Page 152 of Threadbound

Bran had killed before, but not with the almost reckless abandon that Taranis demanded in war. He had killed to defend himself and theNeach-Cogaidh. But to wade into a mist of blood and rage, wielding both sword and magic, with the express intent of causing as much damage as he could… that stole a part of his soul that Bran knew he would never recover.

And yet he could not stop the scythe-like swing of his blade, not without risking becoming the chaff swept aside and underfoot amidst the haze of battle. Sooner rather than later, he knew, he would falter, even with thecnàmh-droma an laoch. Amisstep or a tired arm or a mis-deflected blow would force him down into the cold embrace of the blood-soaked earth.

But he didn’t fall when one foot snagged on a clump of earth or bone or flesh. It was a close thing, but he managed—barely—to drag his blade up to meet the swing of another weapon that flashed silver and gold and sunlight. He followed the parry with a strike from his other hand, a cloud of magic bearing pain and smoke that would clog his opponent’s lungs and burn away their vision. It was an ugly way to die, wracked by pain and blindness and thickening air.

If Bran still had the strength, he would have made it quicker, a clean death that was over in an instant of confusion or warmth, but he could only put so much into the spells, and they grew weaker and slower, and he knew that soon enough, they would only maim and not kill.

He grimaced as another heavy weapon impacted his blade, sending a shudder up his arm that caused his fingers to lose their grip. Another desperate spell, this one to block a second blow as his arm—the one he’d broken once already—hung nerveless from his shoulder.

It was the fourth blow that finally broke through the magic, sending him to his knees, then his chest and face, pressed into the trampled grass and mud.

Pain and noisedragged Bran back out of the darkness, and he was surprised to note that his mouth and nose were no longer blocked by churned-up earth, blood, and sweat. His whole ribcage felt as though it had been crushed, and one arm ached viciously, but he could breathe, and the smells were the familiar scents of fresh linens and the acrid tang of medicinal salves, although undercut with a current of blood and bile that one didn’t normally find in his sister’s infirmary.

Someone had dragged him back to the keep.

Bran forced his eyes open, and relief washed over him at the sight of Jamie’s broad back across the room as the halfbreed worked at something—Oh.

The something was a bodach, her small body tense as Jamie carefully and slowly stitched together a long and ragged wound on one thigh.

Bran blinked. He knew better than to interrupt—distracting Jamie would almost certainly result in him accidentally causing the bodach pain or further injury, and Jamie would never forgive himself, even if it were an accident. So Bran stayed silent, watching with surprise at the steady and even stitches Jamie put into the bodach’s flesh. Although Jamie certainly hadn’t shown any squeamishness around Bran’s injuries, Bran had not expected him to have such a steady hand while putting needle into flesh.

Jamie was almost done when Bran realized that the bodach was breathing easier, her muscles less tense and her face less twisted in pain. And then he sucked in a sharp breath, because that meant that—somehow—Jamie had been healing her while doing his stitches.

Weaving witch.

But an ordinary weaving witch couldn’t heal with a handful of stitches—they could imbue magic into thread and fabric, but what Jamie had been doing washealingmagic.

“He’s something, your Jamie,” Maigdeann’s soft voice murmured beside him. Bran carefully turned his head to see his sister—looking exhausted, her skin pale and dry—smiling softly in Jamie’s direction.

Bran licked his lips, wetting them before trying to speak. “Aye,” he agreed roughly, his voice as soft as hers.

“Your draught worked,Branndaidh,” Maigdeann said softly, using his childhood nickname, one hand gently resting on his shoulder. It took him a moment to process what she’d said.

“Athair?” he asked, unable to keep the hopefulness out of his voice.

“Recovering,” she replied, her lips turning upward.

“Praise Habetrot,” he breathed.

A few moments passed, then his sister spoke again. “You dinna ask if it worked on Cuileann mac Eug,” she said.

Bran felt the world shift, even though nothing moved and he lay still in the bed. Cuileann mac Eug had been bed-bound for longer than Bran had been alive—longer even than their eldest brother, Feur. Some of the eldest members of the Court of Shades remembered a time when Cuileann mac Eug had walked its halls instead of lying prone in state, his rasping breath the only indication that he still lived.

“Maigs?” he whispered.

This smile was wider, and Maigdeann’s blue eyes were filled with tears. “His eyes are as green as yours,” she whispered, and Bran felt them flood with tears of relief.

The King of the Sluagh lived.

Chapter

Fifty

Jamie wasn’t sure whether kissing Bran or killing him was the more appropriate option, although he supposed that killing him would have been counterproductive, since the reason Jamie was so frustrated was at Bran’s seeming determination to get himself killed. When Iolair had carried Bran—bloody and unconscious—into the infirmary, Jamie had nearly passed out, only willpower keeping him on his feet as he’d taken Bran’s too-still and too-bloody form from his brother’s arms.

Maigdeann had immediately swept over, her fingers already shimmering with healing magic, and had forced Jamie to first put Bran down on one of the empty beds and then step away. The injuries to Bran’s body hadn’t required stitches—his arm appeared to be broken (again), and he’d been struck repeatedly by something very large and very blunt which had left his whole ribcage a misshapen mottle of bruise and bloody scraped skin.

If he’d been human, Jamie thought, it would have been much worse—or, rather, if he’d been in the human realm. Modern medicine was a far cry from the medieval methods they were using here, but the fae had something human medicine couldn’t hope to match. Maigdeann and Eadar’s healing abilities were able to knit flesh and bone—at least to a degree. Jamiewas seeing the limitations of magic as well as its miraculous capabilities. Both healers—and their apprentices—looked wan and pale, and not only because of inhumanly fair skin. Eadar’s golden skin had a greyish cast, and Maigdeann was vague shade of grey-green that could not possibly be healthy. Both had creases around their mouths and dark circles under their eyes that were apparently universal signs of exhaustion, whether fae or human.

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