Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
After delivering Cillian breakfast, Bran thought he’d be left to his own devices as he had been over the last few days, so he was surprised to find Ainmire waiting for him at the top of the stairs, a metal leash dangling from his hand.
He nearly missed a step on his way up, wariness making him want to be out of arm’s reach of the Fae lord.
He stepped into the hallway, keeping his attention on Ainmire as Damarus closed and locked the door behind him.
“I thought I was free to do my own thing until lunch?” Bran asked.
He’d been given surprisingly free rein of wandering the estate grounds, always with a guard, but he’d walked the area to know it.
He’d never been allowed past the estate walls, though.
He half wondered if it was some psychological test.
“I am taking a trip into town today. You will join me,” Ainmire said, holding up the leash.
Bran’s entire body recoiled at the implication. “I’m not wearing that.”
“Oh, but you are. Damarus?”
“My lord?” Damarus said.
“Is the carriage ready?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Bran glanced from one to the other, trying to come up with any excuse to stay. “What will your people think about a witch keeping you company?”
“That you are a pet who doesn’t know their place and is in need of instruction,” Ainmire said.
The flush of anger and humiliation that came to Bran’s face was difficult to ignore. “I’m not your—”
“Oh, but you are, and a pet you will remain if you want to keep Cillian safe. That was the bargain we made.” Bran snapped his teeth together, cutting off what he wanted to say in favor of silence.
Ainmire smiled indulgently at him and stepped closer.
“Good. You will enjoy this outing with me. I intend to show you that we Fae are not the monsters you think we are.”
“And you think a trip through some Faerie town will get me to change my mind? Are you forgetting what the lights are? What the wyrding is? What your kind did to my mother?”
“We were not the ones who created the wyrding.”
Bran snorted his disbelief. “And the lights? Are you going to say you didn’t create those?”
Ainmire laughed, the sound richly amused as he reached for Bran’s collar, clipping the leash to it. “Far be it for us to not take advantage of what you witches carved into being between our worlds.”
Bran stared at him, trying to steady his breathing. “The wyrding is Fae doing.”
“And history is always so terribly one-sided.”
Ainmire tugged on the leash, forcing Bran to follow.
Bran’s face burned with every step as Ainmire led the way through the mansion to the front door.
An enclosed green-and-gold carriage waited for them outside, a pair of chestnut-colored horses harnessed in place.
A driver sat on the outside bench, long whip in hand, while another servant in uniform held the carriage door open for them.
Ainmire entered first, and Bran was prodded by Damarus to follow after.
He would have sat on the opposite cushioned bench if the Fae lord hadn’t ordered him otherwise.
“You will sit beside me,” Ainmire said, leash held in one gloved hand.
Bran grimaced and did as he was told, digging his fingers into his thighs.
Damarus took the other bench, and the servant closed the carriage door behind him.
The windows were slid down on either door, allowing for a breeze to blow through, which Bran appreciated.
What he didn’t appreciate was how bumpy the ride was on cobblestones.
He had to brace his feet against the floor of the carriage to keep from sliding off the bench. Both Fae didn’t seem bothered at all.
The discomfort soon became ignorable, mostly because of what he could see outside the carriage windows.
The quiet street the mansion was located on opened up onto the bustling ones he remembered from their arrival.
The wooden structures of houses and shops reminded him uncomfortably of human establishments.
While there weren’t any motorized vehicles, there were plenty of other carriages and horses on the road.
Bran stared at the Fae on the street, with their varicolored hair and skin tones and their clothing that ranged from coveralls to courtly outfits similar to what the Fae in the carriage with him wore.
The only thing Bran knew for certain was that Ainmire and Damarus were probably the highest-ranked in town.
He had questions—so many questions—but Bran didn’t want to ask them, even though he knew he should. The more knowledge he had of the area, the better, but neither did he want to seem too interested. He didn’t want to give the Fae lord any more of an opening to engage than he had to.
He didn’t want to owe them.
“Where are we going?” Bran finally asked.
“Pets don’t question their lord,” Damarus said, not looking up from the small book in his hand he was reading.
