Page 13 of The Faerie Morgana

Morgana bent forward to look directly into Iffa’s eyes. “I need my handmaid if I am to do the work that falls to me.” Her deep voice rang against the walls. “Unless you would like to assist me yourself, Priestess?”

The Nine were seated in the inner chamber, called together by Niamh in an attempt to smooth the troubled waters roiling around them. Niamh cleared her throat and muttered, “Priestess Morgana, this is not helpful.”

Morgana turned to her. “Priestess Niamh. You know how many hours I spend with our supplicants. I rely on Braithe to help me.” She gave the rest of the Nine a narrow-eyed glance. “Every one of you knows that Priestess Iffa is trying to send the acolyte away to spite me.”

Iffa bridled, and spat, “How dare you malign me in such fashion!”

“Yet you do not deny it. How good to see that though you are petty, you are not a liar.”

“Morgana!” Niamh exclaimed. “Please restrain yourself!”

Morgana leaned back in her tall chair, one hand on the armrest, the other on her sigil. “There are any number of acolytes with no magic. No deep sight. No gift for potions. No knack with salves or tinctures. Does the acolyte mistress expel them all?”

“There are other considerations,” Iffa muttered. “Attitude is one.”

“Does my little handmaid have an attitude issue?” Morgana demanded, her voice deepening further as her temper frayed. “Or is it yours?”

“I don’t have to explain my reasons to you!” Iffa shrilled.

“Then to whom?” Morgana sat back, folding her arms. “Perhaps it is time we discuss your habitual abuse of the acolytes.”

“Abuse!” Iffa cried, and turned to Niamh. “Will you stand up for me, or not?”

Niamh looked so miserable at this that Morgana felt a stab of remorse.

The elder priestess was far better at nurturing fractious plants than fractious women, and the occasion had turned an unwelcome focus on her.

Morgana drew a slow breath to cool the fire of her temper.

She was too tired for this, but she supposed it was part of her work to be patient with the priestesses as well as the supplicants.

To state that she spent more time with their petitioners than any other priestess was not hyperbole.

It was perfectly true. She could have refused some of them, but they had all traveled far, and for some it was the only journey they would ever be able to afford.

She didn’t have it in her heart to hand them over to another priestess, one who might not be able to help.

Just the same, Niamh was doing her best. In an uncharacteristic gesture of conciliation, Morgana raised her hand, palm out. “I concede that bringing up other issues is not helpful. I suggest we concentrate on the question of Braithe.”

Joslyn, who rarely spoke in these meetings, said softly, “So well said, Priestess Morgana. Our tempers…” She let her sentence trail off, which was wise, Morgana thought, and considerate. Joslyn had not lost her temper, nor had any of the others.

It was she herself, prodded by Iffa’s insistence that Braithe be banished, who had given in to her frustration and her anger. She had spoken a hard truth, but it should be dealt with in a different way.

Mindful of the Blackbird’s frequent admonishments that she behave with more restraint, Morgana nodded to Joslyn.

“Thank you, Priestess. I regret my loss of composure, sisters. I suggest a compromise: Priestess Iffa may release Braithe as an acolyte, but she will concede that Braithe remains on the Isle as my handmaid. I do need her. I will be grateful if we can agree.”

She felt the surprised glances coming her way.

Her sister priestesses, in the months since her selection, had never known her to apologize.

She had not actually apologized, but it was as close as she was likely to come.

She rather wished the Blackbird, who scolded her so often about her pride, had been here to witness it.

Niamh turned an expectant gaze on Iffa. Iffa grunted something that may have been assent, and Niamh seized the moment. “Well, good. Thank you, sisters, for working out your differences.”

Morgana rose, inclined her head to the elder priestess, and left the inner chamber to hasten to her apartment.

Braithe would need reassurance. When she reached her room, she found not only her little handmaid but the Blackbird waiting for her.

Braithe was pacing, wringing her hands. The Blackbird leaned against the wall below the window, his staff braced against his shoulder, his head bowed so that all she could see was the faded crown of his hat.

Morgana stepped inside and shut the door behind her. “Braithe, it is settled. You may stop fretting. You are going to stay here with me.” Then, addressing the Blackbird, “Sir? I did not expect you. Is something wrong?”

He pushed back his hat and straightened, leaning on his staff.

