Page 18 of The Faerie Morgana
“I can assure you,” Braithe said fervently, “that your people are overjoyed you didn’t die!”
That won another laugh from the prince, but Morgana was not amused.
She strolled to the window to look over the keep.
Winter had nearly spent itself while she labored to save Arthur’s life.
Now the sun shone on the two towers with the promise of spring, and the courtine glittered as if set with stars.
She placed her hand on the sigil of the Lady at her breast. “Where is the sword, brother?”
“It stands in that wardrobe in the corner. Hidden beneath a blanket, and behind a set of armor that no longer fits.”
“You have a reason for hiding it?”
“A feeling only. It is too heavy for sword practice, but more than that—I fear it falling into the wrong hands.”
“Wise.” Morgana turned to the window, thinking.
A single rowan tree grew from the earth of the keep just below Arthur’s bedchamber, climbing the stone wall between the windows.
As she watched, a red squirrel scrambled up from the lower branches, its scarlet tail switching.
When it reached the highest branch, it settled on its haunches, tiny forepaws entwined as it gazed at her.
Morgana leaned out a little, and the squirrel tilted its head to one side, bright eyes blinking, the plume of its tail now still.
Morgana loved these moments. They nourished her, reminding her that everything in the world was connected.
She was part of the sacred pattern, fitted into it as if it had grown up around her.
She so often felt apart, removed from the people around her by her differences, but when these things happened, she felt the touch of the Lady herself, the blessing and the gift of natural magic.
She gazed down at the beautiful little creature and lifted one finger in acknowledgment. It flicked its tail before it dashed back down through the rowan branches and landed lightly on the ground. It scooted off across the keep, dodging one of the dogs who leaped out of the byre to come after it.
When Morgana saw that the squirrel had made it to safety she turned, putting her back to the window, nodding to the Blackbird. “I will make a charm of protection,” she said. “There can only be one, if it is to be powerful enough. Arthur must wear it always.”
Braithe was gratified, having no magic of her own, to be the one to place the charm around Arthur’s neck.
She felt as if she were part of something grand, something immense, an accomplishment that would resonate across Lloegyr and would be recounted by the bards who recited the great moments of history.
Braithe had stood close at Morgana’s hand as she worked to create the charm.
She had cut sprigs of the mistletoe from the Isle, added for good fortune; she had run into the garden for spikes of vervain, to purify the prince’s spirit and protect him from evil intentions; she had waded out into a swampy field for lady’s-mantle, to prolong his life.
She had dashed down to the cellar for a newly poured beeswax candle, and up to the roof for a cup of clear rainwater to prevent contamination of Morgana’s mixture.
Finally, after receiving many admonitions about taking care not to touch it with her bare fingers, Braithe knelt in a grassy clearing in the woods to carefully choose a single vibrantly blue blossom of monkshood.
With a bit of fabric protecting her fingers, she pulled the flower free of its stem and wrapped it in a cloth.
Morgana said monkshood was what the poisoner had used against Arthur.
One blossom, added to the other herbs, would prevent anyone from using it on him again.
The preparations sent Braithe into a state of bliss.
Nearness to magic always gladdened her, and the energy of this act of creation made her bones tingle and her nerves thrill.
She watched, her hands clasped beneath her chin, as Morgana soaked and simmered, chopped and peeled and crushed, ground everything together in the mortar until the ingredients were as fine as powder and so thoroughly blended that no single herb could be detected among the rest. All of these things were essential to the making of a charm of protection.
Without Morgana’s magic, of course, they would add up to nothing.
Morgana made a mystical figure, laboring over the table in Arthur’s chamber. Tall, slender, her black hair caught back in a thong, her robes swirling around her bare feet, she seemed to be something beyond the everyday world, outside of human experience.
Morgana labored for three days, resting little, filling Arthur’s bedchamber with the steam and smoke and scents of her work. Late one afternoon, she declared her preparations complete and turned to the Blackbird. “Do you have it, sir?”
He hobbled to the table, which was still littered with the tools and ingredients Morgana had been using.
He delved into a pocket in his ancient brown robe and brought out a curiously shaped silver ornament on a fine chain.
He held it out on his palm, and Morgana lifted it reverently in her long fingers.
To Braithe, she murmured, “It belonged to the Lady herself. Look.” She put a fingernail to the side of it, and it opened to reveal a little hollow within, undetectable when the locket was closed.
“I can’t see how it is made,” Braithe said, her voice soft with wonder.
“No one knows how it was made,” the Blackbird said, in his creaking voice. “And no one could reproduce it.” He paused, and said with deliberation, “It is unique.”
Braithe looked up at Morgana, unsure how she would react to this, but the priestess’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. She said, “It is indeed. As the charm will be.”
They had to wait until full darkness to finish the work.
After lighting the candle with a flick of her fingers, Morgana spread her emulsion into the hollow in the charm, using a tiny spoon to tamp every morsel of it inside.
After she closed the lid, Braithe looked hard at the ornament but could see neither seam nor hinge.
Its surface was smooth silver in an unusual shape, neither round nor oval.
The shape seemed to change each time she looked at it.
Morgana dangled the chain with its pendant above the candle, and her brow furrowed in that way Braithe had come to recognize. She was wielding power. The candle flame leaped up, and though it bloomed around the charm, the surface glistened with reflected light but did not burn.
The room was so still Braithe could hear the faint call of a nightjar from the gardens.
The Blackbird leaned on his staff, his chin on his chest. Braithe hugged herself to keep from bouncing on her toes.
Her every sense was exaggerated, her eyes blinking as if the candlelight were the sun itself, her ears vibrating, picking up every breath in the room, every tap and brush of fingers or toes.
The scent of the candle, so mild before, now seemed to fill her nose with fragrance, as if she could smell every flower the bees had tasted in the making of the wax.
She didn’t realize until she felt his warmth at her shoulder that Arthur had left his bed.
She cast a swift glance at him, and her heartbeat quickened.
The candlelight made his fair hair golden.
His skin shone smooth and clear. The blue of his eyes turned the azure of Ilyn in summer as he watched Morgana work, then turned a confiding glance to Braithe.
She smiled at him and hugged herself tighter to keep herself from touching him.
Then it was done. Morgana flicked her fingers once more at the burning candle, and its flame subsided into a puddle of beeswax. She passed the charm to Braithe, who, loosening her arms to accept the ornament, was surprised to find its surface as cool as if the candlefire had not touched it.
“Now?” she whispered to Morgana.
“Now” came the answer.
The Blackbird lifted his head to watch. Morgana stood with her hands linked before her, her brow smooth, her labors complete.
Braithe turned to Arthur, first lifting her eyebrows for permission.
He nodded. She looped the chain over his head and adjusted the charm on his breast. It glowed a ghostly silver in the dim light, its shape vague and impermanent and wondrous.
“You are safe now, my lord,” Braithe whispered.
He said, “I do not doubt it.” He turned to Morgana and bowed to her. “Thank you, Priestess. Sister.”
She inclined her head to him in return, then collapsed onto the nearest chair with a long sigh that whistled in her throat. Braithe hurried to her. “Priestess,” she said. “Come, you’re exhausted. You must rest.”
Morgana’s eyes were closed, but she said, “Yes. Yes.” She groped for Braithe’s hand, allowing her handmaid to pull her to her feet. “Help me to my bed, brat. I mean to sleep for a week.”