Once Upon a Time

by LA Knight

Wolves in human skin. A Beast and a lost maiden. A sanctuary in a storm. A prince of Elven blood. Sacrifices, debts, honor, & oaths. Ten long, beautiful years, and all the stories that fall within. A collected fic series; currently on book 13. Updates when I can because hey it's a pandemic. Early access available on Patreon.

130. Heart's Ease & Heartache

Author's Note: I'm sorry this took so long to get posted. As many of you know, I've been dealing with stuff, so my time is far more limited than I'd like. On top of that, it can be difficult to keep from…essentially saying "screw it" and killing everybody off because of my emotional state. That makes the actual process of writing the Once chapters take a lot longer than usual, too. Lots of revisions. But something good has happened and it inspired me to get this chapter written! My husband got a new job! One that is (hopefully) better than his last job. So cross your fingers for that. Anyway, here's the next chapter. Hope you guys enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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Chapter One-Hundred-Thirty

Heart's Ease and Heartache

that is

A Short Tale of Sisterly Favors, Calling the Spring, Other Uses for Chainmail, a Green-Eyed Witch of a Girl, a Favor of Unicorns and Cats, the Son of Death and the Daughter of Trees, Two Young Lovers Lately Wed, a Cake Fit for a King, Concessions from Lieutenants, Two Noble Maidens Fair, an Unexpected Offer, Possibly Faithless Promises, Hints from Brownies, a Cruel Offer, Fionn Darryn Bearrach, Fire in the Night, Sisterly Discussions of Antlers and Other Things, a Boon Begged and Granted, Unexpected Punishments, and Revelations of Treachery and Heartbreak

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Pauline Myers studied her sister for a very long moment as Dylan's words sank in. Take the little girl's punishment. Protect her from this heartless monster of a king who insisted on flogging a little girl the same age as Pauline's own daughters. Of course she would do it, but the fact that Dylan had just assumed she would let herself be flayed with a whip…

Wait. That…actually didn't sound like Dylan at all. Dylan never assumed anyone would help her with anything, especially if it was dangerous or incredibly inconvenient. Especially her sisters, who until now had been the epitome of unhelpful. There was more to this. Dylan was likely just distracted trying to French braid the Elf girl's hair so they could get her ready for a fast wedding. Apparently that was because of King Douche Canoe, too.

While her baby sister worked on the fine, silver-blond strands of hair, Pauline considered. Dylan had warned them when she'd asked the Myers sisters to come here that there might be danger, that there would be fighting and they might get hurt. That was why they were armed. She'd told them that if they had guns and pepper spray, they'd have a decent shot at defending themselves against the bandits. She hadn't just tossed them into the fray with no warning and no defenses. She didn't do that to people. So if Dylan wanted Pauline to swear fealty to Nuada so she could offer to take the little faerie girl's punishment for harming a human, then that meant…

Harming a human.

Pauline met Dylan's eyes. "If I do this, he's out of luck, isn't he?" She asked softly. "The king. He won't be able to hurt me, because I'm human. It would break the treaty. So nobody would get punished."

Dylan nodded. "He might be able to punish you in some other way – sending you back to the mortal world, maybe – but he can't hurt you. I talked to Renee about it and she said—"

"Renee?" Pauline echoed. "Our cousin Renee? Uncle Thad's Renee?"

"Yeah."

"She knows about faeries?"

A small sigh heaved out of her sister as she finished off the Elf girl's braid and shooed the poor kid behind a screen to change into a white dress. With a fond smile, Dylan asked, "Why do you think Uncle Thaddeus kept trying to get custody of me and John when we were kids? Him and Aunt Niamh have the Sight, and Renee and Dolph both have it. They all knew I wasn't hallucinating or sick when I talked about faeries. He used to give me and Renee lessons when I would come and visit before Mom and Dad institutionalized me."

Shame, sticky and thick as swamp heat, swelled up in Pauline's throat. She hung her head. "They believed you, and we didn't. God, Dylan, how can you ever forg—"

"Pauline," Dylan said gently. "Focus. We've already talked about this. We've moved past it. We're good. Okay? So, I talked to Renee. You know how she collects degrees like Mom used to collect china dolls, right? One of her degrees is in ancient Gaelic culture, including the laws. She and I talked, she said this should help us out big time with protecting Siobhan."

"The little girl with the green hair?"

"Yeah." Dylan hesitated. "I'm not going to lie. I asked you because if you swear fealty to Nuada, it takes you out of the fighting. That means none of the others can do it except maybe Mary, but she's sort of the last line of defense, you know? So if you say no, I have to ask one of them, and that drops us one fighter, which I'm hoping to avoid. But I'm not going to say you have to do this. I'm asking you to do it. I won't think less of you if you don't. Swearing fealty to anyone, especially a fae, is a big deal, but to a prince? So I understand if you feel like you can't do it."

Pauline knew why Dylan couldn't do it – it put her too much at the king's mercy. Also, because of her status as a Bethmooran citizen and a noble, the king actually might flog her, treaty be damned, just to be a complete dick. He'd make Nuada do it, too.

And knowing Dylan, she'd already tried to take the child's punishment anyway, and it hadn't worked out somehow.

Once again, Pauline pictured the poor kid's gray face, the limpid black eyes like dark water wide with abject terror as the king said the human monster that had hurt her was allowed to go free. He'd been a monster like the men who'd hurt Dylan. Who'd murdered Baby Rowan and broken Petra's heart. Who'd haunted their family ever since Dylan had escaped that place. That poor little girl had run to the good guys for help, only to be told the man who wanted to torture and kill her was allowed to go free and she would be murdered for trying to get away from him.

Only Francesca and Victoria's arms gripping her shoulders had kept her from running to that little girl and throwing herself between the child and the bandit. Petra had had her finger on the trigger of her revolver, but the Elf guy with the black hair and blood-red eyes had told her to wait, to see what the prince would do.

Pauline didn't want to know what that creepy guy was, who he was, where he'd come from. But he'd saved that little girl, and forbidden Balor to kill her. He'd seemed to like Dylan, too. She'd been scared of him, though. That meant maybe they shouldn't rely on his help, even if King Douche Bag was scared of him. Especially since, according to Dylan, the monster-man who'd stripped the bandit's flesh from his bones might actually let the king torture the little girl. Siobhan, her sister had said her name was. Pauline couldn't let that happen.

Her fingers twisted in the plain cotton sheets on the rumpled bed and she hunched her shoulders, trying to ignore the tightness in her chest and the tickle in her throat that made it so hard to breathe without coughing. She'd never been brave, not really. Not like Petra or John or Dylan. And Nuada scared her, really. It was so obvious that he hated her with every fiber of his being.

But…

"I'll do it," Pauline murmured. Dylan's eyes widened and she smiled, obviously relieved. "I'll swear fealty to him, if it will protect Siobhan." Someone had to protect that kid. All the kids. Someone had to. If the king wouldn't, Pauline and her brother and sisters and their friends would. It was that simple.

When Pauline met Dylan's gaze, she wasn't looking at her sister anymore. She was looking at a princess trying to protect her people. Pauline felt that all the way down to her bones when Dylan said softly, simply, "Thank you."

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The problem with weddings, Dylan thought with a huff of breath to blow a stray curl out of her face, was that they usually required time, which was something none of them had. So they had to make do with Zhenjin, who still looked gray as death despite Victoria and Francesca rubbing his back and plying him with something Victoria swore would help his headache, to officiate. They had to make do with a borrowed dress for Iúile from the crown princess of Nyame – which only fit because Kamaria was built like a football-playing lioness and Iúile was still malnourished – and no flowers, no rings, nothing. Would this come back to bite them? Bethmoorans typically exchanged rings. Would Balor try to say the marriage wasn't binding since they had no rings?

Mary and Dylan's other sisters had all congregated in the now very crowded upstairs dining room, along with Kamaria, Lorelei, Davio, Wink, and that pair of dullahan kids who refused to pry themselves off of Francesca, the young man and the toddler. While Cesca and Tori focused on Zhenjin, Lorelei and Kamaria spoke quietly with a very tired Iúile. Mary stood next to the exhausted Elven girl, jiggling a squirmy bundle of halfling baby to keep her quiet.

Where was Nuada? They had to do this before the moon fell behind the trees. And where had Pauline disappeared to? And John? Where was Becan, at that? And the monsters? Well, Maurice was probably downstairs or in the stables with a crying Amaryllis, still reeling from the sudden death of her father in the latest bandit raid. But Ickis and Oblina needed to avoid interacting with any of the villagers except perhaps the children. She didn't want Balor to really think about what their presence in Lallybroch meant, or how they'd even come to be there in the first place. Technically she hadn't called them, but Becan was her brownie, which meant likely Balor could punish him for calling the monsters and bringing them to Faerie to kill humans.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Dylan whispered, "Becan, I really need you, please."

She had no idea if she could summon him. No idea how that sort of thing worked. She'd never really treated Becan like a brownie, except by avoiding thanking him for things so as to avoid driving him away from the cottage. So she'd never tried to do anything master-servant-ish with him.

