Page 17 of The Faerie Morgana

The Blackbird marveled at the bond that grew between Arthur and Morgana.

Though they had spent almost no time together, they were easy with each other, respectful and trusting, a relationship that was very nearly affection.

Arthur’s gratitude for Morgana’s care, and her relief at his returning health, filled the bedchamber with a warmth the Blackbird perceived as light, pouring out each time he opened the door.

It was bright, clear, sparkling like sunshine on blue water.

Day by day, as Arthur grew stronger and Morgana breathed easier, laughter began to grow in the chamber.

It spilled over into the corridors, making servants step lightly on their errands and courtiers smile as they passed through the hall.

Arthur’s small brother, Mordred, came daily with his nurse, and Arthur smiled at him, tousling his hair, slipping him sweets when the nurse wasn’t watching.

Uther came once to the bedchamber to stand just within the doorway, frowning at something Morgana was doing with a mortar and pestle, while Braithe stood watching, ready to hand her anything she might need.

Uther growled, “Are you not done magicking my son, Priestess?”

The Blackbird, slumped on a cushioned chair in a corner of the room, straightened in alarm, but Morgana went on grinding roots of elf dock and leaves of wormwood for a salve.

She delayed answering. When she did speak, it was with an icy arrogance that caused a chill of apprehension in the Blackbird’s nerves.

“I have not magicked Prince Arthur, stepfather.” She gave one last twist to the pestle and laid it aside.

“I have effected an antidote to the poison he was given.” She drew herself to her full height and turned the golden glitter of her eyes to the king.

“I can’t help but wonder, my lord,” she said in her deep voice, “that you have not done more to find who attempted to kill your son.”

Uther’s small eyes grew smaller as he lifted his head to glare, and the Blackbird felt his resentment at having to look up at Morgana. “ You say he was poisoned,” Uther grunted. “No one else does.”

Morgana’s chin thrust forward, and the Blackbird stiffened again, fearful of what Uther was capable of doing if pushed too far.

Morgana said coolly, “No doubt troubles me, my lord. What sickened my half brother was poison, and in truth—” Her face was stiff with an anger that Uther did not perceive.

It was a fault in him that he failed to recognize danger when he encountered it.

The Blackbird suspected that Morgana could be very dangerous if she chose to be.

Her voice dropped to an insinuating murmur.

“In truth, stepfather, I believe you know that.”

Uther, crude and insensitive as he was, didn’t hear Morgana’s emphasis on the word you or he didn’t respect it. Either was a serious error.

“Never mind,” the king grunted. “I merely came to assure myself my son is going to live. I’m going to leave Camulod for a time. There’s a Roman cohort on the other side of the Chindl, and we have to prevent them crossing.”

At this news, Arthur pushed himself up against his pillows. He said, “My lord, you must wait for me. I will—”

Morgana interrupted. “You will not. No fighting. Not for some weeks yet.”

Uther had been halfway to the door, but he turned back, showing his teeth in an unpleasant grin. “You’re a prince, Arthur. Are you going to let a woman tell you what you can and can’t do?”

At that, the Blackbird thrust himself to his feet and stepped between the king and the bed. “The priestess has saved your son’s life,” he said, in as harsh a tone as his old voice could muster. “You should thank her, my lord. You might need her one day.”

Uther barked a laugh. “Need a priestess? Hardly, old man. All I need are my knights and my sword.”

Without farewell, he stamped out of the bedchamber, flinging the door to so that it banged against the doorframe, causing a wooden cup to fall from its shelf. The Blackbird turned, one eyebrow cocked, to gaze at Morgana. She gazed back, her face impassive but her lips curling.

“I wish you would not laugh, Morgana,” the Blackbird said. “Uther is a brutal man.”

“He is no danger to me,” she answered. “Rather the reverse.” She turned back to Arthur, as if the whole scene had been merely a distraction. “Now, my lord. Until you have no more sickness, you must keep a layer of this salve on your chest and your belly.”

Braithe volunteered. “I will apply it, Priestess.”

“Yes. Be generous.” Morgana lifted the mortar, and as Braithe put out her hand, it leaped the little distance into her palm. She caught it deftly and turned to the bedside.

The Blackbird shook his head at Morgana’s power, so casually wielded.

He wondered if he should reveal everything to her now, or if it would be safer to wait until she was older, more disciplined.

Perhaps she would grow less arrogant as she aged.

