Page 88 of Silver in the Bone

I glanced at the objects she set down on one of the tables. “Lessons?”

Olwen quirked a brow. “If I can draw her out of hiding.”

The smell of lavender and lye washed over me as she crossed the room toward me.

“The Children never retreated,” Olwen said. Close up, her exhaustion became plain: the skin beneath her eyes was bruised and hollowed, and she seemed to sway with the effort it took to stay on her feet.

“How is that possible?” I asked. “Have they ever done this before?”

Olwen shook her head. “We have no notion of what it might mean, but I suspect nothing good.”

I gave her a wry look. “You think?”

Suddenly the idea that she would be spending hours teaching Flea instead of preparing for the Children’s next attack seemed ridiculous.

I waved a hand toward the table. “What’s the point of teaching her anything when you can’t even guarantee her a tomorrow?”

Olwen’s expression shuttered.

“You know, Tamsin,” she began, “our High Priestess, Goddess restore her soul, used to say that if you expect to fail, you invite failure with open arms, because you can’t bear the ache of hoping, or the possibility of success. But tell me, does being right make it hurt any less when it happens?”

“No,” I told her, the ache pounding in my head worse and worse with each breath, “but at least you’re prepared.”

In the short time I’d been gone from the bedchamber, someone else had already slipped in and out. My old clothes—just a sweater and shirt, given that my pants had been left a shredded mess—had been laundered as promised and were neatly folded on the table in front of the fireplace.

There was something else sitting on top of them. I squinted at it, working out the cricks in my neck. I leaned closer.

It was a small wooden bird. A finely carved figurine, hardly bigger than my thumb but precise in its details. The crest of feathers on its head ...

It was a lark.

Its wooden eyes stared back at me with a strange kind of intelligence, its beak shaped to be partly open, as if it were drawing a breath before flight. It felt warm at the center of my palm, its edges digging into my fingers as I closed them around it, bringing my fist to rest against my forehead.

I needed to find Cabell, then gather the others to continue our conversation—to convince Neve to abandon the ridiculous idea that this land could be saved. Find a map of the isle and figure out where the hag’s portal had dumped us. Work out a plan to escape the Children, then a backup for when the first plan inevitably failed. See what extra food and supplies I could find to stow in our bags, and hope no one else would notice their absence.

But neither Cabell nor Emrys was in their bedchamber, nor were they in the main hall of the tower—there were only men and women set up with looms, weaving simple cloth or making blankets.

The clatter and clang of metal on metal finally drew me out into the courtyard, where the air still smelled of smoke.

I spotted Cabell’s dark head of hair first, then the dark leather of his jacket. He stood alone, bracing his forearms against the training ring’s fence. He watched intently as Bedivere led a group of men and women through a series of drills with their wooden swords.

The old knight demonstrated with his steel sword, swinging the blade one-handed with precision and confidence. He still wore the metal glove over his lost hand, and used that wrist to brace the sword’s hilt.

I glanced at the uncertain novices as I came to stand beside Cabell; they all looked bewildered at whatever Bedivere was explaining. They fumbled with their practice weapons as if they had spent their lives carrying harps and flutes, not swords.

Just beyond them, Caitriona and a few of the others were having their own training sessions. I watched, stunned, as Arianwen decimated the center of her target with four perfectly aimed arrows.

Behind her, Betrys somersaulted, rolling over the ground and throwing a quick succession of knives at her targets—roughly human-shaped dummies. They’d already been in a sad state, with hay jabbing out of the cloth covers, but she managed to behead one and disembowel another. Straw rained on the ground as they collapsed.

Caitriona was working with a gleaming long sword, her face flushed crimson and dripping with sweat as she moved the heavy blade in smooth figure eights over and over, only adjusting the height and speed of her attack. Her feet were light and nimble, leaving spiral patterns on the dusty stones.

“I don’t suppose you have another thermos of coffee stashed anywhere?” It was as much a plea as a question.

Cabell gave me an apologetic look. “Didn’t you bring any packets with you?”

“They got ruined in the rain and sludge,” I moaned.

“Maybe they have some tea?” he suggested.

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