He looked older than ever, as if whatever had happened had added even more years to the many he had already achieved.

“Yes, Priestess,” he said wearily. Something is terribly wrong.

It’s Arthur. We must hurry, or I fear he will die before we reach him. ”

The boat felt crowded to Morgana. It was smaller than she remembered from her voyage as a four-year-old.

Braithe, her young face solemn, sat in the prow with her arms wrapped around herself beneath her cloak.

Morgana folded herself onto the middle bench as best she could, but there was barely room for her long body.

The boat felt unbearably slow, too, with the Blackbird rowing, but she supposed it was tension that created that impression.

She faced forward, her arms around her bent knees, and gazed toward the far shore, willing the boat to move faster.

She could have reached the castle in a fraction of the time if she had taken a bird’s shape: a jackdaw, or a falcon, perhaps.

For this purpose, she would have accepted the reveal of her secret to the Blackbird, but it might not have helped.

She would have arrived at the castle with none of the things she needed, including clothing.

She had hurried to the workroom to gather her supplies into a basket while Braithe packed clothes and toiletries for an extended stay at Camulod.

The Blackbird had been summoned by Arthur’s tutor and had hurried to the prince’s bedchamber.

He had found the boy half-conscious, vomiting and feverish.

Morgana packed what she had in the workroom: feverfew and elder syrup, a tincture of poppy and several roots of ginger.

She added a branch of mistletoe, on a hunch, and sweet fennel.

For anything else she would have to forage outside the castle.

At the last minute Braithe had held out her foraging knife, winning a fervent look of thanks from Morgana as she stowed it in her basket.

The basket was tucked now beneath her feet, protected by the skirts of her robe. The winter wind was icy, but the sun was bright, flashing off the lake’s ripples, and she had to shade her eyes to watch Camulod, massive and proud on its rock promontory, come into view.

When the boat bumped against the dock, Morgana was on her feet before the first bollard was within reach.

With her basket in her arms, she climbed out of the boat, striding up the dock even as the Blackbird was shipping the oars and tying the ropes, with Braithe’s help.

Morgana made herself wait on the bank for the two of them, then led, surefooted, up the slope and through the trees.

It had been years since she had trod this path, but she remembered every step, as she remembered everything.

When Braithe caught sight of the great bulk of Camulod, like a giant ship cresting the forest treetops, she gasped. “It’s so big .”

“And old.” The Blackbird panted as he struggled to keep pace with Morgana. “No one remembers who laid the first stone.”

“Not even you, sir?”

He gave a mirthless snort. “I am so old I barely recall my own name.”

It seemed to Morgana that their pace dragged, though it wasn’t a long walk. Soon enough they passed out of the woods into the clearing that was a garden now, its trees turned into castle doors and roofs and walls. Braithe said, “The wall! It sparkles.”

“Yes.” Morgana felt a rush of nostalgia at the sight of the glittering courtine circling the keep. “There are bits of quartz and pitchstone set among the stones,” she told Braithe. “Someone must have thought Camulod should be surrounded by jewels. Beautiful, is it not?”

“It’s magic,” Braithe whispered.

Morgana said, “I always thought so, when I was a child.”

The two stone towers rose like forbidding sentinels above their heads as they approached the main gatehouse, where the gate was wide enough for three horses to pass through abreast. As they came near, the guards recognized the Blackbird, and the gate swung open.

The three guards of the watch stood aside as the trio entered the keep.

The gatemaster bowed to the Blackbird and eyed Morgana with awe.

Her black robe proclaimed her one of the Nine.

It was a great event when one of the Temple priestesses ventured from the Isle of Apples to Camulod.

The gatemaster spoke only to the Blackbird. “Hope Ilyn was smooth for you today, sir.”

The Blackbird nodded. “Calm waters. Any news?”

“Everyone worried about the prince.”

“As are we all.”

The Blackbird’s staff thudded against the packed earth as he led the way across the busy keep, where dairymaids and laundresses and cellarers hurried about their duties with solemn faces and lowered voices.

Morgana sensed their anxiety, saw it in their somber faces.

It matched her own. A little cluster of knights stood outside the east tower, where their barracks were, heads bent together as they spoke quietly.

The horsemaster emerged from the stables to watch Morgana and Braithe follow the Blackbird into the west tower through a side door.