He didn’t expect an answer after that, so he was surprised whenAinmire 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 elaboratefacades 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.
The lady took them to a doorway that led to a huge, three-story room filled with rows upon rows of books. Bran stared at the vast expanse of space built to house a library. Four spiral staircases, two oneach side, were set equidistant from each other and the entrances on either end of the room. They connected each floor, the gilded wood matching the railings that encircled every upper floor.
Bran’s gaze was drawn to the ceiling, where a mural was painted of a fierce-looking red-headed man with a harp strapped to his back leading the charge against an enemy painted in diluted color rising out of a gray-looking forest. The hero stood in front of a massive cauldron, with Fae soldiers climbing out of it.
“The Dagda,” Ainmire said, noticing Bran’s curiosity. “He rules the Summer Court out of Murias. You’ll see him soon enough, after I meet with his right hand tomorrow.”
Bran snapped his head around, shock jolting through him. “What?”
The librarian frowned at him, but Damarus said something to her that had her shaking her head. Bran didn’t care what excuse the Fae had peddled—he was more interested in knowing about the Dagda’s right hand, if the person held the same kind of rank that Damarus did for Ainmire. Some trusted sort of advisor, maybe, or something more.
Something worse.
“The Dagda will want to know I found you.”
“Why? Because I’m a witch?”
“Among other reasons.”
Before Bran could respond, Ainmire stepped forward, speaking to the librarian, who then turned on her heels and led the way once more. Other Fae sat at tables on the ground floor, studying books or writing on paper. Several glanced at them as they passed, murmured conversation following in their wake.
The librarian led them to one of the spiral staircases. They went up single file to the second floor, heading to a bay of bookshelves that surrounded a glass display case holding a three-dimensional map of a familiar island.
“That’s Ireland and Northern Ireland,” Bran said, staring at it.
“Éire,” Ainmire corrected, stepping closer to the map. Damarus wandered toward one of the bookcases to peruse the titles there, but Bran had no doubt the other Fae’s attention was on his lord. “We lived there first, and we named it.”
