Page 58 of Silver in the Bone

The way he was looking at me ... His words had wound something up in my core, the tension spreading through me until my whole body felt unbearably tight. Like any word, any movement, might twist it a tiny bit more, until it snapped and I unraveled. I didn’t know what would happen then. I didn’t want to know.

So I cut the thread myself.

“That was a very moving speech, Trust Fund,” I said. He flinched at the name. “But I’d prefer you tell me why you took this job, and why you’re so worried about Daddy Dearest finding out about it?”

Emrys drew in a sharp breath, saying nothing. He slid his arm back through the gaps in the metal, letting it fall across his lap. Any small bit of guilt I’d felt at shutting him down evaporated with his silence. He kept saying those words—trust me, believe me—but with him, they were little better than smoke and shadows. Much like his performance with Septimus and the others.

“I’m getting that ring, Tamsin,” Emrys said.

“No,” I promised. “You’re not.”

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.

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