Author's Note: finally got this chapter up on here! It's a bit late, and I apologize – I was waiting on my beta, who got the flu, to get it back to me. The un-beta'd version was up on my a couple weeks ago or so, but I wait on my beta before I post here. Anyway, hope you guys like this chapter. It's a bit of a breather chap before we kick things into gear again. I wanted to touch on some dangling plot threads, explain a few things, give some back story for a few characters and relationships, and just let us breathe before another real fight happens. So here's the new chapter! Let me know what you think!
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Once Upon a Time
Chapter One-Hundred-Twenty-Eight
Sister to the Night
that is
A Short Tale of Un-Sisters and Un-Brothers, the Leopard-Eyed Queen, a Contest of Wills, Impure Thoughts, a Standing Offer, a Father's Love, a Mother's Love, Speaking of the Devil, Night's Sister and Night's Bride, Bittersweet and Fickle, a Father's Courage, a Father's Treachery, a Father's Ridicule, a King's Disdain, Dylan's Promise, and Nuada's Proposal
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Un-sister.
What did that mean, un-sister? Nuada wasn't certain he could ask. The saliva had dried up in his mouth, the words withering to dust in his throat. Fear and longing twined like thorny brambles in his chest as he stared at the strange, pale-faced, agonizingly beautiful man who smiled at Dylan with predatory, alien affection. She had spoken his name. Azrharn. What kind of name was that? It wasn't Gaelic. And why did it sound familiar? It was not any fae name that he knew. What was it?
Dylan's voice came, soft and tremulous with fear and something Nuada could not name when she spoke again. "Hello, un-brother."
"How did you know I was here, little one?"
Dylan swallowed again. "I saw a night-black horse that fades when the torchlight touched it. Did you think I wouldn't recognize it? You weren't even trying to hide."
A small smile curved that sensuous mouth. The pale man oh so slightly canted his head. "Trying to hide? Azrharn, Prince of Weir and Samhain, does not hide."
Dylan sucked in a short, sharp breath. The corner of her mouth twitched and she raised an eyebrow. "Never? Not even to play a trick? That doesn't sound like you."
"Oh, ho! Look at you, thinking you know me so well, little sister. And what are you doing here? Getting into trouble, it seems. Does Father know what you're up to?"
Somehow she managed to shrug. "I don't know. I don't know what he knows. You should know that."
Nuada was confused. Who were they talking about? How did they know each other? The prince stared at them, baffled, trying to calm his racing heart, trying to even out his breathing. All around them, the guards and the king and the villagers and the mortal kin of his lady had fallen silent, watching the interplay between Dylan and this man. Even Nuada could not bring himself to speak and break through whatever was happening here.
"Sweetheart," Azrharn murmured, "my sweet child, did you bait me on purpose? Ah, ah…" He held up a long, slim finger when Dylan opened her mouth. "Be careful. Do not lie to me. You know that I can tell when you lie. And you of all people know what I can do if you anger me. Even my father cannot protect you if you cross me too often. Even the light of Dunizel cannot protect you."
Dylan clenched her fingers into tight fists and slipped her hands into the pockets of her dress. She bowed her head, letting her hair hang in her face. But her shoulders were squared even as she lifted a penitent face to look at this man, this prince. Weir. He was the prince of Weir. Where did Nuada know that name? Where had he heard it before? And Samhain. The death festival of the Celts, the Gaels, the Saxons, the Britons. The day that modern mortals called Halloween. But it was also the kingdom of the death fae, the haven of those midnight faeries that could not bear to remain in their native lands. Creatures from Bethmoora like the bean sídhe, the dullahan, the barghest, and the glashtyn horse. But this man could not be a prince of that kingdom, because the king and master of the land of Samhain was…
"Yes, Azrharn," she said softly, splintering Nuada's thoughts. "I baited you on purpose. I didn't know what else to do. I saw you and I knew that you would protect us, so I made it clear that we needed protection."
"Are you going to apologize for it?" He asked silkily. As smooth and cool as a noose woven of silken cord.
Dylan forced a smirk to her scarred, wounded, fear-pale lips. "Apologize? For playing a trick on the trickster? Is that what you want me to do? I thought you'd be impressed."
She knew he could hear the way her heart banged against her ribs. Knew that he could hear the way the breath stuttered in her throat and caught in her lungs. This was Azrharn. She knew him. She had known him nearly as long as Moundshroud, and longer than a few others of the oldest fae. Dylan knew what Azrharn was capable of. She had seen it well before he had stripped the flesh from the bandit's body. But she also knew that he liked to play games and he admired women—men as well, but especially women—who were bold enough to play on his level, or at least attempt it. It was one reason why he had never tried to kill her.
Dunizel was the other reason, but as the dark prince had warned, even Dunizel's favor wouldn't protect Dylan if she made this eldritch lord too angry. He was too vicious, too selfish, even with those he loved, to put up with things that vexed him for too long.
"I am impressed. Very good, un-sister. I see you haven't changed. Now, who is the fish-faced, lily-white princeling over there? A friend of yours? A lover perhaps?"
"He is Prince Nuada Silverlance of Bethmoora," she said softly. If he had been anyone else, she might have lied or teased. But not here. Not with Azrharn. She didn't dare. "He's my fiancé and my liege lord."
One knife-thin, black brow winged up toward the impossibly dark hair that lay against Azrharn's pale forehead. "Well, well, well. Moving up in the world, aren't we? Not just a little mortal anymore, are you?" He paused. An eternity yawned, dark and seductive and terrifying, in that pause. Finally he said, "I presume Father knows about this."
"Yes, he knows. I have his approval. If I didn't, do you think that Nuada would still be alive? Moundshroud would never have allowed that. He would've killed Nuada if he didn't approve. I know that. You know that. Why are you asking?"
The prince in question jolted. Moundshroud. This man was a son of Moundshroud.
Weir. That was where he had heard that name before. Weir was the main province of Samhain, where the fabled Samhain Tree was said to reside; the towering black oak that was said to bear autumnal lantern-fruit that tethered the souls of the Sight-blessed. The kingdom of eldritch beasts and corpsely fae, where Moundshroud held sway as the king of death and decay, graveyard bones and empty crypts. Moundshroud had a son? How had Nuada not known?
And then, was what Dylan had said actually true? Moundshroud tended to stay out of other faery monarchs' business. Would he truly have killed Nuada if he believed the Elven prince unsuitable for Dylan? Would he really? Yes, he had threatened to castrate the prince once, when he believed that the Elf was trifling with Dylan's heart. But simply because he didn't approve of their union? Even though it was a union that Dylan wanted? It was because of Dylan interceding on Nuada's behalf that he could yet count himself a man, despite what Moundshroud had wanted to do to him. Did not her wishes weigh in the balance? She wanted him. Would that not have stayed Moundshroud even if Moundshroud did not approve of them being together? Because even after threatening to unman him, Nuada had yet to fall to the ancient king. That meant either Moundshroud did in fact approve, or…what? Would the Keeper of the Samhain Tree truly have murdered him and risked all-out war with the other fae kings and queens just because he didn't want Dylan to marry him?
"Yes, that is true," Azrharn said softly. "You have never been foolish enough to disobey my father in anything."
