Page 10 of The Faerie Morgana

Morgana was ill for three days, but she labored to hide the fact.

The ceremony of her acceptance into the Nine, of taking her seat in the vacant bogwood chair, went on and on, filling all three of those days, giving her no respite.

The rituals were tedious, filled with platitudes she knew no one believed.

She gritted her teeth and kept her back straight and her head high, refusing to give in to the weakness that had assailed her after flying through the night in an unfamiliar shape.

Faithful Braithe stayed close beside her through it all, offering a steady shoulder to lean on, a firm hand when it seemed her legs might give way.

When the ceremonies came to an end at last, Morgana repaired to her new bedchamber, asking Braithe to accompany her, ostensibly to help her arrange her things.

It was the first chance since the selection they had to speak in private.

The apartment was small, but along with the surprising luxury of an actual bed instead of a pallet, it boasted a door that could be closed.

This Morgana hastened to do the moment they were both inside.

She stretched herself on the bed with a great sigh. “I sometimes thought I would not make it through,” she murmured. “Without you, brat, I would have collapsed a dozen times.”

“You must rest, Priestess,” Braithe said.

Morgana gave a pale groan. “It is so odd to hear you call me that. Four days ago, I was an acolyte just like you.”

“Shall I bring you some food? Perhaps a bit of ale to revive you?”

“What I need,” Morgana said, “is a tincture of elderberries.”

“For recovery,” Braithe said.

“Yes. There is some in the workroom. Do you think you could—”

“Of course.” Braithe moved to the door. “I know some of the acolytes are hoping to see you. Shall I say you’re resting?”

Morgana let her eyes close. “Whatever you think best,” she murmured. “I leave it to you.”

She listened to Braithe’s light steps cross the room, and the open and close of the door, and then she slept.

When Braithe returned, she took two spoonfuls of the tincture before sleeping again.

Braithe brought her a pottery bowl of soup, which Morgana dutifully drank, along with more of the elder tincture, then fell asleep once more.

The morning light teased her awake as the sun rose above the eastern woods and shone through the window of her new room, casting a tree-leaf pattern across the polished flagstones of the floor.

She blinked and yawned, feeling more herself than she had since her arms became wings and her feet became talons.

She pushed herself up and went to the washbasin to splash water on her face and hands.

She found, when she turned from the basin, that someone had hung a black robe, the mark of her changed status, on a wooden wall hook.

It had been newly sewn for her, and the dyed wool was smooth and soft.

She lifted it from the hook and held it up to her shoulders, fully expecting it to be far too short.

It was not. The fabric brushed just past her ankles. Even the sleeves were long enough for her to tuck her hands into. This, she knew, was the doing of Olfreth. Patterns—creating them and seeing them—were Olfreth’s special gift.

Her old brown robe had disappeared, and someone had laid a new undertunic at the foot of the bed.

Morgana put that on, then dropped the black robe over her head and drew the wide sash tight around her lean middle.

It was perfect. She found a coiled thong holding the Lady’s sigil lying on the bedside stand and lifted that over her head, letting the amulet rest just above the sash.

With her hand on the sigil and a rush of well-being flowing through her, she started out the door to find Olfreth and thank her.

She found the Blackbird waiting in the dim hallway, leaning against the wall with one hand on his staff, his eyes closed. She stopped in the doorway. “Sir?”

His eyes opened slowly, and he straightened. He began to speak but had to pause to clear his throat. “Morgana. You’re up at last.”

“Is it so late?”

“Your sister priestesses are breaking their fast.”

“Did you come to wake me?”

He said gravely, “I came to see if you are ill.”

“Why would you think I am ill, sir?”

“I have eyes,” he said dryly. “I have been watching you these three days. Is it a fever?”

She pretended to brush a nonexistent bit of fluff from her new robe while her brain spun.

She had never concealed anything from the Blackbird before, but some instinct prevented her from telling him what had happened.

What would he say? Would he forbid her from changing her shape?

She couldn’t bear the idea that she would never again know the exhilaration of occupying an alien form, despite the exhaustion it had caused.

She met his gaze wide-eyed. “It could have been a fever. It has passed.”

“You requested elder tincture. I worried for you.”

She lifted one shoulder dismissively. “It was nothing.”

“It was not nothing. I feared you might not make it through the ceremonies.”

“And yet I did. No one else noticed.”

“No one observes in the same way I do, Priestess. And,” he added offhandedly, “no one else knows you as I do. Except perhaps your girl, Braithe.”

Morgana chuckled. “Is she my girl?”

His beard twitched. “I think she must be. I hope you’re glad about that.”

“I need her,” Morgana said simply. “She is much stronger than her size would imply.”

“So,” the Blackbird said, his eyebrows lifting. “She is not, after all, without a talent.”

“She is not, sir. I would say Braithe has gifts we have not yet appreciated.”

“That is a wise observation.” The Blackbird pushed himself away from the wall and wriggled his back as if it ached.

“I suppose I had best join the others.”

“Yes. But I would still like to know how you acquired a fever.”

“I wish I could tell you.” It was an enigmatic thing to say, but Morgana shrank from lying to her mentor outright.

If he knew she was holding something back, he didn’t say so.

He gestured for her to go ahead of him, to make her way to the private dining room of the Nine.

Feeling self-conscious in her new garb, she led the way, but when they reached it, she stood aside for him to go in first, not wishing to be seen making an entrance on her first day.

He glanced up at her as he sidled past. “Give it time, Priestess Morgana.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, but as the gazes of eight priestesses turned to her, she wished she could have broken bread with the acolytes.

She drew herself up to her full height, met each of the unfriendly stares in turn, nodded to Priestess Joslyn, the only one who smiled a welcome, then strode to the place waiting for her at the long table.

