“That’s not a bad thing,” Bran said testily.
“It is when what was stolen is still gone,” Niamh retorted. “Cillian is our Winter Prince, heir to the crown and throne of the Winter Court, andhe does not remember.”
Cillian shook his head, which was probably not the best thing to do since it made his vision swim a little and his migraine worse. “It has to be an illusion. Maybe Etain didn’t remove anything but put something on me. What did you call it, Bran? Glamour?”
“There’s no glamour on you. At least, not anymore. This is the real you,” Bran said reluctantly.
“No.” Cillian reached for Bran’s hand. “No, I’m not Fae. I’m not one ofthem. I won’t be.”
Bran flexed his fingers but didn’t try to pull away. “I guess we both had something to hide over the years.”
Cillian growled in frustration. “I didn’t lie as a kid, and you did for a damned good reason.”
Bran looked up in surprise, shoulders loosening. “I didn’t want to, not with you. But Mom always said to never talk about my magic.”
“And mine said never to trust a witch.”
“She did?”
Cillian looked down at his right hand, palm still sore and red from being burned by iron. And wasn’t that some bit of proof of everything the Fae were telling him? “I thought it was because she didn’t like your religion.”
“What happened to your hand?” Bran asked sharply, reaching for it.
“Ainmire.”
“It looks like an iron burn,” Niamh said.
Cillian flinched at her words, not at Bran’s touch. Bran cradled Cillian’s hand in both of his, thumbs carefully framing the length of the still-healing wound stretched across his palm. “Ainmire used your knives on me.”
Bran swore. “I hate that bastard. If we were home, I could mix something up to speed up the healing.”
“I had an ointment your mother made in my backpack.” At Bran’s questioning look, Cillian shrugged stiffly. “I have an allergy.”
“Iron?”
Cillian closed his eyes, feeling like all his excuses were slipping away. “Yeah. I always forgot about it.”
“It makes sense, even if neither of us knew why before now.” Bran slipped Cillian’s hand between both of his, holding it with a carefulness that Cillian wanted to burrow into. “But I think we need to know how you could grow up with me and still be this prince of theirs.”
“Because he was supposed to die,” Niamh said. They both stared ather, but her attention was on their joined hands. “Three of our years ago, the Dagda attacked the Winter Court, accusing the Cailleach of conspiring with witches against the Summer Court. He said he had proof.”
“Who is the Cailleach?” Cillian asked, stumbling over the name.
“Your grandmother, once the Winter Queen before she stepped aside so your father could rule.”
“Oh.” Cillian had no memory of her or his father, drawing a complete blank.
Bran jumped back into the conversation when Cillian faltered, for which he was thankful. “Did the Dagda have proof?”
“Such an accusation is not given lightly, and all witches look the same to me. The one the Dagda put forth before the Spring and Autumn Courts to gain their support for him to attack the Winter Court was said to be from their Council. The witch produced a contract—a bargain—and such a terrible alliance would be the only thing that could ruin a Court.”
“Bran?” Cillian asked, not liking how Bran went stiff.
Bran exhaled shakily. “Covens take their orders from the Council of Witches in Salem. There are thirteen separate covens who claim a seat. I don’t know the politics of how a seat changes hands, but the last time it happened, the First Seat stepped down, giving it to his daughter, and he wasn’t seen again.”
“When was that?”
“Almost twenty-six years ago in the mortal world. It could have been him who was with the Dagda.”