Dylan offered a small shrug. "He doesn't ask much."
Azrharn smiled gently. Nuada shivered and Dylan scrunched up her face for a moment, squeezing her eyes shut tight before relaxing and opening them again, as if she'd been trying to block out some terrible image. Azrharn said, "Very well. I suppose congratulations are in order, then, little sister. But first, something a little more important." Eyes like frozen obsidian stars sliced through the air to land on the king, looking weathered and weary amidst the miniature legion of bodyguards. Balor clutched his left shoulder and made a small sound when Azrharn's gaze fell upon him with all the weight of a funeral shroud.
Dylan took a single half-step toward the old king. Nuada's hand tightened around the haft of his lance, though he couldn't have put it into words why he'd done so. But even with that odd paleness sweeping over his father's face and the sound that he had made, even though the king had gone grey to the lips with sickly blue undertones like bruises, with shadows of more blueness across his wrinkled face like the shadows on the moon, the prince could not force himself to move more than a few mere inches. Not when any movement might bring that indescribable black gaze back to him. Not with the weight of the last two hours pressing down on them, held back only by the dark prince's hideously beautiful presence and power.
Azrharn smiled that same gentle smile, this time at Balor. Someone in the crowd whimpered and began to weep. In the middle of the crowd, Nuada head Dylan's sister Mary mumble something about Vishnu and her other sister, Petra, say, "Sweet, merciful Jesus, please don't let him kill us" before there was the slap of flesh against flesh, like someone had clapped their hand over her mouth.
"Well, Your Majesty. I have heard many things of you from my father. Even more things from my foster brother, Joseph," Azrharn said. Nuada tried to remember who Joseph was. That impossible man couldn't mean the tall, skinny, smirking youth with the hair like spikes of fire that Moundshroud had brought to Bethmoora? The once-mortal boy Dylan called Pipkin? "He had much to say of you after returning from your kingdom once Midwinter ended. You intrigue me, I must say. Have you been looking after my little sister for me?"
"Sister?" Balor wheezed. Another twinge of doctor's concern lanced Dylan. Tension thrummed through Nuada's legs, urging him to take a step toward his father. "What do you mean, 'sister?' She is mortal."
"Little un-sister, I suppose I should have said. She does not share my blood. But are you taking care of her? That is what I asked you." When Balor only gaped at him, Azrharn's smile slipped away, like mist under the morning sun, the way the black mare standing at the very edge of the circle of light cast by the village square torches seemed to bleed into the air like midnight steam when the light touched her. "Do not make me ask again," Azrharn said far too softly. "Are you taking care of my sister?"
"Yes…yes, of course," Balor said hastily.
Azrharn lifted one beautiful, winging black brow. Sighed gently. "Why do I not believe you? Well, that is a topic for another day. You said this little one was going to be punished." He cast an impossibly loving, indulgent look at the little bean sídhe, who still clung to Dylan's middle with her corpse-grey arms but watched Azrharn over one skinny shoulder. "My little death screamer," the prince continued in a crooning voice. "My little morgue crier. The singer of my swan songs." Azrharn gestured to the little bean sídhe girl when Balor said nothing. The child peeked warily at Balor and then blinked at the prince who offered her a gentle, tender smile. "Is that true, Your Majesty? Were you planning on killing my little one? My little bean sídhe?"
"The child broke the treaty. She may be a death fae, but she is also from Bethmoora. She is subject to our laws. She struck a human and broke a treaty that has been in effect for thousands of years."
Somehow, Balor kept his voice steady and cold. And somehow, not quite knowing where the strength or the temerity or the madness came from, Nuada managed to pry open his mouth and cry, "A treaty based on shame!"
The look that Azrharn gave him sent a shudder rippling down his spine. For just a moment, Nuada thought he saw something like affection in those dark eyes. He didn't want to see affection there. He didn't want to see anything there. He wanted Azrharn to leave. Being near him was like being sucked into the dark well of a vortex. It pulled at every inch of his skin, tugged at him, like hooks buried under his flesh to yank and pull and drag at him. He had a terrible feeling that if Azrharn ever looked at him with real, searing, uncompromising affection, with that strange and alien love, as he had seen the man look for just a moment at Dylan and at the little bean sídhe girl, Nuada would be lost.
He didn't know why. He had never been a lover of men, preferring a woman's body. He didn't even think that was what the problem was, though. It wasn't about preference or attraction or need or even lust. It was simply that Azrharn could make anyone love him, heart and soul, in whatever way suited the pair of them best. He could make anyone his willing slave if he tried.
Please, by the stars, don't let him try, Nuada prayed silently. Moundshroud carried power. The Tuathan prince had seen it when the ancient king had managed to walk right past Nuada's contingent of guards into the prince's private study without any of them even noticing. But Azrharn was more dangerous than Moundshroud. If he tried, Azrharn could bring the world to heel. Could make his victims love him, long for him, even as he ripped out their hearts with those exquisite, lovely hands.
King Balor saw the look on the dark prince's face, and so did not chastise his son for speaking out. Didn't dare. He only cleared his throat, as if clearing away any possible unease, and said in a voice that only wavered the littlest bit, "Regardless of the prince's feelings on the subject, the fact is the truce has been in place for centuries. The child knew this and yet attacked anyway. The punishment for breaking the treaty is death. It is well known by all."
Behind the king, the villagers began to mutter to themselves. An enraged squawk echoed through the night and one of Dylan's siblings—Nuada did not have the presence of mind to look and see which one, but he was betting on Francesca by virtue of that harsh, harpy-like shriek of outrage—tried to force her way through the crowd. Azrharn ignored the commotion, but the king was well aware of the angry whispers of his people and the mortal shrews struggling to get to him so they could give him a piece of their minds.
Would his people rebel against him? Had the prince been stirring up the villagers?
Azrharn chuckled. It was a low, velvety, violating sound. Nuada fought not to be sick. It was odd, because the laugh was like a caress, silvery, seductive, but at the same time ripe with sweet darkness. Everything about this man was a trap. Everything about him was dangerous. Lethal.
"Death?" Azrharn's voice stilled the murmurs of the crowd. "Oh, no, Your Majesty. I know that you do not want that. No one here wants that."
"It…it is the law," Balor said.
Azrharn's laughter rang out through the village square. Nuada's knees buckled and he locked them to keep from falling. Dylan sucked in a sharp breath and muttered something. Nuada thought she might have been praying. Was she truly so afraid of him? But he called her un-sister. He was Moundshroud's son. Surely he would offer her no harm. She had called him to protect the bean sídhe. Why would she do so if she believed him dangerous?
"Oh, Your Majesty, such a sense of humor. I have missed that in Samhain. Very few of our jesters have had anything funny to say for many years, for fear of offending my lady mother. The last one who tried to be amusing annoyed her to the point that she decided to cut off his fingers. It was his choice, to be sure. He could have lost his tongue, but he opted for fingers instead. I am not quite sure what I would have chosen in his position, but that is neither here nor there. I know for a fact that you will not kill this child. You will not kill anyone tonight, but you will certainly not kill this child. To do so would be an act of war against my father's kingdom."
"The child is Bethmooran."