To her tired delight, Becan shimmered into view on the long table in front of her with a short bow and a bob of his curly brown head. Then he got a good look at her.

"Milady!" He reached for her, laying tiny hands on her wrist. "Milady, you must not tire yourself! You've had such a hard day of it already. Where are the tavern workers? They should be seeing to you. Surely at least one of them can be trusted to keep your secret!"

A wan smile flitted across her scarred mouth. "I wouldn't risk the king's wrath coming down on them. Becan, can you bring me something for this headache? And can you find Nuada and John?"

At that, a grin spread across the brownie's face. "Ah, milady! His Highness and Master John are outside calling the spring."

"Calling the spring?" Dylan frowned. "What's that?"

From behind her, Wink rumbled something in Troll, too rough and graveled for her to understand. Becan translated as the silver cave troll repeated his words.

"The prince calls flowers through the winter snow for the little bride. It is not fitting that she should be without flowers on such an occasion. Like as not, the whelp is gathering the blooms for him." Wink's single, golden-green eye fixed on Iúile where she sat with Mary, Lorelei, and Princess Kamaria. Then he said, "Old One-Arm won't like that we've done this, lassling. You know it?" Dylan nodded, but said nothing. "He will seek any way he can to discredit this union. We must make sure all things are in place."

Dylan dropped her face into her hands and grumbled something obscene under her breath. Becan gave her a sympathetic look and patted her wrist before scampering off to fetch her something for the pain throbbing between her temples.

Wink approached and settled his massive bulk in a crouch beside her chair. Very gently, he touched her wrist with one rough fingertip. She looked up at him. Met his worried gaze. Sighed.

"You should be more worried about him than about me," she murmured. No reason to explain who she meant. Both mortal and troll were worried over Nuada. He'd yet to allow Dylan to sit him down and talk out what had happened in the king's private rooms downstairs or the choices the prince had almost been forced to make.

The troll mumbled something and reached into the leather pouch at his belt. Dylan cocked her head, winced when the movement made the pain worse. But she almost forgot the ache in her skull when Wink pulled out a pair of slender silver chains and a pair of metal rings that gleamed with the odd, pearlescent sheen of faerie metal – the metal as light as air and harder than troll hide or dragon scales or Elven silver. Expensive stuff. Dylan stared at the rings. They didn't look like the sort of rings people wore on their fingers. They were too small by far. One of them might have fit on her pinkie, but not comfortably.

"What are these?"

Wink tapped a finger against the boiled leather breastplate he wore to shield his heart. She frowned, tried to work out what he was saying to her, but she couldn't. It was so late at night and she was so tired. Wink grumbled, then cleared his throat. Very slowly, he growled a few syllables.

"Ahgh-mogh."

"What?" Dylan asked, feeling like a complete idiot.

He tried again, quelling some of the rasp and thunder of rock in his voice. "Ah-moh."

"Ah-moh…armor?" She asked. He nodded. "Oh. Oh." Armor. These were chain links from armor. Nuada had said once troll-work was very good, and Wink had learned to weave links together to make chainmail long ago. Now he did it sometimes as a hobby, the way Mary liked to do cats' cradle and Petra's son Russell would make friendship bracelets out of embroidery floss. But why…?

Wink slipped one of the thin chains through one of the links and held it up, dangling it against Dylan's heart. Then he tapped the fourth finger on her left hand.

Oh. Oh.

"Wink, you're a genius!" She threw her arms around him and kissed his craggy cheek. Then she scooped up the chains and armor links and hurried over to Iúile, while the troll touched his cheek and chuckled softly.

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"Mistress Sorcha," Nuada said as he and the whelp came back into the tavern. The half-gancanaugh, half-tree maiden's head shot up and she eyed the prince with obsidian-slitted, poison-green eyes. The girl's bone-white needle-teeth, so different from the usual gancanaugh black, bristled in her mouth as she offered the Silverlance a cold smile. Remembering that she worked with Uilliam mac Bas, remembering everything the girl had seen – remembering it had been she who'd run into the midst of the revelry earlier that night, screaming in terror that the king was coming – Nuada did not take insult from the icy defiance and fear in her gaze. Instead he only asked, "Might I have a word with you?"

The girl pulled herself away from the small group of little ones, offering a tight smile and a kiss on the head to a dark-furred little girl with a white stripe along her skull. When Sorcha came up to him, she eyed John a moment before dismissing him as inconsequential before focusing on Nuada. She didn't fold her arms or sniff at him, but if they'd been in private, he had a feeling she would have.

"And what is His Highness's pleasure?"

The tight, almost savage way she said the words caught Nuada's attention, but he didn't remark on it. He only said, "You speak with all trees, do you not?"

"I know their languages, yes," she said warily. "Why?"

"There is a hawthorn tree outside the tavern, near a window. Can you perhaps persuade it to stretch its branches into the window? The shutters will be open."

The tree-girl studied him. Considered. "I can. Why?"

Nuada hesitated. "Has your captain spoken of what is afoot this night?" Knowing what the prince knew of the one they called Mac Bas, Son of Death, he had his mangled ear to the ground, keeping a sharp eye on the king's doings…and Nuada's. When Sorcha's cool expression warmed just a breath and a small smile tugged at the corner of her thin mouth, Nuada knew he'd been right. Uilliam knew they were throwing a very fast, very haphazard wedding to prevent the victimizing of a young Elven woman whom the king would see given back to a man who'd abused and tormented her. Knowing the lad and how much he despised Balor, Nuada knew he could count both Uilliam and his lieutenants as allies there. "It is for that, that I request your help."

Sorcha raised both slender, dark brows. "Will there be a cake?"

Nuada blinked at her. "I…do not…"

He hadn't thought of it. He didn't think Dylan had, either. It sounded like a childish question, but the marriage wouldn't be legal if the bride and groom did not break bread or cake between them. It was part of the Bethmooran ceremony. He hadn't thought…

The chit actually rolled her eyes at him. "Grownups," she scoffed. "Leave it to us."

"Who's us?" John asked from behind him.

Sorcha did sniff condescendingly at him. "Never you mind, human." The word carried enough acid to melt cold iron. And without a backward glance, she walked away as if Nuada had dismissed her.

The prince bit back the demand for her to return. He had agreed to let Uilliam stay in control of the half-wild fae children that had managed to rescue so many lost little ones from the bandits. The girl was a feral thing; he could see it in her eyes. Wilder even than her fae blood could account for. He didn't know what she'd seen, what she'd endured. He needed to go gently with them. And raising any sort of fuss might alert the king to the presence of children who would just as soon see him dead.

Sometimes, as now, he could not blame them for the wish, though it made his heart sore to acknowledge that vicious, iron-cold truth about his own father.

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"What are you up to, Sorcha?" Uilliam mac Bas walked beside his lieutenant, who strode through the snow to the tavern stables without breaking stride. The winter-bare trees that shot up from the snow between the mostly-abandoned buildings leaned toward her as she walked. "What did the prince want?"

"Help," she muttered. "With that Elven girl and her babe."

Uilliam swallowed. He hadn't wanted to think of the Elven woman and her halfling baby. The baby that had been sired through violence done by his grandfather's bandit troop. More than likely, the little one was kin to Uilliam himself; most of Sréng mac Umhor's bandits were his own progeny, sired through the centuries. Uilliam hadn't wanted to think of that either.

But he knew the girl's da had offered her and her truelove harm, and the prince was doing what he could to protect the lass and her sweetheart. And weddings were supposed to be nice affairs. It would be something to ease some of the darkness that had shrouded so much of this place. Of course, the real fun wouldn't begin for the rest of the people of the village until the marriage was legal and binding, to prevent the Fool King from trying to ruin things out of spite and stupidity.

"And isn't the girl in the tavern?" Was all he said.

She shrugged as she came to the stable doors. "I need some cats."

Frowning, he followed her inside…and stopped short.

Nestled into the hay in one of the double-wide stalls used for nursing mares was a pair of unicorn foals – one the color of fresh summer cream, the faintest sunset tinge to the long banner of her mane and tail; the other a pale violet-gray like an opal in shadow, his bone-white mane and tail catching the lamplight whenever he moved. Between them, curled into a ball, was a tiny golden-pale foal so small, Uilliam doubted it could even conjure any sparks of power with that tiny stub of a horn curving up from its forehead.

Stroking the baby unicorn was the prince's cat girl servant. With her was the younger of her two brothers, the dullahan girl named Amaryllis, and a blueberry-skinned youth with slate-gray horns jutting from his temples. He dressed like a mortal, but no mortal ever looked like this. He stood guard over the three children as they talked softly with the unicorns.

Ever faster on her feet than Uilliam could ever hope to be, Sorcha sank to one knee before the stall and bowed her head, pressing one hand to her heart. The conversation cut off abruptly.

"Forgive me, young lord, my ladies," she said. "I need help from the cat-cubs here."

The unicorn colt turned his magnificent head to study the young cougar boy, who was watching Sorcha with interested eyes. The unicorn asked, "Do you wish to go with them?"

