The crackle of the firewood was the only sound between us for several moments.
“I don’t mean to be a bother, but . . . ,” Emrys said weakly, “I wouldn’t have taken the bandage off if I’d known you wanted to have an in-depth discussion first.”
“Oh dear, yes,” Olwen said.
She retrieved a pair of shears from the worktable and set about cutting his sleeve and removing pieces of it from the open wounds. Emrys hissed as she dabbed at it with something that smelled vaguely sweet and not at all like alcohol.
“I assume, having traveled here with a sorceress,” Bedivere said, “you are all aware of the true nature of magic and the Otherlands. Yet, even without knowing what’s become of Avalon, why would he search for the isle?”
“That’s our question too,” I said. “He was one of the Cunningfolk, so he knew the stories of the isle.”
“Cunningfolk?” Olwen repeated. “That’s not a term I’m familiar with.”
“People born in our world with a magical gift of some kind,” Cabell clarified.
“I see,” she said. “Is it because they’re descended from different beings? For example, my mother was a naiad, a water nymph. And our sister Mari is an elfin. We were born with abilities that our sisters do not possess.”
“No one’s really sure,” Cabell said. “Possibly.”
I hadn’t realized the priestesses of Avalon could be anything other than human, but this at least explained Olwen’s unusual hair and eyes.
“What sorts of magic gifts?” Flea demanded.
“Well, for example,” Emrys said, looking up at the rack of herbs drying over his head, “I can tell you that’s horehound, most commonly used to ease coughs, yes?”
Flea looked distinctly unimpressed, but Olwen was delighted. “Aren’t you clever. How did you know?”
“It told me as much,” Emrys said with a shrug. “I can also tell you that you planted it in largely barren soil, that it knew what it was as it sprouted from your seeds and fought to break through the ground, only to never see the sun. That it knows its purpose, and your face, but very little life lingers in it now after being cut from its roots. It fades more each day as the bundles dry out, but it’s not painful.”
Olwen reached for the nearby shelf, retrieving a small silver compact. As she opened it, a honey-sweet scent was released into the air. Scooping a generous heaping of yellow ointment out onto her fingers, she applied a thick coat over Emrys’s jagged wounds. The bleeding stopped completely as it dried and hardened into a shell-like finish.
“It must be magic, otherwise you gave yourself a good crack on the head coming in,” Olwen said faintly. “Speaking with plants . . . we can feel the life in them, of course, the soul granted by the Goddess, but they have thoughts and feelings?”
“Of course they do,” Emrys said. “Memory, too.”
“As I was saying,” I interrupted. “Our, uh, father . . .” The word pained me to say. “He loved the stories of the isle. He may have found a way in—some sort of tear in the boundaries between our world and yours—or he may have accidentally fallen through.”
“I’m far more concerned that the sorceress was able to open the path,” Caitriona said. “The ancient protective wards still stand. What trickery have you used? Is it not enough that your kind has poisoned our land through your curses?”
“Wait—” I began. “You think the sorceresses cursed Avalon when they were exiled? How long has the isle been like this?”
Caitriona’s lip curled. “It was a long-festering curse. Slowly altering the land over centuries in the shadows until two years ago, when it fully bloomed.”
“That’s impossible,” Neve said sharply. “The sorceresses saved Avalon. They had no reason to destroy it.”
She might as well have taken Olwen’s shears and stabbed Caitriona in the heart.
The priestess’s face burned with renewed color as her temper boiled over. “Saved Avalon? Your kind betrayed the Goddess, relinquished your faith, and now serve only yourselves!”
“Sorceresses still believe that the Goddess exists and that she created us, we just don’t think she has much to do with us anymore, so we have to decide our own fates,” Neve managed to get out.
“Then you know nothing of the comfort of believing an all-loving Mother cares about you and watches over you,” Caitriona said. “What a sad, dark existence.”
“You don’t know anything about our existence,” Neve said with an impressive amount of heat, given that she looked ready to keel over. “Here’s the thing—without my kind, as you so rudely put it, your kind would have ceased to exist because you refused to do what had to be done. So, you’re welcome.”
Caitriona drew back like a snake about to strike.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, looking between them.
“I’m also confused,” Cabell said.
“Thirded,” came Emrys’s voice behind us.
“Mother’s mercy,” Olwen muttered. “Must we speak of it?”
“We must,” Caitriona said, still staring at Neve. “Tell them your blood-soaked tale, and tell it true.”
“You bet I will,” Neve said coldly. “Sorceresses call it the story unspoken. The betrayal so painful, the memory of it was cursed to never be recorded, even in Immortalities. It can’t be read, only heard. My auntie told it to me.”
The story unspoken. I’d seen that phrase thousands of times; the sorceresses used it to refer to their exile, but their memories never captured the story itself.
“What is it?” I asked. “What was the betrayal?”
“It’s known as the Severing—” Neve began.
“The Forsaking,” Caitriona interrupted. “It is known to us as the Forsaking.”
“Fine, whatever. The Forsaking. It’s the story that matters, not the name.” Neve sniffed, her fingers curling against the table. “And the story begins with the druids. What they did.”
I leaned forward, listening. It was well known to Hollowers that at least one order of druids had survived the Roman invasion of Celtic lands, and that they’d sought refuge in Avalon before the Otherland was severed from our own.