Certainly life had a way of softening such sharp edges.

He saw the dimples twinkle in Braithe’s cheeks as she spread the salve on Arthur’s chest, and something about that made the threat of change loom before him, as if a cloud had blotted out the sun and cast Camulod into darkness. He blinked, and shook his head to try to dismiss it.

When he looked up, he found himself caught in Morgana’s gold-flecked gaze, and he nodded understanding. She felt it, too.

“He did it, didn’t he?” Arthur said, when Uther was gone and order had been restored in his bedchamber.

Morgana whirled to stare at her half brother. She had said nothing to anyone except the Blackbird. Not even Braithe knew Uther had poisoned his son himself.

“Arthur—” Morgana began, but then could not finish. She couldn’t lie to him, nor did she want to say anything that would encourage him to trust his treacherous father.

“Morgana.” Arthur was sitting up in his bed, a warm cloth over his chest to speed the healing effects of the elf dock and wormwood.

“First of all, the danger of assassination hangs over every man of royal blood.” He smiled at her, as indulgent as if he were the elder and she the younger.

“Secondly, dear sister, your scrying is famous, even beyond the shores of the Isle of Apples. Uther is a fool, but I am not. I know you see the truth in your visions.”

Braithe stood with her hands to her mouth. “It was the king ?” she cried.

“Hush, brat,” Morgana said hastily. “It’s a secret that must be kept.”

“But why?”

Arthur said, “Because my father would simply deny it, and anyone who accused him would be in peril. He does not hesitate to have people disposed of.”

“Like me,” Morgana said. She began to clean the mortar and pestle. “I have always been a reminder to him that he was not Ygraine’s first husband, and that he only wears the crown because he married it.”

“He tried to get into the Lady’s Temple once to try his hand at the sword, but they turned him away. He was furious when you aided me to pull the sword from the stone.”

“It was not my choice.” Morgana laid down the pestle with a decisive click.

“He could blame me, if he wished,” the Blackbird said.

“That, he would not dare,” Arthur said.

“Perhaps not,” the Blackbird said mildly. “But it was I who called on Morgana. Not to thwart Uther’s ambition. To fulfill the prophecy.”

“My father cares more for war than for prophecy.”

“It is a grave mistake,” the Blackbird said, “to choose darkness over light.”

“Uther is all darkness,” Morgana said. “He let my mother die, and I will not forgive him.”

“Priestess,” the Blackbird said in a warning tone.

Her eyes flashed in his direction. “He did nothing to save her. I was yet a child, not one of the Nine, but Niamh or Olfreth could have helped her. He had only to ask.” She picked up the mortar to dry it with quick, angry movements.

“He did not even try. He let her die in childbirth as if she were—as if she were one of his serfs, of no account to anyone.”

“He called in a Roman physician…” the Blackbird began, but didn’t finish.

“A man!” Morgana spat, the old fury rising in her breast. “What did that man know of a woman’s needs? Of the danger to her? He was worse than useless!” She set down the mortar with unnecessary force. The fresh rush of anger made her breath come too fast, and the blood swirled in her head.

Braithe took a step toward her, but Arthur said, “Allow me.” He was up, out of his bed. Though his sister was taller, he put his arms around her and held her tight against him.

Morgana stiffened at first. No one touched her in that way.

It felt strange, as if his strong young arms were a constraint rather than a comfort.

A moment later, touched by the warmth of his concern, her body relaxed, and she let her forehead drop to his shoulder.

He murmured, “We both grieve her, sister. We won’t forget. We will always honor her.”

The issue was not so simple for Morgana, who remembered her silent mother turning her back as the Blackbird led her little daughter away.

Still, her half brother’s kindness and the sweetness of his character touched some icy place deep in her spirit.

She felt it thaw, little by little, giving way to some new warmth she hardly recognized.

She straightened, loosening Arthur’s embrace, but she spoke gently. “You are so good, my lord. You will make a wonderful king. Now back to bed with you!”

He laughed, but he did as he was bid, and though he sat up against his pillows, he allowed Braithe to tuck the covers around his shoulders. “I’m getting restless,” he admitted. “Tired of being confined to this bed.”

“A sign of recovery,” Morgana said.

“And a good time,” the Blackbird said, “to talk about how we can protect you from another assault.”

“My father uses a taster,” Arthur said. “I have never done it. I always thought that if a king inspires loyalty in his people, there should be no need.”