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.

137. Soaring Ever Higher

Author's Note: hey, everybody! I know, I know, I have taken forever to post this update. That's because I wasn't home for about two months and also I was sick (what else is new?) but I'm home now and so I got this to my beta, she got it back to me, I put it up on my Pat. Re. On. (freaking censor algorithms), and now I'm posting it here.

Also, while I was gone, I discovered (at the tail end of my house-sitting for my parents) a phone app that should make it easier for me to write, thus hopefully making it easier to post on some kind of actual schedule. Hopefully. Next chapter is almost done so look for it in November.

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Once Upon a Time

Chapter One-Hundred-Thirty-Seven

Soaring Ever Higher

that is

A Short Tale of Killing, Fathers, Clemency, Accusations, Feeling Better, a Farewell, an Embrace, Three Monsters and a Kitchen Maid, the Taint of Human Blood, a Sporting Woman, a Sick Child, Dylan Daring to Fire People, Petra Helps, Petra Learns, How Royal Magic Stacks, the Western Shore, a Familiar Set of Teeth, a Sorrowing Prince, Handcuffs, and Quivering Anticipation

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In the morning, after kissing his beloved goodbye and returning to the capital, Nuada killed four men.

The Butcher Guards that had tormented Naya and the other dungeon prisoners for the gods only knew how long, those cowards hiding behind the meager power given them by royal authority, never saw the light of day again. When the Silverlance swept through the dungeon corridors, he drew his power to him. The sheer, unbridled power of a fae heir. Magic roiled like iridescent storm clouds around him. Crackled over his skin like the kiss of a thousand bolts of lightning. And when he reached the cell at the end of the corridor, drenched in shadow and cold, he found his prisoners waiting, cringing away from the swelling storm of royal magic.

Nuada ripped down the dams he usually kept to pen his power. The magic boiled over, hot and thick and shimmering, and poured over the guards. Nuada stood back and let it. He only watched as it fell on them.

The bone-white face remained impassive, but the guards' magic-stolen screams rattled and pulsed, desperate to escape the prince's implacable grip. They clawed at their throats, their chests, their bellies. Magic kept pouring into them. An unending well of pure, impossible power flooded them. It blazed through their writhing veins. Slowly burned them to ash from the inside out. Pressed inexorably down upon their skulls until thick bone began to crack.

Nuada drowned them in royal magic. Crushed them beneath the weight of the power he could only carry because the land itself allowed it. The sort of power only a monarch or an heir usually controlled, and only because the living land itself gave them the ability.

When they finally stopped twisting and writhing and finally died, Nuada let out a long, slow breath. It was done. He'd exacted justice, and now he simply wanted to go back to the far-north village of Feld Skerry and drop into his lady's gentle embrace. These deaths had been just, but he was so tired of death.

Yet before he could seek peace and comfort, he would have to speak to the king. Perhaps even fight with him again. For Naya's sake. Dylan's plan was a good one - instead of executing her, exile her to Renvyle, where she would have to stay until her natural death. Because Nuada had already lost too many friends to bloodshed and death. He would not lose another if he could prevent it.

.

The king was waiting for him in the royal study. Nuada knew the moment he walked in that for the moment, he'd be dealing with King Balor, not his father. That wasn't necessarily a problem, and it made sense - if Balor was dealing with Nuada and Naya, there was the chance of fatherly sentiment getting in the way of the king's justice. At least, Nuada thought, in his father's mind. But if it was King Balor of Bethmoora speaking to the crown prince about the traitor Polunochnaya, likely the old Elf thought he could be more objective.

Somehow, Nuada doubted it. Balor was never objective.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Majesty," the prince said softly, and pressed his fist to his heart while offering the customary courtly bow. This would tell Balor that Nuada understood this wasn't about them as father and son, but a prince addressing his sovereign.

"You have been to see the traitor, Crown Prince?" The king asked, just as softly. Keeping any emotion from his voice.

The Elven prince canted his head. "I have spoken to her."

"Did you tell her she is to be executed?"

Nuada didn't so much as bat an eye. Straightening just a little, he met the king's aged amber eyes and said, "I would petition that her life be spared, Your Majesty."

"She committed treason. She has admitted as much to Princess Nuala. Admitted it to a judge of my own court, of my choosing. Admitted it to you, yes?"

Another cant of the head. "Yes, Your Majesty. Be that as it may, I would ask for mercy on her behalf."

"Why?"

Nuada had to fight to keep from clenching his fists. His father had a right to ask, and the answer could not be "because she is my friend and I love her as if she were a sister." This was a king willing to execute his own children if they stepped out of line, so that excuse would not be enough. He'd have to appeal to a different part of the king's nature.

"Because she had just cause for all she did, Majesty."

Balor's thinning, white brows shot upward. He stared at his son. "Just cause? For treason? She acted against the Crown."

Nuada shook his head. "She acted against me. She was trying to take me out of power because she thought I meant to raise the Golden Army and use them to exterminate the humans. Have you not threatened me with the same, Majesty? That if I should do such a thing, you would have me executed?"

The old king sputtered, "I...I never said I would-"

"Perhaps not in so many words," Nuada said, "but the threat has always been clear...Father." Now to switch it from a formal court meeting to a conversation between family members. Throw Balor off just a little. As old as the king was, he'd forgotten how to do battle with words, how to sharpen them with sentiment, edge them with cunning. "You came to Lallybroch to kill me because you thought I'd gone on a rampage and killed bandits. Bandits, Father. If you thought I meant to slaughter billions of," he almost choked on the word, "of innocent humans, can you truly tell me that you would not have sought my death?"

His father stared at him for a long moment, stunned. Perhaps...a little ashamed? Did he think Nuada so stupid, that he hadn't realized his father would willingly kill him for such a thing? Why the shocked look?

Finally, Balor said, "These are topics for another day. But...but how could Naya have learned of your former plans? I never spoke of it to her. We have tried to keep your bloodlust and former madness a secret, tried to hide your sham-"

"We, who?" Nuada asked. He wouldn't react to the accusations of madness, bloodlust, shame. He was not mad - at least, not in the way his father meant. Mad as Dylan was mad, perhaps. Plagued by battle-haunts. But lusting for innocent blood? No, not he. And ashamed? Of what did he have to be ashamed? Nothing the king knew about. Trying to protect his people? No. Failing to protect them, certainly, but Balor wouldn't consider that shameful, or he would not have dared show his own face to his son, drowning in the shame of his own cowardice.

Nuada swallowed hard and shoved the sharp, biting thoughts out of his head. Now was not the time.

"Why, your sister and...I…" Balor trailed off, realizing who must have told Polunochnaya about Nuada, his quest for the third Golden Crown piece, and his plans for war with the humans. "I could not keep such evil from your sister. And that is why the traitor confessed," Balor said tonelessly. He stared at nothing, sorrow suffusing his wrinkled face. "I told your sister you had given up that cruel quest for blood and vengeance, and she must have told Polunochnaya."

"And Naya told her master," Nuada said. He wouldn't react to the words cruel quest for blood and vengeance, either. It had not been any such thing. It had been desperation, despair, fear. If the fae were to survive, something had to change. With Dylan at his side, he prayed they could find another way. But what if they couldn't? Now wasn't the time to think of that, either. "He must not have relented. So she confessed to Nuala, who told you."

He hadn't been able to unlock or break the spells on Naya that prevented her from revealing her master's identity. After trying, he didn't even want to suggest to the king that he do so. Balor definitely had the ability to break those spells. Any monarch or heir would have the raw power necessary. Nuada could have broken the enchantment...but it would have killed Naya. At best, it would have left her a catatonic husk. More than likely, it would have turned her brains to gelatin. Having power didn't mean a royal could do everything. There were simply some skills and abilities one had to learn in order to utilize that power in certain ways.

Nuada knew Balor to be less skilled than his son, even though the king possessed more sheer power. Balor could not call the winter, or the spring. He could not put out a magical call to the denizens of Bethmoora as Nuada could, nor could he read the land anymore, if he'd ever been able to do it. These were all things Nuada had sought to learn to do, rather than coasting on the belief in his own magical might.

No, he would not suggest Balor try to break the spell on Naya. It would be fruitless - in breaking the spell, he would kill the Elven woman, and Balor had not the gift of mind-touch, that he could capture the memory as Naya died. Nuala was not strong enough to avoid being pulled down into the death-darkness along with the other woman, and Nuada would not condone anything that harmed Polunochnaya. She would pay for her crimes, but death was out of the question.

"What if I say no?" Balor asked, breaking through Nuada's thoughts. The prince blinked. Raised an eyebrow. "If I refuse to offer clemency? What will you do, my son? Go to war over a traitor who tried to kill you and the mortal you profess to love?"

Exasperated, Nuada demanded, "Why do you say, 'profess?' By now, you know down to your bones that I love Dylan more than almost anything, Father. You are my king and my father, but I will not stand here and allow you to spit on what I feel for her without saying something. It is petty and insulting and I've done nothing to deserve it."

Balor opened his mouth, then closed it again. Offered the barest nod. "True enough, my son. Forgive me. It is habit, nothing more. I meant no offense."

