Page 147 of Threadbound

It was now dusk, and Bran was worried—about Jamie, about Cairn, even a little about the other two humans, who had to be confused at best and terrified at worst. Jamie had handled it well, from what Bran had heard, but he wasn’t certain that Jamie’s human friends, especially Rob, would manage with as much equanimity.

Bran sighed. His body felt oddly almost-achy, his head thick, and his muscles as though he’d spent hours training physical combat. All he’d done was open a doorway.

Well, he’d opened a doorway after a full transformation into boobrie form and back. But still. A few years ago, he’d have beenable to do that without exhausting himself, much less losing consciousness.

Maigdeann had told him to stay in bed, to recover his strength, but they had work to do. If theBean Nighehad bothered to send Madadh Allaidh, then it meant that open war was likely imminent—and without either Cairn or Cuilleann mac Eug, he was afraid the Sluagh would fall.

And if they fell, Bran didn’t know what would happen. Would Darach mac Craobh-na-Beatha be merciful, or would he force the Sluagh into hiding, or—even worse—would the Sidhe King make good on the rumor that he meant to slaughter all of them, eliminating the Court of Shades and all her people and leaving the Sidhe the unquestioned rulers of Elfhame?

When he was little, Bran had believed all the legends and stories—the ones that said that the Yule War had ended because both the Holly King and the Oak King had agreed to maintain the balance between day and night, winter and summer, life and death. As he’d gotten older, Bran had come to understand just how precarious that balance actually was—and how little it seemed that Darach mac Craobh-na-Beatha actually cared to maintain it. When he joined theNeach-Cogaidh, Bran discovered that the Sidhe King not only didn’t bother to try, he actively sought to tip the scales toward the Sidhe and the Sunlit Court.

It seemed that Darach mac Craobh-na-Beatha had finally decided to bring their cold war to an end.

In order to have a chance—not for total victory, but to restore the balance which the Sluagh held sacred—they needed their king. But Bran wasn’t prepared to save Cuilleann mac Eug andnothis father.

Bran was unable to suppress a groan as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was in his own rooms, and remained disappointed that Maigdeann hadn’t allowed Jamie tostay with him. He supposed that his sister hadn’t wanted Jamie to roll over in his sleep and disturb Bran, but he was unsettled to not wake up with Jamie by his side or at least elsewhere in the room. Even though he hadn’t been with Jamie very long at all, the halfbreed already felt as though he were a part of Bran’s very soul—not just his Fate.

It took far too much effort to push himself to standing, and Bran staggered a little, having to lean one hand on the wall to keep from falling as he reminded his legs how they were supposed to work. He forced one step, then another, then a third that allowed him to take his hand away from the stone walls.

He’d made it as far as the table when the door opened, and Bran stiffened, preparing for an argument with his sister.

“Bran!”

He let himself lean into Jamie’s warm strength, although he was careful not to lean too much, lest Jamie have the same argument with him that Maigdeann would have. “Is everyone all right?” he asked Jamie.

“We’re all fine,” came the answer. “Although Mad Ally disappeared somewhere.” Jamie’s features creased in a frown. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice going tender as the backs of his fingers stroked down Bran’s cheek.

Bran briefly contemplated lying, but figured Jamie would know anyway. “Tired,” he replied, figuring he could be forgiven for downplaying the truth, since he was at least telling the truth.

“Too tired? Should you be in bed?”

“We have to brew the draught,” Bran told him, deliberately not answering the question. If Jamie noticed the evasion, he didn’t comment on it, although he didn’t look happy.

“Are you… up for it?” Jamie asked. Bran assumed that was his way of asking whether or not Bran was likely to pass out either during or after the brewing process.

“Aye.” He hoped he was telling the truth.

Maigdeann had indeed givenBran a rather extensive lecture about his choice to get up and attempt more magic, but he’d eventually convinced her thathewasn’t going back to bed until they’d brewed the draught. When she’d sought to recruit Jamie, the halfbreed had shrugged and told her that he wasn’t going to have any more success at convincing Bran to do what she wanted than she did, and they might as well help so that it got done faster.

Maigdeann had huffed, but grudgingly led the way to Bran’s workroom, which—it turned out—revealed Rob, Trixie, and Madadh Allaidh, the last of whom appeared to be supervising, his arms crossed over his broad chest, with a frown.

The two humans—clearly in the middle of a heated discussion—looked up and fell silent as they entered the room. The ingredients they’d so carefully gathered were spread out on one of the work tables.

As he surveyed the collection, Bran’s heart sank. Nothing he knew of spell-brewing made any sense of the ragtag collection: the handful of coins from the ashray, wilted heather, dead-looking bog myrtle, dried hyssop and elderflowers, a branch of yew that had held up surprisingly well over the two days since it had been collected, a bear-shaped plastic bottle of honey, a small plastic baggie with some pearl beads, a branch of drying holly, and the fresher collection of the selkie’s flipper, maiden’s jewels, and dead man’s breath, which Maigdeann had gotten Eadar to harvest last night. All they needed now was blood—Jamie’s and Maigdeann’s.

Bran had no intention of doing any slicing into either his sister or his lover until they were absolutely certain that they had done everything else right. Or as certain as they could be with magic, at any rate. Which, given the source and extremely questionable directions of this particular draught, was going to be very uncertain indeed.

And this was what they were relying on to cure both his father and his king.

Bran drew in and then let out a long, deep breath, trying to calm himself so that he couldthink. Magic was as much about the mind as it was power, and he had the feeling that this particular casting was going to require a lot of both.

“This dinna make any sense, ye know,” Madadh Allaidh remarked in a low voice.

Bran opened his mouth to suggest that they be a bit more positive, but Jamie spoke first.

“That’s because it’s a mix of two types of magic,” Jamie’s voice was steady and calm, despite the circumstances. Bran would have expected him to be a good deal more upset by… well, everything. But Jamie wasn’t done yet. “Some of the rules come from the human world—from Dunehame. I’m guessing the ones I don’t recognize come from here, Elfhame. Just like the ingredients, the spell, or whatever, is probably a mix of both worlds.” He stopped speaking, then pressed his lips together the way he did when he was nervous.

Bran couldn’t help the small smile that twitched the corners of his mouth, pride blooming in his chest. “That seems verra likely,” he agreed. “The question is which parts draw on which magics.”

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