Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
They came out of the wyrding not in a forest this time but a valley between two mountains, stumbling between large rocks and boulders as the afternoon sun overhead burned away the fog. The cold from the wyrding disappeared the farther they got from that blight in the countryside.
“Where are we?” Cillian asked, squinting as he shielded his eyes against the sunlight with one hand.
He could see a lake in the distance and mountains beyond, the land a riot of lush greens and rich browns, trees scattered in thick clusters.
The air smelled of living things, and after hours in the wyrding and the shadow paths that only smelled of rot, he breathed it in gratefully.
“Gleann Bheatha,” Niamh said. “The country home of Verlin’s House. He is expecting us.”
She pointed ahead of them as they walked, and Cillian could see a smudge on the other side of the valley that rapidly grew into individual horses.
The Fae in their group didn’t seem afraid, no one reaching for weapons, but Cillian wasn’t one to trust them completely.
He dug out the end of the leash from Bran’s pocket, ignoring the tired but annoyed glance the other man tossed his way.
“When we get to wherever we are going, you’re taking this damn thing off,” Bran said, gesturing at the collar around his throat with one hand.
Cillian tried not to look at it, rubbing his thumb against the thin metal chain wrapped around his fingers.
He did his damnedest to ignore the hot feeling in his gut that came from the sight of Bran collared and leashed, telling himself it was wrong to wonder what Bran would look like on his knees. “If it’s safe.”
Bran huffed at him but didn’t argue, turning his head to mutter something to Aisling, who had yet to stop clinging to her brother.
Dried tear tracks streaked over her dirty cheeks, and her long white-blonde hair was a knotted mess, bits of leaves and twigs tangled in it.
Cillian was so incredibly glad they had found her, but they didn’t know what she had endured.
She still couldn’t talk—Bran had told them about the geas on her throat on the walk out of the wyrding—and her forced silence made Cillian want to inflict the same sort of terror on Cernunnos.
Everyone seemed to think she was Fae, though her ears were rounded like Bran’s.
If she wore mortal skin like Cillian once had, he didn’t want her to experience the pain of having it ripped from her.
Bran wasn’t treating her any differently, though, even if the other Fae were.
They looked at Aisling with equal parts wonder and calculation in their eyes, and Cillian didn’t trust what that might mean.
Aisling was barely a teenager. He wouldn’t let her or her brother be harmed, not if he had anything to say about it.
And he would, it seemed, far sooner than he thought as that group of Fae soldiers thundered closer on their horses, dust kicking up behind them.
They were all armored and armed, the crests painted on their chest plates that of a fox within a circle of flowering vines.
The lead rider let out a shout in the Fae language that Niamh responded to in kind.
Bran stepped closer to Cillian, bringing Aisling with him.
Cillian pressed his free hand to Bran’s back, keeping the leash clenched tight in his other.
Niamh turned away from the rider and tilted her head in Cillian’s direction. “They’ll escort us to the castle. It is perhaps an hour’s walk from here along the shore of the lake.”
“A castle?” Cillian asked dubiously.
“It belongs to Verlin’s House and is far from the viper’s nest that is Gorias these days with Medb on the throne.”
“Is it safe?” Bran asked.
The Fae on the horse said something sharp, his tone not one Cillian cared for. Niamh didn’t react other than to speak over her shoulder at him. The deep frown the Fae sent Bran’s way didn’t sit well with Cillian. “What is he saying?”
“He wonders why the witch speaks out of turn. I explained you have him on a long leash.”
“It’s actually pretty short, but I know that’s not what you meant. Tell everyone that Bran isn’t to be treated like a servant or a pet. I won’t stand for that.”
It was Niamh’s turn to frown at him, but Cillian stared her down until she complied. He couldn’t understand what she told the newly arrived Fae but could only hope it was the exact order he’d given her.
“Thanks,” Bran muttered, jaw tight when Cillian glanced at him.
“Don’t thank me for that.” Cillian still held Bran’s leash, and that was a cultural aspect of the Otherworld he didn’t think he’d ever get over.
They started walking, the sun well past its zenith as they made their way through the valley toward the lake, escorted by the Fae on horseback.