Habit. It shouldn't have been habit. Nuada didn't say that. He only continued, "I would not go to war over this, Father. I would not offer you revolution, or harm you at all. I would simply…" What? He hadn't thought about it. What could he do? "I would simply take Naya away from here and imprison her somewhere under my protection."

The king blinked. "Life imprisonment? That would be quite a long time, Nuada."

"Better in a prison where we can keep an eye on her than roaming free. Better to have her in the world with us, then lost to death. Traitor or not, Naya is family. I would...I would ask…" He swallowed the sudden hard lump in his throat, then in one fluid movement of alien grace, went to one knee before the old king and bowed his head. "Father, I would beg that you spare her life and let me take her into my custody. I mean to see her exiled to a prison where she won't be able to escape or harm anyone. Please...please, Father. I know you do not wish to see her harmed."

Nuada kept his head bowed, not daring to look up. The king didn't speak for a long moment, or make any sound. The pulse pounded in the prince's ears as he waited on bended knee.

At last, his father heaved a sigh.

"You are right, my son. I do not wish to see any of my children harmed. Very well. Ledi Polunochnaya is stripped of her status as lady-in-waiting to the princess, stripped of her position and membership in the Golden Court. She is exiled from Findias, given into the power of Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance to do with as he pleases. From this moment, We will not allow her in Our presence again."

Nuada raised his head. Pressed a hand to his heart. "Thank you, Majesty. Father...thank you." He rose to his feet, then hesitated. "You...will not say goodbye to her?"

Weary amber eyes closed and the king sighed again. "No. I will not abide her in my presence again. Remove her from these halls, Crown Prince. Immediately."

Taken aback, he replied, "Father, she is still bedridden-"

"Then have a pair of servants carry the bitch out," Balor snarled, eyes snapping open, flashing with copper fire. Nuada stiffened. "Unless she will actually perish on the spot should we move her, I want her gone. I have granted the traitor all the mercy she will have from me. Do you understand?"

It took a moment to pull up his court mask of blank acceptance, but Nuada managed it. Well. It looked as if he had a bit more to see to before he could return to Dylan's side. Well enough. He had what he wanted.

"Understood, Majesty. Thank you. I will take my leave."

But before he could escape, the king added, "The guards. You killed them quickly?"

"No." A flat, toneless denial.

"They suffered?"

"Yes."

"And does that make you feel better?"

A mirthless smile curved shadowed lips. "It does, actually." Those animals would never be able to hurt and abuse anyone again. "Do not look so shocked, Father. My enemies know what to expect when they cross me. It was nothing more than what they deserved."

Balor said nothing, so at last Nuada left.

.

Naya was barely conscious, weighed down by healing spells, pain potions, and illness, as female servants dressed her and packed the few belongings she would be allowed to take with her into exile. A female Butcher Guard, stonily silent, carried the too-thin Elven woman through the palace to the stables and laid her in the Spartan carriage the prince had requisitioned for her.

She only understood what was happening when Nuada appeared, stepping into the carriage and sitting on the bench opposite her. He took her trembling hand in his and smiled wistfully.

"Back...to Zwezda?" She asked in a croak.

"Is that where you wish to go?"

Weakly, she shook her head. She had no real family in Zwezda anymore. Her parents were dead, her uncle had disowned her centuries ago, she had no siblings. Nuada, Nuala, Balor, and Na'koma were her family...and her master. Still, he was her family, even though he was her enemy. And she had betrayed everyone she loved...but she did not want to go back to snowy, mountainous, lonely Zwezda.

"This carriage will take you to the island of Renvyle," Nuada said. "They're expecting you. You've been officially exiled there, by the king's verdict."

What had Nuada done to get the king to agree to such a thing? Or had it been Nuala? Would she ever see her family again?

As if reading her mind, Nuada squeezed her hand gently and said, "I have a few vassals there who will see you settled, and I shall visit when I can."

Exhausted yet, still she managed to rasp, "Why?"

Nuada's eyes were soft, warm amber. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a careful kiss to her knuckles.

"You are my friend, Polunochnaya, my snow poppy. I would miss you if you were gone."

When a tear slipped down her cheek, he gently brushed it away.

She lacked the strength to speak again until Nuada was on his feet, heading for the door. Voice still a harsh croak from sickness, Naya called, "Nuada?" He turned back to her. "Be...careful."

To her surprise, he winked at her. "Always."

And then he was gone.

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Nuada was about to turn the ring on his finger and utter the spell that would take him away from this headache and back to his people, his lady, when the faintest brush of mind-touch caressed his thoughts. He froze, still as marble. Someone stood behind him. A familiar, impossible someone who should not have been seeking him out.

Slowly, he turned. Met sad, golden eyes bright with the gloss of tears. And at the sight of the misery on that pale face, without hesitation he stepped forward and opened his arms.

Nuala fell into his hold, burying her face against his shoulder.

Sister, he murmured in her mind. Little sister. What's wrong?

Everything, she sobbed silently. Everything is wrong. I'm so angry at you. I'm angry at you, at her, at Father! I...I'm never going to see her again. She was my best friend, my sister, my heart, and she tried to hurt you because you're a monster and she betrayed us all and everything is terrible. I'm never going to see her again, Nuada!

Today seemed to be the day he did not challenge cruelties. When he would simply accept the verbal knife stabbing at his heart. Forcing himself not to flinch from the accusation you're a monster, he simply hugged his twin tighter and stroked her soft, star-blonde hair. When she didn't stiffen or pull away, he laid his cheek against the top of her head and breathed in the scent of her perfume and her magic.

Maybe he should've demanded an apology from her. Maybe he should not have offered her comfort when she still insisted on blaming him for all of this. But was he not at least partially to blame? And he was so gods-cursed tired of being at odds with his twin. He just wanted to hold her for a minute, for her to cling to him the way she had when they were little.

I never want to see you again, Nuala mumbled silently. Nuada bit down hard on his tongue to stifle his wince and shield his twin from the physical and emotional pain. The verbal knife slid in again, a wicked-sharp blade of ice. His heart twisted. And I miss you every day. Thank you for what you did for Naya, Brother. I know you did not have to. Thank you. I just wish...I wish none of this had happened.

As do I, my sister, he said. I wish all could be well in our world. You have no idea how fiercely I wish that.

When she pulled back at last, his arms ached to slip around her again. How long had it been since she'd hugged him that way? Instead, he offered her a handkerchief to dry her eyes. Then, hardly believing his own daring, he cupped the back of Nuala's head and leaned forward, pressing a fervent kiss to her brow.

I love you, little sister, he whispered. Please believe that. I know...I know I am not what you wish I was. I know there are sins on my heart that you cannot forgive. But you must believe that I love you more than nearly anything.

There was a moment of startled, teary silence as Nuala stared up at him with big eyes. Then her arms whipped out, encircling him, and she hugged him again.

Even when you are cruel, when you act the monster, you are still my brother and I still love you. Even when you break my heart again and again, I love you.

It was enough. Better than nothing, he told himself. Better than he had any right to expect from Nuala after the grief-bolstered cruelty of the last few weeks. And he did so often break her heart. He knew it. So instead of arguing with her, he kissed the top of her head, gave her one last embrace, and then extricated himself from her arms and spelled himself away.

His sister didn't see the two tears that spilled down his cheeks. He didn't allow himself to wonder if she would have cared.

.

Dierdre mac Aengus glowered out the window as Prince Nuada vanished from the courtyard below. She hadn't known he was in Findias until she'd passed this window and seen him below with that whining, shrinking court flower, Nuala. The whole situation sent icy shards of fury slicing through her veins.

Bres claimed Nuada's absence from Findias was all to the good, that it meant he could actually get off his royal behind and do something for the fae against the humans plaguing the Bethmooran north. True enough, she supposed. But that also meant Bres' plan to conquer Bethmoora through guile and blood had to be put on hold, and the longer they waited to see it to fruition, the longer the humans in the Twilight Realm and the mortal world could prey on the Fair Folk.

"You shouldn't glare so, sister mine," Ciaran murmured from behind her.

She didn't bother turning around, or asking how he knew she was busy glaring out the window. They knew each other inside and out. Likely the mere set of her shoulders had told him.

Her brother came to stand beside her, gazing down at the forlorn little princess drooping like a wilting blossom. He sneered. Neither scion of the House of Aengus had any respect or fondness for the princess. She was a coward, like her father. A traitor, like the rest of her family. Like Balor, she'd allowed the humans to lay waste to the Fair Folk instead of holding to her vows to protect her people. Loyalty to blood and loyalty to the Crown didn't excuse her shame.

"Do not fash yourself, Dierdre," Ciaran cautioned. She rolled her eyes at him, but dropped her head to his lean shoulder. "Things will work out. Our prince is wise."

"I'm not vexing myself," Dierdre said. "She is vexing me. The empty-headed little-"

"Have a care what you say," he ordered sharply. "We have no idea who or what might be listening. We must have a care, my sister. Human sympathizers-"

"Stop it!"

