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.

135. He Said, She Said

Author's Note: Sorry we're late on this chapter! Allergy season, I've been in vague comas and struggling to remember what day it is most of the time. But here you go! We're finally leaving Lallybroch! I feel like we've been here for five years instead of five weeks, lol. Onward!

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Once Upon a Time

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Chapter One-Hundred-Thirty-Five

He Said, She Said

that is

A Short Tale of a New Position, Promises of Revenge, a Young Man's Heritage, Inuendo, Embarrassment, Hilarity, a Call in the Night, a Reminder, Obligations, a Race, a Walk, Counsel, Distraction, an Abuse of Power, Cold, a Further Abuse of Power, Stolen Voices, a Rescue, Threads of Connection, an Unlooked-For Ally, a Winter Night, Thoughts and Feelings

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Barinthus bit back a snarl of frustration as he watched that bastard Silverlance and his human bitch mount up on their arion horses at the head of the departing royal procession. Where did they think they were going? And where by the thirteen hells and the shades of Annwn had they sent his daughter? The enraged Elf had no idea where those fools, those wretches, had sent his little girl. Only that they'd sent her in the company of that gancanaugh welp and the half-breed abomination. Barinthus had been denied his promised audience with the king, who'd also flounced off to the gods only knew where. And he was left to rot in this tiny little cell while the man who'd stripped him of his parental rights abandoned the village.

The Elf slammed his fist into the icy wooden wall hard enough that pain sparked up his arm, throbbed through his knuckles. He growled obscene insults to the crown prince under his breath as he studied the golden blood oozing from the scrapes in his skin. He had to get out of this box of a prison. Had to track down his daughter and get her away from that Love Talker whoreson so she'd realize she needed her father to help her.

"Temper, temper, Master Barinthus."

He shivered at the sound of that coolly amused voice, dry as winter-dead branches rustling on the wind. Slowly the villager turned away from his tiny slit of a window to meet the cold, black gaze of Lord Hastur, the fear darrig, the king's head torturer. The fae lord that had commissioned him during the last bandit attack to find a way to kill Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, if the king proved too weak-willed to do it himself.

Barinthus quickly dropped to one knee before the fear darrig, bowing his head so he would not have to meet those insect-like black eyes. Look too long into the eyes of a fear darrig, a master of nightmares, and they could drive a person mad unless protected by royal blood and magic. Barinthus was merely a commonborn leatherworker, the widower of a laundress, no powerful lord or royal. Lord Hastur could crack his mind wide open and suck his thoughts out of his skull as easily as an old crone could suck hen's eggs. And Barinthus had failed to assassinate the prince.

"Don't look so scared, Master Barinthus. I have not come to punish you, or to kill you. I have come to set you free." There was the clank of metal on metal and a creak of hinges as the cell door swung open. "I have spoken to my master, and he has decided you would best serve him in a very important position."

Swallowing hard, Barinthus asked, "What position, my lord?" Had he been pardoned by the king? Been ordered freed by the village steward?

"A very, very important one, though it may not be entirely to your liking. You wish to track down your daughter, yes? I thought so. And you wish revenge on the prince and his harlot? Then you will come with me. We shall leave this...backwater, and I will take you to a man who can help you achieve all that you dream. You need only help him to navigate this forest so that he will have an easier time hunting the treacherous prince."

Navigating the forest? An outsider, then. Someone not born in the north of Bethmoora, on the prince's lands. The forests here could be treacherous if you hadn't been taught their pathways since toddlerhood. Act as a guide to the assassin Lord Hastur and his master had hired to put an end to the prince? And in exchange, he would have his revenge and his daughter back?

At last, Barinthus dared to raise his head. "Of course, my lord. It would be my honor. Who is this man?"

Hastur's smile was cruel and cold. "His name is Sréng mac Umhor."

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Because they left at dawn, the relief convoy headed by Prince Nuada and his mortal betrothed didn't linger in their farewells. The ewah cubs sat half-asleep on their dripping water ponies; Tsu's'di, who'd had the magical healing Balor had offered by way of apology, looked exhausted, as well. Very few villagers had come out to say goodbye, and it seemed Nuada preferred it that way.

But Mistress Stooree, the leprechaun woman who was head of the village Wisdom Circle, refused to let Petra leave without a long embrace and extracting a promise that the mortal would come back to visit. She pressed a basket of something into Petra's hands, and wouldn't let the human woman refuse it. Dylan smiled as her sister hugged the leprechaun woman tight. Apparently Petra had managed to make a very good friend during their time in Lallybroch.

Francesca, of course, had made lots of friends, but only Bob the basajaun had come to see her off. The shaggy, mountainous fae bent down and gave Francesca a snuffling kiss on the cheek. She hugged him and promised to see him again and ordered him to "not let any of those pretty faerie girls put bows in your beard. That's my job." Davio, standing at her back, only laughed.

Uilliam McBás and his three young lieutenants were coming with them. All four teenagers looked blank-eyed. As if they refused to let any emotion show. But Dylan wasn't fooled. She'd seen Uilliam moving from cot to pallet to padded bench inside the tavern, waking each sleeping refugee child for a few moments to say goodbye and offer a few words of...advice? Comfort? Dylan didn't know. It was obvious to anyone who cared to look, however, that the young mixed-blood boy loved and was loved by the children he'd saved.

But eventually they were ready to go. As the sun rose slowly from behind the dark line of the trees, Dylan and Nuada rode out of Lallybroch at last. Dylan tried to look regal and princessly instead of sleepy and miserable, but even with her fur cloak and enchanted socks, it was freaking cold at the butt crack of dawn in northern Ireland in winter.

She couldn't wait until they'd gotten far enough away from the village that she could hop off her horse—the only thing keeping her legs warm at the moment—and get inside the carriage instead. Arriving and departing the northern villages, she and Nuada had to be on horseback. Any other time, they could be warm in a coach.

The opportunity came none too soon; even with her winter clothes, warming enchantments, medicine, and Maeve being an absolute darling and kneeling down so she could dismount, Dylan's leg almost gave out beneath her when they finally stopped so she could scramble into the warm carriage. Zhenjin had been at her side to keep her from falling, and Nuada had helped her hobble inside. Now she sat curled up on a warm bench, a travel blanket draped over her legs, Nuada's arm around her shoulder and her head tucked under his chin.

"We did good work in Lallybroch," Dylan murmured.

He laid his cheek against her hair. "That we did. And yet...I worry for my other villages. Things took longer than I expected them to, longer by far. How much damage has been wrought elsewhere?"

Dylan hugged him. He was so warm, and she was still sleepy from the cold and the early hour. Stifling a yawn, she said, "You can only do so much, Nuada. You're not God."

A low laugh rumbled in his chest. "I was worshipped as a god once, you know."

Dylan jerked her head up. "What?"

"Oh, yes." But he didn't look pleased by that fact. He looked...disgusted, and more than a little annoyed. "The humans worshipped many of the royals and nobles of Bethmoora, Cíocal, and Eírc as gods centuries ago, no matter how we tried to make them stop. The royal family of Alfheim had the same problem with the mortal men of the northern isles—Scandinavia, Finland, Iceland, those places. In mortal Ireland, humans worshipped me, and my father, and my mother and sister. We hated it, but they thought we were gods, with our magic and our long lives. Nothing we said could convince them otherwise. 'Elf' and 'sídhe' were not words they knew, then."

"Huh." She settled her head back on his shoulder, mulling that over as she nibbled the edge of her thumb. "Francesca read a book series once about faeries, sídhe specifically, and how they were worshipped as gods once and when the humans stopped, they lost a bunch of their powers."

Nuada scoffed. "As if humans could strip my people of our magic so easily. No, beloved, we need not be worshipped to surpass mortals in all ways."

She poked him in the ribs. "Thanks," she said dryly.

Tilting up her chin with one finger, he smiled down at her and kissed the tip of her nose. "Just as you need no worship from mortals to surpass your people in all the ways that matter. You may not be a goddess, but I am no god, only a prince, and I am satisfied with the princess who holds my heart."

"You are so full of it," she said with a laugh, and cuddled against him. "I love you. You're so romantic."

"I do try. Now sleep, mo duinne. We have a long way to the next village, and I can see that you're tired."

He was right, so she let her eyes drift shut as he gave her a small squeeze. As sleepiness crept over her, she felt Nuada brush back a lock of hair from her forehead and then kiss the top of her head. She was more than half asleep already, but she thought she heard him murmur, "I am so very proud of you, mo duinne" just before slumber claimed her.