They paused briefly at one point to allow Aisling to climb onto Cillian’s back so he could carry her piggyback-style when she stumbled one too many times, looking dead on her feet.
For all that she was tall, she didn’t weigh that much.
Cillian couldn’t tell if that was because of his body or hers.
He hadn’t yet had a chance to process the strangeness of the face that stared back at him in mirrors or the new strength in his hands.
“She could ride,” Niamh said. “Any of us would gladly give up a horse.”
“No, it’s fine,” Cillian said, not wanting Aisling out of reach. He knew Bran would feel the same way and didn’t bother to ask the other man’s opinion.
She fell asleep before they reached the lake, and Cillian didn’t have the heart to wake her to point out how beautiful and ethereal it was.
The lake was so clear and blue, surrounded by large rolling green hills and dotted with trees along the shore.
The road that wound past it was shaded in some areas, the dirt path leading them toward a castle that grew larger on the horizon with every step they took.
Cillian hadn’t traveled anywhere back home that had castles, so he didn’t have anything to compare this one to.
It sat on top of a small mound beside the lakeshore, its gray stone walls and towers not taking away from the surrounding countryside.
The roofs he could see were a dark blue, with pennants flying from the top of the two towers.
They were too far away for him to make out the crest on them.
The dirt road turned into a stone drive once they got close.
The horses’ hooves sounded louder on stone as their group was escorted up to the castle.
Aisling was still asleep on his back, and Cillian was weirdly not tired yet from carrying her.
He still held Bran’s leash, and he was glad for it when he saw the person waiting for them in the courtyard once they passed through the guarded gate.
The Fae lord stood alone, with no retinue to attend him.
He was tall like all Fae seemed to be, with brown skin and dark hair twisted into locs that fell past his shoulders.
He wore a deep green court coat elaborately decorated with gold embroidery over a fancier outfit than anyone in their party currently wore.
He was more on the lean side than Carrick and Seamus, and he might have been weaponless, but Cillian wouldn’t believe he was helpless.
His piercing amber eyes stared right at Cillian, the expression on his ridiculously handsome face something like relief.
“Cillian,” the Fae lord, who could only be Verlin, said. He spoke English with what Cillian would call an Irish accent if they were back home. “When Niamh scried to let me know of your return, I had thought she’d gone mad.”
“I am not the one haunted by ghosts,” Niamh retorted.
She waved her crew on across the courtyard, and Seamus signaled the same for the Fae on horseback, who left through a different door that Cillian assumed led to stables.
Soon, it was just their small group standing in the courtyard, Aisling’s soft, sleepy little snores echoing in Cillian’s ear.
Seamus and Carrick moved to flank Verlin, but Niamh remained beside Cillian.
“I’m not who you think I am,” Cillian said into the silence that settled between them.
“Niamh told me that, too,” Verlin said. He still bowed deeply, locs spilling over his shoulder from the motion, one fist resting over his heart.
Seamus and Carrick bowed as well, and Cillian didn’t know what to do in the face of that show of respect he didn’t think was owed him.
“Your memories might be missing, but you look exactly as I remember you.”
“I don’t know my own face right now.”
Verlin straightened, gaze meeting Cillian’s. “Perhaps with time, you will.”
“I don’t want to.” Cillian shook his head. “Look. I’m grateful to Niamh for getting us out of Ainmire’s hands, but we only came into the Otherworld to find Aisling. We have her now. We just want to go home.”
Verlin’s gaze flicked briefly to Aisling. “Yes, the herald.”
“She’s not a herald,” Bran said testily. “She’s my sister.”
“And it speaks.”
The condescending words and dismissive tone had ice forming beneath Cillian’s feet without him realizing it, sliding underneath everyone’s boots.
The sun was still bright overhead, but the temperature dropped by at least twenty degrees.
“Don’t talk about Bran like he’s a thing. I’m tired of that shit.”
Verlin stared down at the ice covering half the courtyard, expression impossible to read. Then, he raised his gaze to meet Cillian’s eyes once more. “You used to not care about witches.”
“He cares for this one,” Niamh said quietly.
Verlin looked at Bran for the first time since they arrived, with none of the covetous want Cillian had seen in Ainmire’s eyes back in Tír na nóg. “You have forgotten your history, my prince.”