Both disguised fae turned toward the sound of a young, panicked voice coming from down the empty corridor. Was that an alcove curtain rustling near the end of the hall? Signs of a struggle? Those alcoves could be used for any number of things, including trysts. Her own brother had sometimes used them to seduce the chambermaids. Curious, Dierdre pulled away from her brother and glided over the stones. Gancanaugh venom slicked her palms as she approached the trembling curtain. Behind the velvet, she heard a meaty smack and a stifled cry of pain.

Ciaran's hand shot past her and he yanked the curtain back. The occupants behind the curtain froze.

Dierdre didn't recognize the young Elven maid with the cap of thick, short silver hair like deer hide and the wide, frightened copper eyes. Odd, that the girl had hair that just brushed her chin. Only kitchen servants kept their hair that short, and even then it was rare. What was she doing up here?

Ciaran recognized the man pinning one of the kitchen girl's arms behind her back. Lord Galen mac Galen of Oic Bethra. A former ally of Nuada's that had turned on him when he'd brought the mortal slut to court to be his truelove. Hypocrite, Ciaran thought with an internal sneer. As if Galen's own family hadn't done something similar once upon a time. Whether the mongrel liked to admit it or not, a thin thread of poisonous human blood ran through his veins.

A mongrel brute like that, attacking a fae woman? She was barely a woman, at that. Still likely a maid. A human-spawned mutt laying hands on a fae?

Ciaran gritted his teeth, struggling to hold the glamour in place that made him look like a normal Fomorian Elf. Dierdre managed to keep her illusions up, as well, but the fury pouring off of her in waves had her striding forward and shoving Lord Galen away from the girl. Startled, he actually gave way. Dierdre put an arm around the girl and pulled her away from the mostly-Elven lordling.

"How dare you interfere-" Lord Galen began, taking a step forward. Ciaran's slender sword was immediately in his hand, the tip at Galen's pale throat, before the other man could finish his words. When he swallowed, the point dimpled the flesh at his throat. A single drop of mustard-yellow blood rolled over the white skin.

In a deceptively mild voice, Ciaran said, "I have it on good authority that interfering with the chambermaids against their will is a crime in the Golden Court. More than that, a human-spawned brute laying hands on a fae is a crime not to be borne."

Rage suffused Galen's face. "You dare to imply-"

"We can smell it on you," Dierdre spat. "Generations back, but it's still there. Human-whelped pig. Go back to whatever sty you crawled out of and trouble this girl no more."

Scarlet-washed bronze eyes blazing, Galen snarled, "I will see you both dead for this. And you," baring his teeth at the kitchen girl. "You think you can lift your skirts for Fomorian trash and that will protect you-" He fell silent abruptly when Ciaran pushed with the point of his sword and more muddy yellow blood dribbled from the small cut.

"We are placing this girl under the protection of the House mac Aengus and the crown prince of Ciocal himself. Think carefully before you choose to give grave offense to a fae heir. Now get out of here, mortal-tainted filth."

Muttering obscene things under his breath, Galen stormed away. The minute he rounded the corner and disappeared down another corridor, the kitchen girl burst into tears. Dierdre, looking mildly disgusted, patted her shoulder.

"There, there. He's gone. Stop that."

"Thank you," the girl sobbed. "Thank you so much, milord, milady. I didn't know what to do, with only Lady Na'koma here, and I haven't been able to find her, to tell her what Lord Galen's been doing-"

"Yes, yes," Dierdre muttered. "You're safe enough now."

Intrigued by the mention of Nuala's lady-in-waiting, Ciaran asked, "What's your name, girl?"

"Isibeal," the kitchen Elf said, bobbing a curtsy. "If it pleases milord, milady. I'm an undercook in service to Master Caspar. Lady Na'koma offered me her protection against Lord Galen, but I haven't been able to find her and he's been getting worse and worse since His Highness left to go north!"

Dierdre and Ciaran exchanged a look. They'd heard that Lord Galen mac Galen had gotten into a fight with Nuada's slut's cat-boy over a kitchen wench just before the journey to the northern villages, a fight that had resulted in Galen going to the healers' wing and interference by Lady Na'koma and Ledi Polunochnaya, the human-loving traitor. Could this have been that kitchen girl? Well, servant or not, no fae woman was going to be prey to someone with mortal-tainted blood. Not in Ciaran and Dierdre's presence. Even traitors were not to be given over to mortals and their spawn.

"Come, girl," Ciaran said in his gentlest voice. He sheathed his sword and offered his arm. He'd give the chit a thrill by escorting her like a lady back to wherever she was supposed to be. If she'd been just a little older, less beanpole-thin, her hair less straight and her features less Tuathan-pale, he might have given her a taste of his venom and wooed her to his bed. But she wasn't his type, and he had his two lovely hob maids at the moment, anyway.

With the kitchen girl on one arm and his sister on the other, the trio made their way through the halls.

.

The loud, grief-stricken cry drew Dylan out of the village storeroom and into the common room of the small inn in Feld Skerry. Despite the early (for a drinking establishment) hours and the flurries of white spiraling beyond the entrance, the front door stood open. The village headman, a clurichaun with a florid face and bloodshot eyes, stood in front of the entrance, muscled arms akimbo.

Kneeling on the steps leading up to the doorway was a plump woman with skin the golden brown of deer hide. Her long, white braid was coming undone and strands of ivory hair blew in the sharp winter gusts. Delicate antlers the color of rich teak wood pushed through the white tresses. In her strangely jointed arms - did she have four elbows? - she cradled a small form. Not a baby, but…

"Please!" She cried, clutching a smaller faerie wrapped in blankets against her heart. "Please, you must let me see Lady Dylan! We…" She was sobbing now, tears the pale green of peridot jewels rolling down her round cheeks. "We need help, please, I'm begging you."

"Get out of here, slattern," the headman - Dahellan McLeod, Dylan suddenly remembered - snarled at the woman. A rod of ice shot up Dylan's spine at the words. This woman couldn't leave. McLeod added, "And take your brat and your abomination with you! Do you think a lowborn, half-blood slut like you has any right to petition the betrothed of our crown prince? We tolerate you and your spawn here, but if you think-"

"What," Dylan deliberately pitched her voice into what she called her Princess Tone; she'd learned it from Nuada, from listening to him put the disrespectful in their place, "exactly is going on out here, Master McLeod?"

"Lady Dylan-" The headman began, viciousness leeched from his voice by her presence.

The fae woman and a third fae - a young fae boy that looked a great deal like her, but with darker skin - lunged pasted McLeod. He made a grab for the boy, but the boy dodged his groping hands. Both he and the woman holding the smaller faerie landed in suprisingly graceful heaps in front of Dylan. The mortal studied them, trying to figure out what the heck was going on.

McLeod had called the woman a half-blood, so she was probably half-human or at least a quarter human. Dylan was willing to bet a quarter at most; half-fae, half-humans didn't possess that much of the feral quality of their fae blood. McLeod had also said she was lowborn, but her clothes were of fine lamb's wool with intricate scarlet and indigo embroidery against cream; very expensive. The boy's tunic and trews and coat were all quite well made and of rich fabrics.

The woman's hands lacked calluses and her face was unlined by the sun. Only some recent worry had left a few creases at her impossibly green eyes. She looked to be Dylan's age, and the boy looked to be physically on a few years older than A'du'la'di.

The bundle in her arms was a wheezing, slumbering toddler.

"Please," the woman whispered. "Please, Lady…" Green tears spilled down her cheeks and she began to sob. The boy put his arms around her and looked up at Dylan. His eyes were amber, not green, but the tears brimming in his eyes were green like the woman's.

"We know we should not ask, milady," the boy said in a high, clear voice. Dylan was struck with the inane thought that his singing voice would be exquisitely beautifully. "If it was for me, or for Mathair," he nodded to the crying, clearly exhausted fae woman, "we wouldn't ask. But my sister…"

The woman lifted her head. "My daughter is unwell, and we don't know what to do. Please help, please…" She trailed off as Dylan pulled her and her son gently to their feet. The mortal looked at the sleeping, restless toddler. At the flush darkening the chubby, brown cheeks. Heard the heavy, wet breathing.

She shot a look of pure venom at McLeod, who flinched. Then she turned back to the woman and gentled her expression.

"Come with me," she said.

Ignoring McLeod's stuttering, blustering protests, she lead the woman and the young fae boy to an unoccupied room and bade her set the toddler on the bed. Dylan's guards had come with her from the storeroom. Since McLeod had kept his protests verbal and hadn't dared to lay hands on her, they hadn't intervened. Now Dylan began issuing orders to them to bring her what she expected to need: her medical bag, hot water in four separate containers, fresh clothes for a toddler, a bottle of whiskey, clean cloths, fresh dark towels, and food and drink for the woman and her son.

Young Guardsmen Loen and Ailbho, as well as Ailbho's sister Guardswoman Fionnlagh, ran around gathering things. The first thing Fionnlagh brought was towels, which Dylan folded and laid on the bed. Then Dylan and the mother stripped the little girl of her cool, sweat-dampened clothes and set her on the folded pad of towels. Changing the towels would be easier than changing the sheets if they got dirty.