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Dylan was grateful—more than grateful—that the next two villages they encountered on their journey were much better off than Broch Toruch had been. While there were sick and injured to tend to, and damaged homes and businesses to repair, the people were in better spirits. They accepted the help of healers and workers to help with repairs, and Dylan went to work among the wounded.

The villages' fields had been put to the torch but the villagers had managed to save much of the harvest, so they weren't near to starving. Dylan didn't have to give another little speech explaining why humans had come to help, and she was grateful for that, too; public speaking didn't get easier just because she'd done it before. Brother Kenner, Dr. Forno, and Lóegaire had said that was due to her PTSD; she didn't doubt it.

Every few days, Uilliam McBás and his lieutenants would slip away into the surrounding forest and return with anywhere from two to twelve children in tow. Dylan had no idea how the boy kept finding them, but she didn't question it—only tended the faerie children's injuries and made sure they were given good meals in the village taverns. Nuada set Wink the task of finding the lost children's families, and if they had none living, arranging for them to stay with the villagers who could afford another mouth or mouths to feed.

Dylan did not see Chuz again, but Moundshroud's son had clearly taken her request seriously, because as far as she could tell, no terrible dreams plagued Nuada's sleep. Every so often she would glance up as the moon began to rise and see a large, dark shadow winging its way across the pearly surface, and she shuddered, thinking of Azrharn and his promise to wipe out every living thing in Bethmoora if the little bean sídhe girl were killed because of Balor. Did every living thing include her? Nuada? Wink? Nuala? What would happen to Nuada if Nuala was hurt or killed? Dylan didn't know. People said the twins were linked, and Nuala had known when the prince had been shot the night he and Dylan had met, but...how far did it go? She had no idea.

To her surprise, Zhenjin and his brothers, Princess Kamaria, Prince Günther, and Prince Dastan insisted on accompanying the relief caravan, "in case more bandit scum decide they want to play," according to the Nyame princess. Dylan was glad Kamaria would be staying, and she knew Zhenjin had to stay in order to fulfill the bargain Dylan had made with his brother. Prince Taran, the prince of Annwn who called Nuada "cousin," was the only one of the royals to part company with them after leaving Lallybroch. Everyone else stayed. It seemed to be a sort of vacation for them, and Dylan wondered if the fantasy books had it right, and even the best royals sometimes got fed up with bodyguards and stuffy court functions.

Dastan spent a lot of time working alongside Petra. Every time Nuada saw them, he got an odd look on his face. Not anger, no, and not disgust. She couldn't tell what it was, or even if it was negative. But it confirmed what she'd suspected after hearing that Dastan had tried to kiss her sister—the crown prince of Shahbaz was actually courting Petra. She wondered what his mother would say about that. Did the sultana like humans? Tolerate them? Despise them?

Not my circus, not my monkeys, Dylan reminded herself again as she watched Dastan offer Petra his arm and the pair strolled away down the village road together. Petra was a grownup. She knew what she was doing. And Nuada swore that Dastan was a good person, and Dylan's own sixth sense and the whisper of the Spirit told her this was true. Let them date. They'd figure it out, or they wouldn't, but it wasn't her place to interfere.

The nice thing about having less work to do and not fearing a bandit raid every minute of every day, was that Dylan and Nuada finally had time to get back in the nightly habit of reading a story to the cubs before bedtime and then doing family prayer together. But one night during their stay in a third northern village, Dylan noticed a troubled look on Tsu's'di's face as A'du'la'di closed the family prayer. She kissed A'du and 'Sa'ti good night, tucked them in, and she and Nuada closed the door carefully behind them and Tsu's'di. Then the ewah youth paused for a moment instead of making his way to his own room that was next to Dylan's.

"A'ge'lv?" He ventured diffidently.

Dylan frowned. She hadn't heard him sound this unsure of himself since first taking him into her service. "Yeah?" She asked, trying to ease some of the stiff formality. "What's up?"

"Can I talk to you? In your room?"

Dylan sensed more than saw Nuada's brows shoot up toward his hairline, but she just nodded. "Sure, come on."

When they'd made it to the privacy of her borrowed bedroom, Dylan sat on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap, the picture of a patient listener. Nuada took a chair and sank down onto it. Tsu's'di stood before them staring at his feet, fur and whiskers bristling, tail lashing. Finally he lifted his head.

"Do we have to be Christian for you to keep us?"

Dylan blinked at him. "What? No, you don't...Tsu's'di, I would never force you like that. What's the matter? Is that what you thought?" If she'd made him think that, she needed to step back and evaluate where she'd messed up.

He shook his head, still looking agitated. "No, no. Just...I've been thinking. You worship the Star Kindler and that makes you happy, right?"

"Most of the time," she said a bit dryly, noticing Nuada's mouth quirking at one corner. He was probably thinking of his first disastrous marriage proposal and how she'd had to refuse him. Being in service to a king or a King wasn't all sunshine and roses. "Is it...not making you happy?" The only reason they'd begun doing family prayer in the first place was because Tsu's'di had said he wanted his siblings to experience the same joy and comfort Dylan found in her faith.

"I...kind of. I'm just...I'm worried. And I don't want you to be mad at me."

Dylan and Nuada exchanged a baffled glance, and then the mortal held out a hand to the cougar youth. He came and sat next to her on the edge of the bed. She gently patted his shoulder.

"I won't be mad at you. We're a family, and that means we talk to each other. I want you to feel okay talking to me. What are you worried about?"

He swallowed. Swiped at one tufted cat's ear. "I want them to feel happy, the way you do. But I don't want us to forget who we are. What we are. We're of the ewah. We're the People. Our traditions are thousands and thousands of years old, and I don't want to sacrifice that. A'du and 'Sa'ti were too young when our parents died to remember a lot of it, but I remember. And I don't want to forget. I don't want them to forget."

Oh. Oh. She understood what he was saying, although she wasn't sure—judging from the look on the moon-pale face—that Nuada did. But Dylan smiled at Tsu's'di and nodded.

"I understand what you're saying. I have a few friends who are like you—non-humans native to America from before it was America. Back when it was Turtle Island. They talk about this a lot, worrying about losing their traditions, their way of life. I'm sorry I didn't realize that would affect you, too. I always think of you and the kids as being fae, and you are, but that's not all you are. You're one of the People of Turtle Island, a Child of the Cougar. I'm sorry I overlooked that."

The tension drained out of the boy and he threw his arms around Dylan's shoulders, hugging her tight.

"Thank you for not being mad, thank you-"

"Of course I'm not mad, honey. But," and at the word but, he pulled back, looking worried. "I'm not...educated enough about this sort of thing to tell you what you should do or how to do it. I can tell you that whatever you decide to do, if you want to continue studying about worshipping the Star Kindler or if you need to think more about it or if you decide you don't want to, I will still take care of you and you brother and sister, and I won't be angry, and I won't stop caring about the three of you, and we'll still be a family. It's your choice, full stop. But if you want advice on how to navigate this, you're going to have to talk to someone who's not me because I'm not equipped to help you with this."

The whole time she'd been talking, Nuada's expression had grown more and more intrigued and...impressed? And when she stopped to see if he had anything to add, the prince said, "When we return to Findias, you should speak of my sister's lady-in-waiting, Na'ko'ma."

Tsu's'di blinked. "I...excuse me, Your Highness, but I got the impression you didn't really like her?"

"I don't," Nuada said flatly. Dylan remembered the snide comments the lady-in-waiting had made to her about Nuada and understood the mix of annoyance, dismissal, and wary respect in her prince's voice. "But she is like you—a member of one of the various nations of Turtle Island who lives apart from her people, in a kingdom across the sea. She had to learn what parts of herself to keep and what parts of herself, if any, to let go when she decided to remain at Nuala's side. If she cannot guide you, no doubt she will know someone who can."

"Whatever you want to do, Tsu's'di," Dylan said, "that's what you can do. I don't want to cut you off from your heritage, your culture. Okay?"

After a moment, he nodded. "Okay. Thanks, a'ge'lv. Your Highness. I was worried you'd be mad; I'm really glad you're not."

"You," she said, kissing his forehead, "are old enough to make your own choices. And I can't expect 'Sa'ti and A'du to make educated choices if I don't give them all the information, can I? And I'm sorry that I accidentally put you in a position where you had to worry about this, and worry about me getting upset. I will never be angry about something like this. I'm glad you felt okay to talk to me."

When the prince and his lady sent the cougar youth to his room at last, Nuada turned and studied her with an appraising eye. Heat crept into her cheeks, though she wasn't sure exactly why she was blushing. There was nothing romantic in the look. But he looked...so impressed. Why?

"You surprised me, my lady."

Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? How?"

