Page 11 of The Faerie Morgana

The anteroom where the priestesses met with supplicants was a gloomy space, lit by a single candle on a low altar and festooned with drooping willow branches and great sheets of moss harvested from the lakeshore.

The moss filled the air with the scent of drying greenery.

The candle flickered weakly through the shadows, barely illuminating the divination tools arranged around it.

The atmosphere was created deliberately to convey a sense of mystery and exaggerate the power of the priestesses.

The first time Braithe had stepped into the anteroom, the fine hairs on her arms and neck rose, and gooseflesh prickled her arms. Now she just wished Niamh would clear away the folds of moss, put up wall sconces, create a welcoming place for the women who brought their sad tales to the priestess: stories of sick children, wounded husbands, dying sisters.

They were poor women, wealthy women, young, old, any age in between, their shoulders slumping under the weight of their responsibilities and their fears.

The journey to the Isle of Apples was seldom easy.

The overland trip to the shore could be arduous, even dangerous, with Roman cohorts harassing the farms and villages, and odd bands of Saxons wandering the countryside in search of plunder.

Even crossing the lake could be perilous, particularly if there was no money to pay a boatman.

Some women had to row themselves. Others managed to hire a boat to bring them to the Isle, then had no money to pay for the return journey.

Braithe, her heart still bumping with her own worries, found Morgana seated on the dais of the anteroom, her chin on her hand as she gazed past the altar to three women on the benches below.

One was young and well-dressed. The others were gray-haired and weary-looking, clinging together for courage.

There would be no tribute from them, but Braithe knew Morgana would not care.

She set the jar of salve on the altar, and Morgana nodded her thanks, then beckoned to the two older women.

Glancing at each other uneasily, the pair rose and approached the altar, where the stones of divination still lay where they had been spilled.

Morgana leaned forward to pick up the jar of salve.

It was just beyond her reach, and Braithe bent to move it closer.

Before she touched it, it slid across the altar into Morgana’s hand, and one of the gray-haired women hissed in surprise. The other elbowed her into silence.

This little moment would be remembered, recounted, wondered at. It would become part of the lore of the Lady’s magic, of the power she bestowed on her priestesses. No one beyond the Temple would know that this gift was unique to Morgana.

When Morgana began to speak, her deep voice echoed off the flagstone floor, despite the damping effects of the curtains of moss.

“Listen carefully, grandmothers,” she said.

She held up one long finger, and both supplicants appeared to hold their breath.

“I will give you this salve, and three leaves of mistletoe to crush into it, but not until you reach your home. Apply the salve sparingly to the child’s rash, three times a day.

Watch that he does not take any into his mouth.

It will sting, but it will reduce the lesions.

Wrap cloths around his hands to prevent him from scratching.

I have no doubt he will cry, and beg you to stop, but you must keep this up until all the ointment is gone. Do you understand?”

One of the women seemed unable to speak, but the other whispered, “Yes, Priestess.”

Morgana held the jar out to Braithe. “Give them this, and three bits of mistletoe from the basket. Is there a cloth we can wrap them in?”

Braithe, accustomed to such requests, slid a bit of burlap from beneath the waiting basket of herbs.

She selected the bits of mistletoe and wrapped them in the cloth along with the jar.

She held out the little bundle to the women.

The one who had spoken took it from her with hands that trembled.

Braithe made sure the bundle was securely in her grip before she released it. The woman murmured, “Thank you.”

The other one asked, “Will he recover? He suffers so!”

Morgana leaned forward for another look at the black and white stones.

She answered in a voice that was even, but not without sympathy.

“He will, for now. That is all I can see.” When the woman covered her mouth to stifle a sob, Morgana added, “I wish you courage, grandmother, and patience. Come back if his affliction returns.”

When the women had left and the stones had been scooped back into their leather cup, Morgana gestured to the younger one still waiting on the bench.

The girl rose with the grace of youth, inclining her head to Morgana, casting a curious glance at Braithe.

Morgana said, “What is it you ask of the Lady?”

The girl was even younger than she had first seemed, with plump, smooth cheeks that flushed pink under Morgana’s regard. “I need a love charm.”

Morgana leaned back in her chair. “Indeed?”