How could Balor argue with this man? How did he dare? Did he not see his own death in that exquisite face? Nuada knew that he should step forward, step between Azrharn and the king. But Sréng's words and the king's words and Dylan's words and Azrharn's words and the little bean sídhe girl's words all whirled together in his mind, crashing against each other, fragmenting into shards that scraped his brain.
He didn't go to his father. He wouldn't. He couldn't. The king had betrayed him. Betrayed them all, again and again and again. If Azrharn deemed it prudent to kill the king tonight, Nuada would not stop him. Not tonight. Not after the blood and the death and the flames and the murder and the pain and the suffering and the loss. Not after everything that had happened that night, and so many nights before.
We were like brothers…
Brother to that monster. Brother to the beast that had murdered the queen, nearly murdered Nuala and Nuada himself. Brother to the monster that had killed Dylan and, centuries ago, been the first to…
Nuada bit off the thought. He wouldn't think of that day anymore. Not ever again. After his time in the grove with Dylan, after the unicorn had pierced his heart, he need not think on any of those dark memories ever again.
"It doesn't matter," said Azrharn, breaking Nuada's thoughts like glass. He was not smiling anymore. He was like a dream of pure perfection carved from alabaster and black marble. If he had told Nuada in that moment to cut off his own hand, the prince was sure he would have done it.
What sort of glamour did he possess? Even while Nuada knew that he was being manipulated, twisted by the man's magic, he couldn't seem to resist it or even resent it, only fear it and welcome it.
Azrharn continued, "She is death fae and she is protected because she has asked for that protection. Resent it if you like, but trespass against it not at all. The child's life will be spared tonight. You will not kill her. To do so would be to declare war against the Samhain Keeper. I will not allow it and neither will my father. If you dare to take her life, to spill her heart's blood on this snow, I will send my brother's wife to your kingdom. Do you know her? The blue-skinned bitch? I can see by your face that you do."
Nuada stared at his father. He did not know of this blue-skinned bitch. Who was Azrharn talking about? How did his father know about her? Dylan had clapped a hand over her mouth and her eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Clearly she knew this woman as well. Who was it? Why was she so dangerous? He knew of no faerie queens with blue skin, so clearly she should have been no match for Balor's magic, even sickened as it was. Yet Dylan's fear was palpable, rolling off of her in waves.
"I will send the blue-skinned bitch to Bethmoora," Azrharn continued. "I will send her here, and she will walk the width and breadth of your kingdom and when it is over, there will be nothing left but corpses and ash. Do you understand? If the child has broken the treaty, then perhaps this treaty should not exist. Your darling crown prince clearly thinks so. As does my un-sister, I am quite sure."
"The law is the law," said Balor. "She must be punished in some way."
Azrharn stared at the king. Somehow, Balor managed to look the man in the eye. Nuada could not have done it. No sane man without a death wish could have done it. And that told Nuada more about his father than he'd realized before.
"I have said that she lives. She will live, or your kingdom will die. Everyone. Every man, woman, and neither-which. Every child, every infant, every beast, every green thing in this kingdom will wither and die under the hand of my brother's wife. Do you understand? If this child dies by your hand or by your order, your kingdom will die by the hand of the Lord of Death's leopard-eyed queen. Am I clear, King Balor of Bethmoora?"
Balor swallowed. Nuada held his breath. Surely his father could not be so foolish as to argue. Surely…
"The child will live," the king said finally. "You have my word. I will not seek to take her life. The child will live."
Azrharn smiled, and it was terrible. "Good. You see, dragging that blue-skinned bitch anywhere is such a bother. If you forced me to do it, I would have to make sure that your death lasted a very long time, and my lovely eshva are very creative. But luckily we will not have that problem. The child lives, my un-sister is safe enough for now, I can report back to my father that all is well. And Prince Nuada?"
Ice spilled down Nuada's spine. His belly cramped and somehow, he did not know if it was terror or desire at the way Azrharn seemed to let the prince's name spill from his lips like fine wine. Glamour, the prince told himself. It was only glamour.
That did not allow his fear to vanish.
"Close your mouth, sweet boy. You're giving me impure thoughts." Azrharn grinned when Nuada snapped his mouth shut with an audible click of teeth. The dark prince's teeth, those perfect white teeth against those perfect, full lips, were obscenely sharp. It was easy enough to imagine them stained with blood. Azrharn turned to Dylan. "Farewell, clever un-sister. You have done me very proud tonight. And you know, my offer still stands."
For the first time, Dylan lost the look of dull fear that had come over her face when Azrharn had arrived. In its place was exasperation.
"No! I already told you—"
"Why must you always refuse me? No one else ever has—"
"What about Bittersweet?"
"—and survived unscathed and whole," the prince finished darkly. That slender, jet brow arched over the glittering black eye in predatory challenge.
Dylan canted her head. "I'm Mormon. You're super hot and all, Azrharn, but I already told you that I can't. Do you want to be smitten?" She frowned. "Smited? Smote? Smoted? Whatever, whatever it is, do you want to be it? Because I don't. Like I said, you're the hottest person I've ever seen, but I don't want to be…smote-smited."
"The word you're looking for is 'smote,' little one," Azrharn said with a small quirk of his lips. "And at least you acknowledge that I am hot."
"I'm Mormon," she said, "not blind. Also Dunizel would be heartbroken if you slept with me."
"That is true enough. I shall give your regards to Missy and Duke?"
"Yeah, tell them to stop fighting."
This time, when Azrharn smiled, Dylan smiled back, and Nuada had the feeling that this was an exchange they had had often. Then, as suddenly as the beautiful, dark-haired man had appeared, there now stood a black eagle with a glowing green jewel like a venomous star at its breast, an eagle the size of a horse. It flared its massive black wings, a Cimmerian sweep that doused torches and kicked up flurries of snow like whirlwinds of powdered bone. The eagle leapt into the air and flew away, a massive shadow swooping up into the sky.
Nuada sank to his knees. Dylan fell to hers, accidentally dragging the bean sídhe child to the snow with her. The monsters around her lifted their heads and breathed sighs of relief. For a long time, there was no sound but their breathing.
It was Francesca who finally yelled into the deafening silence, "Who the ever-loving hell was that? He was hot and all, but damn!"
Dylan merely groaned and flopped onto her back in the snow.
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Barinthus fought not to recoil from the terror in his daughter's voice. She ought not to be afraid of him. He would never harm her. How could she ever doubt that?
She looked better than last he'd seen her. There was more flesh on her bones, and her color wasn't so gray anymore. The bruise-like shadows under her eyes had faded. His heart leapt to see her well, see her healthy. His poor child. He hadn't wanted to punish her, but she'd refused to see reason. And that festering, putrescent carbuncle growing in her belly had been sucking the life out of her.
The carbuncle whimpered and mewled from its blankets and Iúile clutched the creature to her breast.
"Get out," she cried, "The prince forbade you to come here, get out! I won't let you hurt my baby!"
"Iúile," he said, "wait—"
The sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath, the vicious whisper of Elven silver against leather, dragged Barinthus' attention from his daughter to the whelp at her side. The filthy gancanaugh wretch that had tried for years to take her away from him. Now the bone-pale, scarlet-eyed thief pointed an Elven sword at him, needle-thin obsidian teeth bared in challenge. The brat took a step toward him, sword upraised.