"In my experience, those who profess to follow the Star Kindler have not dealt kindly with the peoples indigenous to other lands, and have taken pride in trampling on their traditions."

Dylan shook her head. "That's not my style, and that's not God's style. Tsu's'di is, what? Cherokee? Cheyenne? Those aren't even the right names for those people; I don't know the right names. I know I'm ignorant in that regard. But his people, it's not like they went around drowning women for witchcraft, murdering babies, raiding an entire continent and selling the people there like luggage, and hanging midwives for being too smart or anything," she said dryly. "It's not like his entire culture revolves around kidnapping humans and experimenting on them until they break like cheap toys," she added, thinking of the K'nyan. "He's a good kid. He's trying to do what's right. He doesn't want to lose his culture, his heritage. I'm not going to punish him for that. And it's not my place to tell him he's being Native wrong or whatever. What do I know about it?"

Nuada flashed her a bright, brilliant smile. "Do you know, if all humans had possessed that attitude millennia ago, our peoples likely would never have gone to war? But-"

"But men were born with holes in their hearts," she mumbled, "that no gold or land or love could fill. Yeah...we're pretty sucky, we jerk mortals."

Nuada tilted her chin up, gazing down at her with eyes the color of sunlight flashing through carnelian jewels. "You most certainly do not, as you say, suck."

And Dylan, timid and blushing as she typically was, had no idea what possessed her to smirk and say, "I mean, once we're married, I will."

A beat of silence. Two beats, as Nuada absorbed what she'd said and processed all the possible meanings. His eyes blasted wide at the same time as flaming embarrassment lit her face on fire. Before he could say anything, she grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around, and shoved him toward her bedroom door.

"Never mind," she yelped. "Never mind, I didn't say that, I would never say that! That is not something I would say. Good night. You didn't hear that. It was the wind! A ghost! This room is haunted! Bye!"

And she managed to shove him out the door as he laughed so hard he nearly fell down. Slamming her door shut, she pressed her hot face against her hands.

Francesca is rubbing off on me, she thought giddily.

From the other side of the door, she heard Nuada begin to walk away. He was still laughing.

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The only real interruption to the work they'd taken upon themselves was when Dylan received a call in the first week of January from Dr. Hollis, her former colleague at St. Vincent's Hospital. It had been late enough that Dylan had been getting ready to fall asleep in yet another new bed in another new tavern in another new village when her phone rang with the soulless, clinical ringtone she reserved for her former work contacts.

Stifling her own grumbles and trying to maneuver around two large, inert, nearly comatose dogs, she managed to find her phone on the fourth ring and answer it.

"Hello?" She mumbled.

"Dylan?"

The mortal blinked and tried to shove wild frizz out of her face. She screwed her eyes shut, trying to think. The voice was familiar. She'd forgotten to check the caller ID. Finally she groaned, "Yes? What? Who is this?"

"It's Hollis."

She blinked again sleepily. "Oh. What? I was almost asleep."

A long hesitation. Finally the other psychiatrist said, "You tendered your resignation with the police department, the hospital, and the counseling office where you worked."

Dylan rolled onto her back. One arm draped across her eyes, she shoved her feet, already under the blankets, beneath Sétanta's warm, furry bulk.

"Yeah. I did that weeks ago. Is that why you're calling?"

"In a way," Hollis said softly. Then he went quiet long enough Dylan almost started to drift off again before he asked, "Are you still planning to testify at Lisa Ramirez's hearing?"

Dylan scrubbed at her face. Lisa. Yes, that was right, Dr. Hollis was Lisa's primary psychiatric caregiver at the moment. She had a court thing on the fourteenth of January, and Dylan was supposed to...what? She was so tired, she couldn't remember off the top of her head. Because of the thing with the northern villages, she'd made arrangements for this, hadn't she? Something. Made it so she didn't have to leave Faerie, didn't have to leave Bethmoora.

"I...I had something set up," Dylan muttered. "I don't remember. Hang on." Trying to make her eyes focus past the haze of exhaustion, she swiped her fingers across her phone, checking her calendar. There it was. "I'm phoning in my testimony, I already arranged it. I won't be in New York the day of the hearing, so I set that up. Does that answer your question?"

"That question, yes," Hollis said. "Dylan...why did you quit?"

She probably should've expected this. Everyone who knew her, knew she valued her work as a mind healer. Knew she'd worked her butt off to become a psychiatrist, so that she could help Sight kids, prevent her own traumas from repeating themselves in any way with children who were also at risk because of things mundane humans couldn't see. Quitting all three psychiatry-related jobs she held, all at the same time? People would wonder why. She sighed. How to explain?

"I have...another job," she said at last. "In another country. One I can't turn down. I'm going to be moving in a few months." It would've been this month, since she was supposed to get married in February, but thanks to Balor and Shaohao, thanks to timing and asinine bargains, she couldn't marry Nuada until the summer. "That's why I'm out of the country right now; getting things squared away."

Another long silence. "You have friends in New York."

Did she? People she was friendly with, certainly. People from work, police officers, hospital staff, her secretary Ariel. People she valued, people she loved. But they weren't friends because they couldn't be trusted with the secret of her Sight. The ones who could be trusted—people like Val, or Mallory Grace, or Kaye Fierch, or Peri Cloudfyre—she wasn't giving up contact with them because they had ties Faerie, to fae courts. But Hollis didn't know about that.

"Were you just going to disappear one day and leave the country without telling any of us?" Hollis pressed.

"What? No. I was going to tell you. I've just been busy. Look, Hollis, can we talk about this at a time that isn't right now? I'm really tired. I put in a long day and it's really late where I'm at and I need to sleep. I promise I won't just vanish forever without talking to you and getting things set with Lisa. Okay?"

He said okay and after a couple minutes of awkward, stilted conversation, they hung up. But Dylan, more awake now than she had been, realized something. In the rush to deal with the northern villages and everything else, with the upheaval of being elevated to peerage and all that, she hadn't told any of the mundane humans she associated with, was friendly with, that she was moving away, getting married.

Nuada was right; she needed a secretary. How else was she supposed to keep all of her obligations straight?

*Mistress?* Eímh lifted her head and opened her furry muzzle in a wide yawn. *Time to be awake?*

"No," Dylan mumbled, setting her phone on the bedside table. "We get to rest for now. Come up here and cuddle me."

Eímh wriggled up over the blankets to flop against Dylan. It was cold in northern Bethmoora in winter, in the middle of the night, even with a fire banked to keep it burning until morning. The hound pup's warm bulk helped chase some of that cold away. Dylan laid her cheek against the wiry fur.

"Your both such good dogs," she mumbled.

Eímh's tail tick-tocked across the blanket. Sétanta murmured, *Yes. We are good. Good good dogs,* before sighing and going back to sleep. Soon Dylan was asleep too.

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Dylan and Nuada rode out of that village on the backs of Maeve and Lomán, their entourage and the relief caravan ranged around and behind them. But instead of getting back into the carriage once they'd left visual range of the village, Dylan lifted her face to the pale winter sunlight. A warm front had blown in sometime early that morning. Snow still glittered like sugar-dusted flour on the ground, but the chill didn't bite so hard. She'd spent so much time indoors—in people's homes, in village common buildings, in the carriage—and when she had been outside, it had been for things like archery or riding lessons from Nuada. She wanted to enjoy being outside, just sitting astride her horse, the sunlight on her face, until winter nipping at her nose and ears chased her back indoors again.

Nuada caught her eye and grinned. Dylan cocked her head, confused.

*Lomán says His Highness would like to go riding with you,* Maeve said in her mind. *Not a hard ride. Simply for pleasure.*

"Ohhh," Dylan said softly. She stroked Maeve's warm, pearl-white neck, running her fingertips over the mint-green strands of her mane. "Do you want to?" If Maeve was tired, she didn't want to be rude.

*I wouldn't mind a quick canter through the snow. Shall we race them, my lady?*

In answer, Dylan grinned, winked at Nuada, and then pressed her knees against the mare's sides, urging her from the slow trot she'd been doing into a brisk canter. Lomán nickered after them and Dylan heard Nuada laugh.

They outpaced the convoy easily, ignoring the friendly jibes from Dastan and Princess Kamaria and John. The only moment of reluctance Dylan felt came when she remembered that Zhenjin was still with the relief caravan, could probably see her and Nuada trotting off to flirt with each other in private, and the memory of his face whenever he'd seen the two of them hit her like a fist. Maeve's ears flicked back as Dylan made a soft, unconscious sound. Nuada looked over, frowning in concern.

Crud, Dylan thought, twisting in the saddle to look back the way they'd come. Was Zhenjin watching? She hated making him so miserable.

