Page 90 of Threadbound

“He doesn’t know what you are, does he?” she asked, gently.

“I think Eadar told him,” Bran replied. Before being sequestered for the three days, Bran had asked him to prepare Jamie for the way he’d look. To try to explain what Bran actually was.

“And does he know what a boobrie is?”

Bran studied his hands, the skin dark and the talons shining and carefully buffed down so that he wouldn’t break Jamie’s skin when they took hands. “Probably not.” He hadn’t asked Eadar to give details, and he didn’t know if Jamie would ask questions.

Maigdeann made a sympathetic face. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Bran wasn’t going to hold his breath. He’d be happy if Jamie didn’t freak out. Bran gave his sister a weak smile.

“Ready?”

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet, hoping that after the threadbinding he would have enough strength to make it through the rest of the night.

Jamie was prettysure he’d forgotten how to swallow. Either that, or his stomach had actually managed to claw its way up into his throat and was blocking his esophagus. A tall, slender fae man with long fingers and white eyes, his skin pure black, had met them somewhere in the winding hallways of the Court of Shades, leading him away from Cairn and Eadar, down the corridor and into a massive courtyard of stone and trees and hanging moss.

The ground beneath their feet was moss and stone, the moss growing in intricate patterns, some of it blooming with the same delicate purple flowers that fed Patch. Thegealach marcaichewas still in Jamie’s room, although it had been unhappy about that, rustling its wings and making a hissing sound when Jamie had carefully unhooked all twenty-four of its toes from his clothing to put it back on the bed. Given that there were neither shutters nor windows, Jamie wondered if maybe this would send the creature back to the wild. The thought gave him a little pang, although it probably was better for thegealach marcaicheto be with its own kind.

Above him, vaulted branches acted as roof beams, although there were no leaves to obscure the carpet of unfamiliar stars spread overhead. Tendrils of what looked like Spanish moss hung from the branches, glimmering lights like fireflies hovering amid the hanging living lace.

It was easily the most beautiful place Jamie had ever seen, and he paused, air filling his lungs in spite of his wonder.

“Come, Weaver,” the fae leading him murmured.

Jamie startled, surprised the fae knew his name, but followed as he was led up to a font, the liquid inside black as the sky above and just as studded with stars. Jamie swallowed, raising his head to ask a question that he immediately completely forgot. He also forgot how to breathe.

Because Bran was approaching the font, and Jamie lost the capacity to think about anything other than Bran.

The Sluagh fae wore clothes not unlike Jamie’s—soft grey trousers with a vine pattern embroidered in green and blue down the length of his legs, although Bran’s cut off above his ankles, revealing taloned feet that had three gnarled toes to the front, a high arch like a cat with a fourth toe at the back. The skin of his feet—and his hands, Jamie noticed—was dark and mottled, the knuckles thick, a shining dark talon at the end of each. A few bands of silver circled his fingers and toes, some above the middle joint, some below, and tiny flashes of color glinted from subtle gems set in the rings. The higher Jamie’sgaze slid up his arms, the paler Bran’s skin, reaching a creamy ivory by the time Jamie’s eyes slid over the silver arm bands around Bran’s biceps.

Also like Jamie, Bran wore a vest, black, but where Jamie’s was woven with feathers—Bran’s feathers, he realized—Bran’s had more embroidery, done in a royal blue and the same vibrant green of the hemp wound around his wrist. A little bit of warmth bloomed in his stomach that Bran was wearing the bracelet Jamie had made for him.

It’s… like it’s the same thread,Jamie thought, as Bran grew closer. The same thickness, the same texture. And the blue was the same as the hemp bracelet Jamie wore. He wondered how they had managed that, adding that question to the list he was accumulating in his mind. Maybe Bran would be able to answer them later. Or Eadar, if Bran didn’t know.

Jamie’s eyes moved up Bran’s form.

Bran’s shoulder-length black hair remained familiar, although Jamie could see that it was woven with—no, it simplyhadfeathers interspersed among the silken strands. The dark ears that peeked out of Bran’s curtain of hair were sharply pointed, their rims, like Cairn’s, sparkling with gemstones and silver hoops.

At the edges of where his hair-and-feathers grew, Bran’s skin was dark and mottled, but it faded almost immediately into the same fair skin Jamie recognized, the same nose and thin-but-full lips, the same vibrant emerald eyes.

As far away as he was, Jamie could see depths in them. Exhaustion and pain, even from across the courtyard. Worry.

Unable to help himself, Jamie reached out a hand, and his heart stuttered when emotion washed over Bran’s familiar-unfamiliar features.

It took a few steps—his talons clicking on stone—before Bran took Jamie’s hand.

Bran’s skin was warm as he slid his fingers across Jamie’s, those bottomless green eyes searching Jamie’s face. Jamie tightened his fingers, the rough texture of Bran’s skin strange, but not unpleasant.

A female-looking fae, tall and thin, her skin pure white and her eyes completely black, stepped up next to the fae who had led Jamie across the courtyard.

When she spoke, so did her mirror image beside her, their voices blending eerily in the way that only two people who shared a mind could.

“James Weaver, son of Nell. BranNeach-Cogaidh, mac Cairn, mac Gaotha.”

As they spoke, their hands seemed to somehow pull light from the font, light that emerged in shining golden threads.

Threadbound, Jamie thought to himself. They meant it literally.

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