"Get out or I'll end you right here and now, you beast," the gancanaugh snarled, baring those obscene, needle-like teeth. "Stay away from my family."
"Wretch, she is my family—"
"Stop it!" Iúile cried as the abomination let out a mewling wail. The gancanaugh that had laid claim to the creature shot Iúile a quick look before glaring at Barinthus. But it was Iúile who said, "I don't want you here, Áthair. Please leave."
Barinthus held up his hands placatingly. "Iúile, dearest, listen to me. You're in danger. All of you are. Bandits have come back to the village and—"
A low snarl cut him off. The salacious, whoremongering wretch hissed, "I will protect her. I can protect both of them."
Here it was: the test. The hope of sneaking under the bratling's defenses so that Barinthus could remind his sweet girl who her true family was and how much he loved her. So he didn't snarl back at the wretch trying to steal his daughter. Didn't comment on the foul, black blood running through his twisted veins or the poison he oozed from his bone-white skin as easily as breathing.
He only said, "And will you not allow me to help you…Master O'Neill?"
The gancanaugh youth stared at him. Iúile stared, too, the disbelief on her face as plain as a campfire in the dark. It galled to have to speak to this lowly Love Talker as an equal, as someone worthy of any sort of respect, but somehow he managed it. Barinthus kept one ear out for sounds from the corridor as he went on.
"I may not approve of you, and perhaps I have made mistakes in the past." He bristled when the wretch scoffed, but Iúile's hurt gaze and the sorrow in her expression kept Barinthus from lashing out at the daughter-thief. "But there are enemies prowling close, and no one but you and I to protect my daughter and that…child. There may be more than you can fight on your own. Will you allow your pride and your hatred for me to prevent you from accepting help? Will you risk my daughter, whom you claim to love, simply because you despise me?"
There was no chance for the youth to reply. Before anyone could say anything, the door rattled under the impact of a heavy body. The puling infant squalled louder. Iúile tried to hush the thing, but it was too late. Raucous laughter and jeers thundered through the small room from the other side of the door and the slab of oak thudded in its frame as something—maybe a boot—collided with it.
"Iúile, take cover!" The gancanaugh cried. Throwing back the blankets, the Elven girl painfully rose to her feet, still clutching her newborn, and hurried to hide inside the tall wardrobe in the corner of the room. Liam settled himself in the middle of the room. Barinthus opened his mouth to demand to know what the little fool thought he was doing, not standing in front of the wardrobe in defense of Iúile, when the gancanaugh sucked in a deep breath and the scarlet, vertical pupils of his obsidian eyes flared and Barinthus tasted blood and honeysuckle on his tongue. Love Talker magic.
The baby's wails fell silent and the air behind the youth shimmered faintly when the older Elf glanced at it from the corner of his eye. Glamour. But these were fae bandits. Mayhap the glamour would work and mayhap it wouldn't. Barinthus could not fault the lad for trying, however, paltry an attempt though it might have been.
"If you really love Iúile," the gancanaugh said through gritted fangs, "then help me protect her and our daughter."
He wanted to lash out at the boy. Wanted to snarl at him, demand to know who he thought he was, questioning his love for his daughter.
The word daughter snagged his attention, though. A daughter. The creature Iúile cradled so tenderly in her arms was a newborn baby girl, then. He had always wanted a granddaughter. A bitter taste settled on his tongue when he realized that wish had been fulfilled by a bastard-born half-breed abomination. A merry-bount was nothing to be ashamed over, true, so long as the potential fathers were fae of respectable blood…but a human's get?
Still, this was the plan. He would defend his little girl and the creature that had bewitched her into loving it from the vermin on the other side of the door. He would help the Love Talker in this quest until they'd dropped their guards. Then he would put a knife in the crown prince's back, gut the gancanaugh who dreamed of defiling his daughter, and slit the little half-breed's throat so that he and Iúile could get on with their lives.
Blade in hand, he focused on the door as the wooden frame splintered and the door slammed open so hard, it bounced off the wall. The seven fae bandits he'd seen heading up the tavern's back stairs spilled into the room.
Teeth clenched, Barinthus roared and threw himself at the bandits that sought to harm his child.
.
Nuada could not bring himself to speak, to look at anyone, to even draw a full breath until Dylan and the king and everyone else has retreated back into the tavern. There were no survivors on the bandits' side of the conflict. Nuada's allies, Dylan's "monsters," and Azrharn had decimated their mortal ranks, leaving nothing but carrion behind. What fae bandits had been foolish enough to fight had been dispatched by the Butchers and other fighters, as they weren't protected by Balor's damnable treaty.
That treaty. The king had tried to uphold it in such a shameful fashion, planned on letting that human monster go free and murder his young bean sídhe victim. Only Azrharn, that terrible and beautiful Lord of Night, had prevented the king and his guards from trying to murder the child where she stood. Only his interference had allowed Nuada to retreat from the necessity of slaying his father out there in the snow.
Inside the tavern, the warm glow of the fires chasing away some of the chill from the night, Nuada and Dylan gave the little bean sídhe girl—who said her name was Siobhan—over to Uilliam McBás, who took the faerie child under his arm and escorted her into the room where the mixed-blood boy and his lieutenants had set up their little camping space. Nuada had tried to offer the boy and his followers their own individual rooms, but the lad had insisted on remaining on the first floor "where the other little 'uns can find me."
"You should sit down," Dylan said once Uilliam and Siobhan were safely in the other room. "You've met Az for the first time, you should sit down and give yourself some time to process." When Nuada only stared at her wordlessly, she added with a small shrug, "He can be…intimidating the first few times."
"How many times have you met him?" Nuada whispered. His voice came out oddly rough and hoarse. "How can you call him…?"
"Az?" She ventured. He nodded mutely. "Never speak his name unless you want his attention. Try not to even think it, or think of him, unless you want his attention. And if you ever think you want his attention, you better make sure you have a really good reason. Come on. Let's go somewhere quiet."
She led him into the room they'd used to make their plans about the initial bandit attack the week before, before she'd been taken, before he'd had any reason to fear the king would come sniffing around. Although he sensed her sisters and brother and his own friends wondering who the strangely beautiful, pale man had been, something in Dylan's expression must have told them not to press her for answers just then, so she only shut the door in their faces and sank into a chair opposite the prince.
It took him several long moments to find his voice.
"Who is he?"
"He is the son of Moundshroud and Queen Ligeia. He is the eldest of the four natural children Moundshroud has with his wife."
Nuada blinked. "But…the boy. Pipkin. The red-haired boy you are so fond of—he is Moundshroud's heir." Dylan nodded. "But…but…he is not…"
"Moundshroud's son by blood?" Dylan supplied. "No. He's not. That's why he's the heir. It's the law in Samhain—the Keeper of the Tree cannot have a blood connection to the previous Keepers. I don't know why, and Moundshroud won't tell me." Dylan leaned back in her seat and let her head fall back against the polished wood, letting her eyes drift closed. "Anything else you want to know about him?"
"Who is Dunizel?" Azrharn had said that even Dunizel could not save Dylan, if Dylan vexed the midnight prince too much.
