate any of the fae children who'd helped the humans fight back. "But after we thought they'd gone, Dylan was...she came outside with me into the night and she was taken in a surprise attack. A mere skirmish, really, but we weren't expecting it and...and they took her."
"They...took her?"
He swallowed. "Yes."
Silence for a long moment and then, "Oh, my son. I know you must have feared for her. I know what it is, to have a loved one taken from me by enemies. But she was returned safely, was she not...? Ah. No, I see. That is why you felt justified in killing the bandits. To save her."
Disappointment dripped from the king's voice, and compassion. Nuada's hands knotted at his sides once more and he spun toward his father.
"Stop! Just stop assuming you know what is happening out here! You don't, do you hear me?" Nuada snarled. "You know nothing of what has happened! No, I didn't simply run out into the woods, killing bandits as I went, in order to save her! Even though I wanted to! Even though everything in me ached to do it, I didn't. I stayed with our people, my people, to help them come out of hiding and rebuild what had been destroyed in the raid! Even though I knew the longer I stayed away, the longer Dylan remained in their hands, the less likely it became that I would ever see her again. That they could have been torturing her, killing her!"
"Nuada—"
"And they did kill her, Father."
Balor blinked. Stared at him. "What are you talking about?"
Without ever taking his eyes from the old king, Nuada said, voice a low growl, "They butchered my love. They hung her by the hands from a tent pole and tortured her and then they killed her—"
"Nuada, Lady Dylan is right outside—"
"And then my enemy, Prince Shaohao, found her and brought her back. He is one of the greatest healers in Faerie, even you know this. He restarted her heart mere minutes after it had stopped and then healed her while he kept her in an enchanted sleep. And she came back to me. Broken, bleeding in her soul, half a ruin, but it didn't matter to me. She. Came. Back."
The king had gone gray-blue, the unhealthy pallor deepening with every word Nuada spat. He shook his head, groping for something to say. "I...I did not..."
"But I felt it, Father. I felt it the moment her heart stopped. It was like claws reached into me and ripped out a piece of my soul. I felt it. All of it. The way her heart stuttered, skipped, and finally went quiet. The way her warmth, her light, her self slipped from her body. Oh, I felt it all. And you think my pain was some sort of trick? You bastard."
Tears warmed his cheeks as they fell and he turned away again, trembling. Through his mind gifts, he'd felt some rare few of his loved ones die before. Felt the deaths of others' loved ones. Even that moment when a twelve-year-old Dylan had watched her friend bleed out on the tile of that hellish institution from the wound he'd slashed across his own throat, their eyes locking, the life leaving the young boy—Nuada had felt her feeling his death through the slender empathic thread the two children had built between them. Dylan's hadn't even been the worst...but it was the freshest, the one still new enough to bleed.
They'd taken her away from him. After losing so many—his mother, brothers- and sisters-in-arms during the wars, the women he'd loved through the centuries, his friends, his people, countless innocents—he'd sworn it would never happen again, but it had. And he'd thought he would die of it.
His father's hands settled on his shoulders and somehow it felt worse than when the king had struck him moments ago. Nuada hunched his shoulders and bit back a sob. He was a man grown, damn it. He wouldn't cry like some child. He wouldn't let his father see him breaking under the weight of memories and grief. He would not—
"I'm sorry, Nuada."
Grit your teeth, the prince commanded himself as he shook harder. Don't let it out. Grit your teeth. Be a man, not some prized lapdog in need of cosseting. You're stronger than this. I'm stronger than this.
He forced himself upright and swiped a hand over his face to sweep away the moisture that had fallen there. He cleared his throat.
"It doesn't matter, Your Majesty. Forgive me. I let my emotions run away from me for a moment. It will not happen again, I promise you. I trust you understand the nature of the situation now—"
"Nuada, stop."
Brows knotting, Nuada stared at his father. "I don't know what you—"
"Please. I'm sorry, Nuada. My son...I didn't realize...I never wanted you to know what such a thing felt like. It happened when...when Cethlenn died and I thought, I swore it would never happen to you or your sister and I am sorry I didn't see—"
"It doesn't matter," Nuada began. "It was a mere lapse—"
"Stop, Nuada. Stop." Balor gripped his shoulders and squeezed gently. The pain in his lined face had Nuada frowning, puzzled. "I know—I know—you are not a machine, my son. I have said in the past that you have no heart, but I should never have said such things. I know how much you love Dylan. I know. I didn't realize what had happened and I beg your forgiveness. I know what it is," he added when Nuada opened his mouth to protest, "to feel the one you love ripped away from you. I know that pain. That loneliness. I know it, my son. I felt it when those beasts took your mother from us. My poor boy. I am so sorry."
Nuada couldn't stop the freshet of tears as they streamed down his face now. Couldn't stop the way his clenched jaw shook and his heart twisted. He was going to cry like some old woman in front of his father, in front of his king, and he would be humiliated, and the king would never forget his son's cowardice, his son's lack of control—
As a new sob burst out of him, Balor's arms came around him and he pulled the prince into an embrace. For the first time in over three thousand years, Nuada found his face pressed to his father's velvet-clad shoulder as tears burned his eyes and sobs shook his frame.
"They killed her," he gasped. Tears clogged his throat; after that first raw scream of anguish alone in his private tavern room when he'd realized Dylan was dead, after that savage breaking of anything in his path, he hadn't let himself feel it. It had hurt too much to feel any of it. He'd focused on the rage, the hate burning in him and then when she'd come back, focused on helping her. He hadn't let himself grieve the loss of her, let himself release the fear and the pain until now. Perhaps he'd needed his father to do it. "They killed her, they took her away, I couldn't protect her—"
"I know," his father whispered. "I know. My poor boy, I know."
Nuada shuddered and relaxed into his father's hold, allowing Balor to comfort him—truly comfort him—for the first time in centuries.