Page 59 of Silver in the Bone

If this was truly the original Bedivere, and if there was any truth to the wider web of stories that branched out around him, he might have accompanied Arthur’s body here to Avalon, to his resting place. The sleeping king was kept alive through magic, until the day he was needed again.

But that would make Bedivere hundreds of years old—over a thousand, I corrected myself. I knew the Otherlands had been removed from the mortal realm through a spell that shifted them out of time’s natural flow. I’d assumed that they existed in a state of suspension, almost like a held breath, but some semblance of time had to pass here, even if it was off from our own, otherwise how would anyone grow or age?

Though ... the sorceresses were incredibly long-lived. Who was to say the same magic that extended their lives didn’t grant a kind of immortality here?

“And do any of you have names?” Olwen prompted.

“Oh—right, sorry,” Cabell said, and did the honors introducing us.

Olwen circled Neve, who still wore her exhaustion plainly, all but swaying on her feet. “You must be the sorceress? Yes you are. My—you hear the stories, but they simply cannot compare. You’re from the mortal world, yes? Your manner of dress is fascinating.” She turned to Emrys, lightly touching the denim knotted around his arm. “What sort of fabric is this?”

“Olwen,” Caitriona said sharply. “If you must heal them, heal them quickly so we may discover their purpose in coming here.”

The other priestess rocked back on her heels. “I’ll need to bring them to the infirmary, of course.”

“Of course,” Caitriona repeated, the portrait of exasperation.

“All of my tools and tonics are there,” Olwen continued. She gestured dramatically to Emrys’s arm. “Would you allow this poor, weary traveler to be afflicted with skin-rot? Must I sharpen my blades and resign myself to cutting it from his body once it festers?”

Emrys startled, pulling back. “Excuse me?”

“All right,” Bedivere said good-naturedly. “You’ve made your point, my dear.” He turned to us, inclining his head toward the stairs. “This way.”

Olwen’s infirmary was in the sprawling courtyard around the tower, perhaps not so coincidentally located beside the small fighting arena I’d noticed before. The stone structure had been there for a long time, judging by the tilt of the foundation and the worn grooves leading to its doorstep.

Earthy greens mingled with the animal scent of the tallow candles scattered around the room. At the far edge were two cots, but most of the space was taken up by a worktable cluttered with pots and bowls of ground herbs. It was an apothecary as much as a place of healing.

The back wall was lined with shelves to the low-slung roof, brimming with various baskets and glass containers. The latter’s floral shape and faint iridescence made me wonder if they were the work of the Fair Folk.

The space was hardly bigger than the dungeon, but in an odd way, its diminutive size was reassuring. There was no space for anyone or anything, really, to hide.

Which was why I was so surprised when I nearly tripped on a small figure crouched behind the worktable, fishing around in the baskets on the lower shelves.

“Flea!” Olwen cried, shooing her away. “You’ve already eaten the last of my dried berries—out with you!”

“There was more, I saw ’em!” the girl protested. She couldn’t have been more than ten by the look of her, all gangly limbs and sparrow-like bones.

“Those are elderberries, you little jobbernowl,” Olwen said, leaning down to meet her at eye level, “and if you eat but one of them, they’ll turn your stomach inside out and, mark my words, you will not like how your supper tastes the second time it crosses your tongue.”

The girl scowled, her milk-white face smudged with dirt and soot. “You’re a right grump. Don’t ye need to go down to the pools or something? Take a wee bath?”

Olwen narrowed her eyes, and the bright blue rings around her pupils seemed to flare in warning. I looked between her and the girl, confused.

“This is Fayne, better known to us as Flea,” Caitriona said, holding out a hand to the girl. Flea shot to her side, but not before giving us all a rather glorious stink eye.

“Who’s they?” she asked suspiciously.

“Who are they?” Caitriona corrected with surprising gentleness. She extracted the girl’s hand from her mouth just as Flea began to bite at her nails. “That is precisely my question.”

“First, though,” Olwen cut in, “who appears to be bleeding the most?” When no one immediately responded, Olwen turned to Emrys. “It’s you, I’m afraid. Sit on the cot and remove your tunic, if you please.”

Emrys hesitated, his gloved hands twisting. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

Olwen pulled back, confused. “I assure you, there’s no need to spare my modesty.”

“Oh no, I was talking about my own delicate sensibilities,” Emrys said as he lowered himself onto the stiff spine of the cot. Untying the bandage, he shrugged off his mud-caked jacket and pulled at the torn sleeve of his sweater and undershirt. “Could you just cut it?”

“You lose a bet and get an embarrassing tattoo or something?” Cabell asked, leaning back against a wall. Covered in grime and blood, Emrys no longer looked the part of a princeling.

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