"How long has she been feverish?" Dylan asked.

"Since last night, milady," the mother said.

The boy, whom Dylan had told to sit near the fire, piped up. "Please, can you help her, milady?"

"I'll do what I can." Dylan checked the toddler's tongue, throat, eyes, and the glands of her neck as the supplies came in and were set at the foot of the occupied bed. "First I need to figure out what's wrong. What about her breathing? How long has she been wheezing like that?"

The mother glanced at her son. "Miles?"

"Since this morning, milady," he said. "She said yesterday she felt sick, and then last night it was worse. I told Mathair."

"She had a fever," the woman said. "So I gave her some very weak willow bark tea and put her to bed. Galen and I took turns watching her all night. I had to...refuse some work in order to look after her, but I was happy to do it, milady. What's the matter with my girl?"

"Give me a bit," Dylan said. "We need to get her fever down first." A child this young, the fever was paramount unless the breathing got worse.

Grabbing a small cauldron, she thrust it at Ailbho. "Shove this up to the lip in the snow, count to a hundred, and bring it back."

"Yes, my lady."

While he ran to obey, Dylan grabbed her delivered medical bag and yanked out her stethescope. She'd had it made to her exact specifications so she could use it in situations like this. Instead of stainless steel, it was made of rubber, copper, and titanium. She set the disk against the toddler's chest and listened to the little girl's harsh wheezng. The lungs were phlegmy. Pneumonia? It was the season for it.

"What are you?" Dylan asked. "I need to know so I don't give her something that makes it worse. McLeod said you were mixed?"

The woman bit her lip, revealing a set of razor sharp teeth made of bone china shards. "Yes, milady. My mother was a quarter human, a quarter white wraith, and half cucuy. Do you know the cucuy?"

"Yes," Dylan said as Ailbho returned with the chilled cauldroon. Dylan set it on the bedside table and poured half the whiskey into it. "There's a few out where I live in the mortal world. And your father?"

"Half-Elven, a quarter human, a quarter leanashar."

Dylan's brows went up. She'd been right about the quarter human, then. "Where'd the antlers come from?" Both the woman and her son had a full wrack of delicate antlers, and the toddler had the tiniest of cream-golden nubs peeping through her curly white and gray hair.

"Elf blood, milady. Out of Annwn."

"Ah." She grabbed a bottle from her bag and added a pinch of crushed garlic powder to the chilling whiskey in the cauldron. Added a quarter cup of vinegar, which would help chill the skin and help circulation, as well as easing the soreness from the fever. "And your daughter's father?"

"I...am not sure, milady."

Dylan noticed Miles glaring at her with his golden eyes. She gave him a mild look and went back to making the fever wash. Aloud all she said was, "Not even a guess?"

"No, milady. Well...one of the men of the village, but not Headman McLeod. That is all I know."

Dylan squeezed six drops of aloe into the whiskey. "Is she a merry-begot?" A faerie child conceived at a solar festival could be vulnerable to all sorts of mythic weaknesses.

Which reminded her, she thought as she added more ingredients. She needed to talk to Nuada about that when he got back. Or at least at some point before they got married. If Bethmoora had any orgiastic rites for solar festivals, she didn't know about them, but that didn't mean anything. And she wasn't going to step on that because even as princess, even as Nuada's wife, she was a foreigner and it wasn't her place to spit on their traditions, even if they creeped her out personally.

But Nuada needed to know she wasn't okay with either of them doing orgies, or having public royal sex, or deliberately trying to conceive a child during any sort of magical festival. Although the last part was mainly because of curses and mythical Achilles' heels.

"No, milady. Not a merry-begot or a harvest child. I'm the village sporting woman. It's why Headman McLeod refused to let me see you. But word of your skill as a healer has traveled, and I'd hoped…"

Dylan stirred the chilly mixture of aloe, whiskey, vinegar, garlic, honeysuckle, winter onion juice, lavender leaves, catnip, and elderflowers. Dipped in a finger to test the temperature, then grabbed one of the smaller clothes. She picked up the conversation while dunking and gently wringing most of the mixture from the cloth.

"What's a sporting woman?" She'd heard that term before, but she couldn't remember where or what it meant. Probably due to tiredness and being so busy for the last several weeks. Or possibly because she'd died. That might have screwed with some bits of her memory, too.

Behind her, she heard her guard Fionnlagh choke. Uaithne cleared his throat several times. Dylan shot them a tired, baffled look. Their faces - what she could see of them, which was barely anything thanks to the helmets - appeared impassive. She looked to the white-haired faerie woman.

The woman watched Dylan with those same wary, emerald eyes. When she blinked, her eyelids came together from the sides instead of up and down.

"Milady is jesting with me," she said, sounding wounded.

Dylan began to bathe the toddler with the wet cloth, switching between her hote forehead and too-warm, bare chest. The exhausted child made a small noise. Opened her eyes briefly to show that they were a deep, warm brown. Then she closed them again and fell back asleep.

"No," Dylan said to the woman. "I swear. I don't know what that is. I think I've heard the term before but I honestly don't remember."

"If I may, my lady," Uaithne ventured. "The mistress here is a woman of leisure." Dylan gestured for him to keep talking, because that didn't help. She dipped the cloth in the chilled mixture again. Uaithne said, "Well...ah. She is a paid companion for the bedroom."

"Oh. Okay."

The woman blinked at her. Dylan kept working, bathing away the worst of the fever. She'd have to give the little girl medicine, of course, but first the water had to boil so she could brew a tisane. For now, she'd use the wash to keep the heat down. Periodically, she'd check the toddler's temperature until finally, the kettle on the hearth whistled. Dylan had Ailbho fetch it.

"Catnip tisane," the mortal explained to the little girl's mother as she brewed the drink. "Better for little children than willow or cherry bark. Tastes a little better, too, but I'll still add a bit of honey, since...what's your daughter's name?" She asked belatedly. "And yours? I'm so sorry-"

"It's all right, milady," the fae woman said. "Aoife is my name. My daughter is Bethan. It was my grandmother's name on my father's...I do not know why I'm boring you with this, milady. Forgive me, I…"

"You're stressed," Dylan replied gently. "It's okay. Bethan's fever is coming down. The tisane should break it completely and make her feel a lot better. And the steam is helping her breathe. I thought it would. With the immediate danger dealt with, we can try to figure out what's causing this. What can you tell me about her activities the last few days?"

As Aoife talked and Dylan fed the warm, sweetened tisane to the little girl in spoonfuls, the mortal began to rethink her pneumonia suspicions. Bethan wouldn't have gotten so sick so quickly. In fact, other than with croup - which Elven children typically didn't get - and pneumonia, Dylan had only heard wet wheezing like this specifically from one thing: iron sickness. But if the kid had it, then other people in the village should've had it, too.

"-and she got away from me, only for a moment!" Miles was saying. "She wanted to see Mistress McLeod's new-hatched kitchen dragons."

"The mistress was furious, of course," Aoife muttered.

Dylan blinked, bringing her full attention back to them. "Why 'of course'?"

"The McLeods will not abide either of my children," Aoife said. "Or me, for that matter. They call them 'whore's get' and Miles an abomination. They follow the Star-Kindler, so we should expect it, I suppose."

Dylan bit down hard on her tongue until she knew for a fact she wouldn't say anything she'd possibly regret later, or explode and scare Miles or Bethan. Her face, she thought vaguely, probably looked very odd. She cleared her throat.

"Which sect?"

"I...I am not certain, milady. Mistress McLeod wears a round, silver medallion with a small red stone at the bottom around her neck, every day. Does that help?"

It did, unfortunately. She'd have to look into that later. Because that sounded like a Young Women's Medallion. Given Mistress McLeod's age, she could very well be the local leader, and that wasn't good, either. But in the meantime…

"Did Mistress McLeod do anything to Bethan?"

Aiofe, who'd been quiet and demure until then, bared those shard-like teeth. Her eyes glowed with something too feral to be mere anger. Dylan recognized it. She'd felt it that night in the royal gardens after her elevation ceremony, when an assassin had held a blade to 'Sa'ti's vulnerable throat.

"With a silver kitchen ladle across my baby's face, that bitch," Aoife hissed. Dylan noticed for the first time that her tongue was dark green and forked. "Called her foul names and screamed at both my children."

Dylan swallowed her own shock and fury. Hitting a toddler? With a ladle? Disgusting. And Master McLeod refusing to allow Aoife to see…

The mortal sat up ramrod straight. "Master McLeod wouldn't let you see me because you're a…" She swallowed the words sex worker because Aoife might not understand the term. "Because you're a sporting woman?"

Aoife blinked. "Yes, milady."

Now it was Dylan's turn to bare her teeth. "Ailis? Onora? Find Master and Mistress McLeod and escort them to a private room in the building. Make sure they have water, some food, and a place to relieve themselves. Make sure they stay there. I'll deal with them when His Highness returns. Thank you."