A loving, almost awed expression flitted across the mortal woman's face. "Az's wife and the mother of his daughter, Azrhiaz. I saved her life once. She's the only person he's ever fallen in love with that he hasn't gotten tired of yet. They've been together for like, a thousand years or something. Considering he tends to ditch or murder his lovers after a couple decades, I'm pretty sure he's actually in love this time. And he's never wanted to have kids with a mortal before."
Nuada sat bolt upright. "She is mortal?"
"Yep. He keeps her tucked safe away in Druhim Vanashta, the capital city of his province in Samhain. Time's funny there. She hasn't aged at all. Still twenty-something. She's the only person I know of, besides me and Moundshroud's family, who's ever told him no about something and not died or been forced to suffer terribly. She's the only person, including me, to tell him no without making him angry. He doesn't like being told what to do, obviously."
Nuada thought back to how the dark prince had refused to back down under Balor's insistence that the treaty was the law and had to be obeyed. How Azrharn had threatened to destroy every living thing in Bethmoora if Balor did not obey him. Yes, he could see that the eldest son of the Samhain Keeper did not, in fact, take kindly to being told what to do.
"Dylan…" Nuada hesitated. He wasn't certain he truly wanted to know, but…"How did you meet him? Did Moundshroud introduce you?"
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Not a chance! When Moundshroud found out I'd met his three eldest sons, he nearly threw a fit. He'd wanted them to stay away from me. They're not supposed to talk to mortals; they keep sleeping with them or marrying them, and the queen doesn't like it, or they keep killing them, which Moundshroud doesn't like.
"No, I met Chuz, the third-eldest, first."
Nuada blinked. "Chuz?" What sort of name was…?
"Lord of Madness," she replied. "It's okay to say his name, he's…gentler than Az. He has a fondness for the mentally ill and a penchant for ignoring what Moundshroud says a lot of the time. When he saw me, he claimed he had to talk to me, to make sure I was all right. He does that; he's sort of like the patron faerie saint of the mentally ill. But it just so happened this was right after he tried to murder Dunizel, so Az showed up."
"Tried to…" Nuada trailed off, realizing that despite how nonchalantly Dylan spoke of the encounter, she had basically said the two powerful fae princes had been ready to kill each other while in her presence. How had she survived? "How did you—"
"Az told me to leave since I had Moundshroud's mark and Chuz wanted to whine about it like a little baby because he wasn't finished talking to me and that talking jackal's skull of his threatened to bite of Az's face if he made me leave—"
"Talking—"
"—but I finally told them both to shut up, and I was almost positive Az was going to rip my head off and use my spine for a nail file but then I told him I could try to save Dunizel—I didn't know her name then, but it was obvious somebody was hurt—since I was a healer. So he did that eagle trick and grabbed me and whisked me off to Druhim Vanashta and Chuz followed because we were in the middle of a conversation and when we all got there, Uhlume was there, kneeling over Dunizel's bed while she was bleeding out into her bandages."
"Uhlume?" The names and events whirled in Nuada's mind. How could she sound so casual about it all? How old had she been when this happened? They'd taken her not just to Faerie, not just to Samhain, not even just to a province in Samhain, but the capital of that province? He knew very little about Moundshroud's kingdom but he did know that any death fae, plague fae, night fae, blood fae, or any other dark fae of any kind that found itself alone and exiled from home could go there and find refuge. Samhain was a kingdom of crypt dust and decay, blood and bone and bile, nightmares and shadows…and she had gone there to heal the mortal wife of one of that kingdom's dark princes.
"Lord of Death," Dylan explained with such an air of uncaring that it took Nuada several seconds to realize she wasn't being facetious. "He's not actually the Lord of Death per se…like, he's not the Grim Reaper or anything. He has some purview over dead faeries. Some dead faeries. His wife is the blue-skinned…lady Az was talking about."
A small smile tugged at the prince's mouth. She could not bring herself to use the words Azrharn had. Still so innocent sometimes.
"She's some kind of plague carrier. She can kill anything she touches with her left hand."
"Not her right?"
Dylan's smile turned fierce. "She doesn't have it. She tried to kill someone Az was fond of, so he ripped the flesh from the bones of her right hand. Now she wears a glove because Uhlume always tells her it served her right for trying to kill a kid whenever he sees the bones. They don't like each other very much; he much prefers his other wife, the mortal one, and so do I, to be honest. She's just a little bitter. The blue one is mean."
"Why is she blue?"
"She's dead." Dylan paused. "Undead? Some kind of dead. Anyway, because Dunizel was in Samhain, Uhlume was pretty sure he had jurisdiction over her, except she wasn't dead yet. But when Az saw him, he nearly ripped his face off, but I managed to fix the problem."
After a few moments, Nuada managed, "Which…was?"
"She'd been shot in the chest. Not with a bullet or I would've been in trouble; I was in my last year of med school. Chuz had made this…sharp, pointy thing out of a drop of Az's blood. Only thing that could get through the protections he'd put on Dunizel, since it was his blood. Some jerk had been tricked into shooting her in the chest with it with a bb-gun. Chuz promised not to do it again, though."
"Chuz…promised." He had often wondered how she'd survived this long, embroiled in the Twilight Realm as she was and hunted as she had been in the mortal world. This didn't help his wondering.
Dylan nodded. "Yeah. He never lies. He doesn't even tap dance around the truth like most fae. It bores him. Also, like I said, he's fond of the mentally ill. He'll do them favors if they ask."
At that, a predatory instinct stirred. "What sort of favors?" If someone so powerful was willing to give Dylan his grace, what might be asked of him?
Dylan's eyes grew shadowed and she looked away. "Whatever they ask, as long as another mentally ill person isn't harmed by it. He says we can't use him to kill each other, or I'd have asked him to kill Patrick and Xander a long time ago. They're not mentally ill, but he says they're sociopaths, which is treading a fine line and his mother would pitch a fit if he accidentally stepped over it because she's a shrew."
"You do not like his mother?" It was the only thing he could think to say in the wake of all of this new information.
His truelove's face turned positively frigid. "She seduces, sleeps with, tortures, and murders teenage boys in her off-time. So no, I don't." Dylan hesitated, then leaned forward and took his hands in hers. He was startled by the warmth of her skin, then realized that warmth meant his own hands must be icy. Dylan murmured, "Nuada, you did really well with Az. I mean it. He's…intense. Dangerous, obviously, but also very magically gifted. You did really well holding your own."
He had no idea what made him confess, "He is…so beautiful."
Dylan closed her eyes as if in pain and nodded. "Yes. Yes, he is. The Lord of Night, Night's Master. It helps me to remember that he's had thousands of lovers, and all but one of them are dead now."
Yes, she'd mentioned that. That Dunizel, his wife, was the only person who'd survived more than two decades as the Lord of Night's lover. He'd killed most of them, Dylan had said. Why?
He didn't want to think of it. He had other things he needed to focus on. So the prince drew a deep breath and let it out, pushing thoughts of Azrharn's murderous beauty from his mind. He cleared his throat. Straightened in his chair, although his spine protested.
