Page 19 of The Brightest Fell

When Faerie decides to hold a grudge, the ramifications can echo for centuries.

“Your knife, please, October,” said Sylvester. He held his hand out, making it clear that this was not entirely a request.

Feeling uneasy, I pulled the silver blade from its sheath under my jacket and passed it to him. “Do I need to bleed?”

“For once, no. Your blood is not required.” He leaned forward, grasping Simon’s left hand and turning it so the palm was facing toward the ceiling. With a quick, decisive motion, he sliced the ball of Simon’s thumb lengthwise. The smell of blood filled the room.

I could smell Simon’s magic in his blood, the smoke and rotten oranges tracery that marked him now, and the smoky mulled cider scent that had marked him once, before things had gone so wrong for him. It was complicated all out of proportion, that mix of scents: people’s magic isn’t supposed to twist to such a degree that it actually changes. I couldn’t imagine what it would take to rewrite a person’s essential nature like that. If there was any kindness left in the world, I would never have to learn.

The world is so rarely kind. Sylvester drew the blade of my knife across his own thumb, making a cut identical to the one on his brother. The daffodils and dogwood scent of his magic rose, stronger than Simon’s, which was—after all—still slumbering, unable to rise in his defense.

The true horror of elf-shot kept revealing itself, like a terrible flower opening one petal at a time. Simon could no more defend himself against his brother than he could wake of his own accord. I’d known that, I’d always known that; the sleeping monarchs of Silences had been the proof, if I’d ever needed any. Yet physical damage can almost always be healed, in Faerie. Losing a leg is a tragedy and an inconvenience, but there are healers who can rejoin severed flesh, artisans who can craft replacements from enchanted wood, or stone, or living fire. There are options. Magic, though . . .

Sylvester could bind Simon’s magic into his bones, and it might take him a hundred years or more before he could find someone capable of unweaving his brother’s workings. He could turn Simon to stone and leave him there, to wake one day in the dark and the cold, frozen, awake but still captive, forever.

I reached out before I could think better of it, grabbing Sylvester’s arm. He turned to look at me.

“Don’t . . . don’t hurt him,” I said. “Please. I need him to help me.”

“He will,” said Sylvester, and there was no warmth in his tone.

“I want him to help me willingly.” I’d been the person forced to embark on someone else’s quest before: I hadn’t enjoyed it. Maybe I wasn’t ready to forgive Simon; maybe I still wanted him to pay for what he’d done to me. I hadn’t figured out my own feelings quite yet. None of that meant I wanted to drag him, unwilling and fighting me, into my problems.

Sylvester was still for several seconds before he sighed heavily and said, “I will bind him only enough to keep him from hurting you.”

“Quentin—”

“Is not family. I am sorry, but I can protect only one of you in this specific fashion.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Quentin.

Sylvester continued to look at me gravely. “Trust me?” he asked.

“I do,” I whispered, and took a step back, letting him go.

He nodded once, accepting my implicit permission to continue, and turned back to his brother. Leaning forward, he pressed his cut thumb against Simon’s. The smell of daffodils and dogwood flowers was suddenly everywhere, filling the air until it should have become cloying. Somehow, it wasn’t. Somehow, it was exactly right.

“Simon Torquill, I bind you,” said Sylvester. Each word was a brick slotting into a wall, building it high and strong against the world. “By my blood and my bones, I bind you.”

I clapped a hand over my mouth. I had heard those words before. Not spoken by him, no: spoken by Evening Winterrose, when she cursed me to find the person who’d attacked her—supposedly killing her—or die trying. It was a traditional form. It only made sense that the mother of the Daoine Sidhe would have taught it to her children, who would have taught it to their children, all the way down to Sylvester. But oh, it hurt to hear.

“By the root and the branch, the rose and the tree, I bind you,” he continued, not seeming to notice my dismay. “By our mother, by our father, by the name we share, I bind you. For the crimes you have committed against me, you owe restitution, and this is what I ask of you. Raise no hand against Sir October Daye, daughter of Amandine. Break no blade and cast no spells against her, lest your tongue be stilled and your hands be silenced. Harm her not, or know no peace. By all that I am and all that you are and all the mercies of our missing Lord and Ladies, I bind you, brother. May Oberon have mercy, for I will not.”

The spell gathered tight in the air above Simon, filling the air so completely that for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. It was almost visible, a haze of white and pale gold, like the flowers that comprised it. The spell twisted, growing thinner and thinner, until it was a thread, before wrapping itself tightly around Simon’s body.

This was what a geas looked like when it was cast. This was how a person was bound. I gasped again, this time dropping my hand.

Sylvester straightened, pulling his thumb from his brother’s. Both wounds had healed. Somehow, that wasn’t a surprise.

The door opened.

I turned to watch as Etienne stepped into the room, with Raj close behind him.

“The Prince of Dreaming Cats,” Etienne said, formal to the last.

Raj looked like he had regressed years, becoming the twitchy, arrogant child he’d been when we met. Like May, he flinched from every sound. Unlike her, he glared at the world, daring it to challenge his authority, wrapped in his own self-importance like a veil. With Tybalt missing, he was in charge of the Court of Dreaming Cats, at least until someone came along and challenged him. He wasn’t a King yet. Their succession didn’t work that way. But if someone else figured out that San Francisco’s cats no longer had a King, he might have to take the crown, and all our careful plans would be disrupted. So would his life. And none of that accounted for the fact that Tybalt was all the family he had left. If he died . . .

Tybalt wasn’t going to die. Neither of them was going to die. We were going to get them back, no matter what it took. No matter what I had to do to accomplish it. We were going to get them back.