After a minute of consideration, the cub nodded. "We'll be back later. C'mon, 'Sa'ti."

"You're just gonna go with them?" Amaryllis cried, heaving herself to hands and knees in the straw. The tiniest of the unicorns nuzzled her skirts, making soft noises of sleepy distress. She immediately began rubbing the velvety nose to soothe it. "Why?"

"I got a good feeling," the cub said. "Don't worry, Amaryllis. We'll be back."

Uilliam could tell the unicorns and the dullahan girl weren't quite certain of this, but the blue-skinned youth met Uilliam's gaze and a sharp-toothed, feral grin unfurled across the warty face. Somehow, without quite knowing why or how, the part-fae boy felt something in his heart connect to this blue creature. Here was someone who knew what it meant to defy authority to protect the ones you loved. Who relished causing trouble for any that set themselves up as his enemies. If not for the fact that it would mean leaving Amaryllis entirely alone save for the unicorns, Uilliam would've asked the youth to come with them.

But he didn't. He didn't know why Sorcha needed these children or what she was planning, so he simply kept quiet as they walked out with the cat-children in tow. He trusted his lieutenant. She was his right-hand for a reason.

"Are you a monster?" The smaller cub asked Sorcha when they'd come out into the night again. Sorcha stared down at her with unfathomable eyes like a snake's and bared her teeth in a smile that shimmered like needles of poison-tipped bone. To Uilliam's surprise, the little girl smiled back. "The a'ge'lv has friends who are monsters, too."

Sorcha barked a laugh and laid a hand on the cub's shoulder. "Sweet little cat. Well, you two, here's what I need from you. I heard from some of the other little ones that you used to live on the streets, aye?" Both cubs nodded. "I need you to steal something for me. Food, not coin or treasures."

The boy cocked his head at her. "Why? There's plenty of food in the tavern. The prince is taking care of everyone."

Sorcha looked around, then put her taloned hands on her slender knees and leaned down toward the children. In an impossibly soft voice, she whispered, "What do you think of the king, little cats?" Their fur bristled immediately and low growls rumbled in their throats. Sorcha grinned. "We're stealing a bit from him. It's safe enough, I promise you, but in a kitchen, I've no stealth or skill. Heat's no good for a tree-girl like me. Will you do it?"

"But why do you need to?" The cougar girl asked. "Just because you don't like him?"

"Because he has something a friend of mine needs," she said. "The Elven girl with the baby–"

"Iúile and Baby Dylan?" The little girl interrupted. "Oh. That makes sense."

Uilliam blinked. It did? How did knowing who they were stealing…whatever they were stealing…for, make it all make sense? He was still in the dark. But the two cougar shifters nodded to each other and slid their hands into Sorcha's. Obviously they were up for whatever shenanigans the dangerous and lovely tree-maiden had in mind.

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Sáruit ingen Cabhan was the captain of the King's Guard and had been for centuries. So how could Balor let that human bitch speak to her that way? She was his guard captain! She'd protected him for over a thousand years! She would not be disrespected by some baseborn human whore who couldn't keep her legs closed around a fae man. By Nuada's human bitch. The Silverlance was scum, who insisted on breaking his father's heart over and over again. He had no honor, no heart. How could that mortal bear to let those blood-soaked hands touch her? It made Sáruit ill just thinking of it.

Yes, the human tried to be polite some of the time, but other times, she was a nasty little trollop who couldn't mind her manners when speaking to her betters. She'd disrespected the king time and time again. Called him stupid! To his face! How her poor lord could bear it, Sáruit had no idea.

No matter. Now was her time to help soothe her king's troubled heart. Tired as he was from his long journey, worn down by the cold, and heartsick over his son's rebellious ways once again, he'd asked her to bring him a meal before he retired, and she would do it. Over the centuries, she'd gone from mere guard captain to the king's right hand, seeing to his every need and watching his back no matter the situation – save those rare instances when that mortal witch had convinced the king to send his guard away. So now the Butcher captain strode through the tavern kitchens.

The wait-staff had all gone to bed by now, and the tavern was quiet enough save for the numerous children clustered together like packs of rats to whisper and giggle. Disrespectful, that's what it was. Didn't the little brats know their illustrious sovereign was in need of rest and quiet? Disrespectful little swine. She'd never been so rude as a child.

She'd just piled a platter high with meats and breads and even a few fanciful cakes when something butted against the back of her boot. Saruit peeled back her lips in a snarl, then stopped abruptly when she looked down into the startlingly blue eyes of a fuzzy, lightly spotted cat. It mewed at her and rubbed the length of its body against her boot, purring so loud it vibrated through the leather into her leg-bones.

Sáruit set the platter down on one of the kitchen counters. "Hello, there, wee cat," she crooned at the little beast, and crouched to rub along its silky head. "I've not seen you before. Who's a sweet little thing? Good puss. There's a good puss."

Behind the Butcher captain, bare paws crept stealthily across the kitchen floor. A'du'la'di, breathing as shallowly as he could manage, stole up behind the Butcher and, careful to keep his claws sheathed, lifted the small plate with the fancy-frosted cake off the platter. While 'Sa'ti purred and snuggled against the captain, allowing the gloved fingers to rub between her ears, A'du practically glided backward, away from the king's guard and out of the kitchen without alerting Saruit.

Seeing her brother vanish through the door, 'Sa'ti rolled onto her back, exposing her belly, and kicked at the Butcher Guard's fingers with her hind legs. Sáruit yanked her fingers back.

"Your pardon, wee cat," the captain said.

'Sa'ti cocked her head at the woman, rolled back onto her feet, and scampered out of the kitchen after her brother. Saruit turned to watch her go, a little bemused, then shrugged.

"That's a cat for you," she muttered, turning back to the platter she'd put together for her king. A frown twisted her face inside her beaked, iron helmet when she saw the empty space on the tray. "Now where did…" She scanned the kitchen. There'd been nary a soul in here but her and the cat and the sleeping pot boy by the hearth, she'd been certain. The captain sighed. Perhaps she was just as tired as her king, if she could lose track of things so easily. No doubt she needed sleep. Ah, well. Hoisting the platter, she left the kitchen.

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When the clock chimed the second hour after midnight, Liam Uí Niall—standing beneath the reaching branches of the hawthorn tree thrusting through the open tavern window, the dark leaves and black thorns adorned with scarlet berries and pale white and pink flowers—swallowed hard and closed his eyes, gathering his courage. Now was the moment he'd dreamed of for decades. He would marry his brave, brilliant Iúile. They'd be wed at last.

White and green fairy lights glittered in the hawthorn branches and sparkled against the barred window shutters and along the fireplace mantel, which burned with a hawthorn-wood fire to give the room a spicy, foresty fragrance. The thin sliver of moon shone like an enchanted shard of a pearlescent lamp through the boughs, icy and beautiful. A ring of frost encircled the blue-tinged crescent. Seated at the large table in the tavern's private dining room was the crown prince himself and his lady, a princess of another kingdom, a foreign prince, Lady Dylan's family, her three cat-servants, a youth and a maiden he was almost certain were in service to the prince, and the prince's valet and the valet's…friend? Truelove? Liam didn't know. He hadn't had the nerve or the thought to ask. His thoughts grasped at vague straws for a few moments before the door to the tavern room opened and every other thought fled his mind.

He could not look away from the vision that stepped into the room and began to walk toward him with hesitant steps. Iúile. His truelove. So beautiful, in her borrowed, creamy-white kaftan dress with its gold embroidery, a gift from the foreign princess. Lady Dylan had pinned up Iúile's hair in an elegant array of silver-blond braids. In her trembling hands she carried a bouquet of white almond flowers, carnations, snowdrops and honeysuckle. Prince Nuada had called them forth from the snows for her sake with royal magic.

They had all done so much for him. For both of them. Without the prince and Lady Dylan, he would never have seen Iúile again. They wouldn't have their little one, the sleeping babe Lady Dylan currently held in her arms while the two fae readied to marry. None of this would've been possible. For it all, the prince and the lady would have his undying gratitude and loyalty.

When Iúile came to stand beside Liam, she offered him a tremulous smile.

"You look…" His voice failed him. He reached up, realized his hand shook. Iúile saw it, and a wash of love swept over her. She caught his hand and pressed it to her pale, thin cheek.

"You're both so adorable," His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Zhenjin, drawled. Liam took no offense. After the conversation he and Prince Zhenjin, Prince Nuada, Prince Günther of Álfheim, and Prince Dastan of Shahbaz had had about what would occur between him and Iúile after this, Liam knew it was simply Prince Zhenjin's way. "Now, shall we get on with the nuptials?"

Liam took Iúile's left hand in both of his. Sudden panic clutched in his throat, fear that the king would come bursting through the door at any moment and stop them, tear Iúile and the babe away from him, give them over to Barinthus. But no. Prince Nuada would never allow it. So he swallowed the iron-cold salt-sickness of his fear, gripped Iúile's hand, and said, "Tá tú fuil mo chuid fola, cnámh de mo chnámha, anáil de mo anáil. Mé a thabhairt duit mo chorp, go mb'fhéidir go mbeadh muid beirt a bheith ar cheann. Mé a thabhairt duit mo chroí till beidh ár saol a dhéanamh. Tá tú mo chuid fola, mo anáil agus mo croí."