“Training takes time,” Ainmire said.
“You’ve a soft hand with this one.”
“Perhaps. I have my reasons.”
Bran bit back a grimace, not wanting to know what sort of punishment he was dodging because the Fae lord thought he’d get more out of Bran with the carrot rather than the stick.
He honestly didn’t know why the bargain he’d made had worked, not when it seemed the Fae thought so little of mortals and witches alike.
He didn’t expect an answer after that, so he was surprised when Ainmire continued speaking. “We are heading to the town’s library. The head archivist has been notified to expect us.”
“Why?” Bran asked.
“Because your education has gaps that need to be filled.”
Such a polite way to say the Fae lord thought he was stupid. “Fae history isn’t mine.”
“If that were true, then you witches wouldn’t stand guard at the wyrding so attentively.”
Bran was at a loss in their verbal dance and bit his tongue against all the words lodged in his throat.
Playing word games with Fae never ended well.
Instead, he turned his head to stare out the window, trying to brace himself against the motion of the carriage that was doing its damnedest to bruise his tailbone.
Damarus had called the town Baile átha Luain.
Bran wondered how much of the land surrounding the town by a river Ainmire ruled.
It wasn’t enclosed by any kind of wall, instead sprawling over the valley floor, as if the Fae who lived there didn’t fear what could walk out of the wyrding. Maybe the lights didn’t come this way.
No wall meant he and Cillian might have a chance to make a run for it if he could figure out a way to break Cillian out of the cell.
That seemed like more and more an impossible dream with every day that passed.
Bran was watched every second he was free of his room, a guard forever trailing in his shadow.
The town’s streets were winding, not built on a grid in any meaningful way.
It reminded him of any modern city, if all the buildings were made of wood and some kind of metal he doubted was iron.
They passed shops for food and clothes, tailors and cobblers, and even what looked like a forge down an alleyway.
He wondered what had happened to Cillian’s rifle and his pair of iron railroad spike knives.
The only weapons he’d seen any Fae carry were the occasional bow from a hunter and swords or glaives for the guards on patrol.
It felt, weirdly, like he’d stepped back in time somehow, even when he knew he’d just slipped sideways.
Eventually, the street widened a little, adding another lane.
The buildings with shops and homes became buildings meant for a government.
They were designed differently, with more elaborate facades and a slight uptick in guards.
Carriages were parked in designated spots with their drivers chatting in small groups.
Single horses were tied to posts that held both food and water buckets on either side.
Their carriage eventually pulled in front of a three-story redbrick building with white trim and ivy growing up its side.
The windows on each level appeared to be made of stained-glass images Bran couldn’t quite make out.
Damarus opened the carriage door rather than wait for whatever servant had tagged along and got out.
Ainmire exited next, and Bran was forced to follow, leash pulled taut between them.
The sidewalk wasn’t as crowded here as it had been in other parts of the town.
Bran craned his head around, taking in all the buildings clustered around a wide green park.
He’d guess they were in the civic heart of the town but wasn’t going to ask for confirmation.
“This way,” Damarus said, tilting his head at the library. “Pets follow their lords.”
“Not a pet,” Bran said through gritted teeth, but he still listened like he was one, led along like one, and it galled him.
For Cillian. I’m doing this for Cillian.
The thought was cold comfort as they entered through a pair of wooden double doors into a receiving hall where a Fae stood in a plain sort of gown, her daffodil-yellow hair swept up into a loose bun atop her head.
She wore a gold brooch pinned over her left breast, the open book within a thin circle a device that probably meant something.
She dipped into a shallow curtsy before speaking in the Fae language Bran was more and more certain was similar to Irish Gaelic.
Ainmire conversed in the same language, and whatever they decided on, the lady nodded and turned on her heel, acting as escort.
They followed her through well-lit hallways that made Bran wonder if a witch was responsible for the glittering sparks floating in the glass sconces.
He didn’t see anyone who might be mortal amid the tall Fae they passed with their pointed ears and condescending regard if they even deigned to look at Bran.
They looked at Ainmire, though, sometimes stopping him for a brief chat before moving on.