Silver in the Bone (Silver in the Bone #1)(50)
Author: Alexandra Bracken
“I agree,” Cabell said. “I think it was the druids and whatever magic they gained from Lord Death. It doesn’t feel like the magic we draw from the universal source.”
It felt good to fall into our usual back-and-forth pattern of theories.
He had always been the more valuable player in our work partnership, but I’d made it a point to retain as much knowledge as possible.
“I don’t know much about Lord Death,” Neve said, brow furrowed.
“There are a number of different legends about him,” I said. “The one Nash told us was this—he was a powerful enchanter in the time of King Arthur and at one point even traveled with Arthur and his knights. But he broke an oath and was placed in charge of Annwn as punishment, as much a king as a jailor for the souls too dark to be reborn.”
“What was the oath?” Neve asked.
“Nash never said, so I’m not sure he knew,” Cabell said. “I’ve never read that account anywhere, either, so he could have invented it. Most know Lord Death as the leader of the Wild Hunt, roaming between worlds to collect wicked souls for Annwn. His power allows him and his retinue to pass through the mists separating the Otherlands.”
“Creepy,” Neve said with just a little too much appreciation. “Now I’m even more convinced the sorceresses were the ones in the right. Lord Death and the druids would have done unspeakable things if they gained control of Avalon.”
“Well, if we’re right, they managed to do unspeakable things anyway,” I said. “Case in point, we almost got eaten by the undead.”
The three of us sank back into a heavy silence at the mention of our crossing. When I closed my eyes, the dark violence of the night crept up behind me, wrapping its bony fingers around my throat.
And Septimus’s face . . .
As if sensing my thoughts, Cabell reached across the small distance between us and put a heavy, reassuring hand on my head. “We’ll be all right. We’re going to find Nash and the ring, and we’re going to find safe passage back to the portal.”
I knew how hard it was for him to say that—to be willing to leave behind the man he’d idolized for years. The least I could do was force a smile. “Right.”
I twisted back around, keeping my back to them, breathing in the damp air. My wet hair clung to my face, but I let it hang there.
“I feel like I could fall asleep here,” Neve said, her own eyes closing. “All I need is a warm mug of chamomile tea, a hypoallergenic pillow, and a good book.”
“Is that all?” I said, amused.
“I have no books, but I do have stories,” Cabell said, his expression brightening. There was color in his cheeks again, and his pale skin was no longer the sickly hue of bone. Even the hollows beneath his eyes had faded.
Maybe Betrys was right, and the pools healed more than the body. They also touched the spirit. The soul.
“No,” I begged. “No stories.”
“Speak for yourself,” Neve said eagerly. “Tell me one of your favorites.”
“I’ll do you one better,” Cabell said, sending a splash of water over to me, “and tell you one of Tamsin’s favorites.”
I knew exactly which one he meant. “That’s not my favorite.”
He frowned. “Yes, it is. You used to beg Nash for it over and—”
“Okay, fine,” I muttered. “Just tell it, then.”
Cabell straightened, running his hands over the water’s surface. He cleared his throat. “In ages past, in a kingdom lost to time, a king named Arthur ruled man and the Fair Folk alike, but this is a story that came before that, when he was a mere boy.”
Something in me clenched. The cadence, the rhythm of his words—it was so much like Nash.
“He had been smuggled out of Tintagel Castle shortly after his birth by none other than the wise druid Merlin, who knew Arthur’s life would be in danger as the various lords warred over the right to rule, including Arthur’s own father, Uther Pendragon. Arthur was brought to a noble family and raised as their own. One day, a great stone appeared in the land, with a mighty sword thrust through it. The stone bore a strange message: WHOEVER PULLS THE SWORD FROM THIS STONE IS THE TRUE-BORN KING OF BRITAIN.”
“Who put the stone there?” Neve asked. “Merlin?”
“Yes,” Cabell said, impatient with the interruption. “So, a tournament was called, and all the great lords and their sons entered, including Arthur’s foster brother, the knight Sir Kay. Realizing he didn’t have his sword, Kay sent his squire, Arthur, to find one for him. And Arthur, seeing that the nearest one was the very sword embedded in that strange stone, went to it. He gripped its cold hilt and pulled it free with ease, much to the shock of everyone around him. And that is how Arthur’s true identity, and his fate, were revealed.”
I sank back down in the water, letting the warmth ease the unwelcome burn from my eyes. It was a stupid story, with an even more unrealistic ending.
“Is any of that true?” Neve asked.
Cabell shrugged. “Does it have to be?”
Bright indigo lights rose in the pools around us, sending playful splashes of water between them. Their energy and erratic motions spoke of pure, unbridled mischief. The lights suddenly clustered over one bath, drawing its water up into the shape of a bird. It soared over our heads, dripping like rain, only to transform midair into a cat. It flicked its translucent tail against Neve’s cheek and she laughed.
“Nixies,” Cabell said, watching them.
Their lights reminded me of a question, one I’d been forced to push aside for more pressing ones.
“Neve,” I began. “Why did Olwen hum her spell for the fire instead of drawing sigils?”
Sorceresses had a carefully curated and precise way of calling magic; they drew power from the universal source of it, yes, but their collection of sigils instructed the magic to perform a task.
“I don’t know,” Neve said. “There are many ways of using magic—just look at the Cunningfolk. They don’t use sigils, either. Maybe spellwork is just more . . . instinctive for priestesses.”
“That could be why you were able to cast that incredible spell, Neve,” Cabell pointed out.
“I’ll ask Olwen,” Neve said. “I think we can learn a lot from each other.”