"You saw what happened out there tonight," he murmured. "What my father tried to do. Even in the face of Az…of the threat, he still tried to murder that child. And as for Tsu's'di…the Lord of Night has no reason to offer him protection, does he? Even if you asked?"
Dylan shook her head sadly. "Az isn't exactly fond of me. It…it's weird. He likes me but he doesn't. I saved Dunizel, and he loves her more than he has ever loved anyone or anything…but I won't sleep with him. That makes him mad. He doesn't take rejection well."
"He wants you so badly?"
She snorted. "No, he wants to tick off his mother. But he doesn't like rejection, so now he's miffed at me, too, kind of. In his opinion, everything with genitals and a sex drive of any note wants to sleep with him. He's a bit of a pig, to be honest."
Nuada stared at her. "You…you don't like him."
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"
The prince opened his mouth. Closed it again. Azrharn was beautiful and intoxicating and alluring and he terrified Nuada and Nuada wanted those obsidian-star eyes to look at him with the same fond aggravation they'd bestowed on Dylan…but the thought of being in Azrharn's presence, exhilarating and delicious as it was, filled him with cold dread and repugnance.
"He's beautiful," she said, "and he makes you want him, want to be near him. But he's cruel and cold and vicious most of the time. He thrives on misery and mischief. He's not good, Nuada. Not even close. The only time he even steps toward being good is when he indulges his favorites in something…and half the time, those favorites want bad things.
"Your dad recognized him for what he is," she added, "but wanted to argue anyway. That's interesting."
"Why?"
"Because it means either your dad knows something we don't, or your dad is really, really stupid. Possibly both."
Perhaps a brace of moons ago, he would've argued. His father wasn't stupid, merely misguided. But now…he could still see that little bean sídhe girl's face, the terror and misery and the surety that these adults who were supposed to protect her were going to give her back to the monster that had hurt her. He still heard his father's voice echoing in his skull. You are mistaken…we were like brothers…
"Do you think my father will let her go unpunished?" He asked. Her indelicate snort told him everything. He nodded. "I agree. He will not kill her, but he will exact some sort of punishment. Will…he attack for such a thing?"
"No," Dylan muttered. "He might even appreciate the subterfuge. He's a jerk that way. It's fifty-fifty whether defying him will get you killed or praised."
"Truly?"
Dylan gave him a look. "You heard me mention Bittersweet? She was a girl, centuries ago now, who wouldn't sleep with Az before her wedding. So he let her have her wedding, and her wedding night. Then he turned her husband into some kind of immortal-but-eternally-suffering monstrosity and drove Bittersweet crazy. Then he cursed the baby she'd conceived on her wedding night, throwing her magic off-balance so that she was stuck in this permanent state of passivity, by sucking the active part of her magic out of her and sticking it in someone else."
Nuada jerked back from her. "That…that is monstrous." To rend someone's magic like that…the process would have been agony, and to do it to a baby…
"Yeah," Dylan said with a nod. "Turns out, doing that connected the two kids and they spent their whole lives drawn to each other from across the world. Az spent centuries keeping them apart, hurting them, tormenting them. He was so angry they kept beating his obstacles, he was ready to kill them himself, so he pops up once they're finally united and what does he do?"
He was almost afraid to ask. "He…killed them. Hard deaths?"
To his utter shock, Dylan shook her head. "Dunizel told me about this, which is how I know exactly what happened. He looked at the pair of them and decided they were too cute to sunder again, so he put a spell on them cursing anyone who offered them harm for the rest of their days and set them up in a cute little cottage next to some good farmland and left them alone, except when they had kids. Then he popped up like some kind of creepy faerie godfather to give out oodles of presents."
Nuada stared at her. "You're joking."
"Nope. Fickle doesn't even begin to describe Az. So while he will definitely murder every single person in Bethmoora if your dad kills Siobhan, if he hurts her, he may just laugh it off."
"Then we will have to stop my father from harming the child, of course."
Her hand alighted on his cheek, soft as the touch of a snowflake, warm as summer sunlight. He closed his eyes, relishing the warmth of her, the scent of her like summer flowers when he turned his face into her palm and planted a small kiss there. He had known coming to the villages was a risk, so very dangerous. He'd known they were going into danger, but he hadn't expected all that had befallen them. Now the king was here, and there were strange creatures from other realms, and the Lord of Night had come himself to intervene, and there were children in danger because of things those children had done to protect themselves and their loved ones from the monsters who would hurt them. It was all so stars-cursed unfair and it was all his father's fault.
His father's fault. All of it. Because Sréng had said that it was Balor who had made him immortal and Balor had been unable to deny it. Balor, his father, his king, had given that monster true and unending immortality without a qualm, without a thought. Given such impossible power to the man who had raped Cethlenn, assaulted Nuala, assaulted and murdered Dylan, assaulted Nua—
The Elven warrior bit off the thought before it could finish forming. He did not allow himself to think about that time, centuries ago, or the pinching, probing fingers or the cruel laughter or the teeth sinking deep into the delicate point of his ear while he'd wept and struggled and—
Dylan's fingertips touched his wrist and he jumped as if he'd been scalded. His lady gazed up at him, worry plain on her face. Nuada realized he was practically gasping for breath and sweat had begun to bead along his hairline and drip over his scarred temples. A muscle flexed in his jaw and he gritted his teeth. Swallowed.
"Forgive me," he muttered, though he didn't quite know what he was apologizing for. "I was lost in thought."
Dylan canted her head. "Yeah, I can see that. What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing," he bit out, then winced when she flinched back from his tone. He sighed. Offered her a wan smile. "Forgive me, beloved. I didn't mean to speak harshly. It has been a long night, has it not? Please forgive me. I had no right to speak sharply to you."
She stared at him for a long moment, searching his face. He wondered what she saw there. He had always known those rainswept blue eyes like autumn lakes could strip him to the bone if he allowed it, if he gave her time enough to pierce all of his secrets. He still had many that he kept from her. From everyone. Such as his history, his life, with Yukihime, and Vassa and her brothers, and Shina'kin and her small son. Such as the true nature of his former relationship with Naya.
Such as all the horrors he'd suffered during the wars and before. He had not told her, or his father, or even his sister all of it. Even Wink did not know the secrets that betimes haunted Nuada late at night when the hour of the wolf loomed and the darkness seemed to claw at him like grasping, cruel fingers.
Did Dylan see his secrets? All of them? Even the ones that might have been a pale mirror to her own?
But he didn't ask her, and eventually her attention slid up to the ceiling, and she frowned.
"Dylan?"
"Something's wrong," she muttered, pushing to her feet. "We need to go check on Iúile and the baby."
He did not ask her why. He trusted her intuition explicitly. It had never led them wrong. So as they left the room, when she bade him, "Draw your spear," he did so without question.
Then he heard the scream like a dying horse and knew she'd been absolutely right.
.
Liam O'Neill went to one knee before the massive, muscled kelpie that leered at him with his teeth the color of lake snail shells. Blood seeped from a cut across one eye and another glancing slice on his cheekbone. More black blood oozed from the shallow wound along his ribs. Those wounds didn't plague him overmuch; the problem was the throbbing, black pain in his side where the kelpie, in black waterhorse form, had kicked him with one obsidian-edged hoof.
