Silver in the Bone (Silver in the Bone #1)(91)
Author: Alexandra Bracken

 

Neither of us spoke.

 

“One who seeks what must . . . remain . . . forgotten . . . ,” it continued. “And one whose heart . . . he has stolen . . .”

 

I flushed with heat, taking a step away from Emrys. “No one has time for bullshit riddles.”

 

“Who are you?” Emrys demanded.

 

“I am one of three . . . three who sleep . . . but do not dream . . . ,” the creature continued, its terrifyingly human eyes fixing on me. “One who dies but might yet live . . . one who lives but yearns to die . . . and one left behind, waiting . . .”

 

“One left behind?” I repeated. “Are you talking about a sorceress? Or a druid?”

 

“When the paths turn to ice . . . when the world shakes and weeps blood . . . when the sun is devoured by darkness,” it rasped, closing its eyes again, “the worlds will sing of the coming, chains of death broken . . . new power born in blood . . .”

 

In the dim light, Emrys went rigid. “What in hellfire is that supposed to mean?”

 

“When the sun is devoured by darkness . . .” The memory came whip-quick, a lash of sudden understanding. “Like what happened at Tintagel?”

 

And the reports of roads freezing in Britain before I’d ever left home.

 

“What do you mean by the chains of death being broken?” I asked.

 

“She did this . . . ,” the creature wheezed. “She thought . . . to master death . . . but became its servant instead.”

 

“Who?” I asked.

 

“It is fate . . . ,” it rasped, hardly above a whisper, “but what is fate but an unwelcome bargain . . . with time . . . ?”

 

The creature went still. Silent.

 

Emrys flew toward it, trying to wake it with touch. “Who are you? What are you?”

 

The roots rippled back across the floor, creaking and snapping in protest. I whirled around, only to find a shadowed figure there. They raised their candle closer to their face.

 

Bedivere.

 

“If we are to be answering questions,” he said, “perhaps the two of you might tell me what it is you’re doing down here?”

 

 

 

 

 

It took more than a moment for my heart to start beating normally again, but even then, I couldn’t muster a good lie.

 

“We heard a voice and followed it,” Emrys said smoothly.

 

Good. That was good. And technically true.

 

The knight crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose it has nothing to do with your nightly excursions scurrying about the tower while everyone else is asleep? Do not insult me with falsehoods—your own brother told me it was so.”

 

Your own brother told me. The words were like a knife between the ribs. My hands curled into fists at my side. Cabell would have no reason to tell him that. To betray our confidence.

 

“Are you looking for a way out of the tower as he said?” Bedivere asked. It might have been the shadows of the tunnel, but there was an ugliness to his expression then, as if he was revolted by us. Our cowardice.

 

Disbelief stole through me.

 

Cabell did tell him. I hadn’t realized they were close enough for that.

 

“Hello?” a voice called down the tunnel. “Who’s there?”

 

“’Tis Bedivere, my lady Olwen,” Bedivere called back.

 

The priestess appeared a moment later, carefully stepping through the labyrinth of roots. Her gaze moved between our faces, taking quick measure of the situation as always. “I saw that the doorway was open . . . What is amiss?”

 

“I came upon our guests skulking where they shouldn’t, and was about to hear their explanation for it,” Bedivere said.

 

Olwen drew in a deep sigh. “I’ll take care of this, then. Thank you, Sir Bedivere.”

 

“My dear—” he said in protest.

 

She held up a hand. “It’s all right. They mean no harm, and I’m sure you’re missed on watch.”

 

The old knight wavered, but eventually nodded and turned back the way Olwen had just come. The priestess waited for the sound of his steps to fade before speaking.

 

“Now,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “What in the Great Mother’s name do you think you’re doing?”

 

In the end, we told her everything.

 

I hadn’t meant to, and I didn’t think Emrys had either. But the longer the look of betrayal remained on Olwen’s face, the more desperate we became to find the right detail to erase it.

 

“So I’m to believe,” she said, “that the two of you suspected someone—possibly Caitriona—created the Children of the Night, and neither of you thought to tell a soul about it?”

 

“We told Neve and Cabell,” I offered weakly.

 

Olwen shook her head and pulled a torch off the wall behind her. “Come with me, you jobbernowls.”

 

She led us down the tunnel path. The roots that had covered the ground pulled back at her disapproving tsk of the tongue, retreating like scolded puppies.

 

“That,” she said, gesturing back toward the tangle of roots, “was Merlin you were speaking to.”

 

“Merlin?” I echoed, wondering why I was so shocked. “But I thought . . . wasn’t he a druid? Why wasn’t he killed with the others during the Forsaking?”

 

“Oh, they certainly tried,” Olwen said, picking up her pace. “He was once the most powerful of that lot, always with the most pressing prophecies and wisdom, generously shared. He dueled with Morgan, and before she could kill him, he joined his body to the Mother tree to ensure his survival, knowing she would never cause it harm.”

 

“He seemed . . .” Emrys searched for the right word.

 

“The magic has gone somewhat feral in the years since he became one with the tree,” Olwen said. “And most of what he speaks now is mindless babble. Don’t let it trouble you.”

 

“But he said there were three like him,” I pressed. “Three who sleep. I think he was referring to himself, and then there’s King Arthur suspended between life and death, but who’s the third?”

 

“We would know if there was another enchanted sleeper on the isle,” Olwen said. “As I said, the thinking part of him vanished centuries ago. He stirs restless dreams into nonsense. Chains of death are a recurring theme, and the story changes with each telling.”