But when she saw the dragon Elf, met those reptilian eyes, he didn't look as depressed as she'd expected. He sat astride his long ma, Kamaria beside him. He offered Dylan a smile and a nod, and in her mind she heard him murmur, Go enjoy the winter and the wood, Dylan.

Okay. You're okay?

Her only response was his wry smile before he turned back to chatting with Princess Kamaria.

Good. She wasn't in love with Zhenjin, but he was her friend, and she felt bad for him. There was nothing anybody could do about his sorrow, but she still sympathized with him.

"Dylan?" Nuada said. His expression gave nothing away.

She offered him a bright smile. "Let's go."

So they rode. Dylan was no equestrian by any means; the first time she'd ever sat on an actual horse by herself, versus a pony that walked you in a circle, had been the day before they'd set out on this trip. Other than that, she'd ridden double with Nuada all of two times: once in a fast gallop that had left her shaking and breathless with the fear of falling once Lomán had stopped running, and one other time, Branwen's Tears turning her blood to acid, a bleeding and barely conscious A'du'la'di in her arms as they'd raced back to the castle and the healers.

This time was nothing like that. Nuada had chosen Maeve as her mount because the white arion mare was sweet-tempered, patient, and good at making sure her rider didn't fall off. Since they weren't galloping, Maeve had ample time to trot around fallen logs or snow-covered boulders instead of leaping over them as Lomán and Nuada did.

"Show off!" Dylan called with a laugh as the prince jumped his black stallion over a fallen tree just jutting into the road from the snowy forest. It wouldn't give the wagons any trouble because it was so far off to the side; Nuada had jumped it for fun, not because he'd needed to.

Her prince tossed his star-blond hair and guided his mount back to her side. Giving her a look of faux-disdain, he said, "I beg your pardon, my lady?"

"Beg all you want," she said with a smile.

Nuada almost choked on a laugh. "Mo duinne, once we are wed, I do not think I will be the one begging."

Color flared in Dylan's cold cheeks, making them tingle. She hunched her shoulders, a laugh bubbling in her throat and butterflies flapping madly in her stomach. He didn't usually joke like that but every once in a while…

Well, two could play this game.

Sweetening her smile, she said, "Probably. Wedding cake is suuuper addicting, I'll probably be asking for more of it for a while."

Nuada gave her an affronted look. "You'll have more important things to think about than cake, beloved."

"Nothing's more important than cake, hot stuff."

"You wound me," he said dryly, then grinned when she laughed. Suddenly he gave Lomán's reins a soft tug, and the stallion halted. Maeve stopped too, without any direction from Dylan. Setting his hands on the pommel of the saddle, Nuada dismounted. "Come down to me?" He asked softly.

Still a little clumsy in mounting and dismounting, Dylan was grateful when Nuada moved to her so that she could set her hands on his broad shoulders and he helped her slide off the mare's back. Patting Maeve's shoulder, Nuada said, "You and Lomán walk by yourselves a bit, Lady Maeve. I would walk beside my betrothed."

As Dylan slid her arms around one of Nuada's and cuddled close, she realized they hadn't done this in a few weeks. Since Christmas? The winter solstice? Before? She couldn't remember. So much had happened. It was nice to be able to just hold him like this, feel his warmth and the solid strength of him, as they walked under the chill sun. The world was so very quiet save for the warbling of winter birds and the crunch of snow underfoot. Thanks to her enchanted socks and fur-lined boots, Dylan's feet weren't even cold.

"I'm very proud of you, you know," Nuada said as they walked. She looked up at him. "Perhaps you are tired of me singing your praises?"

"Psht," she said. "As if. No one else thinks I'm this great. It's nice to hear. But I'm proud of you, too. I hope you know that." Proud of him for so many things, for enduring so many things, taking so many important steps for himself and his people, even when it must have been impossibly hard.

Nuada sighed. "I have disappointed you, as well."

She cocked her head. "What? No. What? What are you talking about?"

He didn't speak for a long moment. Finally, instead of speaking aloud, he managed to twine his fingers with hers so that he could send one name directly into her brain. Naya.

Oh. Nuada, I told you I wasn't going to pressure you into anything. That's not how you and I work. I'm not disappointed in you.

Are you not? He pressed his lips to the side of her head in a quick, fervent kiss. That relieves me a little. You are one of the last people I would ever wish to disappoint. But I have not been to see her yet.

Well, Nuala kind of chased you away last time. I understand.

I am the crown prince, he muttered silently. I should not have let her 'chase me away.' My father agreed to withhold his judgment until I could make my own. It is unfair of me to draw this out for so long.

Dylan hugged his arm, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. Look, I'll support you if you go to talk to her. I'll support you if you don't. I think you should, you know I think that, but you're an adult and I don't have the right to force you. If you think you should go see her, then go see her. And I'll be here for you when you get back.

She didn't have to be holding his hand, didn't have to see his face to know what he was thinking. Only John and her cousin Renee knew Dylan as well as Nuada did; maybe Becan, too, since he'd been living with her as the cottage brownie since she'd moved in years before. But she knew Nuada just as well as he knew her. She knew what he was thinking: of how much going to see Naya would hurt him, whether he wanted to bear that hurt to seek answers she might not even give him.

She also knew what his ultimate decision would be. So she wasn't surprised when, after their walk, after climbing back on the horses and riding back to meet up with the convoy, he rode a little by himself for a time, thinking. And she wasn't surprised when, after they stopped for their midday meal, he came to her, kissed her once in farewell, and vanished.

They wouldn't reach the next village until tomorrow. He would be back long before that, she knew. They all knew. Every member of the convoy trusted Prince Nuada implicitly. He would be back.

.

Princess Nuala felt her brother's presence like a splash of ice water down her spine when Nuada suddenly appeared within the walls of Findias. He was back. Of course he would not stay away as she'd asked, begged him to. What did he want now?

But he didn't reach out and try to touch her mind. She knew he sensed her presence in the castle. Almost always before this, when he'd come within sight of Findias he would call to her through their mystical bond, the yearning to hear her greet him tangible to them both. But not this time. She sensed his presence, sensed his desire to call out to her. But he didn't.

Inexplicably stung by that when she ought to have been relieved—he was respecting her wishes to be left alone at last, wasn't he?—Nuala rose from the desk in her study and headed for the door leading to the corridor beyond her suite. She would not go looking for Nuada, that...churl. She didn't want to talk to him. Didn't want to see him, think about him.

No, she wanted to be distracted. But Na'ko'ma was outside, needing to be close to the land so she could ignore Bethmoorans for a while and pretend she was back home again. Naya was...where she belonged. So she would go to the only other person who could give her adequate distraction. And if she noticed the puzzled looks some of the courtiers gave her as she swanned through the halls, she gave no sign of it.

Mere moments after her knock on the door, it swung open to reveal Crown Prince Bres in a loose, open shirt and trews, a book in one hand, his golden hair a bit disheveled. He blinked in surprise when he saw her.

"Princess Nuala-"

"I realized I'd been falling prey to the winter glooms, and thought visiting my betrothed would be the perfect antidote," she said with forced brightness. Their betrothal wasn't official yet, and her father had suddenly begun dragging his feet about making the public announcement, but Bres had asked, she had said yes, and the king had approved. This was all perfectly respectable. "May I come in?"

A warm smile curved his lips. "Of course. I would be...delighted to help chase away your gloom, sweet princess."

Relieved, wondering why she felt just a little guilty, Nuala accepted Bres's offered hand and let him escort her into his suite.

.

Nuada strode through the halls of the dungeons, forcing himself not to reach out to his twin for comfort. Nuala had made it clear she did not wish to associate with him in any way. She blamed him for Naya's betrayal; no doubt, if—when?—the king executed the Zwezdan Elf, Nuala would blame him for that as well, despite how he'd argued for clemency.

Well, no matter. He was not here for Nuala. He was here for Naya, and for himself. Perhaps for Dylan, as Naya had harmed her as well, but he would not try to make this some noble undertaking for his truelove as some might have done. He wanted answers. He wanted her to answer him. So he was here. His father had been expecting him, and the dungeon guards at the main doors had simply waved him through.

The prince stepped down to the level where the king had told him Naya was being kept. The air here was so cruel and icy, frost had gathered on the frigid stones. Where condensation had dripped from the slightly warmer stones by the torches to puddle on the floor, thin skins of ice covered many of the puddles. The ice cracked like brittle glass under his boots. Shades of Annwn, if he didn't know any better, he would have said it was colder in the dungeons than outside in the snow.

