Silver in the Bone (Silver in the Bone #1)(42)
Author: Alexandra Bracken

Cabell pushed up suddenly from the ground, twisting toward the stairwell.

 

“What?” I asked.

 

He held out his hand, quieting me.

 

“—there are rules. An order to these things.” The words echoed down the stones. I recognized the crisp alto of Caitriona’s voice, not to mention the imperiousness that shot through each word like a steel-tipped arrow.

 

“You did the right thing. It is never wrong to be cautious, especially in times like these.” I scrambled up onto my feet at his unfamiliar male voice.

 

“There’s a difference between caution and cruelty,” came another voice, this one also young and female, with a bit of rasp. “Why not come fetch me to dress their wounds—or were you too preoccupied with not bothering to ask why they’ve come?”

 

The young woman appeared a moment later, hurrying down the remaining steps, Caitriona close behind. She wore a simple blue dress tied at the waist, but the color had long since faded as the fabric turned threadbare. Her hair naturally curled like rippling water, and as she moved into the light of her lantern, I saw it was inky blue in color. Her amber-toned skin was flushed with emotion. She had bold, thick brows, a strong nose, and a quirk to her lips, but her brown eyes, the pupils ringed with an unusual luminescent blue, were gentle pools of emotion.

 

“It’s as I thought,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “Miserable, the whole lot of you.”

 

“Miserable about sums it up,” Emrys said, hauling himself up with his good arm. Unable to resist a touch of flirting with the new arrival—typical.

 

She let out a tsk of irritation at the sight of the makeshift bandage I’d given him.

 

The others arrived on the girl’s heels. Caitriona had removed her armor, leaving only a loose linen tunic tightly belted at the waist and dark brown breeches tucked into leather boots. She lifted her chin, surveying us with that same look of suspicion she’d had in the forest.

 

“Nice of you to remember we’re still alive down here,” I muttered. “Who’s Sir Grump-a-lot?”

 

“How dare you speak of him with such disrespect,” Caitriona said, one hand landing on the dagger strapped to her thigh.

 

The man held up both of his hands. “Easy, Cait. It’s all right.”

 

He was average height, his silvery hair holding only hints of its past blond. He had a full beard, neatly trimmed, and a rather magnificent scar that cut across the bridge of his nose and ran down his right cheek. One hand was covered by an armored gauntlet, and it took me several long moments of studying him to realize there wasn’t a hand beneath it.

 

He surveyed me in return with hard gray-blue eyes and a frown.

 

Caitriona fell back toward the stairwell at his words, glowering. She kept her eyes on him and stayed close, as if waiting for another command.

 

“Always one for delicacy, our Cait is,” the other young woman said. She held out her hand toward Cait, wagging her fingers expectantly. Cait shot her a look of deep annoyance before handing over the heavy ring of keys on her belt.

 

“I’m Olwen,” the girl continued, unlocking Emrys and Cabell’s cell first. “That is Sir Bedivere, protector of the tower and all of us who survive within its walls.”

 

The knight stooped his head in a small bow at the acknowledgment. “As much as these old bones can protect anyone, at least.”

 

Cabell caught my gaze as we stepped out of our cells. I knew exactly what he was thinking, because Nash, with all of his many stories, had ensured there’d be just one thought in both of our minds: the Bedivere—of Arthur’s knights?

 

I eyed the man, trying to take quick stock of him. What I remembered from Nash’s effusive stories was that Bedivere had been King Arthur’s marshal and one of his closest companions, sacrificing a hand in battle to protect his king.

 

He’d survived Arthur’s final battle and been sent to return the famed sword Excalibur to Avalon’s High Priestess. He had done it with great reluctance—so much so that the dying king had to chastise him into completing the task. Then he’d retired to a hermitage and passed out of legend.

 

Or so it was told.

 

If this was truly the original Bedivere, and if there was any truth to the wider web of stories that branched out around him, he might have accompanied Arthur’s body here to Avalon, to his resting place. The sleeping king was kept alive through magic, until the day he was needed again.

 

But that would make Bedivere hundreds of years old—over a thousand, I corrected myself. I knew the Otherlands had been removed from the mortal realm through a spell that shifted them out of time’s natural flow. I’d assumed that they existed in a state of suspension, almost like a held breath, but some semblance of time had to pass here, even if it was off from our own, otherwise how would anyone grow or age?

 

Though . . . the sorceresses were incredibly long-lived. Who was to say the same magic that extended their lives didn’t grant a kind of immortality here?

 

“And do any of you have names?” Olwen prompted.

 

“Oh—right, sorry,” Cabell said, and did the honors introducing us.

 

Olwen circled Neve, who still wore her exhaustion plainly, all but swaying on her feet. “You must be the sorceress? Yes you are. My—you hear the stories, but they simply cannot compare. You’re from the mortal world, yes? Your manner of dress is fascinating.” She turned to Emrys, lightly touching the denim knotted around his arm. “What sort of fabric is this?”

 

“Olwen,” Caitriona said sharply. “If you must heal them, heal them quickly so we may discover their purpose in coming here.”

 

The other priestess rocked back on her heels. “I’ll need to bring them to the infirmary, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Caitriona repeated, the portrait of exasperation.

 

“All of my tools and tonics are there,” Olwen continued. She gestured dramatically to Emrys’s arm. “Would you allow this poor, weary traveler to be afflicted with skin-rot? Must I sharpen my blades and resign myself to cutting it from his body once it festers?”

 

Emrys startled, pulling back. “Excuse me?”

 

“All right,” Bedivere said good-naturedly. “You’ve made your point, my dear.” He turned to us, inclining his head toward the stairs. “This way.”

 

 

 

 

 

Olwen’s infirmary was in the sprawling courtyard around the tower, perhaps not so coincidentally located beside the small fighting arena I’d noticed before. The stone structure had been there for a long time, judging by the tilt of the foundation and the worn grooves leading to its doorstep.