Page 54 of Threadbound

Jamie swallowed, then sat in the soft moss beneath its spreading arms, staring up into the branches of the complete impossibility that was the tree with its mosses and hanging flowers. He spread his fingers over the gnarled roots, theirsurface rippled and rough, but smoothed by what must have been eons of time.

He had no idea how long he stayed there, beneath the sheltering shoulders of that massive, otherworldly tree, but when Jamie stood up again, he felt… oddly refreshed. Worried about Bran, yes, of course. But… less agitated. As though the tree had given him strength or peace or something.

On the one hand, that made sense—Jamie was a nature-lover, and often found himself in better sorts after a run through the woods or up the crags. But this was… different. Something he’d never felt before, and he was loath to leave because he had the distinct feeling that it was something he would never be able to feel again. That if he came back to the Kirkyard tomorrow, the tree wouldn’t be here. The stones—now that he looked around him—would be ordinary grave markers, not these oddly monolithic markers rising like grey shadows against a sky that Jamie somehow only half recognized.

He understood that he was somewherebetween, somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be and would not have the chance to visit again.

But all things, as his momma had told him once, must come to an end, and Jamie knew that as much as he wanted to linger, this was not a place meant for him.

So, with a regretful swallow and a last long look, he put his back to the tree and began to walk back to the main path.

When he turned around, the tree was as plain and ordinary and small as any other, leaves rustling slightly in the summer night wind whispering only the promise of some deeper magic that Jamie had been given the gift to see.

Chapter

Twenty-Two

Bran’s memory of tumbling through the Gate was fuzzy, a mass of pain and regret and hope—both that he might recover from being poisoned by thegeàrd soilleirand that Jamie might one day forgive him. He had a vague memory of falling, of hitting the ground after passing through the Gate, and of shouting and of hands pressing against his side and his arm. There had also been pain, although that was more a secondary concern—something that hovered in the background of everything, but wasn’t entirely worth remarking.

There was still pain, but it had been dulled by both healing magic and the tinctures that tasted bitter and sour at once. There was still dizziness, still the heavy weight of sleep that someone—sometimes his father, sometimes Maigdeann, sometimes Eadar, his father’s apprentice—would rouse him from so that he could drink broth or eat the soft pulp of thedath ubhalor a few spoonfuls of stew.

Bran was grateful, but he also couldn’t help the weight of guilt he felt about what he’d done to Jamie. What he’d asked of the half-breed. About the fact that he very well might have put Jamie in danger. After all, if the Sidhe thought Bran was a threat, then his bondmate would also be a potential target, because ifJamie and Bran completed the threadbond, then Bran’s magic would become stronger and more stabilized.

If something happened to Jamie…

Bran tried to draw a deep breath to calm himself. His father had told him repeatedly that he needed rest and relaxation—that agitation and fear made the poison stronger. That would explain why it had acted so quickly. Typically, the poison of thegeàrd soilleirwas slow and torturous. The victim wouldn’t realize for days that they had been poisoned, by which time the magic would have worked its way into the victim’s system, draining their magic to feed its own.

Victims of thegeàrd’s poison often found themselves utterly stripped of their magical abilities, if they were lucky enough to survive.

Bran had been surprised at the poison when he’d realized that they had used it on him—because he’d only been alive enough for the poison to matter thanks to Jamie’s interference. It had been insurance, he supposed. And it had almost worked, except that Bran had been so agitated that the poison had caused ill effects before it could really sap what little magic he had left.

Cairn mac Darach’s healing abilities had been enough to keep Bran alive, but whether or not he would be able to save Bran’s already erratic and tattered magic, his father hadn’t been able to say. And that was worrisome. Certainly, Cairn would not lie to him just to tell him what he wanted to hear, and Bran appreciated that. But he also just wanted his father to comfort him, and Cairn—although Bran knew his father loved him—was not the comforting type. Wights seldom were.

It only made Bran miss the warmth of Jamie’s hands even more.

Bran reminded himself that he had no business missing anything of Jamie’s. They barely knew one another, and Jamiehad made it clear that he wasn’t interested in anything romantic between them.

But Bran couldn’t help but feel the memory of Jamie’s fingers on his skin, his warmth and strength, the way he smelled a little like dust and books even when sweaty after a run.

Lugh spare me.But perhaps his frequent invocations of the trickster god were why he found himself ridiculously infatuated with the half-breed to begin with, despite every instinct and reason telling him that getting any more involved with Jamie than he already was would be a terrible mistake. For both himself and Jamie.

Bran had never been particularly prone to romantic fancies, but clearly that didn’t mean that he couldn’t suddenly fall subject to them, whether it was the poison, being forced into idleness, or just the fact that he’d now spent too much time around Jamie, Bran wasn’t sure. Perhaps all three.

He lifted his head as the door to his room opened and his youngest sister, Maigdeann, slipped through the doorway, balancing a tray on one webbed hand.

She smiled, showing sharp teeth, when she saw that he was watching her, her third eyelid—the one that protected her eyes from the salt sting of the water—slid back, revealing irises that were a vibrant blue that reminded Bran alarmingly of Jamie’s. Not quite the same—Maigdeann’s were shot through with turquoise and silver—but still enough to strike his overly-romantic heart.

“Glad to see you awake, little brother.”

“I am glad to be awake,” he replied, offering her a smile in return.

Maigdeann crossed the room, the gossamer fabric of her loose and flowing trousers swishing as she walked. She sat in the chair beside Bran’s bed, placing the tray with its bowl of what smelled like stew and cup of tea on the bedside table. “Hungry?”

Bran nodded. “Aye.”

Maigdeann helped him to sip the tea first—both because it was undoubtedly medicinal and to make sure he was capable of swallowing—her slightly scaled, pale-blue webbed hands around his gnarled ones as he did his best to lift the cup to his lips. It was harder than he would have liked, but his hands were at least steadier than he’d feared they would be.

The tea had a bitter aftertaste, and he grimaced a little.

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