What prisoners he passed were huddled near the bars of their cells, small coal-burning braziers just out of arm's reach their only warmth besides coarse, woolen blankets. Nuada frowned at that. This wasn't right. What had these prisoners done, few as they were, to be held in conditions like this? Why had Balor not punished them and set them free, or executed them, or sent them to a prison island? The dungeons were not prisons; they were meant to be temporary. How long had these people been here?

He thought of Guardsman Loén, Dylan's extra guard that the king had gifted to her at her elevation ceremony. The young guard thrown in the king's dungeon and beaten more than once simply for the sin of having been partnered with Guardsman Siothrun, who had left Nuada to die when assassins had attacked at midwinter. Loén had been left in the dungeons even after being cleared of any crimes, all because Balor had forgotten about him. Dylan had used the traditional boon of a new noble to have him released and assigned to her so that he could be with his sister, another of her guards, and so that Dylan and Nuada could protect him from Balor's negligence.

Had that negligence also been the reason these fae were here? The kelpie whose half-shifted hands looked more like hooves, the hooves split to the quick and caked with black, dried blood? The bhargest girl, curled up in her dog-girl form to warm herself with her shaggy coat and shifter magic? The old dullahan holding his own head in chapped, raw hands that shook with cold? Who were the fae locked up here? What had they done?

When he left, he would spend a little extra magic to detour to Renvyle. Master Mac Essit and the others ought to have arrived there by now; Nuada could task Dylan's new steward with gathering the information he wanted. No one knew who Mac Essit was yet, and being in Renvyle would protect him; the king would send no soldiers there if Balor took offense at the steward's prodding.

But for now...perhaps it would anger his father. Perhaps these people were monsters like Bres or Westenra or Patrick and Xander, the humans Dylan would not let him kill. The prince didn't know. All he knew was that his honor twisted in him so that when he passed each occupied cell, he made a point to drag his fingertips over the chilled bars of Elven silver, imbuing them with warmth that would stay and protect the prisoners from the winter cold.

The next few corridors were thankfully empty, though the braziers had still been lit to fight the ice of winter and stone. Why had Balor decided to isolate Naya this way? For her own protection? She had helped try to kill him, the Silverlance, known as an enemy of humans. That would brand her to many as a human-lover, a traitor to the fae. Perhaps it was for her safety. But then, why not place her under guard in her rooms? Or send her to a prison island if house-arrest was too soft for Balor's liking? Bethmoora had a few of them, island estates where members of the royal family could be sent if the king wanted them punished.

Or, Nuada thought suddenly, what if Balor hadn't been the one to arrange all this? Nuala had said that Naya had confessed the treachery to her, so what if…?

The sound of laughter broke the thought like glass shattering under stone. Nuada frowned. The laughter didn't sound right. More jeering, mirth laced with malice. Low and furtive, as if whoever laughed knew they were breaking some rule. The dungeon guards? He was near Naya's cell. Were they jeering at her? Mocking her?

Nuada didn't remember drawing his sword; was vaguely surprised when he noticed its weight in his hand. No matter. If someone was laughing at Naya…

He strode forward, using skill and glamour to move with silence through the cold corridor.

They were not merely laughing at her. Nuada was so shocked by the tableau before him, he actually tripped. Royal glamour kept him from being noticed.

Naya looked terrible. She was thin, her arms covered in small black and dark gray bruises as if...as if someone had been viciously pinching her. Her long, black hair had been hacked short, but not as short as Pauline's had been for her punishment. Balor had sworn he would not punish her until Nuada spoke with her; had he lied? If not, who had cut her hair? Who had dared humiliate her like that? She huddled in a ball on the icy floor, coughing wetly as the guards prodded her through the cell bars with the tips of spears. Where the blades touched, an angry gray rash spread over her skin. Where the blades cut, the sickly yellow-gray of infection spread under her skin.

When he took a step forward, Nuada smelled it: the reek of cold iron. Butcher Guards, redcaps, dullahan, dwarves, and some other fae from Bethmoora could bear iron. Most Elves from this continent could not without the protection of royal blood. Naya was a noble, but she wasn't royal.

"Ask nicely and maybe we'll give you a drink, aye?" One guard sneered as Naya coughed and coughed until she was gasping for air. The meager breath she could get rasped in her throat and rattled in her chest.

Danu's mercy...Nuada thought, staring at her. Had Nuala known? Known what the guards were doing when no one was there to stop them?

Another guard kicked the cell bars. They clanged loudly and Naya cried out, clutching her head. Nuada noticed her face was flushed with silver and her cat-slit eyes were dilated and glassy. Fever. How sick was she?

The first guard started to shove his spear through the bars again. Nuada bared his teeth in a feral snarl. Reaching with magic—if he used a blade, he would kill them, and the wretches deserved it, deserved to die, he ached to hear their blood singing over Elven silver—he flexed his power. The three guards recognized his presence a split-second before he shoved with royal magic and they hit their knees on the flagstones.

"Y-Y-Your Highness-" One of them stuttered.

"Silence!" Rage pulsing through his skull. Tingling along with the magic at his fingertips and the tips of his ears and down the length of his spine. Coiling like icy snakes in his belly. He shoved with his magic again. The guards choked as he ripped away their voices. Maybe, in a few moons, or a few years, he would give them back.

Another flex of his magic, a hot wave surging from his chest down his arms, and the cell bars cracked, splintered, then exploded outward. No shards of metal struck him or Naya. Several slivers cut the guards where their armor left them exposed, but they made no sound. Nuada held their voices in a cocoon of fury and power.

The prince strode past them as they struggled to get off their knees, struggled to speak, struggled to do anything but kneel there, clutching their throats, and bleeding. He ignored their struggles and went to Naya.

She peered up at him with confused, glazed eyes. "Nuada…?" His name was barely a wheeze past her lips.

"I am getting you out of this place," he murmured. He couldn't be angry at her now. Couldn't think about why he had come. Not when she only closed her eyes, too weak from illness and iron poisoning to do anything else, and slumped against him in a half-faint.

He sheathed his sword and lifted her carefully from the floor. Her skin burned, and she was so stars-cursed light. What had been happening while he was gone? What was Balor doing? What was Nuala doing? If she hadn't known, why not? If she had, why hadn't she done something? And if she couldn't, why hadn't she contacted him so that he could do something?

Tucking her against his chest, he walked past the bleeding, voiceless guards. He would send someone for them, let the magic fade so they could be moved, could be brought before him for judgment—later. After he'd taken care of Naya. After he'd gone to the king.

After he'd spoken with his sister.

.

Unease prickled under Dylan's skin and a cool whisper of warning breathed down her backbone. She looked up from the dying campfire as John came and sat beside her, followed by Zhenjin. The two people who could sense her moods and, vaguely, her thoughts. They had come just as the first shiver of unease came. They'd sensed it, too.

"Is there danger, Dylan?" Zhenjin asked softly as he sank down onto stone. She noticed he made a point to keep John between them. "I feel your unease."

"Yeah," John said. "It's like being gnawed on by fire ants when you've been shot up with really weak Novocain."

She raised her eyebrows. Zhenjin blinked owlishly at her brother, then said dryly, "Yes."

Translation, Dylan thought with a small smile, he has no idea what Novocain is so that didn't make a lot of sense, but he got the basic gist. Her smile vanished as a weird, dull sort of heat throbbed through her chest. Not the warmth of the Spirit. Not something coming from her, either. So what…?

She blinked. Sat bolt upright. John and Zhenjin stared at her. When her twin opened his mouth to demand information, Zhenjin raised a hand, silencing him. Dylan closed her eyes. She knew this feeling. She'd felt it before. More than once, but when?

"What do you sense?" Zhenjin asked softly. He hesitated, then ventured, "Is it Silverlance? Is he in danger?"

Another throb of dull heat. But no pain, and the faint warning chill from the Holy Ghost wasn't telling her that her prince was in any trouble. But...he was upset. That was what she sensed, Dylan realized. And that was why it felt so familiar. It was Nuada's anger, his rage. She hadn't felt it like this, distant and dull, since Shaohao had broken her bond with the prince and forged another between her and Zhenjin. Yet the link to the Dilong prince was also still there. There, but separate, the way her connection to her brother was separate.

This was the same empathic link she'd experienced with Nuada when they'd first begun growing close. The same emotional connection that had always told her when he needed comfort, when something awful was bothering him even when he didn't show it.

Their connection was beginning to come back.

She wanted to cheer. She wanted to jump up and down. She wanted to stick her tongue out at Shaohao...but if he'd been there and she had done that, no doubt the Red Dragon would do something drastic. Like rip her tongue out of her mouth. But Dylan didn't care. Her link to Nuada was reforming. It had been shattered and blocked by royal magic and still it was reforming.