The girl stepped closer, one hand on the purse at her waist, the other smoothing back a wisp of mud-brown hair. “There’s a man,” the girl said.

“What is your name, child?”

“I’m called Oona.”

“So, Oona. There is a man, and you want him.”

“It’s not that I want him,” the girl said. The red of her cheeks intensified, but she pressed on. “I’m indifferent to him. He is plain and dull and…” She shrugged.

Morgana’s dark brows rose. “Yet you desire a love charm?”

“If this man does not marry me, my father will make me wed a Roman.”

Morgana, one hand on the sigil at her breast, tilted her head, intrigued.

“A Roman? Why would he do that? I thought the Romans were our enemies. Are they not constantly attacking the borders of Lloegyr?”

“They are, Priestess, and my father thinks if he allies himself with the Romans he will be protected. The Roman means to entrench his cohort on my father’s lands, and to strengthen his hold over my father by marrying me.

” In a lower voice, she said, “I hate the Romans. Their gods are strange and cruel, and they keep slaves.”

“It seems a drastic step to avoid an unwanted marriage.”

“Priestess, perhaps you don’t know how it is for women beyond the Isle.”

“Perhaps I do not. Explain it to me.”

“I would like very much to live as you do, to study herbal arts, to live with women, to worship the Lady. But I am my father’s property.

I am an asset, like a cow or a sheep, to dispose of as he wishes.

When he dowers me, I will become my husband’s property.

Since there is no alternative to that, I decided to choose my husband myself. ”

“And your father will allow this, Oona?”

“If the man I mean to marry acts quickly, before the Roman makes his offer, he will.”

Morgana said thoughtfully, “This is possible, but you must realize there is always a cost.”

“I brought money.”

“This price cannot be paid with money.” Morgana shifted forward in her chair and picked up the cup of divining stones. “There is a consequence for interfering with the natural way of things. You may not face it immediately, but one day, in some way, you will.”

Oona cried, “But I will die if I have to marry a Roman!”

“Hmmm. Before you despair, let us see what the Lady tells us.” Morgana shook the cup, then upended it, scattering the stones across the altar. They shone there, rivulets and swirls of black and white. She gazed down at them, narrowing her eyes.

Oona said, “You see it, don’t you? You see how terrible it would be!”

Braithe murmured, “Hush, child,” though the girl was older than she. “Let the priestess work.”

Morgana flicked Braithe a glance, then returned her gaze to the stones.

She drew a long breath and sighed it slowly out through pursed lips, her habit when she was scrying.

When the girl drew breath to speak again, Braithe put her finger to her lips to silence her.

Only the faint hiss of the candle disturbed the silence in the chamber.

At length, Morgana straightened and looked into the face of her petitioner. “I will make your charm. Braithe will tell you how to use it.”

Oona’s face brightened. She undid the purse from her girdle and laid it on the altar. “And your divination? What did you see?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Morgana said. Her eyes looked weary to Braithe, more brown than gold. She was not pleased by her vision.

Oona hesitated, but she put one hand on her breast for courage. “Yes. Yes, I think I should know.”

“Very well.” Morgana glanced down at the stones once again. “You will be content with your choice, Oona. Your chosen husband may be dull, but he will be good to you. There will be children, as well, at least two of them.”

“But…?” Oona prompted.

“Your husband will not live long.”

“Oh. Poor man.” Oona tried, and failed, to look sad at this news.

Braithe thought Morgana was going to add something, but instead she sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “You may wait in the sanctuary, Oona. Braithe will bring your charm and give you instructions.”

Oona thanked her, then hurried out of the room, her step as light as if she had left all her worries at the altar. Braithe said, “There was something you didn’t tell her.”

Morgana let her head fall against the carved back of the chair. “She will learn it in time.” Without moving her head, she gave Braithe a sidelong glance. “There is something troubling you.”

“I will tell you later. After Oona has her charm.”

“You are curious about what I read in the stones.”

Braithe didn’t meet her eyes, but she said, “Yes. I always am.”

“In this case, I saw that Oona will grieve her husband’s death mightily. She doesn’t feel it now, but she is going to love him very much.”

“That’s romantic, isn’t it?”