Silver in the Bone (Silver in the Bone #1)(63)
Author: Alexandra Bracken

 

But the wind called, icy and imperious as it cut over the field. The snow turned frenzied with the words it sang.

 

Not her. Not this child.

 

And the shivering light of the spirit obeyed, fading like the last stroke of sun into night.

 

The dream shifted.

 

I was back on the path leading to the tower’s imposing gate, following a white horse with no rider. As I walked, the thick mist around us parted, and the world changed. Glowing green with unstoppable life—birds, fish in the glistening moat, small fairies gathered along the walls. The Mother tree’s branches were thick with leaves and tendrils of adoring mist.

 

The horse’s hooves echoed on the stone. At the steps to the tower it turned, as if to ensure I was still following.

 

I saw my face reflected in its black eye. A spiraling ivory horn rose from its head. An effervescence moved beneath my skin as it bowed its head at the base of the tower steps, touching its horn to the ground. And there, a single white rose cleaved up through the dark earth, through the stones. Its trembling face unfolded.

 

I jerked awake, gasping. I pressed my hands to my clammy face, but the phantom smell of petals lingered on my skin. I pushed out of the bed, relishing the feel of the freezing stones under my feet. That was real. That was true.

 

I wiped my hands against my shirt, the blanket, anything to rid them of that smell. I only stopped when I saw that the other side of the bed was empty, but politely half made.

 

Neve was already gone for the day. I didn’t blame her.

 

The cracking ache in my skull sent the bedchamber swirling into shadows. A gray light filtered through the window behind me.

 

Daylight.

 

I didn’t bother to put on my shoes or straighten the clothes I’d slept in. I bolted from the room, running up the stairs to the library. I was certain I’d find Neve at a table, buried behind a stack of books, but the room was empty.

 

I slowed in the doorway. With all the tapestries pushed aside, steely light pierced the window glass like blades. The tables and rugs looked worn and morose.

 

I was almost afraid to look as I stepped close to the cold glass. People moved in the courtyard below and flanked the fortress’s walls. My heart leapt. The moat fire was out, but the creatures had clustered beneath the trees, suffering the dim light by building hideous mounds and lurking behind the boulders for shelter.

 

There was a gasp behind me. I spun around, raising my hands defensively. Olwen stared back at me, clutching a small cauldron, three candlesticks, and a wreath of dried greens to her chest. Her dark blue curls seemed to float at her shoulders.

 

“You startled me,” she said with a shaky laugh. “I wasn’t expecting anyone but Flea up here.”

 

I glanced at the objects she set down on one of the tables. “Lessons?”

 

Olwen quirked a brow. “If I can draw her out of hiding.”

 

The smell of lavender and lye washed over me as she crossed the room toward me.

 

“The Children never retreated,” Olwen said. Close up, her exhaustion became plain: the skin beneath her eyes was bruised and hollowed, and she seemed to sway with the effort it took to stay on her feet.

 

“How is that possible?” I asked. “Have they ever done this before?”

 

Olwen shook her head. “We have no notion of what it might mean, but I suspect nothing good.”

 

I gave her a wry look. “You think?”

 

Suddenly the idea that she would be spending hours teaching Flea instead of preparing for the Children’s next attack seemed ridiculous.

 

I waved a hand toward the table. “What’s the point of teaching her anything when you can’t even guarantee her a tomorrow?”

 

Olwen’s expression shuttered.

 

“You know, Tamsin,” she began, “our High Priestess, Goddess restore her soul, used to say that if you expect to fail, you invite failure with open arms, because you can’t bear the ache of hoping, or the possibility of success. But tell me, does being right make it hurt any less when it happens?”

 

“No,” I told her, the ache pounding in my head worse and worse with each breath, “but at least you’re prepared.”

 

 

 

In the short time I’d been gone from the bedchamber, someone else had already slipped in and out. My old clothes—just a sweater and shirt, given that my pants had been left a shredded mess—had been laundered as promised and were neatly folded on the table in front of the fireplace.

 

There was something else sitting on top of them. I squinted at it, working out the cricks in my neck. I leaned closer.

 

It was a small wooden bird. A finely carved figurine, hardly bigger than my thumb but precise in its details. The crest of feathers on its head . . .

 

It was a lark.

 

Its wooden eyes stared back at me with a strange kind of intelligence, its beak shaped to be partly open, as if it were drawing a breath before flight. It felt warm at the center of my palm, its edges digging into my fingers as I closed them around it, bringing my fist to rest against my forehead.

 

I needed to find Cabell, then gather the others to continue our conversation—to convince Neve to abandon the ridiculous idea that this land could be saved. Find a map of the isle and figure out where the hag’s portal had dumped us. Work out a plan to escape the Children, then a backup for when the first plan inevitably failed. See what extra food and supplies I could find to stow in our bags, and hope no one else would notice their absence.

 

But neither Cabell nor Emrys was in their bedchamber, nor were they in the main hall of the tower—there were only men and women set up with looms, weaving simple cloth or making blankets.

 

The clatter and clang of metal on metal finally drew me out into the courtyard, where the air still smelled of smoke.

 

I spotted Cabell’s dark head of hair first, then the dark leather of his jacket. He stood alone, bracing his forearms against the training ring’s fence. He watched intently as Bedivere led a group of men and women through a series of drills with their wooden swords.

 

The old knight demonstrated with his steel sword, swinging the blade one-handed with precision and confidence. He still wore the metal glove over his lost hand, and used that wrist to brace the sword’s hilt.

 

I glanced at the uncertain novices as I came to stand beside Cabell; they all looked bewildered at whatever Bedivere was explaining. They fumbled with their practice weapons as if they had spent their lives carrying harps and flutes, not swords.