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.
Chapter Eighteen
The village Fae seemed happy enough to see the crew. Niamh took charge, making sure Cillian and Bran were pushed to the back of the group, attention on the crew and not them. Bran didn’t understand anything being said, wishing he had his coven’s grimoire at hand. He knew translation spells were somewhere in the history of it, and that would have come in handy the entire time they’d been in the Otherworld.
The village leader was a Fae who clearly didn’t come from wealth, but his tunic and pants appeared decently made. Bran and Cillian made sure to stay at the back of their group as Niamh’s crew set up their wares in the village square at permanent stalls, the wood weathered from past storms.
Cillian never let go of the leash, and Bran was hyperaware of the thin metal chain that linked them together. The collar was a weight he had to fight from touching. Ainmire’s collar had only brought pain when he touched it. Even though this one was nominally Cillian’s, Bran knew Fae would expect it to hurt him if he tried to touch it.
“Are you all right?” Cillian asked in a low voice.
“I have to be, don’t I?” Bran muttered back.
“Just hold on a little longer.”
He reminded himself he was doing this for Aisling. Bran could bow his head and not look any Fae in the eye, could follow behind Cillian like an obedient, mindless puppet if it meant he could find his little sister.
Bran would have liked to see what it was the crew planned to sell, but Niamh nodded at the village leader, accepted a sip of some drink from a wooden cup he offered her, and then retreated to their group. She made a discreet gesture in their direction, which prompted Cillian and Bran to follow after her, along with a few other crew members. A different villager led them to a one-room stone building down a dirt road on the outskirts of the village. Their guide cast Bran a wary look but didn’t even glance at Cillian before leaving.
The two crew members with them posted themselves outside by the door while Niamh entered. Bran dug in his heels at the tug on the bond, looking up at the sky. A black dot far above resolved itself into Jupiter seconds later. He raised his arm, allowing his familiar to land. She made no sound as she did so, well aware of the need for quiet and secrecy.
“Ready?” Cillian asked.
Bran nodded and followed him inside a space empty of any furniture, the air so hot it made him sweat. The building had no windows, but it had four lanterns hanging from the wall, all of which flickered to life with the same sort of light that had illuminated Ainmire’s home.
“What’s in them?” Bran asked, staring at one of the lanterns. “Ainmire had a witch tending to his.”
“Fire elementals,” Niamh said, glancing at him. “They are drawn to Nature.”
“You Fae can’t light your own fires?”
She shot him a withering look.
“Let’s look at the map,” Cillian hastily said, handing Bran the leash now that they were out of sight of prying eyes.
Bran shoved the end into his trouser pocket and hefted Jupiter up to his shoulder. “Where’s the map?”
Niamh pointed at the floor. “We are standing on it.”
He’d been expecting the grand reproduction like he’d seen in the library in Ainmire’s town. What he had to work with was faded paint that offered little depth, but the map was still the same outline he remembered from the library. “This is it?”
“You say you can find your sister? Then find her.”
Bran tried not to take the faint derision in her voice personally, but it was hard to ignore. Niamh’s attitude when she addressed Cillian was kinder, more deferential. Bran knew he’d never earn that from any Fae, but the hostility was stress-inducing.
He rolled up his sleeves and held his hand over the bracelet tied around his left wrist. Taking a deep breath, he sketched a witchmark in the air, the golden lines bright, his intent tolocatedrawing out the spell in one of the beads. The shape of his mother’s magic made him blink back a sudden wetness in his eyes. The witchmark that represented Aisling expanded outward, floating in the air to dance around his own.
