Page 158 of Threadbound

Jamie explained how he’d encountered theBean Nighe, and how she’d told him he needed a draught for a breathing dead man. And then Bran had insisted that they try.

“Well, then I suppose we all owe both you and my youngest a great deal,” Cairn replied, looking down at the sleeping Bran with a fond expression.

Jamie felt a twinge of jealousy—not of Cairn, but because Bran had a father who loved him. Jamie hadn’t ever had a father who looked down at him with love and affection. With pride. Jamie had—well, he had an abusive, alcoholic step-father and an absent wulver spy for a biological father. He’d preferred that Bill Eckel never touch him, and he had known Mad Ally all of a handful of days. Jamie also got the impression that Mad Ally wasn’t exactly afondsort of person.

At least Bran looked at him that way—when he was awake, anyway. Not like a father, of course, but like he cared. Like Jamie’s happiness meant everything to him.

Jamie wanted that back. Wanted the moments when they shared a meal, sitting on Jamie’s bed and eating out of the same bowl of chips, when Jamie made cookies and Bran stole one while it was still hot, when Jamie sank his fingers into Bran’s thick, dark hair and tilted his head back for a kiss.

Jamie blushed again when he realized Cairn was watching him.

Bran’s father smiled. “I think he’s slept enough,” the wight remarked, then leaned forward, placing a palm on Bran’s calf. “Wake up,buaireadair.”

Cairn must have done more than just touch him, because Bran immediately drew in a fuller breath, his brow furrowing. He made a soft noise that suggested pain, then opened slittedgreen eyes. They focused first on Jamie, who couldn’t help the lopsided smile that curved his lips. “Hey.”

“Jamie,” Bran whispered his name. Then those green eyes focused, and he noticed his father. “Athair.”

Cairn smiled, then gently pressed Bran’s leg before taking his hand back. “You did your family proud,Bràon,” his father said. “Your family and your king.”

“I did what was needed,” Bran answered, and his voice was rough, as though someone had scraped a rasp along his vocal cords.

“You did more than that,” Cairn replied. “And it will not be forgotten.” The Sluagh prince stood. “And now I must attend to my now-conscious King.” The next turn of Cairn’s lips was wry. “I imagine he will be requesting your presence before long, as well, so you may wish to work on joining us.”

Jamie helpedBran down a curving set of stairs, careful of Bran’s broken arm and trying to be gentle on his cracked and broken ribs. Jamie didn’t like the fact that they were heading down to some sort of political meeting—the Sluagh King and his council—rather than letting Bran rest. Bran was having to pause to take deep breaths every few hallways, the pain and bone-deep exhaustion clearly getting to him. But Cairn had suggested they attend, and Bran was insistent.

Jamie not only didn’t see why Bran had to be there, but he also saw no reason whyhehad to be there—he was essentially nobody, as far as the Sluagh court was concerned. But if Bran was going to insist that he had to attend, Jamie was going to go with him, if only to make sure that he didn’t push himself even farther past his limits.

The room Bran guided them to was one Jamie hadn’t been in before—a courtyard, not entirely unlike the one they’d beenthreadbound in, but with a dais on the far end, a throne of twisted living holly branches growing from cracks between the dark stones. The Holly King, Cuileann mac Eug, was not sitting in it. Rather, the King of the Sluagh was seated in a more normal chair—also twisted wood, but one that was movable, rather than rooted to the floor.

It was one among several around a long rectangular table—although Jamie thought it was a little odd that Cuileann sat in the middle of the long edge rather than at its head or foot. One of the Wyrthings from their bonding ceremony sat at one end, the other partway down the side opposite the king. Cairn sat beside Cuileann, and other fae were seated in different positions, with Mad Alley sprawled in the chair at the table’s foot, one leg hooked over one of the chair’s arms.

There were two seats still unoccupied, and Jamie assumed they were meant for himself and Bran. Among the others, he recognized Iolair and Maigdeann, as well as some of the other guards—theNeach-Cogaidh—including one whose side Jamie had stitched up at some point over the last several days.

Silence fell over the table as Jamie helped Bran into one of the chairs, then sat beside him, his face on fire. He hated being the center of attention, and they were definitely that.

“We are glad you are recovered enough to join us, Bran mac Cairn,” the Holly King intoned, his voice deep and rich.

“It is my honor,” Bran replied, although Jamie could tell that he was in a lot of pain. The frowns on both Cairn’s and Maigdeann’s foreheads suggested that they weren’t terribly pleased about Bran’s condition, either, although no one said as much. Jamie resented that a little. From what he understood, Bran had let the Sluagh King somehow use him to amplify magic and win the whole battle, and from where Jamie was sitting, that ought to have earned him at least several more days in bed, if not some sort of commendation. Instead, Bran had dragged himselfto a meeting in chairs that were more comfortable than they looked, but were still definitely not beds.

Cuileann mac Eug’s green eyes flicked over to Jamie. “And, I suspect more taxing than you will admit,” the Sluagh King remarked. “We will endeavor to keep this short.” He looked around the table, and Jamie got the impression that they had walked into an argument. “This council—of which you are nowbotha part—is torn on its opinion,” he said.

Jamie just stared. He couldn’t imagine why the King of the Sluagh would have any interest in the views of a halfbreed human.

“The question they have placed before us,” Cuileann continued, “is whether it is wiser to pursue the Sidhe back to the Sunlit Court, or to allow the Sidhe to lick their wounds in the same peace we wish for ourselves.”

“We should not allow them to strike un-revenged,” said a tall, thin fae, his skin a mottled blue and black, his hair slicked back and braided with what looked like kelp.

“They are not strong enough to defeat us,” put in a man with thick lips and hair that looked more like a horse’s mane than human hair. He stamped a foot against the cobbled floor. A kelpie, Jamie thought. “We can force them into hiding for centuries with a swift defeat.”

“We are in no condition to continue to fight,” Cairn put in, black eyes sharp. “Our warriors need time to heal.”

“If we take time,” the kelpie said. “Then we lose our advantage!”

Others jumped in, their voices overlapping and causing Jamie to lose track of who wanted to keep fighting and who wanted to take the time to heal.

“Enough.” Cuileann mac Eug’s deep voice stopped all conversation. “Bran mac Cairn, what say you?”

Bran—who had not been participating in the argument—looked up and met the mirror gaze of his great-uncle. “If we mean to keep fighting,” he said softly, so that everyone around the table had to lean in to hear him. “We should press on while morale is high. But—” He held up a hand, and the murmurs that had started fell back into silence. “—I do not see why we need to do so.”

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