He couldn't get his breath. Couldn't see past the black specks dancing and whirling in front of his eyes. Behind him, Iúile's bastard of a father grunted and strained against a half-Elven bandit desperate to break past them and get to Iúile. Liam hadn't been able to hold the silencing glamour and now the bandits knew there was a woman and her baby hiding in the wardrobe.
His woman. Soon to be his wife. And his baby, their baby. Their little daughter. He would be damned if he let these beasts near Iúile or Baby Dylan ever again. Never again.
With a roar clamped behind his gritted teeth, Liam lunged to his feet and swung the glorious silver sword at the kelpie. The kelpie ducked and the blade sliced through one incredibly long ear. In horse form, the ears didn't look so strange, but in humanoid form, a kelpie's ears were as long as a jackrabbit's. The blade sliced the blue-tinged appendage nearly in half.
The kelpie shrieked and lunged for him, hands outstretched and beginning to melt into those murderous, wicked hooves again. Liam stumbled back. Tripped. He felt himself falling even as he jerked up the sword blade. He could still gut the beast. Still protect Iúile and the bairn. Still—
Before the kelpie could bring those hooves crashing down on his skull and vulnerable chest, Barinthus roared a challenge and slammed into the half-shifted kelpie. The horse-like fae stumbled sideways and his long legs tangled. He fell and with only a split-second to think it through, Liam brought the sword down as hard as he could, blade flat, against the kelpie's exposed knee.
The bones crunched and the kelpie screamed.
It was the last of the bandits that had come up the stairs. All the rest lay dead, gutted by Barinthus or run through by Liam or, for the single one who'd been foolish enough to get too close, lying with his throat torn out by Liam's impressive set of needle-thin, razor-sharp teeth. Now as the kelpie screamed and clutched at his leg, Liam struggled through the agony in his ribs to push himself upright and stand. From the wardrobe, Baby Dylan howled and, under the outraged crying of the baby, Liam heard Iúile praying.
A pale hand shoved into his field of vision. Liam glanced up and saw Barinthus offering him a hand. After a few moments where he took stock of his pains and tried to figure out a way to get up without blacking out, Liam accepted the offered hand, although he dropped it as soon as he was on his feet. Ignoring the bigoted old Elf, he went to the wardrobe. Found it magically warded when he tried to pull it open.
"A ghrá, it's me!" He called through the door.
Somehow, Iúile heard him over the baby's sobs because the magic faded and the wardrobe doors swung open. Iúile climbed out, clutching the babe to her heart. As soon as she was on her feet, she was in Liam's arms, her free hand around his neck. She pressed her face into the part of his chest left exposed by his tunic and shirt and simply stood there, breathing and trembling while their baby cried.
At last, though, she pulled back. Liam bent over the tiny bundle.
"Here, now, peata. What's all this fuss? You're all right. Everything's all right now," he soothed. Iúile made soft shushing sounds.
"This," said a familiar and most welcome voice, "is a lot of dead people considering we didn't hear anything, Romeo."
Liam lifted his head and saw Lady Dylan in the door, the prince himself in front of her with his spear drawn. At the sound of the mortal healer's voice, the kelpie's screams of pain quieted and the fae bandit stared up at Lady Dylan with such utter loathing that Iúile actually took a step back.
Lady Dylan merely glanced at the kelpie clutching his broken leg before rolling her eyes and focusing on Iúile and the baby. Then her gaze was practically dragged past them, past Liam, and the look of loathing on her face was almost identical to the one on the kelpie's. There was no doubt in Liam's mind who she was looking at, especially when the prince growled low in his throat.
"Who the frick-frack-snick-snack let you out of your cage?" Lady Dylan demanded of Barinthus. "Nobody said you could come to this party."
Barinthus said, "An enemy unlocked my cell and after battling with him, I disarmed him and came to protect my daughter."
It was Nuada who said icily, "You have no daughter. You forfeited your right to her when you abused her…stop sniveling," the prince added to the kelpie. Tears of pain and fury had begun to run down his cheeks. The prince glanced at his lady. "Do you object?"
Liam had no idea what he might've meant, or what Lady Dylan meant when she looked down her nose at the bandit and said coldly, "No."
It was only when the crown prince thrust his spear through the kelpie's chest, abruptly killing him, that the gancanaugh understood the prince had requested his lady's permission to execute the bandit. That meant something. Liam knew it did. He just couldn't seem to focus his thoughts enough to figure out what.
Lady Dylan and her prince stepped neatly over the blood spilling in a black puddle from the kelpie's corpse and the mortal crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at Barinthus. To Liam's utter shock, Barinthus offered no challenge. He simply went to one knee, albeit a little stiffly. Lady Dylan raised both eyebrows. Prince Nuada reacted not at all.
"I humbly beg your forgiveness for my insults, Lady Dylan, Your Highness. I spoke from a place of fatherly concern. My daughter is my only love left, my only joy, and I was desperate to protect her from those I perceived to be threats to her safety. I can only offer myself up to your mercy and beg another chance."
Prince Nuada glanced at Lady Dylan.
Lady Dylan said, "No."
Liam blinked. He hadn't expected such a swift, clinical answer. Lady Dylan had never been anything but kind, compassionate, friendly to him and to Iúile. She was so careful with the baby. The lady had a reputation for mercy, even when mercy was ill-advised. Yet now she spoke without any uncertainty…
"My lady, I beg you—"
"I don't care," Dylan said coolly. "I've had a really lousy night and I don't like you. So my answer, our answer, is no." Beside her, Prince Nuada nodded once, decisively.
Liam put his good arm around Iúile when she pressed close to him. He couldn't fathom how difficult this must have been for her. Liam despised Iúile's father for so many things, but he was still her father. She loved him even now. And he had protected her this night. Saved Liam's own life, despite loathing him. Without Barinthus, the kelpie might have caved in his skull.
And yet…something, a cold whisper of warning, told him not to trust the old Elf, not to allow him near Iúile or Baby Dylan if it could be helped. The whispering of the Spirit? He carried the Star Kindler's priesthood, and sometimes that God's messengers spoke to him. But he was too jittery, too shaken by his near brush with death to discern the feeling's origin. It could've simply been that he hated the old Elf for locking Iúile away, trapping her in that horrible room for moons upon moons…
His poor love. Overcome, Liam pressed his cheek to Iúile's hair and simply breathed in the scent of her. The daughter of a laundress, she nearly always smelled of clean water and lavender. It would always soothe him, and now it helped ease the aftereffects of the battle.
"And what does His Majesty have to say about this?" Barinthus asked, voice still imploring, still deferential.
"His Majesty isn't here and it's not his decision anyway," Lady Dylan replied. "So the answer is still—"
"That you, Lady Dylan, have not the authority to strip a man of his rights willy-nilly," said an old, weathered, exhausted voice that was almost a wheeze. Iúile's breathe escaped in a soft, petrified cry. Liam's head shot up and his eyes shot open. Standing in the corridor, as if kept at bay by the corpses, was an old Elf in burgundy and gold velvet, with a rack of magnificent antlers the color of varnished ash-wood jutting from his skull through wisps of white hair.
