Page 14 of The Faerie Morgana

They walked swiftly along a corridor to a curving stone staircase, then up three flights, past the lesser hall, then the great hall, all the way to the royal chambers.

The prince lay in a canopied bed, propped on pillows and surrounded by flickering candles.

It was a huge room, with wardrobes and cupboards lining the walls.

There was a large window, but a curtain had been drawn across it, and the room was thick with candle smoke and the sour smell of illness.

A chamber pot reeked in one corner, making a sour taste rise in Morgana’s throat.

She gave the room one assessing glance and ordered, “Open that window,” without waiting to be introduced to the little clutch of servants huddled at one side of the room.

“Prince Arthur needs air.” She strode to the bedside, setting her basket on the nearest table and bending forward to look at her half brother’s face.

She had not seen Arthur since the day she had aided him in pulling the great sword from the ancient stone.

Though he was still young, his soft adolescent features had settled into strong lines, a straight nose, a sculpted jaw, a fine high forehead.

He was, however, very ill. It showed in the sallowness of his skin, the limpness of his fair hair against the pillow, the gray hollows of his cheeks.

His eyes opened, their clear blue almost purple against the reddened lids. He drew a rasping breath and whispered, “My sister.”

She put her hand on his chest. “My king,” she said, her voice low and intense. “Be silent. You need your breath.”

“Are you…” His voice trailed off, and his eyelids sagged.

“I am here to heal you.”

He tried to open his eyes again, but his lids trembled and refused to lift. Morgana’s chest filled nearly to bursting with compulsion, a fire rising from her belly to inflame her heart with the need to save him.

She leaned closer. “You will live, Arthur,” she whispered, words for his ears only. “I will cure you, or I will die trying.”

Braithe couldn’t hear what Morgana said, but the look on her face was terrifying. It was the expression of someone facing the abyss, teetering on the edge of her own fate, and it made Braithe’s heart flutter with anxiety.

The prince’s servants were slow to follow the priestess’s orders, so Braithe went to the window herself, ripping aside the curtain to allow the nip of cold air into the stifling room.

When the servants goggled at her, unsure who she was or what her authority might be, Braithe commanded, “Out!” and pointed to the door.

“And for pity’s sake, someone take away that chamber pot. ”

They scurried out, one maidservant having the presence of mind to seize up a bundle of soiled sheets, another putting the lid on the chamber pot and lifting it to carry away. They left only the Blackbird and Morgana and Braithe to attend the sick boy.

Man , Braithe corrected herself. Arthur had been a beautiful boy when she first saw him in the Temple.

Now he was a man, or nearly so, and he seemed to her eyes to be even more beautiful than the boy she remembered.

Even ill as he was, weak and helpless and in dire need of washing, she thought he must be more comely than any man in Lloegyr.

Morgana took control as if she had done this a hundred times.

As she dug into her basket of herbs, she instructed Braithe to strip the sweat-stained sheets from Arthur’s body.

Seeing how befouled his underclothes were, she ordered those removed, too, which Braithe did without hesitation, though her cheeks burned with embarrassment and some other, unfamiliar emotion that made her belly quiver.

The Blackbird stepped to the door to call for fresh linens, and Morgana told Braithe to get someone to bring a basin of water, with soap and towels.

Braithe did as she was told, though she found herself strangely reluctant to leave the prince’s presence.

She found a housemaid hovering in the corridor outside and decided to accompany her in the search for the washing things.

It would be best, she thought, to familiarize herself with the corridors and passageways of the castle.

She had a feeling they would be here for some time.

The housemaid was a thickset, middle-aged woman. As she led Braithe down the stairs and out to the washing house, she spoke of what had happened to the prince. “Took sick all at once. Terrible. One day practicing swordplay in the keep, the next too weak to leave his bed.”

“Is anyone else ill?”

“Nay, Priestess,” the woman said, shaking her head.

“I’m not—” But the woman wasn’t listening.

As she pumped water into a basin, she said, “Soap on that shelf over there, and a stack of towels beneath. Nay, no one else sick, and that’s worrisome.

Betimes, one gets sick, we all do.” She shook her head as she lifted the full basin, her strong arms flexing easily with the weight.

“Worrisome,” she repeated. “Don’t know what to make of it. ”

The prince’s apartment already smelled better when they returned to it.

Arthur had not moved since they had rolled him to one side to remove his bedding.

He was so still Braithe eyed his flat stomach anxiously to be certain it still flexed with his breath.

The Blackbird and Morgana between them were replacing the sheets, and when the housemaid carried in the basin, Morgana directed her to wash the prince quickly and cover him so he would not take a chill.

Braithe stood watching, the towel in her hands, experiencing an unfamiliar urge to wash Arthur’s body herself, to lave his hot skin with gentle hands, and soothe it with fresh linen when she was done.

Morgana broke into her thoughts. “Braithe, I need very hot water. Do you think you can find the kitchen?”

Braithe tore her eyes from the bed, where the maid had begun soaping the prince’s chest and belly. “Yes,” she said hoarsely. “I’m sure I can.”

“Have them boil a kettle, and bring me the whole.”

“Yes, Priestess.”

After two wrong turnings, Braithe found the vast kitchen on the lowest floor of the castle.

When she explained who she was and her mission, the cook she encountered hastened to provide what she needed.

“Poor lad,” she said, over and over. “Poor lad, can’t keep even a cup of broth inside him.

Days now. And such a sweet lad he is! You would never know he’s a prince, he’s that kind and modest.” She wrapped a cloth carefully around the hot handle of the kettle and guided Braithe back to the staircase.

“You need anything else, come back,” she insisted. “Or send Bran.”

Braithe didn’t know who Bran was. Another servant appeared out of the shadows, a giant of a young man, who insisted on taking the hot kettle from Braithe’s hands and carrying it for her up the stairs.

He reiterated the cook’s promise. “I’m Marcus.

You need anything, ring that bell there.

” He indicated a bell pull beside the door. “Anything,” he repeated.

Braithe retrieved the kettle, careful of the burning heat of the handle, and thanked him. He held the door for her to sidle in, then closed it behind her, inclining his head with respect as he did.

“They think I’m a priestess,” she murmured to Morgana as she set the kettle on the table. “I try to tell them, but—”

“Never mind,” Morgana said in a distracted way. “They’re worried about the king.”

“He’s not really the king yet, though, is he?” Braithe whispered.

“He will be,” Morgana said grimly. Every line of her face was rigid, and her voice had fallen to its lowest pitch. “By the hand of the Lady, he will be.”