She watched him as he spoke the ancient words in the Old Tongue, a soft light in her bright golden eyes. He could see himself reflected in her gaze: tall and proud in a gold silk shirt and white tunic the prince had gifted him, the most luxurious garments he'd ever owned in his life. The sword, Claíomh Solais, the Sword of Light, nestled in its sheath at his side. He was well aware of the honor he'd been given, that the prince had insisted he wear one of the Treasures of Bethmoora at his wedding.

"Faoi cheangal ag an grá agus ór faoi bhun sceiche faoi an ghealach," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady and clear, "tá muid i gcónaí ar cheann, agus é séalaithe le póg."

"Master Liam Uí Niall of the Gancanaugh," Zhenjin said now, "son of Oísin Uí Niall, son of Aengus Uí Niall. You stand beneath the Eildon Tree robed not for war or death or judgment, but for matrimony. You have spoken aloud the marriage vow. Is this why you are here?"

"It is," he said, gazing into Iúile's aurulent eyes.

"Mistress Iúile ingen Barinthus," Prince Zhenjin added. "You are clothed as a bride of Bethmoora. Is this why you are here?"

Iúile nodded, beaming. "Yes."

"Then, as the words have been spoken by your bridegroom, it is now your turn to say the words in the tongue of your fathers."

Gripping both of Liam's hands with hers, Iúile locked her gaze with his and said in flowing, ancient Gaelic, "You are blood of my blood, bone of my bone, breath of my breath." Truer words had never been spoken. She needed him. He was part of her. Blood of her blood, bone of her bone. The very air she breathed. She might have died up there in that prison of a room if she hadn't had thoughts of him to keep her sane. "I give you my body, that we two might be one. I give you my heart till our life shall be done."

Liam smiled, careful to keep his long, needle-like obsidian teeth behind his lips. His scarlet, vertical pupils dilated like a cat's as joy filled his face. He felt magic humming in the air as his bride continued, "You are my blood, my breath and my heartbeat. Bound by love and adamant beneath hawthorn under the moon."

Iúile's eyes stung with gratitude when Prince Zhenjin offered them each a ring of faerie metal on a silver chain. Moonlight and firelight and the glow of will-o-the-wisps glinted off the iridescent metal of the rings that Prince Nuada's valet had given them to help legalize their marriage. Her breath hitched when Liam slipped the chain over her head and the ring settled against her heart. She could scarcely contain her grin when she returned the favor, draping his chain over her new husband's head. Fighting back tears of gratitude, love, and no little relief, Iúile finished with, "We are always one, sealed by a kiss."

And then Liam's mouth was on hers, gentle and sweet, a wonderful promise. Her arms slid around his neck. She clung to him, tasting hope like a star on his tongue. She was his. His, his wife, his lady. His, always. And they both knew—felt, deep as bone—that he was hers. Body and soul, he was now hers forever.

They parted at last, her eyes lit from within by stars.

Liam pressed a kiss to her forehead and murmured, "I love you."

"I love you."

And then everyone was clapping and cheering, albeit softly so as not to alert anyone who needed to be kept in the dark, and a few of them even gave low whistles. Iúile couldn't stop the blush that stole over her cheeks or the laugh that bubbled up in her throat.

.

"Cake! Cake coming through!"

Nuada raised an eyebrow as the tree-maiden, Sorcha, sashayed through some of those assembled, holding a fancy porcelain plate over her head with a small cake atop it. She dodged elbows and hips with remarkable efficiency and at last brought the plate to Iúile and Liam.

With surprising warmth, the girl said, "Hail and well met, friends. Congratulations, but it's not legal if you do not break bread with each other."

Nuada had trusted Sorcha to fetch the right things when she'd claimed she would. He trusted Uilliam, and Uilliam trusted her. Likely as not, many would consider him foolish for treating the mixed-blood boy and his lieutenants as equals, but they'd earned it well enough. He wondered, though, where she'd gotten that cake. Because it was an awfully fancy bit of confection. Frosted with scarlet icing, with a sugared rose that glittered like diamond-encrusted gold in the center. A rather…kingly…pastry.

While Liam and Iúile took turns feeding each other bits of the small cake, Nuada caught Sorcha's eye. The maiden, in turn, canted her head at Uilliam mac Bas, who stood leaning against the wall as far from the assembly as he could get, hands in his trouser pockets. The lad looked distinctly uncomfortable. The Elven warrior wondered what was wrong with him; the boy had shown an usual ability to seem at home in any company thus far, including Nuada's own. The brash familiarity the lad had used with the crown prince had rankled a little, but…at the same time, Nuada had both understood it and found it a little refreshing.

With a murmur to Dylan and a swift kiss to her temple, he followed Sorcha to where the Son of Death stood aloof from the wedding joy, a carefully blank look on his face.

"So that's what ye needed that cake for," Uilliam said to Sorcha when she and the prince drew near.

The fae girl offered a negligent shrug. "I thought it would be a way we could all spit in the king's eye. What right does he have, eating sweets while the children of his kingdom starve?"

Nuada shot her a look. Spit in the king's eye? "The cake. Where did you get it?" Although he was certain he knew, now.

Her smile was all vicious teeth and sweet venom. "From the little cat-lad curled up by your lady, making eyes at the wee halfling bairn over there." She jerked her pointed chin at where A'du leaned against Dylan, looking very sleepy and also quite in love with the drowsy baby she held.

The first warm wash of anger swept up Nuada's spine. "You tricked that boy into stealing from the king?"

His voice was deceptively mild, but Sorcha didn't seem worried at all. She shook her head. "Tricked? Nay. Asked. Explained what I wanted and why, and he was willing enough. A clever little street-thief, your cat. The girl, too."

Both of them. She'd involved both of them?! Nuada's gaze slashed to Uilliam. "You knew of this?"

"There was no risk," the boy said with a shrug. "Or little enough. I trust Sorcha. And if we'd had to ask for a cake, word might've gotten to the king. We're trying to keep this all hush-hush, like, aye? Your cubs are clever. They were in no danger."

Looming over the youth, Nuada snarled through gritted teeth, "You have no idea how tenuous things are at this moment. You risk much, to push the king for youthful spite. I agreed to treat you and your lieutenants as adults, and this is how you repay my trust? With pranks? With prodding children into doing your dirty work?"

Bristling, Sorcha snapped in a low voice, "I'm no good at thieving, or I'd have done it all my own self! It was a bit of cake, not the royal jewels. Why are you so frightened of old One-Arm, Silverlance the Oh So Mighty?"

Before Nuada could say a word, Uilliam gripped Sorcha's wrist. "Sorcha, that's enough. The prince doesn't deserve your anger."

"I don't deserve his, neither," she grumbled. Meeting Nuada's eyes, she added, "It was a harmless enough joke, and he has no right to demand such service from the people here. These people scrape the land until their hands bleed. They suffer and die beneath the swords of bandit demons and the king says it's the right of humans to butcher the fae who live here. I have no respect for any creature that spouts such filth. It was just a cake, and it was needed elsewhere. The lass certainly deserves a lovely bit of sweet, after everything that's happened to her, and to this place. I have no love nor respect for the old stag, nor his demands for sweets like some spoiled brat. I'll not apologize for it, neither."

Nuada opened his mouth to speak. Closed it again. The problem was, he knew the girl wasn't wrong. The king was…Nuada did not wish to think of it here, in this room where so much joy abounded, but something would have to be done about the king and his refusal to protect his people. But that didn't change the fact that the maiden needed to have more care, in her words and her deeds.

"Things are tenuous," Nuada repeated softly. "I will not be forced into civil war unless absolutely necessary, which means not provoking the king unless necessary. Do you understand this?" He would not chastise her for her words, much as it irked him. He'd given Uilliam his word that, in private, the lad and his friends might speak of the king as they wished, so long as they didn't do it loudly, in public, or to the king's face.

Sorcha eyed him. "He'd throw that big of a fit over a bit of sweet?"

Nuada had no idea at the moment. The king was demanding Nuada flog Tsu's'di and a little girl the same size as 'Sa'ti. He'd almost provoked his own son into killing him and the captain of the guard. The prince had no idea what the king would do.

"Have a care," was all he said. "I understand your rage, Mistress Sorcha, but there are more lives at stake in this than yours alone. Uilliam, you should know this as well. I expect you both to behave like the warriors you claim to be."

The young ones eyed each other, exchanged a silent nod. Then Sorcha sighed. "All right. Next time, I'll be sure to ask nicely before I poke the old bear with a stick, aye?"

Almost against his will, Nuada's lips twitched. "I would appreciate that."

Uilliam nodded back the way the prince had come. "Your lady's leaving here without ye, Your Highness."

