"I can't accept … won't accept this," Niall said. "I'm done."

"What do you mean?"

So Niall said the words that would undo his oath: "My fealty to the Summer Court is rescinded. You are my king no more." It was a simple thing to end what should matter so much. A few words, and he was alone in the world again.

"Niall, think about it. This isn't worth leaving." Keenan sounded nothing like the faery Niall had thought him to be. "What was I to do?"

"Not this." He stepped around Keenan. "I'd rather be solitary, courtless, without a home or king … than be used."

He didn't slam the door, didn't rage, didn't weep. He simply left.

Several hours later, Niall was still walking through the streets of Huntsdale. There was some sort of event, leaving the streets full and noisy, matching the din inside him. I'm not any better than Irial. I'd have made her addicted like the junkies she fears. And his king had known that, used that. I failed her.

It wasn't often that he lamented being the one who followed and never led, but as he walked through the dirty mortal streets, he wondered if he'd made the right choice so long ago when Irial'd offered to make Niall his successor. At least then I'd have more choices.

Niall waded through the mostly mortal crowd. The fey who mingled with them hurriedly stepped out of his path. As the crowd moved, Niall saw him: Irial lounged against a storefront.

"I heard you were out and about," the Dark King said, "but I was beginning to think my fey were wrong."

"I want to talk to you," Niall began.

"I'll always welcome you, Gancanagh. That hasn't changed." Irial gestured to the tiny park across the street. "Walk with me."

Vendors were selling sweets from their carts; drunken mortals laughed and shouted. A game of some sort or perhaps a concert must be letting out. People crowded the streets so much that traffic was unable to move. The Dark King wove through the stopped cars and angrily honking drivers, past a group of mortals singing quite poorly and doing what they seemed to think was dancing.

Once in the park, Irial motioned to a stone bench his fey had just finished clearing. "This is your sort of place, isn't it? Would you rather go—"

"It's fine." But Niall stood, leaning against a tree, not at ease with having his back to the fey roaming the street. Irial shrugged as he folded himself gracefully onto the bench, looking perversely like an ingenue unaware of the effect he had on the gaping mortals around them. "So" — he lit a cigarette—"I expect you're here about my Leslie."

“She’s not yours.”

Irial took a long drag off the cigarette. "You think?"

"Yes. I do." Niall turned slightly, watching several faeries who were approaching from the left. He didn't trust Irial or the solitary faeries who were watching or—actually he didn't trust anyone right then.

Irial motioned several of his faeries closer and directed, "I want the immediate area empty." Then he turned his attention to Niall. "Sit. I'll not allow any harm to you while you sit with me—my vow on that."

Stunned by the generous vow Irial'd offered him—no harm at all, thus saying his own safety was secondary to Niall's—he sat and stared at the Dark King. It didn't change things, though: a moment of kindness didn't undo Leslie's situation or Irial's long-ago cruelty.

"Leslie's not yours," Niall said. "She's her own, bond or not. You just don't realize it yet."

"Aaah, you're still a fool, Gancanagh." Irial exhaled a cloud of smoke and leaned back. "A passionate one, but a fool nonetheless."

Niall said it then, the words he'd never thought to say to Irial, the start of a conversation that had once been his greatest nightmare. "Would you trade for her freedom?"

Something indecipherable flashed in Irial's eyes as he lowered his cigarette. "Perhaps. What are you offering?"

"What do you want?"

A weary look passed over Irial's face. "Sometimes, I'm not sure anymore. I've held this court through the wars between Beira and the last Summer King, through Beira's fits of temper, but this new order … I'm tired, Niall. What do I want?" Irial's usual façade—half amused and half callous—returned then. "What does any king want? I want to keep my fey safe."

"How does Leslie fit into that?"

"Are you asking for the kingling or for yourself?" Irial's tone was once more the needling one he so often used when they spoke: the Dark King had never quite forgiven Niall for running. They both knew that.

"What do you want from me in exchange? I'm here to bargain. What's your price, Irial?" Niall felt such a swirl of emotions at actually saying the words—self-disgust that he'd failed Leslie, anger that his king had failed him, dismay that he was touched by Irial's kindness. "I know how this works. Tell me what you're willing to give up and what it'll cost me."

"You never did figure it out, did you?" Irial asked incredulously. But before Niall could speak, Irial held up his hand. "Revel in the feelings you're fighting not to show me, and I'll answer you."

"Do what?" Niall had heard of odd bargains, but here he was exposing himself to Irial's whims, and the Dark King offered answers in exchange for "giving in to his feelings." Niall scowled. "What sort of—"