Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Cillian flexed his wrists against the root tied around them like rope, knowing better than to touch the one wrapped around his throat like a collar.
The other end of it was held by the dressed-up Fae on horseback who’d run them down in the woods.
The horse was going at a pace that forced Cillian to walk quickly if he didn’t want to choke.
His backpack hung from the Fae’s saddle along with Bran’s.
His rifle was slung over the Fae’s shoulder, his only real weapon so close but completely out of reach, the same way Bran’s knives were, hidden away in his backpack on the Fae’s orders.
The guard rode behind them, leading the third horse with their compatriot’s body draped over it.
Bran could have maybe gotten them free if Cillian wasn’t at risk of dying the instant he tried anything.
Cillian looked to his left over the horse’s rear at where Bran walked on the other side with his hands tied behind his back and the threat of Cillian’s broken neck keeping him from casting any magic.
A tree root from the forest was wrapped around his torso, the other end of it tying him to the saddle.
Even now, walking through a different world, a part of Cillian couldn’t believe Bran was truly a witch with actual magic. But he’d seen things in the last day or so that defied explanation, and the only option he had was to immerse himself in denial or believe in myth and magic.
Believe in Bran.
His mother’s warnings rang in the back of his head, but Cillian rather thought, between a witch and a Fae, the Fae were the deadlier threat right then. “All right?”
“Yeah,” Bran muttered.
Something cut across his shoulder, leaving a vicious sting behind. Cillian flinched, shoulder rising against the hit, and looked up. The Fae lazily waved the riding crop at him, those dark brown eyes staring right at him. “Did I say you could speak?”
Cillian clenched his jaw and swallowed a retort.
As bruised and aching as he felt, he’d seen the way Bran had cradled his ribs on the walk out of the forest. The last thing he wanted to do was annoy the Fae who held them captive and cause them to walk at a faster pace, hurting both of them.
He settled instead for glaring at the Fae, who stared back with a curious look in his eyes that Cillian didn’t trust at all.
“How strange to see you like this,” the Fae mused before facing forward again.
Cillian shared a disbelieving, worried look with Bran.
He didn’t know why the Fae spoke so familiarly with him, but he didn’t like it one bit.
Bran squinted back at him, some of his dark hair falling across his hazel eyes as he shook his head in silent confusion.
Cillian looked ahead again, wondering when they’d reach wherever the Fae seemed to be heading.
He kept half his attention on the Fae and the rest on the forest the road cut through.
It was nothing like the one back home. The trees here were massive things, the leaves on them unfamiliar shapes.
Even the smell of the place was different—heady and rich, nothing tainted with exhaust or garbage.
And it was quiet. He hadn’t realized how loud the forest back home was until he was here and the absence of cars and planes was impossible to miss.
The only noise around them was the sluggish wind rustling the leaves, the horses’ hooves clopping against the dirt road, and their own footsteps.
Cillian hadn’t seen Jupiter since the forest. He hadn’t dared ask Bran where she was, not wanting to put either of them in danger. He wanted to believe she was alive because Bran wouldn’t have been able to hide his devastation if she wasn’t.
Eventually, the trees on either side began to thin out.
Cillian could see the way the land stretched into a wider horizon.
The road led them to the top of a hill overlooking a vibrant valley below and more rolling hills and fields in the distance.
Settled at the bottom was a town sprawled near a river whose waters reflected the late-afternoon sunlight.
It was stunningly beautiful, a striking view of greens and blues that Cillian wouldn’t mind staring at for hours if it was anywhere but here.
The ropelike root around his throat tightened, and he was yanked forward, the Fae smirking back at him. “Not much longer now. We are almost to his lordship.”
Whoever this Fae lord was, Cillian didn’t want to meet him. “What is this place?”
The Fae turned his horse to the side so he could look at Cillian without twisting in the saddle.