Both guardswomen offered her the fist-to-chest salute, a nod,and left the room. Aoife only gaped at Dylan as the mortal went back to spooning medicine into Bethan's mouth. The expression would've been unnerving if not for Dylan's years of experience with even odder-looking Fair Folk.

"M-Milady...you cannot...you can't…"

"Can," Dylan said brightly. "Did. Just now. Prince Nuada does not want such people in charge of one of his villages. Once he returns, he'll take away their position as headman and wife of the headman and give it to more deserving people."

And Dylan had her suspicions about that silver ladle. Clurichauns could withstand a certain amount of iron, but a fae as young as Bethan? One who had no iron resistance in her blood? Even a touch from an iron instrument could make her very sick if it came in direct contact with her skin, especially her face. Especially if she began crying, the way scared toddlers did, and rubbed at her face. She wouldn't have even needed to be struck hard enough to leave a welt; all she'd need to do was have a mucus membrane or three come into contact with a trace of iron to make her viciously, hideously sick.

"Will...will Prince Nuada even believe us?" Young Miles asked softly.

"Prince Nuada is a good man, who loves his people. He'll believe you. Now, I think our young Lady Bethan has a case of iron sickness. Luckily, I have the tonic for that, and it's safe for children."

And she got to work.

.

Petra Myers slammed her pick deep into the half-frozen earth and leaned on the end, wiping sweat from her brow before it had the chance to freeze into ice chips on her skin. According to Dylan, nobody in their right mind would willingly try to dig a new well in the middle of winter. The soil was like solid marble, frozen by groundwater turning to ice. But the well in Feld Skerry had been poisoned by bandits, and they needed a new one, quickly, or the well sprite who'd lived in the old one would fade and die.

So Dastan and Prince Zhenjin had done something to warm the ground where the sprite told them it was best to dig, and now Petra and Dastan and a team of other fae were spending their time stabbing dirt with picks shovels so they could help build the local crinaeae a new house.

Every time Petra started to get fed up with the ache in her shoulders and the cramps in her hands, she only had to glance over to the hand-blown glass globe filled with fresh, clean spring water that the village wise woman had hung from the crank-shaft of the old well. Inside the water-filled sphere, a tiny form floated - a woman with skin the color of black pearls that glittered with scales no bigger than pinheads in a thousand shades of blue and gray. The faintest sapphire glow suffused the water, like some bioluminescent jellyfish. Dylan had said as long as the crinaeae could glow, they had time to finish the well. Prince Nuada had done something magical to the water, too, to extend the water sprite's time.

When a pair of rock trolls came to take over for the prince and mortal, Petra shot one last look at the suspended water globe before handing over her pick and shaking out her hands. No stranger to hard work or getting her hands dirty, she was still pretty sure she'd find blisters under her gloves.

"Lady Petra," Dastan called.

Everything in Petra jerked to a stop, then kicked into her overdrive - heart rate, breathing. Dastan still had that effect on her. He hadn't done anything except sit and talk with her since asking permission to court her, but she knew and he knew that he'd been about to kiss her that day in Lallybroch right before her son Russell had shown up. He'd made no move to try kissing her again since. She had to wonder why.

Trying and failing not to blush, trying and failing to keep her voice from going breathy and soft, she said, "Prince Dastan. What can I do for you?"

This whole thing was so weird, Petra lamented silently. She had no idea how courting rules worked in Faerie and she hadn't had a chance to ask Dylan about it. The only person who'd made a comment of any kind was Francesca, who'd told her to "go get it" every time she noticed Dastan coming toward the eldest Myers sister.

There would be no "getting it." She was a divorcee with three children to look after and a douche of an ex-husband. Dastan was the heir to some illustrious desert kingdom. Also Prince Tinkerbell, basically. Not the kind of person a smart woman had a casual fling with, even if she wanted to.

"Would you do me the honor of sharing the evening meal with me, my lady?"

Chalk it up to princely charm, but somehow he always made simple invitations like that sound like the height of romance. Maybe she was just lonely and sad. Whatever, she'd given him permission to court her, she was hungry, and he was just...so hot.

"Sure," she said. "I'd love that."

Dinner was pretty simple - winter roots and white cheese baked into dark bread rolls. Simple, but whatever "refinement" might have been lacking was more than made up for in the gloriously hot food and the generous portions. Unlike many of the villages they'd visited, Feld Skerry's fields hadn't been hit and their autumn and early winter harvests had been excellent.

Petra noticed Dylan eating almost by herself, only guards around her and that huge black dog that followed her everywhere sitting on the bench beside her. Occasionally the dog's tail would swish back and forth, just once, and it would lay its giant muzzle on Dylan's shoulder and gaze up at her with adoring eyes the color of a glacier. Then she'd kiss his nose and he'd whuff ever so softly at her.

"She waits for the Silverlance," Dastan said softly. Petra pulled her gaze away from her little sister and raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry. "I've yet to see her eat alone on this journey, at least when breaking her fast in the morning or during supper. Always the Silverlance is at her side then. I wonder where he is; it explains the sorrow and worry in her eyes, though."

"Why do you call him the Silverlance and not Nuada?"

Dastan shrugged lean shoulders. He was well built, broader than Nuada but with less muscle. Taller than Nuada, too. She'd thought the blonde Elf prince was impossibly tall for a humanoid - the troll didn't count, he was practically a mountain - until she'd met Prince Dastan and Prince Taran of Annwn. Taran was several inches taller even than Dastan, well over six and a half feet. It was the only exceptional thing about him. He didn't even have pointed ears, unlike Dastan and Nuada.

"Most heirs and monarchs go by epithets more often than their given names. Names have power in Faerie, even in part. If a faerie gave someone their full, true name, that person could command them to do anything, even something they didn't want to do."

Petra's eyes widened. "Wait, I think Dylan told me something about that. A friend of hers, a faerie, she's married to some king or something in Jersey. A bad faerie knew his real name and made him kill someone once."

"You speak of Roiben Darktithe, the king of northeastern Elphame. Yes, he killed many innocents he did not wish to harm. Nicnevin, the Unseelie queen that held him by his name, was a monster even by most faerie standards."

Dastan paused for a moment, then added, "Elphame is a tertian kingdom - it exists on three planes of existence instead of two, like most realms. One realm is mortal; you call it America. The second is fae, the third is otherworld, which is not quite fae, but is not human. It is the world of the Turtle Island Natives' otherworldly beings. I am not sure how the separation happened, but the Elphame that is fae is a dangerous place. Many monarchs rule separate pieces of that place, and few are as just and kind as Darktithe."

"The epithets. Do only kings and princes have them?"

"Not at all," he replied. "Lady Kaye is known as the Pomegranate Queen, because she spends six months out of the year in mortal America and six months in the Unseelie Court. There is the Valiant Knight, Lady Kaye's valet - a mortal girl who has mastered the trollish broadsword and is sworn to her as a knight. She is also called Lady Val Deathglass. There is the Fomorian princess Sadbh; they call her the Bloodless, because she lived to adulthood when her six sisters did not. There is Hazel the Rhyming Knight, Tate Ravenstaff, Mallory the Needle. My own mother is sometimes called Tamina Nightsand.

"Roiben is Darktithe because he survived Nicnevin's attempts to tithe him to the ancient powers that had helped her take the Unseelie throne. Nuada is Silverlance because he wields the spear of Elven silver that marks him as the heir to the Bethmooran throne."

Fascinated, Petra forgot about blisters, aching shoulders, or the delicious food on the plate in front of her. She leaned forward, elbows propped on the table. "And you? You're the Black Lion, aren't you?"

"That is a reference to my bloodline. My father was a descendant of Razadi the Lioness, who was a sacred beast queen."

"What about those girls you mentioned? Tate Raven...something? Hazel and Mallory?"

Dastan grinned. "You should speak to your sister about them. They are, I've been told, friends of hers. She has many, both human and fae, in many courts." The prince suddenly glanced around, then lowered his head until their brows nearly touched. Petra felt the heat of his skin, the spidersilk brush of a stray lock of obsidian hair. "Is it true your sister is a favorite of the Samhain Keeper?"

She made a face and shrugged. "I don't know who that is."

The prince's voice dropped to the softest whisper. "Lord Moundshroud, the king of Samhain."

Petra perked up. "Mr. Moundshroud? Yeah, he adores Dylan. He's a lord? King? Whatever."

Dastan's black eyes had gone wide with shock. "He...adores her? But he...he is the Samhain Keeper! The king of the Deathlands. Master of all dark fae, should they swear to him."

"I...I guess? Dylan says he's sweet, even if his kids kind of suck."

"Sweet," Dastan echoed faintly, sounding horrified. "Sweet? And...his children?" He shook his head. "I knew Lady Dylan had connections to high places, but not...not this high."

"So...he's kind of a big deal?"

Dastan huffed an incredulous laugh. "One might say so. He is...if he were to choose it, he could slaughter every living thing on this continent before anyone could prevent him. Only honor and disinclination keep us safe from him. He has rare favorites among humans, but usually they're children, not...not someone like your sister."

"What does that mean? Someone like her?"

"An adult not born on Samhain."

"Oh." She studied Dylan. "I'm going to go check on her real quick, make sure everything's okay."

