Chapter 17 #2
Niamh shrugged, as if it didn’t bother her one bit that their society allowed such horror.
“What would happen if he didn’t wear it?” Cillian asked.
“It is not done for pets,” she said.
“I’m not—” Bran said.
“You are such a thing here,” Niamh hissed, taking a single step forward, though she didn’t reach for any of the throwing knives on her person.
“Here, you are a witch, and if you are that, then you are one of two things—dead or owned. If you do not wear my prince’s collar, then you are fair game for any Fae to claim. ”
Bran stepped back, one hand going to his bare throat as he stared at her. The idea of being a prisoner to someone like Ainmire again sent a jagged bolt of fear through him.
“Can you give us a minute?” Cillian asked quietly.
She sighed before passing over the last thing in her hand to Cillian. “Drink this. It will ease your lingering aches.”
Niamh left, closing the door behind her. Bran sucked in a breath and stepped away from the bed, glaring at the collar and leash. “I’m not wearing it.”
“Bran,” Cillian said. “I don’t want you to become a target.”
Bran spun around, gesturing sharply at the collar and leash. “So you want me to wear that? Want me to willingly put it on and suffer through not being able to use my magic again?”
“Niamh didn’t say it would do that.”
“She didn’t say what it would do at all. That’s how Fae speak, Cillian. You have to listen to what is and isn’t said when they talk. It’s all word games to trap you in a corner.”
“Is that what Ainmire did to you?”
Bran looked away from him, glaring at the wall. “You wouldn’t have been fed if I hadn’t agreed to what he wanted.”
Neither of them had been able to attempt an escape for fear of the other one coming to harm. Leashed by words, if not by a physical one, at the time. It still pulled the same way. And now, Cillian was contemplating what Ainmire had done, and the idea of it had Bran sick to his stomach.
“I hated Ainmire’s collar on you,” Cillian said in a low voice. “And I’ll hate any Fae who tries to put one on you.”
“So you’ll end up hating yourself?”
“Not if it will keep you safe.”
Bran met his gaze, the steadiness of it like the calm eye of a hurricane. There wasn’t any of the sick satisfaction that had been in Ainmire’s eyes there in Cillian’s, only a depth of worry and care he couldn’t look away from. “I don’t want to.”
“I know. But if it keeps other Fae from hurting you so we can find Aisling, then I will ask you to please wear it. You can take it off as soon as it’s safe.”
Bran laughed harshly. “Safe? We aren’t safe so long as we stay in the Otherworld.”
“We’ll get out. We’ll get back home. But we need to make you as safe as we can in order to do that.” Bran watched as Cillian picked up the collar and leash, holding it out to him. “So, please. Would you wear it?”
Bran clenched his teeth so hard he thought he might crack one.
He couldn’t help the way his breathing sped up at the thought of having that physical form of ownership locked around his throat again.
He remembered what it had felt like when Nature was taken from him and his magic had been blocked—the horrible emptiness it had left him with.
It would drive him mad if he had to suffer through that again.
But he’d suffered through that indignity once before to keep Cillian safe. He could do nothing less to find Aisling.
“I couldn’t touch Ainmire’s collar without it hurting,” Bran said stiffly.
A hot rage flashed across Cillian’s eyes and the air in the room went sharply cold. “I think Niamh knows I wouldn’t stand for that. If it does, I’ll let my displeasure be known.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Please. For me. I want to know you’re safe.”
Bran ran a hand through his hair, trying to stifle his nerves and failing. Mostly because—because it was Cillian asking, and Bran had never been good at telling the other man no when they were kids. It seemed that habit was still alive.
He slowly reached for the collar, fingertips grazing the metal, steeling himself for pain, but none came.
It was made out of silver and hinged to open, cool to the touch.
The same crest on Niamh’s pendant was welded to one spot, the crown protruding like a ring for a leash to attach to.
Delicate filigree was etched into the metal around it, none of which flared with magic when Bran’s fingers brushed against the design, ready to snatch his hand back at the first touch of pain.
Tiny sapphires and diamonds framed the base of the crest, whatever magic was in those jewels quiet.
Grimacing, Bran took the collar from Cillian and thumbed at the small latch, opening it.
With a shaky breath, he lifted it to his neck and closed it around his throat, locking it in place.
It wasn’t constricting, not how Ainmire’s had felt, resting at the base of his throat, but it still felt as if it were choking him.
Cool hands cupped his face. “Hey, look at me. I need you to breathe.”
Bran stared up into Cillian’s eyes, breath hitching in his throat as he realized how close the other man was.
His skin buzzed from the touch on his face, and Bran wanted desperately to pull Cillian closer, like he once had the right to.
Only a few inches separated them, but it felt like a chasm in that moment.
Cillian’s gaze dropped down to Bran’s mouth for a split second before jerking back up again to meet his eyes.
A jagged bolt of heat shot through Bran as he held Cillian’s gaze, wondering for a fleeting moment what Cillian would taste like if they kissed.
He immediately strangled that thought.
Cillian cleared his throat and dropped his hands, stepping back, which was the last thing Bran wanted, but he couldn’t make himself reach for the other man. He swallowed hard. “I’m okay.”
“Let’s get dressed,” Cillian said roughly.
Bran was more than happy to get out of the clothes Ainmire had put him in, still stained with blood from Etain’s cruelty.
The clothes Niamh had brought fit him well enough, though Cillian’s looked like they fit perfectly.
Bran’s pants were a dark brown, and the shirt felt like linen, a dull cream color with long sleeves that covered his tattoo.
No cravat or tie was anywhere to be seen, and the shirt didn’t have a dress collar that would cover the one around his throat.