A glance over his shoulder told Nuada this was true. She ushered 'Sa'ti and A'du before her as she carefully made her way out of the room. Where was she going? A quick scan of the room said that Liam and Iúile had already left as well. Their marriage had to be consummated before they could risk the king discovering what had happened. As unfair and disgraceful as it was, they could give no opening for Balor to try to annul the marriage and give Iúile back to her father. None.

Was Dylan going with them? No, that made little sense. Perhaps the baby had begun to fuss. Likely she'd take it away from the noise and the small crowd in that instance.

With a quick nod to Uilliam and the prickly Mistress Sorcha, Nuada quickly left the tavern room. It was easy enough to find Dylan's path in the dimly lit corridor: all he need do was follow the soft, warbling lullaby that emanated from one of the other rooms.

"A naoidhean bhig, duinn mo ghuth,
Mise ri d' thaobh, O mhaighdean bhan;
Ar righinn oig, fas as faic,
Do thir, dileas fhein.
A ghrian a's a ghealaich, stuir sinn,
Gu uair ar cliu s ar gloire.
Naoidhean bhig, ar righinn og,
Mhaighdean uashaill bhan…"

Very gently and carefully, he pushed the door open.

Dylan sat in a rocking chair beside the fire, the slow push of one foot keeping the rough-hewn chair in steady motion. Her cell phone sat on a stool beside her. Slow piano and harp music drifted up from the device, and the low firelight glinted on the lapis lazuli charm that Lady Kaye Fierch had given her so that the contraption would work even in Faerie. Dylan held the baby in the crook of her arm, cradling the small head with her other palm to offer full support.

Nuada stared at the picture they made: the tiny halfling babe, one impossibly small hand stretching little fingers up just beyond the swaddling cloth, and the mortal woman, her scarred face soft with the golden light from the hearth and the warmth of a mother's love, singing so very sweetly to the infant in her arms. He stared at them, unable to breathe. Fierce yearning burned in his chest.

"Little baby, hear my voice
Beside you, O maiden fair;
Our young lady, grow and see
Your land, your true land here.
Sun and moon, guide us
To the hour of glory and honor.
Little baby, our young lady,
Noble maiden fair."

He must have made some sound, because Dylan's gaze flicked from the baby's face to him, standing there slack-jawed in the doorway, eyes bright. She smiled and beckoned him into the room with a slight tilt of her head. She kept singing and rocking as he came in, though it was obvious the song was beginning to wind down.

"A naoidhean bhig, duinn mo ghuth,
Mise ri d' thaobh, O mhaighdean bhan;
Ar righinn oig, fas as faic
Do thir, dileas fhein.
A ghrian a's a ghealaich, stuir sinn
Gu uair ar cliu s ar gloire.
Naoidhean bhig, ar righinn og,
Mhaighdean uashaill bhan."

The music from the phone died away and Dylan smiled at him, straightening just a little in the rocking chair. She carefully shifted the child and held out her hand to him, palm up. He knelt beside her and touched his palm to hers.

Hi, she said with a smile.

Oh, Dylan, he breathed into her mind. The way you look, here, with her, like this…it breaks my heart a little. To see this, to know one day it will be ours…

Her smile turned exquisitely bright. I know, right? I can't wait. It'll be so wonderful. There's so much to do before then, though. Has Pauline talked to you, by the way? She was supposed to.

Pauline? What did the harpy-shrew want with him? Not tonight, no. Although we've been a bit busy with all of this. When I take my leave of you, shall I seek her out? At her nod, he canted his head. As you wish, mo duinne. As for Tsu's'di, I've made arrangements, should my father change his mind regarding our lad's fate. I…I do not know how I will bear to flog him. To hurt someone I am supposed to protect. And A'du and 'Sa'ti…I cannot bear for them to see such a thing.

They know it's happening, she said, and there was a bite to her voice. I think Tsu's'di talked to them about it. They told me they're going to hide in the stables with the unicorns until it's all over. That's where they are now, with Amaryllis. But…Nuada…your father…what are we going to tell him about the deal with Shaohao? We publicly announced our wedding would be in about two months, and we can't just go spreading it around that the Red Dragon of Dilong wants me to hook up with his brother. And your dad is being so touchy about literally everything right now…what are we supposed to do?

I don't know, Dylan. And there is something my father said that weighs on me…

Stroking her thumb across the back of his hand, she asked, The thing about how he pities you?

The prince nodded. Why should he pity me? And why should he say such a thing after castigating and condemning me so harshly just before? What would he know that would affect me that would stir him to pity? And Nuala, my sister. I have tried a few times time reach out and touch her thoughts, but she shies away from me every time I make the attempt. She knows something about this, and she will not tell me.

Well…what could he possibly know or do that would make him pity you?

He hesitated only a moment, then whispered, He may know of our plans to journey to Avalon and then on to Mag Mell, to try to make you immortal. It was his idea to begin with. He may forbid it. He may curse me so, to watch you fade with mortality and die. Or…do you think he may forbid us to wed?

I don't care if he does, she said stoutly. I'm in this now. We're engaged, I love you with my entire soul, and he's an idiot if he thinks I'll turn my back on you just because he says so. If I'm willing to follow you after taking the throne from him by force, he has to know he can't take me away from you without locking me up or something.

Perhaps that is what he means to do.

He wouldn't do that…would he?

I don't know, and it vexes me. We shall have to be on our guard. A soft snuffling noise from the sleeping baby interrupted him, and he studied the slightly squashed, peaches-and-cream face with the tiny shock of golden curl at the forehead. She is so very small. Iúile…forgive me, but her belly seemed so large, and yet…

It would've gotten bigger if she'd been healthier, Dylan said. She barely managed to carry this little one long enough for her to be safely born. The baby's a bit premature, which is one reason she's so little. She'll get bigger, though.

It is simply…so very strange, he murmured.

What?

That something so fragile, so small, can hold anyone with such adamantine chains. She is not even my own, but I think…I think I love her, a little. The same love I hold for 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di. She is such a precious thing. He looked up, into her eyes like rain-swept autumn lakes, the silver and blue reflecting an impossible wealth of love. I want this for you. Your dream. A family. It is what you want so terribly, and I want you to have it. I will do whatever I must to give you a child, my love. I promise you.

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, knowing in that moment that it was true. No matter what was required of him to make it happen, he would give her the child she wanted. A child born of the two of them and their love, an honor and a credit to them both, a child Bethmoora and its people could be proud to call their future monarch.

And his father be damned.

.

Pauline found him just as he was stepping out of the quiet little haven he'd found with Dylan and the sleeping halfling baby. The prince had to swallow back the hard words that crowded into his throat when the harpy caught his attention. Francesca and Victoria, who'd comforted him like any true sister when he'd mourned his lady for dead – for those two, he found himself feeling reluctant affection. The same was true of the whelp, much as it pained him. Petra, he found himself respecting, even if he lacked the same fondness. She had been willing to fight for his people, to kill for them. To literally throw herself into dragonfire for them. She'd done all she could to make amends with his lady and her behavior had come a long way. She'd even made some friends among the villagers. Mary…Mary stayed out of his way, for the most part, and so he hadn't formed a fresh opinion of her as yet, though he'd despised her even more fiercely than some of the others up to this point.

But Pauline…he loathed Pauline. The cruel things she'd said to Dylan and to him about Dylan still echoed in his mind.

Okay, Brat, why are Victoria and Gardenia bothering me about you being a complete and total spaz? Have some consideration for other people…Dylan, why is it that we always have fights whenever we visit or run into you? Why does this only happen when we're with you?...So…he likes the people who encourage Dylan's delusions…Dylan is sick; don't you see that?...We don't talk about your stupid stories from when you are a stupid kid! How dare you bring that up?...You're twisting her up, screwing with her head. She has problems, you freak, don't you see that? You're making her even more nuts…It was crazy, what she kept saying…she should have explained differently…

Shades of Annwn, he hated the woman staring at him now, hated her with every fiber of his being for every ounce of cruelty she'd inflicted on his beloved, for daring to blame Dylan for the torments she'd suffered in her life. And now this…witch wanted a moment of his time.

"What is it?" He demanded in a voice like the winter wind.

Pauline flinched from his tone, but to his surprise, she didn't turn and hurry away. He couldn't decide if he was impressed or merely irritated. Instead of running, she smoothed her hands on her trouser-legs, took a shallow breath, and raised her gaze so that she was looking him square in the eye. Her expression then told him his eyes had shifted from the warm amber they'd been in the other room to hot bronze laced with scarlet. Yet still she did not give way.

Swallowing hard, Pauline said, "Dylan and I talked. If I swear fealty to you as your vassal, that makes me a citizen of Bethmoora. But I'm human, so I'm protected by the treaty. So I can take the little girl's punishment and the king can't hurt her. I think. He might try to hurt me somehow but she'll be safe so it doesn't matter. Dylan said she talked to our cousin Renee about it and it all checks out. Legally, I mean. So…so yeah. I have to swear fealty to you. So that's why I'm here. To swear it. However I'm supposed to do that."

For the second time that night, Nuada stared at a woman of the Myers family with his mouth agape. She wanted to what? Swear what?

