Page 64 of Silver in the Bone

“We have spells to mimic sun, but as the darkness spread, we lost our groves and fields to blight,” Olwen said. “As you might imagine, Avalon now knows something of hunger.”

“We are managing well enough, thanks to the Nine,” Bedivere said gently. “Our food stock will carry us through another few months yet.”

Olwen mustered a small smile at his praise.

“And you really have no idea what caused it?” Cabell pressed.

“Caitriona has her theory, as you’ve now heard vigorously told,” Olwen said. “Some of my sisters agree, while others think the land sickened because the Goddess turned her back on us after the bloodshed.”

“What about the druids?” I asked. “You said they worshiped Lord Death and used magic he gave to them—that they massacred children. Why aren’t they higher on the list of suspects?”

“They might well be the source of our woes,” Olwen said. “But we were raised with the belief that the sorceresses’ choice was the worse of the two betrayals, because it came from those our elders loved and trusted most.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I scoffed.

“Perhaps, but pain wears many faces—anger, suspicion, fear,” Olwen said quietly. “When my sisters and I were called by the Goddess, we had to leave our families and homes behind to come to the tower for our training. High Priestess Viviane became like a second mother to us all. She taught us everything we know about the Goddess, magic, and ritual. But her grief from the Forsaking was also part of that inheritance, and it is difficult to dismiss that when it feels like a dismissal of her as well.”

“Hang on,” Cabell said. “Viviane? Was there more than one High Priestess with that name?”

“Only the one,” Olwen confirmed with a sad smile. “And to answer what I suspect is your next question, yes, she was hundreds of years old at her death. Likely almost a thousand, if we were to measure her life by the more rapid passage of time in your world.”

“Even factoring in the different timelines,” I said, glad to at least have that confirmed, “not even sorceresses live that long. How did she manage it?”

“The magic of the vow she took to the Goddess—the one we all take as priestesses—kept her alive until nine new priestesses were finally born,” Olwen continued. “The Forsaking was a scar on Viviane’s heart, and she never forgave those who caused it. Some of my sisters have inherited her sentiments, though not nearly to the same degree.”

“And you?” Neve asked.

“I understand why the sorceresses did what they did, though I can’t condone it,” Olwen said. “I know Sir Bedivere feels the same.”

“Indeed.” The old knight leaned against the doorframe, looking contemplative. “Such was the greed of the druids that I believe they would wish ill upon Avalon if they themselves could not rule it.”

“Is there any proof either way?” Cabell asked. “Wouldn’t death magic feel different than the power we draw from?”

“I couldn’t say,” Olwen said. “We have but one other clue to the cause of the sickness.”

Olwen moved toward the shelves, her fingers skimming leather spines and scrolls until she found a small volume, the thick parchment pages roughly bound with knotted string. The One Vision bled and swirled the symbols on the first sheet into words I understood: Wisdom of the Mother.

“Here it is ...” She cleared her throat, flipping her magnifying glass down in front of her eye. “Three magics to be feared: curses born of the wrath of gods, poisons that turn soil to ash, and that which leaves one dark of heart and silver in the bone.”

Olwen set the volume down. “There’s no record of such an affliction—silver in the bone—anywhere else. I feel certain the tower’s healer would have noted it in their own records, having examined some of the sorceresses and druids killed in the struggle. And yet ...”

Olwen shifted back to her worktable, retrieving what appeared to be a long-necked forceps from a leather roll of tools. Then, her hand skimming over some of the covered jars and baskets, she retrieved what looked to be a weighty jar from the shelf and placed it on the work-table.

With a flick of the wrist, Olwen pulled the fabric away, and I found myself staring at a shriveled human head.

“Ooooh!” Neve gasped, captivated.

“Augh!” I gagged.

Olwen removed the lid from the jar, sending a foul odor into the air. It was the reek of death, made fouler by the green ooze the head had been suspended in.

Using the forceps, she fished the head out and set it down on the table, oblivious to the repulsed looks around the room. Even Bedivere, the battle-hardened knight, grimaced.

“Gather around, please,” she said.

When only Neve did, Olwen looked up, confused.

“Not all possess your fascination with such things, dear one,” Bedivere reminded her. “Perhaps a warning might not go amiss in the future.”

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