He tapped the riding crop against his thigh in an absent manner, staring at Cillian with a focus that made him want to take a step back.
But something told him to dig in his heels, so he did, refusing to cower.
“Does it not look familiar?” the Fae asked, seemingly fine with Cillian talking for the moment.
Cillian arched an eyebrow, trying to put as much condescension into his voice as possible. “Why would it?”
“This is Baile átha Luain, my lord’s rightful seat, granted to him by the largess of the Dagda who rules the Summer Court.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
The Fae’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a second before he turned his horse back down the road. “Keep up.”
Cillian put one foot in front of the other as they walked into the valley, the sun past its zenith.
It was almost too warm, and his tongue was sandpaper dry in his mouth by the time they reached the entrance of the town.
The road abruptly became cobblestones at the town’s edge, and Cillian nearly tripped from a misstep, the root pulling tight around his neck.
The guards on duty at what passed for a gate or checkpoint didn’t stop them, but Cillian could feel their eyes on him as the group walked by.
More and more looks were cast their way as they walked down a street in a town that seemed so human if one ignored the eerily beautiful Fae who called it home.
Cillian didn’t see anything with an engine on their walk through the streets, nothing but horses, carriages, and wagons.
They passed through an intersection that had one street cordoned off, filled with sellers hawking produce, meat and food, like a farmer’s market he’d find back home.
The smell of roasting meat made his stomach grumble, and he was reminded that the last thing he’d eaten was a single energy bar after leaving the cabin.
He could do with food and a drink but wasn’t sure either would be safe to accept.
Gradually, the buildings went from small wooden structures to more grandiose ones.
Their little group finally turned down a dead-end street.
Ahead was a high stone wall and a set of golden gates Cillian doubted were made out of wrought iron.
Rising over both was a massive estate at least three stories tall, built like a Victorian mansion, with gabled roofs and a couple of towers.
The wooden walls were painted a rich green with gold trim, and the vines climbing up the sides were real rather than a mural.
The two Fae guards on duty pushed open the golden gate, allowing them all to enter a forecourt dominated by a marble fountain that had a trio of wolves rising from the center, water pouring from their mouths in a steady burble.
Rather than a lawn, what looked like rosebushes bloomed on either side of the cobbled drive, creating a wild garden of color.
The scent was so strong Cillian had to fight back a sneeze, knowing it would hurt with the root still wrapped around his neck.
The Fae dismounted, handing the reins over to a servant who seemed to appear out of thin air.
He wasn’t as tall as the other Fae, and his cracked nut-brown skin reminded Cillian of tree bark.
The horses were led away, but not before their captor untied the roots from his saddle, holding both like leashes.
With the horse no longer separating them, Cillian stepped closer to Bran, pressing their arms together. He felt the way Bran sagged for a moment, leaning against him, seeking out a single second of comfort before they were both yanked unceremoniously forward.
“My lord awaits,” the Fae said.
The guard from the forest walked behind them, her compatriot’s body taken somewhere else.
Cillian didn’t know how the Fae handled their dead, but he still hadn’t quite processed the fact that he’d killed a man.
A Fae. That he’d taken a life. It might have been in self-defense, but that didn’t change the fact he’d pulled the trigger and the result was death.
They climbed a wide set of stairs to a shaded porch.
A servant already had the double doors open for them, and they followed the Fae inside to a grand foyer.
The floor underfoot was marble but a different pattern and shade than the white of the porch steps.
The foyer marble was onyx shot through with veins of gold, easily reflecting the shine from the massive crystal chandelier overhead.
What lit the chandelier wasn’t candles but glittering light that floated in different-shaped glass that Cillian saw in every sconce and lamp they passed on their way through the mansion.
They passed several servants as they walked down hallways filled with paintings depicting a land Cillian had never seen before.
Each servant paused to dip their heads at the Fae who held their rootlike chains, but Cillian couldn’t quite shake the weight of their curious gazes when they stared at him.