Mind reeling, he tried to process her words. This black-hearted shrew wanted to swear an oath of fealty to him – him – as his valet? And Dylan had sanctioned the idea? More than that, he realized. Likely, the notion had come from his lady and not the mortal shrew in front of him. Pauline lacked the kind of creativity and altruism necessary to come up with such a plan.

And yet…was that fair? She was willing to swear such an oath to him, knowing how he detested her, for the sake of protecting the bean sídhe child. Was there anything more altruistic? Sacrificing herself for a little girl she didn't even know?

Not that he would treat her as a true valet. A valet was a trusted body-servant, a companion that could be relied upon in any situation to do what was best for their liege. Pauline was hardly that. Trust her? Rely upon her? The thought almost made him ill.

But she had come to Lallybroch. Worked tirelessly among the sick and injured beside Dylan. Seemed to be making at least some attempt at reconciling with her youngest sister. And it was a sound idea. A brilliant idea. Dylan could always be relied on to come up with such genius schemes. So of course Nuada would do it, despite the way his stomach churned at the thought of taking on a valet such as this. Tsu's'di, A'du, 'Sa'ti, yes. Iúile and Liam, absolutely. Wink – there was no question. But Pauline Myers?

Through gritted teeth, hating every syllable coming out of his mouth, the crown prince of Bethmoora said, "Come with me."

There would have to be witnesses. At least one other of his valets and a noble, to make it official. As with the impromptu wedding, they could afford no loopholes for the king to exploit. So he stretched out tendrils of magic and found Wink chatting with Becan Brownie and Lorelei. Even better – two valets, and a neutral party that owed no fealty to humans or Bethmoora or the son of Moundshroud…

Nuada hastily shoved away all thoughts of the impossibly, despicably beautiful Azrharn and offered a short, quick tug with his magic. A useful trick for a noble with their closest servants, though it only worked in very close proximity. Nuada felt Wink rise to his feet.

Pauline bit back a squeak of alarm when Wink's gargantuan bulk slipped into the corridor, followed by Lorelei, with Becan perched on her shoulder. Surely she'd gotten used to the less humanoid-looking fae creatures by now? The prince couldn't help curling his lip in disgust at her cowardice.

"Is all well, Nuada?"

He explained quickly in the tongue of the silver cave trolls, which Lorelei, Wink, and Becan all understood. Wink nodded and Nuada turned and knocked on the door to Dylan's chamber – gently, so as not to wake the baby.

"Come in," she called softly.

The room was large enough that the troll, the brownie, the rhinemaiden, the prince, and the odious mortal could all fit while allowing Dylan enough room to comfortably continue rocking in the chair beside the fire. Nuada moved to her side and bent down to whisper in her ear, "You didn't say you wanted your sister to swear fealty to me."

To his mild amusement, Dylan smacked herself in the forehead. "I knew I forgot to tell you something," she mumbled.

He chuckled. "I trust you, my lady, which is the only reason I'm agreeing to this."

She shot him a worried, uncertain glance. He knew what she was thinking: surely he'd come to better terms with her sisters by now, after all they'd done? They could discuss that later. He kissed the top of her head, gave the sleeping infant a soft look. Then he focused on the harpy-shrew.

"Kneel," he growled.

Eyes wide, obviously uncertain, Pauline sank to one knee before him and met his eyes.

"Bow your head," he snapped. "Show some respect."

"Nuada!" Dylan nudged him. Her look spoke volumes. Regardless of his personal feelings, she wouldn't tolerate voluble anger here.

Besides, he might accidentally wake the baby.

He sighed and tried to force some gentleness into his voice. "It is customary to bow your head in such situations." When Pauline had done so, he said, "Lay your left hand against your heart." If she even had one. When her hand was in place, he said, "Repeat the words of fealty as I say them."

It was odd, hearing Pauline say in a tremulous voice, "Your Royal Highness, I become your vassal from this day forth, for life, for member, and for worldly honor, and shall owe you faith, saving the faith that I owe unto our lord the king of Bethmoora." He very deliberately did not use Balor's name in the oath, as was usually done – though it wasn't required – because swearing this oath was in direct defiance of what Balor wanted, and playing about with oath magics could be a tricky business. Pauline carefully repeated after him, "Hear you, my lord Prince Nuada, that I, Pauline Cassandra Myers, shall be to you both faithful and true, and shall owe my fidelity unto you, and lawfully shall do such customs and services as my duty is to you. I shall to Prince Nuada be true and faithful, and love all which he loves and shun all which he shuns. Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, do anything which is unpleasing to him, on condition that he will hold to me as I shall deserve it. Highness, I am your servant, until my lord release me or death take me."

This was no simple oath, and he could see in Pauline's thin, somewhat sallow face that she understood that. Perhaps she would actually try to honor such a vow. Well, she had sworn to love all that he loved, and he loved Dylan. After the situation with the bean sídhe girl was resolved, let Pauline start there, and make what amends she could.

Clearing his throat, Nuada said in what Dylan sometimes called his Prince Prissy-Pants Voice, "It is right that those who offer to Us unbroken fealty should be protected by Our aid. Since such a faithful one has seen fit to swear trust and fidelity to Us, therefore We decree and command that you are Ours, from this day until Our last day. Rise, Mistress Myers."

With some difficulty, Pauline got to her feet. "Now what?" She asked quietly.

"Now," Dylan said softly, "I give this cutie pie over to Becan, and we go looking for King Balor."

"Won't he be asleep?" Pauline asked.

Nuada shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "He very well may, but dawn will come soon, so I doubt it. Master Becan, can you care for the child while her parents are indisposed?" The brownie nodded, smiling warmly at the sleeping baby. With a wave of his tiny hands and a dash of house-sprite magic, he lifted the babe from Dylan's arms and levitated her in front of him, rocking her slowly to simulate the motions of a larger being rocking a child.

Dylan smiled at him. "Becan, I adore you."

The brownie winked at her. "I've sorely missed tending wee bairns, milady."

Nuada shot him a quick look, but the brownie's guileless face gave nothing away. Had that been a hint about something? The Elf wasn't sure. No time to worry about it now, anyway. With quick thanks for her attendance to Lorelei and a nod to Wink, he and Dylan left the room, trailed by a very subdued Pauline. That quietude from her unnerved him a little. If she refused to volunteer, this would all have been for naught, and he'd be stuck with a mortal vassal besides.

Trying to suss out her thoughts, he said, "My father will not try to have you flogged as he would the child." He did not call her Mistress Myers, as that had been a formal title of respect necessary for the fealty-swearing and indicative of feelings he did not, himself, hold for her. And he did not call her Pauline, because to refer to her by her first name indicated a level of familiarity he would have rather drunk a gallon of sour beer than allow with her.

Pauline shook her head. "I don't care if he does decide to flog me. She's a kid. It's not right. I'd take it, anyway."

The Elven prince stared at her for a long moment, then turned and kept walking. No one else said anything after that.

.

Sréng mac Umhor admired the way the pale light of the knife-sharp crescent overhead glinted off the sapphire-and-white-gold ring he pinched between thumb and forefinger. Nuada's shock and horror at seeing the queen's ring in the bandit captain's hands still sent a delicious shiver up Sréng's spine. No matter what happened next, that memory would give him pleasure for centuries to come.

Poor old Balor, though. Sréng couldn't help but chuckle. The old fool had never considered any sort of dastardly motive behind any of Sréng's actions during the millennia of their acquaintance. What a complete fool. There was…something like a twinge of regret in Sréng's gnarled heart when he thought of it, though. Balor had been a good friend to him. Only out of blind trust and the blithering faith in all people possessed by a complete dimwit, but he'd been generous in his gifts of weapons, clothing, horses, women. Paid women, of course, not concubines or slave girls. Apparently Balor hadn't the stomach for female flesh after the bitch-queen's death.

Sréng preferred slaves to whores. Whores were allowed to say no, unless you paid them enough to always say yes. Slaves weren't allowed to have opinions or preferences.

Speaking of slaves…he needed to replace the two he'd killed in the field fire at Lallybroch.

Pocketing the ring, the bandit captain wheeled his horse around and urged it into a trot down the main road that cut through the village. They'd come to Kilcommon Village many a time before this, for food and toys and sport. It seemed almost a shame to destroy the place, but after getting a knife to the heart from Lady Bitch's brownie slave and then being crushed to an oozing pulp by whatever that snake-thing was, he needed to work out some of the rage always simmering beneath his skin like poisonous magic.

His men – his sons, grandsons, great-grandsons, and on and on down the line, as well as their ragtag friends – had gathered up every villager that might be of some use to them, as workers or pleasure slaves or in the new category Sréng now needed: bait. Baiting Nuada was fun.

Everyone else lay like so much butchered meat in the snow. Sréng didn't bother guiding his horse around the corpses.

His daughter, Oonagh, had a trio of Elves tied together beside where she stood giving orders to their men. The three Elves' rope bindings were in turn tied to a stake driven deep into the frozen earth. Sréng reined up beside her and slid from the saddle.