Bran scowled down at the leash coiled in the box, and the disgust he felt at picking up the thin metal chain made him want to throw it across the room.
“Do you want me to put it on you now or when we’re on the shore?” Cillian asked.
“Shore,” Bran said immediately, handing it to him. The longer he could stave off the inevitable, the better he’d feel.
“Okay.” Cillian picked up the hat and put it on, the angle of it giving him a rakish look. “Let’s find Niamh.”
They left the room, making their way back up to the deck.
The ship swayed a bit beneath his feet, and Bran had to brace himself against the pitch of it.
Niamh caught sight of them from her spot up on the steering deck.
She waved to acknowledge them but kept talking to the Fae who stood at the ship’s wheelhouse.
Crew up in the rigging shouted to each other as the sails were repositioned a little to catch the wind, angling the ship toward a break in the cliffs.
Niamh finally made her way across the deck to them after a few minutes. “We’ll anchor in the cove and take a boat to shore.”
Bran peered past Cillian at the cove in question. “Are we in Summer Court territory?”
“Unfortunately, yes. We’re still within Tír na nóg.” She eyed him, sizing him up. “I do not know where your magic will lead us.”
“Ainmire said every city and town had a map to mark the wyrding. Would the village have one?”
“They will have one. Why do you need it?”
“Because I can use it to pinpoint Aisling’s location.”
“We have maps on the ship.”
“Ones that show the wyrding?”
Niamh frowned. “No.”
“I need accuracy.” He didn’t know where Aisling was—in one of the Four Lands or the wyrding—but he needed a map that would show everything.
“If the village has what Bran needs, then we’ll use it,” Cillian said, heading off the argument Bran could feel building.
Niamh sighed. “If we must travel inland, I will instruct my first mate to sail north after some of the crew have traded at the market. I don’t want the Dagda’s hunters to detain them.”
“Will he know where we are?”
“Ainmire and Etain would have made it to Murias by now and given their report to the Summer Court. I am doubtful the Dagda will let the situation be known publicly.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are Fae in the Four Lands who believe he went too far with what happened in the Winter Court. If it is known you survived? That would complicate things. He will not want to advertise his failure.”
Bran didn’t know what to believe, and he hoped Cillian wouldn’t take what Niamh said at face value.
Fae weren’t to be trusted. Bran had grown up believing that, internalizing it, but now, everything he’d learned beside his mother was thrown into question when it came to Cillian.
His mind and heart were jumping through hoops to separate Cillian from every other Fae in existence.
“You gave Cillian a hat. I don’t know if that will be enough to hide him,” Bran said.
Niamh eyed them both critically. “The skin you say he wore made him appear mortal. I do not want to cast glamour on him to try to change his appearance. That is not my strength.”
“Can you keep people from noticing him?”
“They will notice him because of you.”
“I already said I’d keep my mouth shut.”
“Niamh,” Cillian said quietly. “Please. Do what you have to.”
She grimaced but still raised her hands. “Very well. I will make it so others notice those around you who are not the witch first.”
Bran tensed, wanting to protest. They didn’t have the greatest track record with Fae magic. Cillian braced himself, but Niamh’s magic, when she cast it, was a soft glow that spun around his wrists and head before disappearing.
“How do you feel?” Bran asked.
Cillian tilted his head a bit. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“I would never harm you,” Niamh said stiffly.
Neither of them said anything to that, and Niamh left with a sigh to take charge of her crew.
The Bone Breaker sailed into the cove, and the crew laid anchor, winching a pair of boats into the water filled with crates.
Bran gripped the edge of the bench he and Cillian sat in as the boat finally splashed into the sea.
The crew rowed them to shore with a skill he could appreciate more once the hull of the boat dug into wet sand.
Bran scrambled onto the beach, staring up at the rocky cliff.
This close, he could see the stone steps carved like a switchback road into the cliffside.
He didn’t see any railings.
“I guess it’s a good thing I’m not afraid of heights,” Bran muttered.
Cillian laughed, but he still looked concerned, staring at the cliffside. “Yeah. Me too.”
The other Fae in the two boats hauled crates and trunks to the shore.
Niamh checked in with everyone, speaking in their language, so Bran didn’t know what her orders were.
She approached them after a few minutes, nodding in the direction of the cliffside.
“The trade village is up there. My crew will set up in the market square while we check their records for a map so you can do what you need to, witch.”
“He has a name,” Cillian said testily.
Niamh shook her head, pointing at the collar Bran wore. “Not here. Not like this. Remember what I said. If you want him to survive, he must be silent, and he must be owned. Do you have the leash?”
Cillian clenched his jaw but nodded. Bran wanted to protest, but he knew following Niamh’s orders would keep him safe, no matter how much he hated them.
“Good,” Niamh said.
She led the way up the beach to the cliffside.
The sand became a little rockier the farther they got from the waves.
The steps leading up were carved out of stone, large enough for a single person to walk up safely if one ignored the sheer drop on one side.
Bran readied himself for the climb and followed Cillian up, only making it to the top by not looking down.
He joined Cillian on green grass, the land sloping down to a sprawling little trade village.
Bran stared at it, uncomfortable with the part he was about to play but knowing he had no choice.
“Ready?” Cillian asked quietly, drawing the leash from his pocket.
“No, but I’ll have to be,” Bran said.
He didn’t think he’d ever get used to being collared and leashed like an animal, but at least Cillian’s touch was kind when he tilted Bran’s head back to clip the leash into place.
Cillian gave him an apologetic look before stepping back, leash in hand, leaving no choice but for Bran to follow where he led.