"Dylan?" The edge of strain in Zhenjin's voice brought her back to the moment. Their link was coming back, yes. But what she was sensing now…

She licked her lips. "It's Nuada. He's not hurt. Not in danger. But whatever is happening, he is seriously ticked off."

He'd gone to Findias to speak to Naya at last. What had the silver-eyed Elf said, that Dylan could feel the heat of her prince's fury even hundreds if not thousands of miles away? What was going on back at the capital?

.

The first set of guards he passed tried to stop him. A mere pulse of heir's magic, heavy and smothering as fog, brought them to their knees. They did not shout at him, so he did not take their voices. Even with Bethmoorans, even with Bethmoorans sworn to the Crown and the royal family, he could only silence so many.

As children, he and Nuala had taken turns trying to still each other's tongues. The first time she'd done it to him in seriousness, when they were in their tenth century, had been in front of Jenny Hob, the head housekeeper. One of the domestic masters that had had partial responsibility for the royal pair's upbringing, Jenny had commanded Nuala to break her spell immediately, then sent her upstairs to bed without supper after delivering a humiliating lecture that had brought the princess to tears, explaining that silencing magic, a power of nobles and royals, was not a toy to meddle with, but serious magic.

Nuada had taken the lecture to heart as well, even though it hadn't been for him. But Nuala's tears had hurt him so, so that he'd snuck her some secret toast with plum jam and pear tarts from supper, and they'd made up in the dimly lit royal nursery over the sweets.

Serious magic, yes. He had used it sparingly over his many centuries. But he would not let those wretches that had tormented Naya speak any longer. Let them endure silence for a few moons and see how their attitudes toward torturing prisoners changed.

Torture was only to be used against prisoners either as a punishment in and of itself, carefully meted out—as he had done to that monster, Westenra—or for information if there was enough time to break the enemy. A prisoner usually knew they only needed to hold out for a certain length of time before whatever they hoped to protect came to fruition, which made it difficult to get information from any but the weakest, the most inexperienced. As he had been the first time humans had captured and tortured him. If not for his father sending soldiers to his rescue, he would have broken and spilled all.

The guards hadn't even wanted information from Naya. They'd simply been hurting her for sport. Had his father not told them she was to remain unharmed, unpunished until the prince came to make a decision? Had they thought they could ignore their sovereign?

He would ask Balor...later.

The next guardsman to see him took one look at his nearly gray face, his eyes like bronze washed in human blood, and took off running down the corridor the way he'd come. Nuada might have snarled at such cowardice, but it appeared the guard had gone to alert more guards, and they had in turn alerted Balor, because no other guardsmen tried to stop him, and the king was waiting in the castle beyond the dungeon's main doors.

Balor, looking tired and baffled and annoyed—but not enraged, thank the Fates—took one look at the pathetic bundle in Nuada's arms and whatever lecture he'd been preparing died away. The look on the old king's face...had his father looked that way when Nuada and Nuala had been recovered the day of their mother's murder? Had Balor looked like that when Nuada had been so sick with pneumonia as a boy, or when he'd been rescued from human torturers, or brought to the palace injured from battle?

King Balor reached out a hand that shook a little and smoothed back the strings of dirty, frost-glittered black hair falling into Naya's face. Now that they were out of the freezing embrace of the dungeons, the frost in her hair had begun to melt at last. The sick woman stirred but did not waken from her exhausted, feverish sleep.

"What is this?" Balor whispered. "I left word that she was not to be punished until you returned to speak with her. You begged me for this, you would not have…"

"No," Nuada growled. "I would not have. I did not. The blame falls to her guards. You will find them held just beyond the bars of her cell. The bars will need to be repaired."

Balor stared at him. "You...held them?"

Meeting his father's uneasy stare, Nuada bared his teeth in something too feral to be called a smile. "I hold them now. I will loose them when I have tended to Naya." He cast a disdainful look at the guard that had run away from him. "Send Healer Táebfada to the royal wing, to Ledi Polunochnaya's suite." When the guard hesitated, Nuada's smile sharpened. "That was not a request."

"A-at once, Your Highness!" The guard hurried away.

"What do you mean to do, my son?"

Nuada stared down at the flushed, bruised, too-thin face. The face of a woman who had once been his lover. The face of an enemy. The face of a friend that he still loved in a way. He could not think of her crimes now. They left his belly churning, his heart squeezed by icy talons. He would focus on the next step, and the next, one at a time, until he could decide how to punish her. As to what he would do with her…

"I will see that she is allowed to bathe, be tended by a healer, and given rest in her own bed."

"And then?" His father asked softly.

Nuada began walking again. "Then I will speak to Nuala."

Unless she chose to speak to him first.

.

He'd expected to find her sister in her suite, expected her to come running at all the noise as a bevy of female servants came and took charge of Naya, helping her into her own private bathing chamber. But Nuala didn't come. His father hadn't followed. He would be forced to sit here while Naya was tended in the other room and figure out what he was supposed to do with her.

But someone did come and find him. It just wasn't Nuala.

"What are you doing here?" Na'ko'ma demanded, stepping into Naya's bedroom. Nuada sat on the edge of the freshly-made bed, staring at nothing, deep in thought. He ignored the woman when she stepped further into the room. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Did you even go to see her?" Nuada demanded in a too soft voice. The sleek black and white feathers intermixed in Na'ko'ma's hair bristled. "Either of you? Did you even bother?"

Na'ko'ma looked away. "I respected Nuala's wishes in the matter. That doesn't explain-"

"She's in the bathing chamber," Nuada said. His sister's other lady-in-waiting jerked back. "I brought her, and summoned servants to tend her. She will be put to bed once they have finished."

After a long silence, she said, "Naya tried to kill you. You are not known for your mercy or your forgiveness."

He thought of the leanashe that had tried to kill Dylan last summer. He thought of Eamonn, how Nuada had gutted him and left him to bleed in the snow for the crime of hurting Dylan. He thought of Ciarán mac Aengus, how only Dylan's intervention had saved the Fomorian lord's life during her dancing lesson. He thought of all the enemies he'd fought, and felled, in the last year since meeting Dylan. No, he was not known to be merciful to his enemies. To Dylan's enemies. And Naya was both.

"This is different," was all he said.

Na'ko'ma hesitated, then to his utter shock, came and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. His eyes widened but he didn't move as she settled. She folded her arms across her stomach, cupping her elbows, hunching her shoulders.

"I didn't want to believe she could have done this," she whispered without looking at him. "Nuala wept for days. I didn't know what to think, what to do except hold her and comfort her as best I could." A furtive glance his way. "She blames you for this."

He'd known it, but hearing it still felt like an iron spike shoved into his chest. Wishing for a glass of whiskey, wishing even more for Dylan's arms around him, he muttered, "I supposed as much. As do you, of course."

But she surprised him by shaking her head.

"When Nuala wanted to stop you from doing something, she did it in council, or by going to the king, or simply refusing you her aid. If Naya wanted to stop something you meant to do, that is what she should have done. Not lie to you, to us. Not betray her family." She bit her lip. "I have never liked you-" She began.

"I am absolutely shocked," he said dryly. "Shocked, I tell you."

Na'ko'ma rolled her eyes. "You have no manners."

"Neither do you," he muttered. "It's why I've always detested you."

"Because how dare I disrespect you, the oh so lofty and mighty Silverlance?"

Nuada glared at her. "Because if I was forced into a position I didn't want, I would not have those who were subordinate to me spitting in my gods-cursed face. An accident of birth and blood gave me this connection to the land, but do you think as a child, as a boy, or even now, I want that responsibility? It is mine, and so I do what I must. I love my people, this kingdom, so I will not abandon it. But only a fool lusts for that sort of responsibility. I was born to it and I am obligated to it, so I will do what I must. I would prefer if people who are supposed to be my allies don't spit on me and curse my name."

"Oh, poor you," she growled. "Forced to become a prince, oh, how terrible. Nuala is under just as much strain-"

"Hardly," he snapped. "She will not be queen when our father is gone. She is not inheriting a people driven to the edge of desperation, a kingdom on the brink of war with an entire realm-"

"Then don't go to war. See how easy it was to solve that little dilemma?"

"And so we should die, as your people died?" He demanded. She flinched. "We should let our lands be invaded, our traditions broken, our children taken from us? You think I have forgotten when you left to go to Elphame for a time, the place your people call Turtle Island? You think I've forgotten what some of the invading mortals have done, are still doing, to your people? Would you have the same thing happen to my people now?"

Na'ko'ma didn't speak for a long moment. Finally she said, without meeting his eyes, "No. I would not."

