Page 62 of Silver in the Bone

“You bet I will,” Neve said coldly. “Sorceresses call it the story unspoken. The betrayal so painful, the memory of it was cursed to never be recorded, even in Immortalities. It can’t be read, only heard. My auntie told it to me.”

The story unspoken. I’d seen that phrase thousands of times; the sorceresses used it to refer to their exile, but their memories never captured the story itself.

“What is it?” I asked. “What was the betrayal?”

“It’s known as the Severing—” Neve began.

“The Forsaking,” Caitriona interrupted. “It is known to us as the Forsaking.”

“Fine, whatever. The Forsaking. It’s the story that matters, not the name.” Neve sniffed, her fingers curling against the table. “And the story begins with the druids. What they did.”

I leaned forward, listening. It was well known to Hollowers that at least one order of druids had survived the Roman invasion of Celtic lands, and that they’d sought refuge in Avalon before the Otherland was severed from our own.

Beyond that, we had only the barest facts about their practices. The druids had been leaders, seers, and storytellers. While there had been a few female druids in far ancient times, they were rare exceptions to what ultimately became all-male orders. Several Immortalities mocked their robes and headdresses and their strange methods of scrying with dripping spoons. There was a saying the sorceresses seemed to love, too—as dour as a druid.

“Soon after they arrived in Avalon, the druids, resenting their loss of status, pursued a dark ambition. They sought out Lord Death, the master of Annwn, the realm of the wicked dead,” Neve said. “He gave them dark magic so they could overcome the High Priestess’s control and rule the isle for themselves. They would have turned it into a place of worship for their vicious god—and they tried.”

“Tried how?” Cabell asked.

“There used to be many priestesses,” Olwen explained, giving Neve a chance to rest. “Avalon is—was—a peaceful place; they had no reason to fear the druids, whom they worked alongside. Because of this, the druids were able to kill all but a handful of priestesses, even those merely in training, while they slept. Then they ...”

Olwen paused, taking a moment to clear her throat and compose herself. “The druids killed every young girl on the isle, as a warning to those who might fight their rule, and they did it using Lord Death’s power so their souls could not go on to the Goddess.”

“Holy hellfire.” I glanced at Cabell, whose face looked as bloodless as mine felt.

“The surviving priestesses, including the High Priestess, took shelter in the forests, but they were divided about what to do next,” Neve said. “Here’s the thing. Because of the restrictive rules of the Goddess’s faith—”

“How dare you,” Caitriona snapped.

“Allow her to finish,” Olwen said, holding up a placating hand.

“As I was saying,” Neve began again, “there are ... certain beliefs you must hold and follow to keep the favor of the Goddess, including that you cannot use magic for selfish gains or to seek revenge.”

“Ah,” Emrys said. “Okay, I’m following again. Priestesses and sorceresses draw from the same universal magic, and only differ in how they use it.”

“Precisely,” Caitriona said. “We use our magic for healing, to cultivate our isle, and to protect those around us.”

“Which is exactly why nine priestesses, led by High Priestess Viviane, were willing to surrender the isle to the druids to stop the killing,” Neve said pointedly. “But seven, led by Morgan, King Arthur’s half sister, as you might recall, justifiably”—she paused to emphasize the word—“fought back, killed the druids, and those sisters who lived to tell the tale were exiled to the mortal world because of it.”

“It’s the reason only nine priestesses remain in service of the Goddess,” Olwen added. “As one dies, another is called. It has taken an age for all nine of us to be called.”

Neve turned to face Caitriona again, fighting the drugging pull of exhaustion as she said, her voice firm, “Morgan and the others loved Avalon. They would never have cursed it.”

“How could any curse be powerful enough to turn this place into a wasteland?” I asked.

I looked to Cabell, watching his expression for any hint of his thoughts. If it was a curse, he’d have felt it. He didn’t turn to glance my way, though the way he shifted then, shuttering his expression, was acknowledgment enough. He placed two fingers against his opposite palm, our signal for Later.

Caitriona spun toward me. “You question my honor?”

“No one has said such a thing,” Bedivere said, his gruff voice soothing. “Do not forget that the code also states that all those we encounter deserve truth, kindness, and good faith.”

When Caitriona spoke again, she was more composed. “Before they were cast out, the sorceresses planted the seeds of dark magic they called a curse. One of sickness and pain, and it lingers still, rotting the isle.” “If that’s true,” I said, “then what are those creatures? Where did they come from?”

“They,” Caitriona answered, her eyes cold, “are our dead.”

The silence seemed to splinter with unspoken emotions. Neve, with her obvious devastation. Caitriona, still blazing with anger. Olwen disapproving. Bedivere’s discomfort. Flea’s wide-eyed wonder as she stared at her very first sorceress.

The neglected cauldron on the fire boiled over, its contents hissing and spitting like a living thing. The noise made Olwen jump to her feet, and that small movement was enough to break the suffocating hold Caitriona’s words had cast over the room.

---