"Found a pair for you, Father," she said jovially, kicking the Tuathan lad in the ribs. The girl beside him huddled down and keened while blood dripped down the sides of her neck where Oonagh had already docked her ears, to make them round as a mortal's. The Elven girl wasn't Bethmooran; she was Fomori, the normal type, gold-kissed skin and curly brown hair and blue eyes. Sréng looked at the third Elf, another Tuathan youth, a bit older than the other two. Possibly not even a youth, but a grown man.

"Who's this one for?" Sréng demanded with a nod at the vermin.

Oonagh smiled. "Mine. Can I keep him?"

He returned his daughter's smile and patted her shoulder. "Aye, love, you can. Now, have you burned the fields? Good. I want nothing left but ash and salt when it's done. Have you butchered their livestock? Good girl. Where are the prisoners we don't mean to keep?" Oonagh pointed to a wooden town hall, with wooden shutters and a thatched roof. The bandits had boarded the windows and turned it into a jail of sorts. One of his men – Oonagh's brother Padraig, Sréng thought it might've been, though he couldn't quite tell at this distance – dragged a screaming old man through the snow, leaving a slew of golden gore against the white, and chucked him through the door before hauling it shut and dropping a bar across the doors to seal them closed. "You know what I want, Oonagh."

She inclined her head to her father, her captain, and strode toward the town hall. She only paused a moment to snatch a torch from one of the younger bandits. Sréng watched her stride across the snow, like a young queen of death amongst the corpses.

"What are you…doing?"

Sréng's gaze fell on the Elven boy his girl had picked out for him. Crouching down, he gripped the boy's hair and hauled his head up to force him to look into the bandit captain's face.

"What's that, lad? Didn't hear you over the blood in your mouth."

"I…I don't–" Before the boy could say anything else, the bandit captain punched him hard in the teeth. The boy screamed and sagged back against the other two captives while golden blood poured from between his cut, bleeding lips. Sréng yanked the boy's lolling head up again.

"Please," the boy gasped. "My father…my father…my uncle…my grandfather…"

"Oh," Sréng murmured. "Oh, dear. Are they in the town hall?" The boy nodded feebly. "Well, what would you trade for their safety? If I give you a chance to save them, what will you do for me, boy, hmmm?"

"Anything," said the boy. "Please…just…let me save…"

"Anything?" Sréng echoed. "For even the smallest chance? Your word on that?" The boy nodded so hard blood flew onto the snow. "Swear on the Darkness, lad, and give me your name. Your true name." After only a second's hesitation, the Tuathan boy swore, revealing his true name, and giving the power of it to the captain of the bandits. "Very well." And he reached down, yanked the stake out of the ground…and then drove it through the boy's leg. He screamed and fell on his side in the snow. Sréng gestured to Oonagh, who'd stopped to look back and see what the screaming was for. "Go on, lad. My girl will wait a good sixty seconds for you to get on your feet. It's a slim chance, but better than nothing. Go on."

Scarlet eyes locked on Sréng's face, and the boy tried to drag himself through the snow toward the town hall where his family had likely been imprisoned. Sréng grinned.

"Want some help, boy?" He asked. The Elven boy said nothing, simply kept driving his hands into the snow and dragging his bleeding, battered body forward. "Ah, I'm a soft sort. I'll help you. Fionn Darryn Bearrach, by the power of your name, I command you to stand up and get moving."

Unable to resist the command, the boy screamed as he put his weight on his bad leg, as he stumbled across the corpse-ridden snow, tears freezing to his pale cheeks and blood running down his chin to freeze against his neck and chest.

"Twenty seconds down," Sréng called, and the boy staggered. "Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Remember, you only have sixty. Come on, Fionn, walk faster if you can! Do you even care what happens to your own kin? Thirty!"

Fionn fell. His blood steamed in the winter air. He pushed to his feet, throat raw from screaming, and fell again.

"Forty-five seconds gone, Fionn!"

Sréng grinned widely, marveling at the lad's determination. How old was he? At least in his seventeenth century. Possibly older. Tuathan lads weren't considered men until after their second millennia, but this boy had a feral determination worthy of any Elven man.

He would be great fun to break to heel.

"Sixty! Fionn Darryn Bearrach, get back on the ground where you belong!" At Sréng's command, Fionn slumped into the snow, still trying to crawl forward. He'd made it less than three feet, thanks to the wound in his leg and the ropes tying his ankles and binding him to the other two prisoners. The bandit captain knelt beside him and pulled his head up with a fistful of silvery blond hair. "Well done, my boy. You surprised me. Now, my lovely daughter, there? She's beautiful, isn't she? And wicked and wild enough to make any father proud. I imagine your father would be proud of you, aye? I certain am; you've got fight. Now, my lovely girl is going to give us both quite a show. Watch carefully now."

And they did watch as Oonagh lifted her torch to the thatch of the town hall roof, as the flames spread like a disease across the straw and wood, as the bandit captain's victims screamed.

When Oonagh returned to Sréng's side, the boy could only weep silently while the captain laid an arm across Oonagh's shoulders and said, "Well done, my girl. I'm so proud."

"Thank you, Father."

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Pauline Myers followed behind her baby sister and the prince she'd just sworn fealty to – and wasn't that a kick in the teeth? She had no idea how she was supposed to feel about being the servant or whatever of this guy who obviously hated her and had magic – wondering what her kids would think if they could see her now. Her kids had always loved fantasy things, like Lord of the Rings and Studio Ghibli, and she'd been so scared for such a long time that that meant there was something wrong with them, like there'd been something wrong with Dylan. She didn't want her children, her babies, to grow up bruised and alone and heartbroken because of something wrong in their brains.

Except there was nothing wrong with Dylan. Her sister was a noblewoman, well-liked and even loved by the people Pauline had thought for so long didn't even exist, soon to be a princess of an entire kingdom and possibly a queen one day. Which, to be honest, was way more responsibility than Pauline ever wanted to deal with in her entire life ever, but Dylan seemed to take to it like a swan to water. It was great, honestly. And it meant that she didn't need to worry about her kids.

But did her kids need to worry about her?

Remy wanted to be a cop when he grew up; would he think she was brave, or foolish for doing this? Collette had this habit of going out and picking fights with anyone who picked on someone smaller and weaker than they were. No doubt, she'd be impressed. Maybe Pauline could talk to her about this whole trip – keeping it PG, of course – after they got done cleaning up King Douche Bag's mess. As for Wendy and Maggie…those two were impossible to figure out, even for her. Dylan seemed to have a way with them, which in the past had made Pauline worry, but maybe it meant they were like her sister. Maybe they had the Sight? Or maybe they were just really good at getting into trouble, just like Dylan.

She didn't care what her douche bag ex-husband had to say. Likely, he'd mock her, talk about how she was so stupid for doing this. That just meant she was doing the right thing, though. It was nice, doing something you knew was right. Besides, what could that pasty-faced old windbag do to her? Poke her with his stubby little antlers? Fart in her general direction? Send her home? Oh, horrors.

Dylan fell back to walk next to her, slipping her hand into Pauline's. They hadn't walked together like this since they were kids. The last time had been on their way home from a neighborhood baseball game. Dylan had hit a homer and knocked out that punk Tommy Malone's teeth. At thirteen, Pauline had had no use for the eight-year-old Tommy Malone, since he'd tried to steal her D&D manual and then cried like a punk when Dylan had beaten him in an arm-wrestling contest to get it back.

Those had been much simpler times. Easier, in some ways. Things that had felt like the end of the world then were nothing compared to the things going on with the Myers siblings now. But Pauline didn't want to think about that.

"I'm proud of you, you know," Dylan murmured.

Pauline gave her a look. "You? I should be saying that to you, not the other way around."

Dylan shrugged. "We're both awesome, if you want my opinion."

She squeezed her little sister's hand, and Dylan squeezed back. It was so nice not to be at odds anymore. They'd been like that for two decades. It was nice to change back to how they'd been.

"Stubby McAntler-Douche should be scared of you," Pauline murmured.

Dylan choked. "Don't call him that, it sounds terrible."

"Not as terrible as things I've heard Cesca say about him. So, uh…is he going to grow antlers at some point?" A tilt of her chin made it obvious who Pauline meant. "Wouldn't that be weird for you?"

Her sister cocked her head. "Weird, how?"

"I just…can't imagine having sex with a guy with antlers." Was it her imagination, or had the prince's delicately pointed ears twitched at her words?

Dylan made a strangled noise and elbowed her sister in the ribs. "Will you shut up? Why are you guys sooo obsessed with my sex life?"

"Because until this point, you've never had one," she replied. "Also, I feel like the presence of antlers justifies my interest. So do you think it'll be weird or–"

"I don't know, shut up!" Dylan hunched her shoulders. "I haven't thought about it, geez."

"Are the antlers like, erogenous?" Pauline whispered.

"I don't know!" Dylan hissed. "Will you stop it?"

"I'm just wondering!"

"The conversations you have with your sisters, my lady, is scintillating," Nuada said dryly from a few feet in front of them, although the way he said it made it clear he was excluding even the possibility of Pauline replying to him. He acted almost as if she wasn't there. "And the answer, beloved, to both questions is yes."