"Nuala would," he said softly. "I love her. She is the other half of me. I will always love her. But in protecting our people, she is rarely an ally. I had thought…" Nuada gritted his teeth against the sudden pain twisting through him. "I had thought that Naya would be an ally. She made me believe she was."

He didn't know what to say or do when Na'ko'ma reached out and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "I am an ally in this, Prince Nuada. I may not like you, but I do not want to see your people go the way of mine. And I think…" A hesitation, a flash of pain in her copper eyes. "I think Naya is."

Nuada just looked at her, too weary to bother being confused.

"She took part in this conspiracy against you, but she confessed it without being coerced. She came to Nuala of her own volition and tried to save you. That must mean something, yes?"

He stared at her. Of her own volition? He hadn't asked how they'd learned of Naya's treachery. He'd been too stunned, learning of it himself, and too pressed with everything else going on in Lallybroch. His twin had said that Naya confessed it with her own lips as proof that the king was not wrong to condemn her, but Nuada hadn't asked why. He'd simply assumed they'd learned something to point them in Naya's direction and they'd then interrogated her. Yet she had confessed it of her own will?

"We are not friends," Na'ko'ma said softly, breaking into his thoughts. "We are not family, you and I, though we both love Nuala in our ways. But I will grant this: what Naya conspired to do to you was wrong, and Nuala is wrong to condemn you for her actions. And I think Naya herself regrets it, or else why try to protect you?" She pushed off the bed and headed for the door, but paused just at the threshold. Not looking at him, she said stiffly, "If you wish it, I will keep Nuala from these rooms."

Nuala outranked both her ladies-in-waiting of course, but that was merely on paper. Saying that being a princess of the blood meant she outranked them ignored that Naya and Na'ko'ma had been Nuala's dearest friends for more than three-thousand years, and ignored what leverage that friendship gave the other two women.

And Nuada knew his sister. She'd left Naya to rot in the king's dungeon for weeks, just as she'd left him to rot in his exile for centuries, for two millennia. Nuala wouldn't want to come in here, which meant Na'ko'ma's attempts to dissuade her if she felt some twinge of conscience would be short-lived and completely effective. So he said that it would suit him if she did, and he thanked the woman who was not his friend, who did not like him in the least, who had spent centuries upon centuries despising him, and watched her walk out and let the door fall shut behind her.

.

It was night when Nuada came back. Dylan looked up from the fire and then got to her feet when she saw the pale shadow of him striding toward them. He looked...she wasn't sure. Tired, certainly. Frustrated? Relieved, probably thankful to be back with her instead of in the palace with Nuala and Naya and his father. But there was something else. It wasn't his expression, or even his bearing. Not the way he walked or the look in his eyes. She wasn't sure what she was sensing, but whatever it was made Dylan's teeth ache a little.

Zhenjin noticed her rubbing her jaw and smiled grimly as Nuada came into the circle of the firelight. But it was Kamaria who spoke, and she spoke to the Bethmooran prince, not Dylan.

"Lay the power to rest, Silverlance. It's a little much for your mortal lady. Even for me; it makes my eye itch." As if to emphasize her words, she rubbed the mound of scar tissue where her eye had once been.

Nuada's eyes—flashing between scarlet-washed bronze and exhausted firegold—sliced to Dylan's face. His brow furrowed when he noticed how she rubbed her jaw. Closing his eyes, he cocked his head just a little, that feral alien tilt that always told Dylan even when he wore glamour that he was fundamentally not human. His nostrils flared. His fingers twitched. That sense of something dimmed, eased, and the ache in her jaw faded.

"Forgive me, mo duinne. I had to mete out a punishment this day, one that required an heir's power. I cannot release the threads of the spell yet. I will shield you from them, though, fear not."

He held out his hand to her, and she took it, pressed it to her cheek. His fingers were like bands of ice against her skin.

You're cold, she whispered through their linked hands. Who were you punishing? Naya?

No, he muttered as they took their seats before the fire. Zhenjin and Kamaria studied Nuada for a long minute before Kamaria turned her attention to the fire. Zhenjin signaled one of the wagon-folk, who brought the returned prince a mug of hot spiced cider. Nuada sipped, letting the sweet spiced drink warm him. Dylan laid her head on his shoulder; she felt the tension drain from him slowly, drop by drop, the longer he sipped and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand.

You don't have to tell me what happened, she said gently. But I think you should. You're unhappy.

I am furious, Dylan, he said flatly. She blinked, her only outward sign of surprise. Nuada sighed in her mind. Furious, and ashamed of myself, and confused, and heartsick. Nothing can ever be easy, can it? Not one stars-cursed thing.

Dylan considered silently, staring into the flames as Nuada finished his drink. Kamaria met her eyes over the fire and arched one elegant black brow.

Over the weeks, Kamaria and Dylan had become close in a way Dylan didn't quite understand. They understood each other, despite knowing very little about each other's lives. When they were near each other, it was easy enough for them to silently communicate just with their expressions or the subtlest gestures. They laughed at the same jokes, enjoyed the same games and entertainments, disliked the same things. What was it Francesca sometimes called it? Sister from another mister?

Now Kamaria's single dark eye shone in the light of the fire and her expression, which most might consider unreadable, spoke volumes to Dylan. Whatever was wrong with Nuada, he wouldn't share it here, not fully. Not even in the privacy of their linked minds. If she wanted him to spill, Dylan would have to take him somewhere else.

The mortal canted her head in the slightest gesture of acknowledgment. Kamaria blinked slowly; it reminded Dylan of the way cats blinked when they were satisfied and happy. She desperately wanted to be able to just hang out with Kamaria sometime, after all the drama was over—if it would ever be over. She'd have to arrange that with Nuada later.

In the meantime, there was her prince.

Come on, she said, tugging him a little. Come walk with me. When he offered only a tired protest about "their guests," she added, We're not the hosts here. The others will be fine. Come walk with me, my love.

They made their excuses to the others around the campfire. Dylan stopped only long enough at the carriage to fetch her coat, which she doffed her fur cloak long enough to slip on, then slipped the cloak on again over it. The russet velvet and golden-red wolf and mink fur cloak kept her warm enough when she was by the fire, but she wanted the extra warmth from the enchanted, fur-lined coat as well.

There were no unicorn glories near enough to prevent winter from spreading beyond the edges of the King's Road. The forest was dark and cold, the trees bare of leaves and the ground pearly blue with moonlit snow. They made sure to keep the caravan's fires in sight as they walked.

"Why did you want me to walk with you?" Nuada asked curiously. He wore his greatcoat, the one Dylan had given him as a gift. Although she walked beside him, she kept her hands tucked into the warmth of her cloak, so he kept his stuffed in his coat pockets. The snow crunched softly under their boots. "We could have talked in the carriage."

She shrugged. "You're a physical guy. You like moving around. And I've done a lot of sitting today and need to keep my leg limber."

"Ah."

When he gave her shoulder an affectionate little bump with his, she laughed. The breath curled in wisps of silver in front of her face. Like their walk earlier that morning, this false sense of isolation gave them a bit of peace. A feeling that the stresses waiting for them did not loom quite so tall.

But she'd asked him to come out and walk with her for a reason.

"I remember the first time I saw Naya," Dylan said softly, "back before I even knew who she was. When your father let Eamonn flog you. I didn't really pay much attention to her then—I was focused on you, on your dad, on trying to keep him from killing you—but I remember her. She was the only person up near the king's dais who actually looked upset. Everyone else just looked...flat."

Dylan heard Nuada swallow, but he didn't speak. He was probably wondering where she was going with this. She wasn't quite sure herself where she intended to take it. But it seemed like the more she talked, the more relaxed—generally—Nuada became. So she kept on.

"You said she was your best friend. Everything I've seen or heard about her except for this...treason thing...makes me believe it. I can tell you really love her." Something flickered in his eyes and she shrugged. "You care deeply for her. I don't think you're in love with her or anything-"

"I was," he confessed. Dylan nearly tripped on a tree root sticking up just a little out of the snow. "Long before you. When I was a boy, before my exile. We were friends, and we were sweethearts, and then friends again. I don't...I do not understand how she could do this to me, and yet…"

When he didn't go on, she hazarded, "So...you didn't talk to her yet?" Then what had he been doing all afternoon?

Nuada sighed. "I meant to. I planned to. But when I arrived, circumstances prevented me." A growl rumbled under the words when he said, "I found that the guards assigned to her had been abusing her. Tormenting her. She was wounded, sick. She barely seemed to realize I was even there."

"Oh. Oh. So the guards were the ones you were punishing?" She asked. The prince nodded. "I see. You...rescued her."