“Good morning, sisters,” she said, her deep voice resonating in the low-ceilinged room.

“You’re late, Priestess,” Niamh scolded.

Morgana sank into her chair. “I am sorry. Fortunately, you did not wait.”

“Never,” Niamh growled.

Olfreth smirked, and someone—Sennet, perhaps—stifled a laugh.

Across the table, shy Joslyn, her chin tucked, looked up at Morgana from beneath her eyebrows and winked. Morgana winked back.

Braithe and Morgana fell into a pattern over the next months.

Braithe was happy to be running errands for the new priestess, carrying messages when Morgana was meeting with supplicants, often coaxing her to eat and sleep instead of laboring in the workroom most of the night.

Braithe attended Morgana early, before she went to breakfast, and stayed close at hand until Morgana went to her bed.

On a chilly morning in early winter, when Niamh had mulched the herb beds and was beginning to harvest the mistletoe, Morgana dispatched Braithe to the workroom for a salve for a supplicant.

One of the youngest of the acolytes found her there as she searched the shelves for the salve Morgana had requested.

The acolyte said, “Braithe? Iffa wants you.”

“Who?”

“The acolyte mistress,” the child said. And then, naively, “The one with the big nose.”

Braithe chuckled and patted the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

“She’s waiting in the dormitory.”

“Very well. Thank you for letting me know. Back to your work now.”

The child dashed away. Braithe, impatient with the interruption, turned to the dormitory, the jar of salve in her hand. There she found Iffa sitting in a chair beside her pallet.

Iffa rose when she came in and stood with her hands tucked into her long sleeves, scowling. “At last!” she huffed.

Braithe approached her warily. “Priestess,” she said. “Did you want me for something? Priestess Morgana is waiting for this salve for one of the—”

“Never mind that!” the old priestess snapped. “Morgana can fetch her own salve!”

“She has too many people waiting to consult her. She’s busy from morning till night.”

It was true. Though only months into Morgana’s priestesshood, the entire Temple was aware that word of the new priestess’s power had reached beyond the Isle.

More supplicants than usual began to find their way to the Temple to seek her help.

Niamh didn’t mind, nor did the Blackbird, because these people brought tribute, sometimes coins, often fresh-caught fish or rabbits, or vegetables from their crofts.

It was the other priestesses who minded, who resented the popularity of the newest in their midst. Only Joslyn appreciated Morgana’s popularity, and of course, and always, Braithe.

Iffa snapped, “Who appointed you as personal attendant to a priestess?”

“No one did, but she—”

“If she is overburdened, she must share her duties. We are all called to serve. She spent most of yesterday with one person, and I could have created a charm for that ailment in no time.”

Braithe bit back the response that rose to her lips. The weakness of Iffa’s charms was no secret. Braithe let her gaze slip sideways to hide her scorn. “Yes, Priestess.” She folded her hands at her waist, as demure a posture as she knew how to adopt. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” Iffa said, a note of triumph in her thin voice.

“Then why—” Braithe glanced at her pallet, behind the chair Iffa had been sitting in.

All her possessions were piled there. Her spare undertunics, her extra robe, the sandals she wore in summer, even the ones she had outgrown, had been removed from her cupboard and stacked on the bed.

On top of the pile she saw her comb, her facecloth, her eating-knife, and her cup.

“What’s happening?” she asked uneasily. “Who moved my things?”

Priestess Iffa said, “You’re leaving the Isle.”

Braithe drew a startled breath. “What? Why?”

Iffa looked down her impressive nose at Braithe and clicked her tongue.

“Your behavior has been acceptable, Braithe—well, until these past months—but I’m sorry to say your skills don’t justify your continued study in the Temple.

” She didn’t look in the least sorry. “You’re not the only acolyte to be leaving, of course.

There are four of you. We need the space for acolytes with more promise.

” The priestess nodded toward the pile on the bed.

“We would have let you collect your own possessions, but of course—” Her lips curved in a mirthless smile.

“You were not here. You are never here.”

“But, Priestess Iffa, I don’t want to leave the Temple!”

“How unfortunate.”

“Priestess Morgana needs me.”

“This is not her decision to make, but mine. I am mistress of the acolytes.”

“But—but where will I go?” Braithe gave up her demure posture and pointed to the small pile of her possessions. “Those things are all I have in the world! I have no protector, no prospects, no—”

“You will return to your mother, surely.”

Braithe’s temper rose, and she folded her lips together to stem the threatening outburst. There was no point in arguing. She did not need deep sight to perceive how much Iffa was enjoying this moment. Iffa’s great nose practically twitched with pleasure.

Braithe knew acolytes were occasionally sent away.

They might have broken too many rules, or been unable to memorize the stanzas, or decided the vow of celibacy they all swore was too stringent.

Those who, like Braithe, knew they would never become one of the Nine found other work to do, other ways to support the Temple.

Braithe had never heard of one being sent away because she had no magic, but that was, in essence, Iffa’s assertion.

This was meant to punish Morgana. That was obvious.

But what could she do about it? She had no power and no authority, and her loyalty to Morgana had not made her popular.

Braithe’s heartbeat thudded in her ears as she wondered what would happen if Iffa had her way. Did Niamh agree? The rest of the Nine?

She did her best to hide the tremor in her voice. “Please excuse me, Priestess. Priestess Morgana has need of this salve, and I promised to fetch it for her.” She turned away from the sight of her things tossed on her bed as if they were rubbish and hurried out of the dormitory.

Iffa cawed, “Straight back, mind you, Braithe! Your boat will be here soon.”

Braithe made no answer.