Petra got up and went over to where her sister sat, sliding onto the bench on Dylan's other side, careful to keep her sister between herself and the overly licky, giant black dog. The big mutt gave the older woman a forlorn look, as if he knew exactly why she'd parked herself in that spot. The dog was too smart; that was why she wanted to keep her distance. Even for a faerie, he was too smart, because he was still a dog and dogs weren't supposed to be as clever as the average twelve-year-old. And Russell wanted one?

Dylan had made it crystal clear that refusing the gift of a fae hound from the Royal Kennels, refusing a gift from Prince Nuada to a mortal child, just was not done. Crap.

But that wasn't why she'd come over here.

"Hey, honey. You okay?"

Dylan stared down at her mostly-empty plate, biting her bottom lip. At least she was eating. Time was, if Dylan was stressed, she'd just stare at nothing, refusing to eat or talk to anyone. When she'd come out of St. Vincent's at eighteen, when their parents couldn't keep her locked up against her will anymore, she'd been five-and-a-half feet tall and weighed in at barely one-hundred-ten pounds. People had been able to see her vertebrae pressing against her too-pale skin. Mary had commented that a girl could slice herself open on the sharpness of Dylan's jutting hip bones; it hadn't been a comment said with envy, but fierce concern.

Now Petra remembered what Dylan had said a few days ago. About how she was in therapy now, taking her meds, getting the support she needed. She really was doing better. Here was proof - even stressed, she wasn't abusing herself.

"Nuada went to go do something...difficult. Prince stuff. Not dangerous, just stressful. I thought he'd be back by now and he isn't," Dylan said at last. "I don't have any bad feeling he's in danger or anything, and this wasn't supposed to be anything risky. I just...I'm just worried, and I miss him."

Petra had no clue what her baby sister meant about bad feelings - was that a Sight thing? Did Dylan have premonitions on top of being able to see through glamour? - so she just put a comforting arm around her and gave her a soft squeeze.

"I'm sure he'll be fine. He's a good fighter, and he's a prince. Doesn't that make him like, extra sparkly and magical?"

Scarred lips spread into a smile. "Yeah. Kind of. Not so much with the sparkles, but royalty has more raw power than non-royalty."

"Neat. Why is that, by the way?"

"Being royal or becoming royal ties the bloodline and the magic in it, as well as personal magic, to the land itself, so you can draw on the magic and power of the land. And birth order plays a bit of a role, as well. Like, Nuada is Bethmooran, so even if he weren't royal, his magic would be stronger in Bethmoora than out of it. I know there are ceremonies for immigrants from other kingdoms when they move from where their race originated, to tie them to the land they're living in, but the land itself has to accept them for that to work."

"The...land does?"

Dylan nodded. "Usually that happens but sometimes it doesn't. Like in America. When non-Indiginous fae and otherkin came there and tried to do those ceremonies, a few of them were accepted, but others weren't. Most weren't. I'm not one-hundred-percent sure how many or the exact mechanics, but then so many fae from other parts of the world kept showing up, trying to colonize, so the otherworldly Turtle Island - magical North America, basically; mundane Turtle Island is just the continent we live on now - sort of...shrugged them off."

Petra blinked at her. Opened her mouth, only to croak a syllable before closing her mouth again. She held up her hands.

"Wait. Shrugged them off? What does that mean?"

"It means the Turtle - where Turtle Island gets its name? The Turtle literally shrugged them into another dimension because it didn't want them around, bothering its peoples and screwing with its ecosystems. It took decades for the more powerful fae to finally build passageways back to the rest of Faerie and the mortal world, and by then, the otherworld of Turtle Island - I think it's usually called the World of Spirits but I could be absolutely wrong about that, I am not an expert - and Elphame, the place the colonizing fae ended up, were so entrenched and entangled with mortal North America they just sort of...sat on top of each other, like parallel worlds. The way Bethmoora, Eirc, and Ciocal sit on top of Ireland and Scotland, or how Annwn sits on Wales, or Menehune on Hawaii."

Another slow blink from Petra. "Wait, Hawaii? Nope." She held up her hands again and made a gesture of negation. "We're getting off topic. This is a rabbit hole and I'm not ready to fall into it yet. Back to royalty. So anyone native to a place or accepted as native by the place itself, their magic gets a 'honey, I'm home' boost it doesn't have anywhere else?"

"Yes." Dylan smiled at the honey, I'm home bit. "So Nuada has that little bit extra because he's in Bethmoora. He's also the eldest of his living siblings, so he's a bit stronger than Nuala on that scale."

"So...if we were fae, I'd have more power than the rest of you?"

"Except Francesca, Mary, and me. So...no, actually, you wouldn't over all of us, just some of us."

Petra frowned. "Why Francesca?"

"She's the seventh daughter, and we're German."

"Being German matters?"

"Certain racial groups get certain magical markers, apparently. Like, three and seven is a big deal for certain European groups, so the third son or daughter and the seventh son or daughter would get a bit of a boost. Being the seventh child of a seventh child would get a boost, etc. I think - again, I'm not an expert - in places like Japan, it's first-born and then fourth-born, but the fourth-born has like, inverted magic or something? Nuada sort of explained it to me a while back but it was a lot of stuff in my head. And like, in places like Annwn, it isn't birth order, but grouping. Twins have more power than singles, that kind of thing."

"O-okay. So Mary is third-born and Francesca is seventh - are they equal? Or, I guess, would they be equal if we were fae?"

"Yes, they'd be equal with you."

"Okay. Why you, though? You're not a special number or anything."

Dylan grinned. "I'm the youngest girl. Youngest always gets a boost, too. John has...John has a stacked boost, because he's the first-born son but also the youngest child out of all of us."

"Huh." Petra snagged a bit of chopped potato off Dylan's plate and swallowed it, still a bit hungry. Dylan nudged the plate over to her. "Well, okay. So Nuada isn't first-born, so he doesn't get that boost, but he's still older than his sister...but doesn't she get youngest-girl boosting?"

Dylan nodded. "She does, which normally would put them both on equal footing, except that Nuada is also the heir, chosen by the kingdom. That gives you a huge boost. The only people stronger than heirs are usually monarchs, because being a monarch gives you an even bigger magical boost."

"And that's because the land is letting them...what? Tap into its magic?"

"Yes. Which also amplifies the magic. It adds a sort of...exponential effect? It doesn't just add to the magic, it multiplies it. Nobody has ever actually tried to quantify how much because that requires a level of international political quiet that's never happened before. But suffice it to say, most fae who aren't heirs or monarchs are magically weaker than fae who are."

Petra propped her chin on her fist, her elbow on the table. "Most?"

"I've met one person who's magically stronger than Nuada and isn't an heir, and that's because he's first-born and used to be the heir before he ticked off his dad. That's Zhenjin's older brother."

"Huh. What'd he do?"

"Tried to eat their little sister."

"What?"

"Zhenjin stopped him," Dylan said with a shrug.

"I...okay. What makes a kingdom choose its monarch or heir? Do they have to have a specific kind of magic or something?"

Dylan shrugged again. "I have no clue. Maybe it's a personality thing? I don't know. I'm not a magic expert. All I know is that Bethmoora doesn't want Nuala tapping into its magic. I don't know why, although I have my theories - which I'm not sharing in a tavern this crowded; everyone knows Nuala doesn't have the power to connect to the land, so that's not a secret. The kingdom wants Nuada or nobody."

"What happens if he doesn't become king?"

A pensive look spread across Dylan's face. "Honestly, it depends on why he doesn't become king. If he chooses not to? If he severs his bond to the land - which he wouldn't - then I'm not sure. If he didn't become king because somebody killed him? Nuala would become queen and Bethmoora would die, unless Nuada had kids first; then it might last a bit longer. Or unless Nuala had kids and one of them happened to connect to the land, but Nuada says that's not likely."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, Petra," Dylan cried with a small laugh. "That's just what Nuada said. Do I look like an encyclopedia on faeries?"

"Kinda," Petra replied brightly.

Dylan laughed again. "Oh, yeah, that's me. Faeatus Encyclopediae."

"Was that Latin?"

"Yes. Okay, no. I dunno. Maybe?"

Now it was Petra's turn to laugh. "So based on all the stuff you just said, which I am probably going to forget, Nuada should be fine. Although now I have another question."

A small sigh and a chuckle. "Yes, Petra?"

"Does all this drawing on the land stuff work for the human world?"

"I don't know. The land of Faerie, everything in it - dirt, rocks, trees, lakes, everything - is alive in a way the mortal world usually isn't. Not just alive, but awake and aware and able to be communicated with…" Dylan trailed off, seeing Petra's expression. "Um. Never mind, it doesn't matter."

"Oh, yes it does!" She cried. "Are you saying the human world is alive? Like, the dirt and stuff?"

The look Dylan gave her was almost sheepish. "Um...kind of. It's...it's complicated and I'm not really supposed to talk about it."

"What. The crap." Petra stared at her. "What...what the crap. Why won't he let you talk about it?"

