Page 148 of Threadbound

Jamie nodded, but didn’t offer any further pearls of wisdom, his open face serious.

“So you’re saying that we actuallyneedesoteric academic knowledge about herbalist manuscripts?” Rob asked, a smirk on his features.

“Shut up, Rob,” Jamie muttered, his cheeks turning red.

“Seriously, Robbie.” Trixie swatted his shoulder. “Not helpful.”

“It’s a serious question!” Rob protested, holding up his hands, but even Bran, who didn’t know him very well, could tellhe was teasing. Bran was annoyed that Rob was making light of a situation that was deadly serious with consequences that could decide the balance of Fate in both their realms. Because an imbalance in Elfhame would have repercussions in Dunehame—without true winter, the climate would heat up, changing the weather across the globe and impacting farming communities, coastlines, and the gods only knew what else. There was also the fact, of course, that his father’s life in particular hung in the balance—and although Bran knew he should be far more concerned about the balance of Fate, it was his father’s life that actually drove him.

And yet, even as irritation made his stomach tighten, a small part of him also appreciated that Rob was trying to ease the tension in the room—tension that had the potential to cause a deadly mistake. Bran understood that. So he tamped down his annoyance and said nothing.

He looked up at Jamie, and the halfbreed’s expression was lost. Bran didn’t feel much more certain, but he knew one of them had to take the first steps.

“How does the recipe tell us to start?” he asked.

Trixie turned the notebook on the table, and Jamie stepped over to look down at it, brow furrowed. “Begin ye with blood and pearl, gold and nectar of yew, and heat until of none a trace remains, but a smooth and liquid fire.”

“The bloody hell does that mean?” Rob asked.

Jamie looked up. “I’m pretty sure we have to, uh, melt the gold?” He looked over at Bran.

Bran pointed at a small cauldron sitting on a shelf behind Trixie. “That one should withstand that kind of heat.”

Rob reached up and pulled it down, carefully setting it on the table. “Do you have a burner or something?”

Bran felt his lips thin into a smile, even though he felt more like gritting his teeth. Instead of answering, he walked up tothe work table, then slid a small disk of blackened metal, its surface criss-crossed with magical sigils, into the middle of yet another set of protective runes. Before lifting his hand, Bran pushed power into the stone, igniting the lines on the surface of both stone and table. He pulled his fingers back quickly, before they burned. Then he put the small cauldron on the stone. “Something,” he answered.

Chapter

Forty-Nine

When Bran let out a long breath, his palms pressing into the work table the only thing keeping him from crumpling to the ground, he had no idea if they’d been successful. They had followed—or tried to, anyway—the directions from the recipe as best they could, with the occasional animated discussion about some of the more esoteric turns of phrase chosen by the author.

Trixie had burned several fingers, which Maigdeann had quickly bandaged, and both his sister and Jamie had bandages from the more deliberate injuries Bran had inflicted to secure their blood at the right—or so he hoped—moments. He’d felt terrible while rasping the holly branch over Jamie’s arm, pressing hard enough that the thorns drew blood. At least he’d been able to cut Maigdeann, the wound small and clean. Maigs had spent several minutes working to clean out the scraped and ragged cuts the holly had inflicted on Jamie’s flesh.

So Bran now had a new burden of guilt added to what he already felt. He’d had to hurt Jamie, deliberately, to save hisfather. Jamie had willingly agreed to it, of course, but that didn’t mean Bran wasn’t feeling guilty about it nonetheless.

It had been Jamie’s steady hands that had poured the molten mixture from the small cauldron into two silver cups—one for Cairn, the second for Cuileann mac Eug, assuming the first didn’t kill his father. Bran closed his eyes and took another deep breath.

Because that was part of the risk. If they had failed, if they had made an error or somehow fouled the magic, the draught would be just as likely to speed along death as do nothing. But if they had succeeded…

Everyone in the room gasped as the very stones of the Court’s keep shuddered.

“What the bloody fuck was that?” Rob asked as Trixie yelped and grabbed hold of his arm.

Bran looked up and met his sister’s clouded—by her third eyelid—blue eyes. “It begins,” he said softly. At some point, hours ago now, Iolair had come and spoken in hushed tones to Madadh Allaidh, and both had left, the wulver shooting one last look over his shoulder at Jamie, as though wanting to say something, but he hadn’t.

If the shudder of stone and wood was any indication, Iolair had come to take Madadh Allaidh off to battle—but he’d left Bran and Maigdeann behind.

“They’ll need you,” Bran told his sister.

“As do you,” she replied.

Bran shook his head. “They’ll need you more,” he replied. “I’ll take this toAthair.”

Maigdeann hesitated a moment longer, as though she wanted to stay, or to give him a word of caution or encouragement, but then turned and left, the diaphanous fabric of her skirts swirling around her finned ankles.

“Where do we need to go?” Jamie asked, then.

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