Dylan nearly tripped and only Pauline catching her kept her from face-planting into the floor right outside the rooms the king had procured from the tavern owners. All thoughts of merriment fled their minds and both sisters gripped each other's hands as the prince knocked once, lightly, on the door.

"Enter," came a man's very tired voice.

The prince poked his head into the room and said, "Father, my lady and I wish to speak with you before the dawn comes." At that, Pauline glanced toward the shuttered tavern windows. The pale gray light of dawn was just beginning to creep past the treeline. "May we come in? I have brought one of my valets with me, as well."

A heavy sigh, and then, "Yes, yes. If it's the cat-boy, I have not changed my mind…" The old king trailed off as Nuada held the door open and ushered Dylan and Pauline inside.

Pauline studied him. Old, older than she'd expected the father of someone like Nuada to be – for some reason. She wasn't sure why the bevy of deep wrinkles surprised her. The antlers she'd wondered about thrust up through thinning silver-gold hair streaked with snowy white. He looked not only old, Pauline thought, but sickly. He rubbed the shoulder that lacked an arm as if the joint ached. She'd seen the king do this when he'd first arrived in the village and thought it was because of the cold, but maybe not.

Of course she'd gotten a look at him before, both when he'd interrupted the no-more-bandits party outside and later, when the bandits had returned and he'd tried to kill that little girl. But she'd been far from him the first time and distracted by the creepy, thin, dark-haired man that had killed that bandit and rescued the kid. Now she allowed herself to study this person who reminded her far too much of an old, seedy politician who refused to do anything to help his constituents and just sat back on his fat, wrinkled ass and enjoyed being in power. She didn't care that his wife had died or how terrible that had been for him. She didn't care that he'd fought in wars. She only cared about now. About why she'd come into this room now.

She realized, with a start, that she kind of hated this guy. Oh, well. As long as the prince didn't find out, it probably wouldn't be a problem. Except she had to bow to him. Gross. It galled her, but she did it. Dylan offered a truncated curtsy. The prince merely canted his head. Benefit of it being his dad, Pauline guessed.

How much had his childhood sucked, being stuck with this man as his father? Dylan hadn't said. Not her secrets to tell, obviously. But Pauline wondered if this man was one reason Prince Nuada was so mean to people sometimes. Well, not people. Humans. Specifically her and her sisters and John. But still.

"What is the meaning of this?" Balor demanded, straightening in the plush chair he'd gotten from somewhere.

Pauline tried not to scowl. She didn't get a cushy chair in her room. She got a cot downstairs with all the sick and wounded because they needed her help. Why wasn't he helping? She'd seen his prosthetic, so not having an arm wasn't an excuse. Was it because he was king? He didn't think he needed to help because he was the king? Nuada was crown prince, and as much as he gave Pauline the willies sometimes, she'd seen him diving into the thick of the repair work and the fighting, hammering away, clearing debris, hauling logs like a common-born villager.

I don't like you, she thought, fighting to keep her face even. I really do not like you at all, no sir.

"Allow me to introduce my newest vassal," Nuada said in a carefully controlled voice. Pauline forced her hands to remain loose and still at her sides, but she desperately ached to fidget as the king's golden eyes widened and he stared at her. "This is Mistress Pauline Myers, and she has requested a boon of me, and of you, in return for the medical aid she has given the people of Lallybroch in these trying times."

The king didn't sputter or protest. She would've preferred it if he had. Instead, he stared at her, hard, for several long moments, and then asked in a voice that held something dark and lethal, "What boon would a common-born mortal ask of the king of Bethmoora?"

Dylan stepped close to Pauline. The warmth and nearness of her little sister eased some of the human woman's nerves. Swallowing away the dryness in her mouth, she lifted her chin, though she kept her eyes on the floor to maintain a (false) air of deference.

"My boon," she said in a thin voice, "is this." She'd gone over the wording with Dylan before the little wedding upstairs, so she knew what to say. "For the sake of the service that I have rendered your people, I ask that the judgment of kings sentenced to Siobhan of the Bean Sídhe fall instead to my own shoulders, that I may bear what punishment is fitting of her crime."

Balor surged to his feet, eyes darkening to copper edged with scarlet. "How dare you?" He thundered, and Pauline hated him and herself for flinching away from that voice. But then she realized he wasn't yelling at her, but at Nuada. "You think I do not see your hand in this, Crown Prince? Do you seek to mock your king? Defy me and my judgment? Disgrace this kingdom and the king's justice?"

In a very quiet voice, Nuada said, "My hand was not in the forging of this idea, Majesty. I do not seek to mock you. I do not seek to disgrace our kingdom or the Crown's justice. You are my father and my king. I seek only to do what is right."

The king slashed a hand through the air in furious dismissal. "Then whose idea was it, pray?"

Pauline opened her mouth, and Dylan stepped in front of her. "Mine, Your Majesty. I seek within the bounds of the law, within the bounds of honor and justice, to do what I can for my people–"

"For your prince and his vendetta," Balor snarled. Dylan's fingers convulsed into fists. "How dare you, girl? You think you can manipulate me? I am a king! I am a king of faerie! And you will pay for your insolence, as will you, Crown Prince, and you, mortal!" This last was said to Pauline, who shot Dylan a wide-eyed look. "You think your mortal blood will save you? Aye, perhaps a bit. I'll not flog you. No mortal blood shall be spilt by my hand. But I'll see you shaved and stocked like a common criminal, mortal girl."

"Excuse me?" Dylan demanded, staring at him. "You can't–"

"I can," he snapped. "She'll be publicly shaved, as befits a woman with no respect for the law, and spend twelve hours in the village stocks for the crime she has taken upon herself. It will begin at dawn and end as I have commanded. As for you, Prince Nuada, Lady Dylan, your punishment is this: the cat-boy you are so fond of shall receive one-hundred lashes instead of fifty–"

"Father–"

"Silence!" Clutching his shoulder, Balor snarled, "One-hundred lashes, Crown Prince, delivered by your own hand to the boy you would side with against your king. Be grateful I have not changed my mind and condemned him to death as I aught! But I am already sick with grief at the thought of another execution, and so I will be merciful."

There was a long, fraught silence. Nuada whispered, "Whose execution?"

Pauline thought she heard Dylan breathe the word, "Pity…"

Looking into his son's eyes, Balor said coldly, "When I finally take my leave of you, Crown Prince, it will be to return to Findias and the execution of Ledi Polunochnaya iz Lisaya Gora for treason against the Crown. Now get out. Prepare yourselves for the dawn."

"But Father–" To Pauline, Nuada sounded horrified. Stricken. "Naya? What? Why? Father–"

"I said get out!"

It was Dylan who pulled them both from the room. Pauline's legs wobbled beneath her as she followed her sister's insistent tugs. Nuada came behind, walking as if in a daze. The door slammed shut behind them.

.

"Dylan," Nuada breathed, turning to her. His father's words echoed in his mind, throbbing like a toothache. "Did you hear him?" She nodded, and there was something awful in her eyes. "Naya…" Nuada whispered. "Why would he punish Naya? What could she have done to deserve such a thing? He is mad, he cannot…" When Dylan only looked at him, the prince trailed away. "Dylan…what? What is it?"

"Naya," Dylan said softly, gently, reaching up and cupping Nuada's face. He stared at her, eyes darting all over, trying to read her expression. "I think…your father said treason, Nuada."

"But that's ridiculous. Naya would never–"

"No," Dylan said. "No, it makes perfect sense. She's the noble. The one that was working with the bandits and the assassins. Remember? They said there was a noble helping them. Treason, Nuada. She's the one."

He stared at her. "Dylan…Dylan, no, she would never betray me that way. She would never hurt me so. She…she is my friend. My friend, Dylan. She would never…No. No, it's not true. I won't believe it. Nuala! Nuala will not allow this, she loves Naya, she would never let our father do this." And in his mind, frantic, he yelled, Nuala! Sister! Answer me now! Nuala!

He felt her stir in the distance, and for the first time tasted the tears and pain she'd kept from him. Leave me alone, Brother.

Nuala…Father said…Naya…The pain in his sister's mental voice staggered him. But it couldn't be. It couldn't be true! Nuala, Naya is in danger, Father means to murder her–

No, Brother, Nuala whispered. No. Naya confessed it to me herself. The bandits in the north, Dylan being stolen, the assassins at Midwinter…she was behind it all. Don't you see? Don't you understand? Even she, for all she loved you so, could not bear to see the monster you've become.

She snapped the connection between them with the sharpness and stabbing pain of someone snapping a bone. Nuada reeled, staggered back into a chair, and put his head in his hands.

Naya. Treason. Naya. Treason.

Dylan's death. That agony. Dylan being tortured to death by Sreng mac Umhor, the man who'd murdered his mother and countless Bethmoorans and other innocent fae…and Naya, his Naya, with her warm quicksilver eyes and bright smiles and welcoming laughter, one of his only true and trustworthy friends amongst the vipers of the Golden Court…

She had been a part of it all.

And now his father was going to kill her for it.

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