Silver in the Bone (Silver in the Bone #1)(22)
Author: Alexandra Bracken

 

Geoffrey of Monmouth hadn’t written the truth, he’d assembled a mosaic of oral folk stories and shameless fiction, but there was a kernel of truth to what he had created, even if that truth was sensationalized almost beyond recognition.

 

Still, it was easy to see why Tintagel and the nearby village had captured the popular imagination. They were dramatic and untamed, the sort of place you’d meet a sorceress for a trade.

 

I looked back over my shoulder as the rain picked up with brutal force. The ruins of the castle were silhouetted against the rolling mounds of furious clouds.

 

Drifting back from the tourists, slowly creating distance as they made their way toward the village, I darted off the main trail and onto the soggy grass, cringing as freezing rainwater soaked through my socks and jeans.

 

“Where are you . . . ?” I muttered, shielding my eyes. If the knot had come undone—

 

I found the bedraggled yellow ribbon straining against the thick patch of heather I’d tied it to. My shoulders slumped in relief. I put out a hand, feeling for the string of wood tablets that ringed the camp.

 

The spell sigils woven into the garland manipulated the air and light to conceal what lay within from mortal eyes.

 

Unfortunately, that included my eyes.

 

Not for long, I thought, my heart giving a hard lurch inside my ribs.

 

The area designated for visitor camping was to the north of where I’d set up my own site. If I was here to figure out where Nash had gone, then I needed to retrace our steps. Nash had liked this little flat piece of earth. It wasn’t very sheltered but had a clear view of the ruins.

 

With an outstretched hand, I shuffled forward until my boots hit the rocks I’d left to mark the entrance. Unsurprisingly, Cabell was usually the one who dealt with this, always guiding us back—

 

Something sharp twisted in my gut as I turned my back to the onslaught of rain. My face was raw with cold, but I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes at all, and I wasn’t sure which sensation was worse.

 

Before I could untie the garland’s knot, a different garland unknotted, and a different tent flashed into view.

 

The thing was a blue monster of nylon and polyester, state-of-the-art and meant for an entire family, not the lone smug teenage boy standing at its entrance.

 

“Evening, neighbor!” Emrys called over the rain. “Find anything interesting down at the ruins?”

 

“No,” I told him. “This is my spot. I was here first.”

 

He cocked his head to the side, giving me a look of false pity. “And how would you propose to prove that? I could have been here the whole time behind my wards and you never would have known. It’s a shame you don’t have the One Vision.”

 

I snarled, feeling the wind lift the back of my jacket as I tore my tent’s stakes out of the ground, gripping the flapping red fabric to keep it from flying away.

 

“Aw, don’t be like that, Bird!” he called after me.

 

Picking up my unrolled sleeping bag, backpack of supplies, and workbag, I half slipped, half marched farther down the hill. I settled on a new spot behind an outcrop of large boulders that would at least hide me from his view until I could find a better place after the storm.

 

My boots fought the mud and dead wild grass, struggling for purchase as I labored to get the stakes back into solid ground. Once the tent was up, I threw my drenched belongings inside and tried to scoop out the water pooling in the bottom of the ancient tent with my hands.

 

I reached back to zip up the door flap, only to stop. A scream built at the base of my throat.

 

Emrys’s tent was right next to mine again, as if he’d somehow folded it up, put it in his pocket, and then taken it back out. This time, he sat in a collapsible chair, a battery-or magic-powered heater at his feet, a steaming bowl of something in his hand.

 

“Soup?” he offered.

 

“Go. Away,” I growled.

 

“Not a chance,” Emrys said. “You really think I’m going to let you out of my sight? You coming here proves my theory that it was Nash who traded for the ring. He was the one who went after Arthur’s dagger—”

 

I zipped up the tent, shutting out his words.

 

My tent shook helplessly against the driving wind and rain. Its water-resistant material had long since given up the fight, with peeling patches over its many holes, but it hardly mattered now that everything I owned was waterlogged.

 

I should have used Madrigal’s coins to book a room in the nearby village. I could be comfy and toasty next to a fire, listening to the rain patter against the windows. But I’d left the money for Cabell, in case he needed to rent a room somewhere else until the search was done.

 

I reached over, putting my cooking pan beneath the worst of the leaks and my tin cup under another.

 

“Perfect . . .” That would last about five minutes.

 

I sighed as I pulled off my boots and wet socks and then the sopping flannel jacket. I rubbed my hands over my arms briskly, trying to get my blood moving.

 

It was no quieter inside the tent than outside, with the baying storm battering the canvas, threatening to pry the stakes from the ground. But something about the smell of wet earth, the drip of water, the clean air . . . familiarity curled around me like a cat, warming me in a way I hadn’t expected it to. Still, between Emrys and the memories Tintagel brought back, I was on edge. Nothing seemed to settle the feeling that I had something crawling beneath my skin.

 

I switched my LED lantern on and unzipped the sleeping bag in an attempt to dry it. I forced myself to gnaw on a few pieces of jerky and stale dried fruit I’d found at the bottom of my traveling backpack.

 

Chewing, staring up at the peak of the tent, I felt my mind starting to wander. Wondering what Cabell was doing. If he had listened to me and left town.

 

He didn’t want to come, I reminded myself. You don’t need him.

 

I set the rest of the jerky aside, my stomach too tight to eat another bite. Rain lashed at the tent, making the fabric jump and shiver. I knew I should find a way to brush my teeth and wash my face, but now that my heavy body was finally still, I couldn’t make it move.

 

Instead, I closed my eyes and drew up a memory I’d fought to bury for years.

 

That night had been like countless others. I’d smothered the small fire and we’d gone in to eat a bit of soup. I could see Nash as clearly as if he were sitting beside me now: the hardened echo of a face that might have once been handsome, reddened from too much drink and sun; the blond hair and stubble glinting with silver; the misshapen bridge of his nose, which had been broken one too many times. He’d had the eyes of a child, sky blue and sparkling as he wove one tale after another.