Page 16 of The Faerie Morgana

Morgause was whip-thin and as dark as Morgana herself, though not nearly as tall.

It was said she had been pretty when Uther married her, but her looks had faded swiftly after she gave birth to a son, Arthur’s little half brother Mordred.

Morgana had not yet seen the babe. She supposed she was related to him in some obscure way.

The Blackbird inclined his head to the royals. “My lord. My lady.”

Morgana said nothing, nor did she bow her head. When she gazed at Uther, she thought of his part in the death of her mother, and now, the poisoning of Arthur.

Uther said, “How does my son fare? I came to thank my stepdaughter for nursing him.”

Revulsion turned Morgana’s stomach. Uther had repelled her even when she was small, with his bristly red hair and rust-colored eyelashes.

Even then she had disliked his smell, though she was too young to know what it was.

He had tried to take her on his lap once, and she had fled the room.

She doubted he recalled the moment, but it was her curse to forget nothing.

“Your son will recover,” she said coldly. “I will see to it.”

“I am so grateful, Priestess,” Uther said. He smiled at her, showing his small yellow teeth. She did not smile in return. He pretended not to notice, but the skin around his eyes tightened. Morgause looked on with a fixed expression on her face, saying nothing.

The Blackbird spoke in his laconic way. “We had best return to his side, my lord. We will send the priestess’s handmaid with news.

” He inclined his head again and put his hand under Morgana’s elbow to urge her toward the stairs.

She was tempted to rip her arm free, to face Uther with her accusation, but she felt the pressure of the Blackbird’s fingers persuading her to hold her peace.

She walked beside him, as he wished, leaving the king staring after them as they climbed. It was a relief to Morgana when they reached the landing and moved out of Uther’s sight. She knew she had been rude. It was the first time she had spoken to her stepfather since she arrived.

“You could at least bow to the king,” the Blackbird said, without heat.

“Or I could stab him with my foraging knife, but that I thought you would not like that, sir.”

The Blackbird’s beard twitched, and she felt a bit easier.

Braithe removed the bar across the door when they announced themselves, then went back to fussing with the prince’s bedding, adjusting his pillow. He hadn’t stirred.

Morgana set to work immediately. She chopped the elf dock root with her foraging knife and set the rhizomes to soak in water as hot as Braithe could make it.

She forgot all about her stepfather as she pounded the root into a paste.

She smeared it on Arthur’s chest and belly, then ground the soaked rhizomes to make a tincture.

This she fed to him, slipping a few drops between his slack lips every few minutes.

More importantly, once he had consumed a good amount of the tincture, and the paste on his skin had begun to soak in, she knelt beside the bed.

She bent her head, closed her eyes, and concentrated.

She willed her remedies to work swiftly, more quickly than was natural or even reasonable.

She pictured Arthur’s stomach quieting, his blood warming, his breath deepening.

Her forehead creased, and she put her palm to it to smooth the furrow away.

She matched her own breathing to her half brother’s and felt the burning in his stomach ease, the stubbornness of his blood release, the stiffness of his lungs relax.

She lost herself in the process, unaware of the hard floor against her knees, the ache gripping her neck, the emptiness of her own stomach.

She was not herself. She was Arthur. She was Arthur strengthened with her strength, renewed with her health.

If she had spoken, it would have been Arthur’s voice that came from her lips.

If she had opened her eyes, they would have been the sky blue of his eyes.

Even her hair felt as if it were lighter, finer, as fair as Arthur’s rather than her own dark and heavy ebony.

“Priestess!” Braithe whispered.

Morgana started. Her eyes flew open as she jolted back into her own body, and she saw that Arthur’s eyes had also opened and were gazing up at Braithe, who still leaned over the bed.

“Am I dead?” he murmured.

Braithe’s smile in answer was incandescent. “No, my lord,” Braithe said, with such joy it gave Morgana a quiver of unease. “You live, just as the priestess promised!”

Morgana forced herself to her feet, ignoring the pain that shot through her knees.

“It is true, brother. The danger is past.” His gaze shifted to hers, and he gave her a pale smile.

When Arthur started to push himself up, she laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed him gently back onto his pillow.

“You will be here in your bed for a time still.”

“Thank you, sister,” he rasped. “Priestess.”

The Blackbird, leaning on his staff at the end of the bed, said, “Morgana, you have not slept or eaten nearly enough. I will stay with the prince while you do both those things.”

Morgana wanted to protest, but she knew he was right. “He should have more of the elf dock tincture every hour, sir.”

“I will see to it.”

“And he must drink, but not too much or too fast.”

“I understand.”

Still she hesitated, looking down at her brother, until Braithe said, “Priestess, go. I will stay to assist.”

Morgana did, finally, but at the door she looked back at Braithe, who was glowing as she prepared to sponge the prince’s forehead once again. Morgana understood. She should have seen this coming. She should get her handmaid away before any harm was done. She—

She gave herself a shake, turned, and went through the door, shutting it firmly behind her. She was too tired to think. She must face this problem another time.

She found her way to the bedchamber that had been prepared for her.

She threw off her black robe and, wearing only her shift, folded herself into the blanket.

It took some time to fall asleep, though she needed it so badly.

When she finally slept, it was the sort of thick slumber that made her unable to wake herself when awful dreams assailed her.

They were nightmares of Arthur in pain, of dangerous arguments with Uther, of Morgause’s cold black eyes, and finally, of innocent little Braithe yearning for a man who could never be hers.