"Of course," he said defensively. "Do you think I could leave anyone to such maltreatment? I know not what my father thinks he is accomplishing, keeping his dungeons in such shape. I was never stuck in a freezing cold cell with little water and no food-"

"You're the crown prince," she pointed out.

"It shouldn't matter! I realize my worth to the kingdom is greater than nearly anyone else's, because of my blood and my power, but that does not mean I have greater worth as a person. Being a prince does not mean I deserve to be free from the abuse heaped on those beneath my station. But I do not think my father agrees. When I went to see Naya, the cells were so cold there was frost on the stones and ice in the water buckets. She was sick, feverish, shaking so hard I thought she might break her own teeth. I…"

He spun suddenly and, with a muffled cry, rammed his fist into the trunk of a leafless black tree. Dylan jumped. Nuada punched the tree again, and a third time, snarling obscene things under his breath. When he reared back his arm to make a fourth strike, Dylan bared her teeth and grabbed his arm in both of hers.

"Nuada, stop."

"Let me g-"

"Stop," she said flatly. "This isn't helping you or Naya or the tree." She felt the muscles quivering under her grip, tight with strain, thrumming with anger—but not at her. She knew his fury had nothing at all to do with her, and she had no fear at all that Nuada would ever strike out at her for any reason. So it was only what she expected, when he relaxed and sighed and dropped his arm. Dylan lifted his hand to her face. "Can you make me a light?"

He scoffed. "I need no coddling-"

"I will wait until you're asleep and paint your fingernails neon orange if you don't make me a light, Prince Prissy Pants. You're bleeding." She gave him her don't test me look, which she knew he could see even with only moonbeams to give him light. "And besides, you absolutely need coddling. You've had a crap day."

A wisp of golden light flared to life just above her line of sight. Dylan blinked the spots from her vision and studied Nuada's lacerated hand and the swelling knuckles. Golden blood seeped from the scrapes in the pale skin. Very carefully, she kissed one knuckle and met his eyes.

"I know you're angry. I know you're upset in a million different ways and under a crud-ton of stress. I know. But you have to stop doing this to yourself. Please?"

"It is nothing, Dylan-"

"It hurts me," she said softly. "It hurts me, knowing you're hurting and I can't fix it. And it hurts me that you hurt yourself when things get bad. You might not think of it that way, but that's what you're doing. You take it out on your body whenever you reach a certain stress level. It's not good for you."

He blinked down at her, obviously shocked. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Opened it. Then he hesitated. Finally, he managed, "I...had not thought of it in that way. I had not realized it was such a habit. Forgive me. I will do better. I...I am simply…" A muscle flexed in his jaw and his fingers curled into a tight fist. "I just…"

She worked her own fingers into the tight fist he'd made so that her fingers pressed against his palm. His pulse thudded through his hand, hard and heavy and furious.

Say what you're feeling, she said. Out loud. I won't turn on you for it. I won't mock you for it. Tell me what you're feeling.

"I cannot help but wonder, cannot help but fear...what if she was right?" Nuada confessed in a rush. His eyes were wide, and Dylan didn't think she'd ever seen this color yellow in them before. Not bronze or ivory or gold or xanthous gray, but a sickly yellow-green. "Dylan, she was my first love. My first lover. My best friend, even after we had stopped being in love."

Dylan jolted inwardly, but forced herself not to react to what he was saying. She could freak out later, get upset or angry or growl at him for lying to her all those weeks ago when he'd said his relationship with Naya had been "a fling." First love, first lover, was not "a fling." But she had said she wouldn't yell at him for what he was thinking if he told her, so she couldn't.

"Nuala...I have known Nuala despised me, thought me without honor, thought me a monster all these centuries. I knew that my father considered me a stain on his honor, a shame to our family and our crown. I knew that. But I always thought Naya believed in me. Trusted in me to do what was right and honorable. If she has turned against me...what if I am the one who is wrong and not she? What if they were all right, all this time?"

He stared at her, those greenish-yellow eyes bleak and yes, afraid. Afraid in a way she had never seen before. And she didn't know what to say.

"I know I am a monster. You would say I am not, but your heart is full of love and forgiveness, and you love me. I am. I must be, at times, to keep my people and my kingdom safe. I know I have sins carved into my heart. Blood staining my hands. But I thought...I thought it was necessary, to protect what was precious. Naya always believed in me. I thought she believed in me. Yet she turned against me and sought to destroy me for protecting my people. And yes, she confessed it and tried to save me in the end, but she still turned against me. What if I deserved it?

"And thinking that...it makes me doubt everything I have ever done, every conflict with my father, every argument with Nuala, every decision I've made for the sake of my kingdom-"

"You can't think like that," Dylan interrupted. "She wasn't right, and you weren't wrong. Forget being stupid in love with you—I know I'm biased sometimes, but objectively, there is nothing I've learned from or about you that would ever make me think you deserved this kind of betrayal. Nuada…"

She ran a hand through her hair, yanked out her scrunchie. Redoing her ponytail gave her a minute to think, a minute to fume in silence. She knew exactly what this was like. Someone you thought had your back suddenly lashes out at you, and you wonder how much of your interactions with that person were them holding back what they really thought, how often you did something that made them angry or hate you. Nuada didn't deserve to feel like that, even when he'd…

Dylan froze, looking into Nuada's eyes. He must have seen something in her face because unease spread across his own.

"What?" He asked softly. "You've thought of something. Something you don't like."

She swallowed. Took a deep breath, and let it out. Because it was past, because they'd dealt with it and put it behind them, Dylan had forgotten the details of Nuada's former plans. Allowed herself to forget them. But what if Naya had actually known? How many people had Nuada told? Balor had known; had Nuala? If Nuala had known, had she told her ladies-in-waiting?

"Dylan?"

She closed her eyes in order to focus her thoughts. "Nuada...the Golden Army. Did Naya know you meant to wake it up? That you still mean to wake it up?"

He jerked back from her. "I do not mean to wake it."

Now it was her turn to stare at him. "What do you mean? Why not?"

"Why would I? I told you, I have forsaken that path-"

"Yeah," she interrupted, "the path of genocide. That's good, that's great. We covered that. But why wouldn't you wake the Golden Army? Humans have nuclear bombs; this is basically the same thing. Anyway," she raised her hands when he opened his mouth, "not the point right now. This is more important. Did Naya know you planned to wake the Golden Army?"

Nuada's brows furrowed. "I...I do not know. My father knew. He may have told my sister, I'm not sure. I would have to ask him."

"Does everyone in Bethmoora think of the Golden Army the way the king does? As a tool for genocide, nothing more?"

"I...do not know." He was following her train of thought now, she could see it. The fear was leaving his face, the sickly green draining from his eyes to leave them glittering, glacial topaz. "Many of them, yes. All of them? I do not know. I would have to send out agents to gather that information. Is that information we need, do you think?"

Dylan shook her head. "No. No, not right now." Warmth had blossomed in her chest as her mind continued to race. She had it now, it was coming together in her head. "But if Naya knew...if she thought you meant to commit genocide with the Golden Army...what if that was why she conspired against you?"

"But then, why renege and try to save me?"

"Because," Dylan said, "you gave up the plans that had turned her against you in the first place." When he didn't reply, when he only stared at the snow as the thoughts sank into place, Dylan said, "You'll go back to Findias tomorrow?"

He nodded. Then he murmured, "Tonight...I do not wish to be alone, mo duinne. You sleep in your carriage, but...would you allow me to set my bedroll on the carriage floor? Just your nearness would be a comfort to me."

Dylan took his hand and pressed it to the warmth of her cheek. He still looked tired and sad. No matter the reason for Naya's betrayal, this was still hard on him, and it would only get harder.

"You can stay with me if you want. I'm always here for you, just like you are for me."

His thumb brushed gently over the edge of her cheekbone, a soft caress. So much went unspoken between them; unspoken, yet understood. He was grateful to her, for her. He opened his arms and she slipped into his hold, cuddling against him for warmth and comfort. Some of the things he'd said still scritched at her brain, but she could ignore them for now and enjoy being with him. Enjoy pressing her forehead into that notch in his sternum so that his heart beat gently against her brow and his lips pressed to the crown of her head.

"I love you," he murmured against her hair. "You are the diamond-bright guiding star of my sky. I do not know what I would have ever done without you."

"Oh, I know exactly what you'd have done. Be incredibly, hideously boring. See, I'm lots of fun, and you're no fun at all. I complete you!" She smiled up at him, glad when he smiled back.

"Yes," he said, and kissed her forehead. "You complete me."

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Author's Note: so what did you guys think? Let me know in reviews! What should Nuada do with Naya?