"It's not him, it's...I can't talk about it. Petra," Dylan said firmly when her sister opened her mouth. "Leave it alone."

A sigh. "Okay. Well...you said three kingdoms sit on top of Ireland?"

"Yes. Bethmoora, Eirc, and Ciocal."

"Do they sit on top of each other? Like um...Elphame and Turtle Island and North America?"

"What? No. They all border each other. Faerie is physically larger than the planet Earth by a lot, but the continental arrangements and whatnot are sort of similar? Like, Faerie has seven continents, and so does the mortal world, that sort of thing. But no, it's just that the giant island that is Ireland in our world is like...eight times bigger in Faerie. So it's split into three kingdoms."

"Which are Bethmoora, Eirc, and Ciocal."

"Right. Nuada's family rules Bethmoora and his friend Rennan mac Dela is king of Eirc."

"And Prince Bres' family rules Ciocal, right? He seems like a nice guy."

Dylan nearly choked on her own spit.

Petra patted her on the back while Dylan tried to quell the fit of coughing.

"Whoa. Sorry? Just breathe. Didn't mean to surprise you or anything."

Dylan managed to croak, "Ailis."

One of the royal guards arrayed around Dylan near her table blinked her four, cat-slitted violet eyes and canted her head. An odd pressure suddenly bloomed in Petra's sinuses right beneath her eyes. Her teeth itched. A tinny ringing buzzed in her ears. Right when she thought she'd have to plug her nose and pop her ears, the ringing and itching stopped. The pressure in her sinuses slowly died away. Rubbing her fingers against the hinges of her jaw, she hissed, "Ow. Seriously. What the heck was that?"

"Glamour," Dylan croaked, and downed half the white liquid in her large, wooden mug. If Petra hadn't known better, she would've thought it was milk. Dylan cleared her throat. "I didn't want anyone to hear what I'm about to say to you, but I try not to ask them to glamour me unless absolutely necessary. Maintaining glamour through iron armor can be difficult, even for fae who aren't allergic to iron."

Serious blue eyes locked with baffled gray ones.

"Petra, before we left on this trip, I gave you some rules you had to follow, like not lying outright or giving anyone your full name or making promises to anyone. Well, this is important, too.

"Do not talk about Bres if you can avoid it. Not to anyone, except me or Nuada, preferably in a safe, secluded place or under glamour. If you ever see Bres, or anyone in his entourage, get away from them as quickly as possible. Never invite him or one of his companions into a place you're staying. I don't care if he's been shot in the neck and he's bleeding to death, don't go near him. Have absolutely nothing to do with him, if at all possible."

"I...but…" Petra shook her head. "But he-"

"I'm serious, Petra," Dylan said in a vehement whisper. "Stay as far away from Bres as possible. Don't even talk to people who like him if you can avoid it. Don't talk about him, don't let the people you're around talk about him. I mean it."

Her sister gaped at her. "But why?"

"Because he's a monster," Dylan said flatly. "Like the Blackwoods. Maybe worse. I don't want him even thinking about anybody in our family for even a second."

Petra shook her head. "That's impossible. He's Dastan's friend. We were just talking about him…" She trailed off, eyes wide, when Dylan groaned and smacked herself in the forehead. "What? Dastan says he's a really good guy. Like Nuada."

"Dastan doesn't know what he's talking about."

"He's known Bres for literally thousands of years," Petra snapped. "Like, actually literally, not just sarcastic literally. He says you met Bres a few months ago. Maybe you shouldn't assume you're smarter than everyone else about everything just because you know so much about faeries."

Now it was Dylan's turn to gape. "E-Excuse me?"

Realizing how condescending she was being, how snappish, Petra reined in her temper. Sighed. This was a ridiculous thing to fight about. She hadn't come over here to bicker with her sister anyway, but to check on Dylan and make sure everything was okay. Petra sighed again. Made herself smile, even though she was suddenly very tired. It had been a long day.

"I'm sorry," she said with determined gentleness. "That was rude. I'm sorry. And-"

"Bres threatened me," Dylan murmured. Petra's mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. Shame flushed through her, bitter and scalding. "Nuada knows," Dylan added. "I told him when it happened. That's why they're not friends anymore, even though they've been friends for over three-thousand years. Because Bres insulted and then threatened me."

Petra drew a shallow breath. Licked her lips. "Dylan...Dylan, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"And a member of his entourage, Lord Ciaran mac Aengus, sexually harassed and threatened me."

Petra squeezed her eyes shut. Looked away. "Damn it. I'm sorry, honey."

Dylan didn't acknowledge the apology, which for her was out of character. Instead, she simply added, "Nuada has been explaining things - delicately - to the others in his group of close friends, like Princess Kamaria and Prince Gunther. I guess he hasn't gotten to Dastan yet."

"Ohmigawd," Petra mumbled. "Honey, I'm sorry, I didn't realize…" But Dylan hadn't said the men attacked her. Only threatened and harassed her. And she was kind of sensitive, not to mention a prude when it came to sex. Even mentioning anything sexual around her made her uncomfortable. And after her attack in the subway… "Are you sure Prince Bres was actually threatening you, though? Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Why would a prince threaten you, of all people? His friend's fiancee?"

Dylan gave her a tired look. "Nuada didn't think it was a misunderstanding."

"But...well, Nuada's kind of...touchy. And you've got PTSD, like me."

Petra thought of Warren, of the valid critiques he'd offered before they'd started divorce proceedings. He'd tried to make their lives better and she'd been so sensitive, too sensitive. She hadn't been able to understand that he was trying to save their marriage by making her shape up. Only later had he finally lost his temper. Before that, he'd been so patient when he'd corrected her, even though he'd had to do it constantly. What if Dylan was being overly sensitive?

"Sometimes we misinterpret things. Harmless things. And that's not our fault, but it's a fact. If Bres was Nuada's friend before, and he's still Dastan's friend, he can't be that kind of per-"

"Fine." There was no heat in Dylan's voice. No ice, no edge. Just exhaustion and resignation. She stood up from the table. The big black dog slipped off the bench to land at her feet. A white shape wiggled out from under the table - the other huge faerie dog. "Believe what you want, Petra. You always do."

"Honey-"

"Good night," and her baby sister hurried upstairs.

Petra stared after her, watching the guards that had fallen in around Dylan disappear up the stairs as well. The Butcher Guards moved soundlessly, without so much as a clank. Only the white dog hesitated at the top of the steps for just a moment. It gave her a look heavy with disappointment, whuffed at her, and disappeared. Petra slumped onto the bench.

"Well...crap."

.

The royally appointed escorts let Naya sleep in the carriage on a surprisingly comfortable bench seat bespelled by Nuada's preferred healer. So the Zwezda Elf slept as the prince's carriage took her to the western edge of Bethmoora, over field and hill, through forests aplenty. She woke only when the journeymaid healer the prince had sent along shook her gently and gave her a honey-sweetened tonic to drink.

Naya still had barely any appetite; the healer mixed other tonics in with pale cucumber and winter carrot broths so thin they almost looked like water. It was all she could manage.

When they reached the western shore, a ferry waited at a sea-soaked wooden dock. Elegantly carved and no doubt magically preserved, the pearlescent ship bore rose vines and seashells carved into bannisters and porthole frames. The figure carved into the ship's prow was an Elven woman in a loose, draping, Fomorian gown, her curling hair blown back from her face by the wind.

Naya saw a young man with sharply pointed ears huddled on shore by the landing dock, shivering despite the black wool coat trimmed with black fur and gold braid. Even exhausted, the Elven woman noted the good cut of his coat, the quality of his black leather boots with their shiny gold buttons, and the golden pommels of the twin shortswords strapped to his back.

The footman scooped her up carefully and carried her, bundled up in a trio of goose-down quilts, toward the young man. When the youth turned to her, she saw his eyes had no sclera. Slitted, crimson pupils cut thin and sharp through the blackness of his eyes. When he smiled shyly and waved to them, he flashed an extraordinary number of needle-sharp, obsidian teeth.

"Mistress Polunochnaya?" He gestured for the footman to carry her up the gangway. He strode beside the servant. "I'm Liam Ui Niall, Prince Nuada and Lady Dylan's chamberlain here at Renvyle."

She jerked in shock. It hurt. "Chamberlain?"

"Aye. Still getting used to it myself," he added as they stepped onto the deck of the ferry. "I only arrived at Renvyle a fortnight ago. But His Highness and Her Ladyship sent word we were to take the best care of you until you're well enough to begin your duties."

Ah, yes. Of course. She was no longer the trusted companion of the king's daughter. She was to be a servant. Pot girl? Scullery maid? She knew she deserved far worse. By rights, she ought to be dead. She would not allow herself any bitterness.

"What...are my...duties, my...lord chamberlain?"

The gancanaugh youth looked uncomfortable at being called my lord. Putting on a smile, he explained, "You're to be one of Her Ladyship's handmaids when she's in residence. And she was hoping you could teach my wife how a future princess's ladies' maids are supposed to do things." At her stunned look, he added, "Lady Dylan found my wife and I in a northern village. I am - was - a farmer; my wife was a laundress. We need some guidance, so Lady Dylan thought you might be able to help us."

