Brandon Ashveil's Arc

Chapter 17 of 18

The tunnel sloped down. Brandon walked with the queen at his back and the thread in his chest pulling him toward the slab. He counted his steps to keep his hands steady. Six months of service. That was the shape of the deal above ground. Below ground, the deal was worth nothing. Thornweave could gut him the moment the queen turned to leave. He had bought time. He had not bought safety. He needed something Thornweave could not afford to lose. He stopped in the passage. The queen stopped behind him. Blue stone arched overhead. Cold air moved past his face from the chamber ahead. "One more term," Brandon said. "Before I kneel to him." "You are late to bargain." "He'll cut my throat the first hour. You know it. He wants the leash more than he wants a servant." Brandon turned to face her. "So the bond stays as proof. If I die under his roof before six months are out, he dies with me. One thread. We proved that on the slab. You watched me bleed him with a knife on my own arm." Her dark eyes stayed on him. The antlers braided in her hair caught the low light. "That is not a term. That is a fact." "Then swear the fact aloud in front of him. Bind him to it. If he strikes me, you don't save him. You let him go." "You ask me to choose against my kin." "I ask you to tell him you won't lift a hand. He believes you. He doesn't believe me." She was quiet. Water dripped. Somewhere ahead, a low growl started and stopped, a black hound on a chain shifting in the dark. "He is fevered," she said. "He is not reasonable." "Then reason for him." She stepped past Brandon. Her gown made no sound on the stone. She walked ahead into the chamber, and he followed. Thornweave lay on a wide bed now, not the slab. Pale fabrics hung above him from carved posts. His white hair stuck to his forehead. His yellow eyes tracked Brandon through the doorway with a hunter's focus, fever or not. The queen spoke before Thornweave could. "He serves you six months. You do not touch him. If he dies in this house by your hand or your order, I will not come for you when the thread pulls you under. I will sit in the longhall and let it happen." Thornweave's mouth opened. Closed. His jaw worked. "Cousin," he said. "Swear it," she said. He looked at Brandon a long moment. Then at the ceiling. "I swear it." Brandon's knees loosened. He locked them before they showed it. He had walked in with a rope around his neck and the queen had cut it, because he had made her hold the knife. He stepped to the side of the bed. The thread in his chest went slack for the first time in days.