The king. The king was here. Right there, in the corridor, surveying all the bodies and then suddenly Balor was looking right at him, at him and Iúile, and it was everything he could do not to drag his beloved behind him, shielding her from that curious golden gaze. The gaze of the man that would slay them both if he ever learned the truth of Baby Dylan's conception.
The king spoke again. "Forgive me, I do not know you, young Lord…?" Sarcasm saturated the words and Liam realized the king meant that he and Iúile ought to bow to the Elf. They were commoners. Commoners bowed to nobility, to royalty. But Liam wasn't certain his legs would hold him if he moved even an inch. Iúile clutched at him and Baby Dylan wailed pitifully. She was hungry again, Liam realized distantly. His little glutton. She needed to be fed. And her crying would hurt Iúile until they could see to the babe…
"It's all right, Liam, Iúile." Prince Nuada's voice broke through the paralyzing fear and at the same instance, Iúile gave a wobbly curtsy and Liam managed a jerky bow. "Father, these are my vassals, Liam O'Neill and his wife, Mistress Iúile."
The king's eyebrows went up. "Rather young to be married, are they not? How old are you, gancanaugh?"
Liam swallowed. Dropped his eyes to the floor. Better to look on the dead in their blood than to see that arrogant, wrinkled face. The face of the man that called him "gancanaugh" the way another might say "dog." The face of the man who would butcher his beloved for protecting herself from mortal monsters. In a voice as neutral as he could make it, Liam said, "Seventeen-hundred-twelve, Majesty."
"Very young. And you, young mistress?"
Iúile clutched his fingers with her free hand. He gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. The prince and Lady Dylan would never let anything happen to her, to him, to their daughter. To any of them. Yes, Iúile was young. Very young. They both were. If the bandits hadn't come, they wouldn't have wed for at least two centuries, but…but they'd had to, for the baby's sake, and to protect each other from Barinthus.
In a small voice, Iúile murmured, "Sixteen-hundred-twenty-two, Your Majesty."
"Far too young to wed," and there was obvious disapproval in the king's voice now. "Too young even to truly court. Is that your child, girl?"
Iúile curved her arms protectively around Baby Dylan but she had lost her voice.
"Yes," Lady Dylan said with chilly politeness. "I delivered the baby myself, Your Majesty. Speaking of which, Iúile, you shouldn't be out of bed yet. If you'll come with me, we'll see about getting you a room without a bunch of dead bandits cluttering up the floor."
"As I am not senile, Lady Dylan," the king said with that same cool tone, "before you abscond with the girl in the hopes that I'll forget about all this, once you have seen her settled, I will speak with you, my son, the girl's…husband, and I presume you are her father?"
This was directed at Barinthus. The old Elf nodded.
"I will see all four of you tomorrow, to determine whether I shall uphold Lady Dylan's ruling regarding your parental rights."
Beside Liam, Iúile stiffened. Liam forced himself not to say anything. This was the king. The king. What could they say?
"It was my ruling, Father," Prince Nuada said.
Balor eyed the prince. "All the more reason for me to look into it, then."
Liam had to bite his tongue to keep from spitting at the old man. How dare he disrespect the prince? Especially for protecting his subjects? This old codger had no right to the throne, to the crown, to power of any kind. He had no right to chastise the prince for doing what the king should have done.
But this time it was Iúile who squeezed his fingers, reminding him to be silent.
"Now, Prince Nuada," the king said, in that same wheezing but chill voice, "once you've arranged for someone to clean up your mess, I will see you and your lady downstairs. There are things we must discuss."
"Majesty?" Nuada inquired blandly.
Balor's brow furrowed. "I have questions about that bean sídhe child, Crown Prince, and about this situation here, and questions about your lady's young guardsman. And I have news to bring you of Ledi Polunochnaya. Attend me downstairs when you are finished here."
Only when the king and his entourage had gone did Dylan fix a gimlet eye on Barinthus. "Until the king makes a decision, mine still stands. You don't talk to Iúile, you don't look at Iúile, you don't come near Iúile, you don't breathe her air until the king or I or the prince say otherwise. Now get out."
To Liam's dull surprise, Barinthus obeyed her almost to the letter, although he did give one last agonized look back at his daughter before leaving. Prince Nuada went to make sure the man went where he was supposed to and to fetch servants to deal with the corpses. Meanwhile, Dylan escorted the young couple to an empty bedroom.
"We'll tell the owner about the room change when we go downstairs," she said as she helped a shaky Iúile back into bed. "Did he hurt you?"
Iúile shook her head. Liam sat on the edge of the bed and clasped her hand as she said, "He said he came to protect me from the bandits, but…"
"But you have a weird feeling about it," Dylan said. Both of them nodded. "So do I. Mormon intuition, I'd bet you anything. All right. We, the prince and I, will get this all sorted out. Okay? Your job is to rest." This was said to Iúile. "Your job is to take care of her and the little squish over there. Okay?" They both nodded again. "Okay. I'm going downstairs to deal with…" She glanced over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. "To deal with King Buttface. Remember what I promised you before—me and the prince will keep you both safe from him. I promise. Now get some rest. And Liam, I'm sending one of the magical healers up to you to look at your ribs. Don't think I didn't notice you favoring your right side."
"Thank you, milady," he said sheepishly. He hadn't wanted to show weakness before the king. It was clear the old man already doubted his capabilities as a man and a husband and a father.
No one could take his family from him. He would fight anyone he had to. Even the king.
.
Nuada met Dylan in the hallway and she sucked in a breath, then let it out in a long, slow sigh. "I was hoping for some breathing room before we had to deal with more of your dad's drama," she muttered.
He laughed softly. "We had some. We actually managed a conversation that lasted more than ten minutes without being interrupted by blood and mayhem. I believe that is a record for us, mo duinne."
She slipped her arms around him and settled her forehead in the soft, shallow hollow of his sternum. The silk of his shirt had soaked up the warmth of the tavern.
"I was hoping we wouldn't have to deal with anything like this for a while. Hoping your dad would do the right thing for once and go bury himself under some blankets so we could have some peace." She hesitated, sucking on her lower lip, before she added, "I was hoping we could go out again tomorrow. Just breathe. Just relax. Enjoy ourselves for five minutes without someone trying to kill us."
He pressed his lips to the top of her head. His breath sighed warm and gentle against her scalp and he hugged her tightly to him.
"I propose," he murmured, "that if we have the opportunity tomorrow to escape for a bit, we do so, regardless of what my father wants of us. What say you?"
"I like that plan." She smiled and made a happy sound when he kissed the top of her head again. "Well…time to face the music, I guess."
He kissed her forehead this time, then the tip of her nose, and finally her mouth. "We will be together. Have no fear, my love."
"Doing my best," she mumbled.
"I know, Dylan. I know."
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References Made in This Chapter: most of Azrharn's backstory is his canon backstory from his source material, but with a few changes to make it fit with the world of Hellboy. I do not copy from Tanith Lee's works, only touch on some of the plot points therein, explained by Dylan to Nuada.
Chuz, Azrharn, Azrhiaz, Uhlume, and "the blue-skinned bitch" are all property of Tanith Lee's estate, as is Bittersweet and her child, Dunizel, and Uhlume's "mortal wife."