"I...see." And to her surprise, she began to smile. She couldn't help it. A gancanaugh farmer for their chamberlain? His wife, a laundress, for a lady-in-waiting? What next? An orphaned troll in charge of polishing the crystal?

The mortal had surprised her yet again. Naya wondered, still smiling, how much scandal the human woman would cause before too long.

.

Exhausted, sick in his heart, Nuada returned to Feld Skerry just in time to miss supper at the tavern. Perfect. Then he learned Dylan had essentially sacked (and imprisoned under royal guard) the clurichaun Nuada had chosen as village headman, as well as his wife. Knowing Dylan as he did, however, he knew she'd had a good reason.

Sure enough, after speaking to her, Mistress Aoife, her son Miles, and both the McLeods - who freely admitted to hitting Aoife's young daughter with an iron ladle and trying to prevent the woman from asking Dylan for medical aid - Nuada officially sacked the headman.

By law, they couldn't exile the clurichaun or strip him of his own lands over such a thing, although he was given a week to move himself and his wife and their son out of the Headman's Homestead. So at Dylan's urging, instead of exile Nuada ordered McLeod to pay Mistress Aoife the sum of what income she'd lost while caring for the child Mistress McLeod had injured. It had been quite a hefty price.

Finally, at long last, Nuada made his way upstairs to the room he'd taken. He trudged inside, kicked off his boots. Flopped onto the bed. Then he simply closed his eyes and breathed, willing the tension to drain from him one muscle at a time.

He would not think of dark things now. Not of his father, and of Balor's small, casual cruelties from earlier that day. Not the brutal, breaking things Nuala had said to him. Not the men he'd killed.

A soft knock at the door. Dylan. He knew immediately, without even having to touch her mind. She came in when he bid her enter, carrying a tray.

"I thought you might be hungry," she said. "I asked the cook earlier to definitely save some of tonight's dessert. It was lemon custard, your favorite." She set the tray on the table and came to sit beside him on the bed. He couldn't seem to dredge up the energy to sit up.

Dylan laid a soft, cool hand against his cheek. He looked at her.

"You going to be okay?"

"I think so," he said. "Everything went as I wished. Naya is safe, my father isn't angry with us. Nuala finally deigned to speak to me. I think... I think I am merely tired. It's been a long day."

A hesitation. He did not want to burden her. She had done so much and done it so well on this trip. Endured much, and refused both to hide from or submit to it. Yet all the day long, he'd ached to see her. Talk things over with her. Simply hold her until he no longer felt so worn. A weakness perhaps, but…

"What did Nuala say?"

Because you're a monster...I love you...I never want to see you again…

Nuada offered a wan smile. "She thanked me. For Naya."

Dylan looked down at him, eyes oddly empty. Nuada frowned. But then she sighed and fell back onto the bed beside him. Inches apart, facing opposite directions, still the nearness of her struck him like the gentlest slap from a fire fae, all heat. Her heels slowly thunked the side of the bed, her toes scraping over the plush wool rug.

"Does not your Law of Chastity forbid lying beside me?"

Dylan laughed. "My feet are on the floor. Keep yours there. Pretend we're on The Brady Bunch; it'll keep your thoughts pure."

He blinked. "I...forgive me, the who?"

"The Brady Bunch. You know, 'Here's a story of a lovely lady'?"

"So...it is a ballad."

"No, it's a sitcom."

"What is a sitcom?"

His truelove laughed, a childlike laugh that told him immediately she was most delighted with him. "A funny television show. Now stop making that face or it'll get stuck that way."

"You cannot even see my face," he protested, but he was smiling now. Dylan giggled and rolled onto her side.

"I happen to see and hear all, thank you very much."

"Oh, indeed?" He reached up and cupped her cheek. Studied her face. The cruel cuts Sreng mac Umhor had inflicted were healed now, and most people wouldn't even notice that the scars on her face had thickened and raised a little from before the visit to the villages. He traced the scar that cut across her lips with his thumb. "You see and hear all? Then you must know the way my heart thunders when you look at me. You must see how thoroughly you've bespelled me, mo duinne. Do you? Do you see the comfort and joy you bring to my heart?"

She grinned. "I do. Do you see how cheesy you are sometimes? It's adorable and I love it."

"I am not adorable."

"Yes, you are," and she was laughing again now. A laugh that pulled an answering chuckle out of him. "You're wonderful. I love you...so, so much. If I ever lost you, if anything ever happened to you, I…" She wasn't smiling now. Wasn't laughing. Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. Nuada sat up quickly. Pulled her into his arms.

"Beloved, nothing is going to happen to me. Where is this coming from?"

She shrugged helplessly. Dropped her head to his shoulder.

"Did something happen?" Nuada asked, stroking her hair. "Did that fool McLeod upset you?"

"No, no. Well," with a weak chuckle, "actually I wanted to hit him with a chair and then disarticulate all of his limbs, but firing his chauvinist butt made it all better. No, I'm fine. I just…"

When she hesitated, he gently lifted her chin and met her eyes. "Tell me?"

"Just all of a sudden, I realized if I lost you, it would destroy me. Maybe not completely, but enough. And I thought of Nuala and how she was probably so mean to you, and how you had to tell me your dad wouldn't punish you for all of this, and how there are people who want to hurt us, like Bres-"

"Dylan-"

"And I swear I'll kill anyone who hurts you like that."

Nuada blinked. Usually he was the one that wanted to kill all those who sought to harm Dylan. He knew she was capable of great violence - he would never forget the bloody carcass she'd left in the Healers' Wing at Midwinter, or how her shaking hand had worn a glove of scarlet gore. But he'd never heard her promise…

"I hope...I hope you're not offended or something," she added softly. "I know everyone views me as just this sweet, gentle healer, but-"

"But you are a warrior," he murmured. The ferocity in her eyes made his blood hum pleasantly in his veins. "Trained or not, there is fire in your heart. It is...most alluring, actually. I am in no way offended."

Dylan eyed him. "Me threatening to kill people gets you hot and bothered?"

"...phrased that way, it makes me sound...what is that human word? Ah. Creepy. No, beloved, it isn't that. Your fire, your courage, it...uh…"

"Turns you on?" She arched a single, elegant brow.

"Yes."

"Got a thing for bad girls, huh?" She grinned when he spluttered. Good. She was always blushing around him; time to see if he'd blush. "Maybe I should doll up all in black and break out the handcuffs." Blue eyes widened when her prince merely looked intrigued, not scandalized. "Um...Nuada?"

"I must confess, I had not considered handcuffs. Would they make you feel more at ease?"

Her mouth fell open. "I...what? How would...how...what?"

"On our wedding night. Would you feel more at ease if I were restrained? I promise you, I would not mind at all if-"

Dylan grabbed a pillow and buried her face in it.

"Dylan?"

"Stop talking," she ordered into the pillow. "Just shush. I need to focus."

He blinked. "On what?"

"Not imagining you shirtless in your riding boots handcuffed to our bed. Shush."

Riding boots? When did those come into the conversation? But he hastened to reassure her. "I am royal, beloved. The metal would do me no harm, even against my bare skin, if that's what-"

Her head jerked up. "Ohmigawd, Prince Studmuffin, shut up! Shush! We are not talking or thinking about this."

Comprehension dawned as he studied the rosy color burning in her cheeks, and the prince grinned. He made a mental note of her comment regarding his riding boots. Aloud, all he said was, "Would you like a bucket of ice water?"

"You shut up," she grumbled, trying not to smile. "Meanie."

"Meanie?" He echoed. "I? The most handsome, charming, virile prince in all the land?"

She snorted. "Fine. Hot meanie."

"You flatter me," he said dryly.

"I'mma get you for this one, Your Highness."

He simply could not keep the grin off his face as he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "I'm acquiver with anticipation."

Nuada didn't even mind when Dylan thwacked him with the pillow.

.

.

.

.

References Made in This Chapter:

- Roiben Darktithe is a character I've used before from Holly Black's Modern Faerie Tale Trilogy. I made up the Darktithe part, though.

- Nicnevin is a villain from Holly Black's Modern Faerie Tale Trilogy. She's also a fae queen in mythology.

- Kaye Fierch is a character I've used before from Holly Black's Modern Faerie Tale Trilogy. I made up the Pomegranate Queen part, but the parallels between her and Persephone are mentioned in the book Ironside.

- Val is a character I've used before from Holly Black's Modern Faerie Tale Trilogy. I made up her different names, but they're inspired by her actions in the novel Valiant.

- Hazel is a character from Holly Black's novel The Darkest Part of the Forest. She is dubbed Sir Hazel in the book, although she isn't called the Rhyming Knight. I came up with that from the events of her book.

- Tate is a character the book The Replacement by Brenna Yovanoff. She goes toe-to-toe with the Unseelie Queen's assassin and head torturer when she's 17, armed only with a crowbar (hence Ravenstaff) and a grin.

- Mallory Grace is a character I've used before from The Spiderwicke Chronicles. I came up with "the Needle" because she typically fights with a foil or rapier.