Page 21 of The Faerie Morgana

A job for a man, not a boy,” Uther shouted.

Braithe, feeling as if her heart would crack with fear, had been forced to stand silently with the other courtiers as Arthur argued with his father. “I want to fight,” he insisted, in a voice older than his years. “These are my people, too, my land—”

But Uther, to Braithe’s relief, had flatly refused.

She didn’t need deep sight to know what drove Uther.

He craved being seen as the strongest, the bravest, the real king.

He had been furious when it was his son, rather than himself, who was invited to the Temple to pull the Lady’s sword from the stone.

He hated Morgana for her part in that. He had seen how his people feared for Arthur’s life, had grieved over the possibility of his death, and had rejoiced when he survived.

Uther knew he was not popular with his court, and the love the people held for his son rankled. Morgana stood near the door of the king’s war room, her chin tucked, her cat’s eyes brilliant as she watched.

Uther caught sight of her, and his face suffused with temper. He snapped, “What is the witch doing here?”

Braithe gasped. Everyone knew that witches were crones concocting dangerous philters and wicked charms in their woodland huts.

To call one of the Nine a witch was a shocking thing to do.

Even the Blackbird, standing at Uther’s right hand, lifted his bowed head to stare at the king.

Arthur, on Uther’s left, moved a little away, as if to divorce himself from his father’s offense.

Morgana’s deep voice cut through the stunned whispers that erupted at Uther’s insult. “You call me witch, stepfather? Yet before you go to fight, no doubt you will beg the protection of the Temple.”

Uther’s face darkened even more as he glared at her above the heads of the people.

The courtiers murmured uneasily among themselves.

Morgana was right. In times of war, it was customary to ask for the blessing of the Lady, and if a priestess was available, she would always be called upon to bestow it.

Braithe’s stomach clenched as tension swirled around her.

The men who would follow Uther tomorrow into battle against the Romans stood stiffly, their faces impassive, denying their fear.

The ladies and their servants were less stoic, some touching good-luck charms that hung at their necks or their belts, others clutching at each other’s hands, their bodies pressing close together, seeking comfort as they awaited the king’s response.

Braithe had been diligent in learning the litanies of the Temple. She could have recited the blessing for protection herself, though it was more or less useless coming from someone with no magic.

There was a proper way to bestow the blessing, as everyone knew, and only one of the Nine could perform it. It was no wonder Uther’s intransigence disturbed his subjects. People found comfort in ritual. It was one of the reasons the Temple survived.

Uther’s mouth worked behind his coarse red beard as he struggled to find a way out of the mistake he had made. Braithe thought perhaps he would fail, but Arthur intervened.

“Of course, Priestess, all here beg your blessing in this dark moment.” He turned to his father, and Braithe hoped she was the only one who detected the note of contempt in his voice. “I feel sure King Uther wishes the same.”

It was a deft bit of diplomacy. Uther saw that his son had given him a way out, and he took it, though without grace.

“My son is right,” he growled. “Of course we’re grateful one of the Nine is here to perform the rite.”

He didn’t sound grateful, nor did he acknowledge that the priestess was his own stepdaughter.

Braithe caught the telling glance that passed between Morgana and Arthur, and had the situation not been so serious, she could have laughed aloud.

Morgana and Arthur, though they had not grown up together, worked as one, as if they had.

They had deftly skirted a conflict that could affect the battle to come.

Braithe had never been close to any of her brothers and sisters, though there were so many of them.

There was no blame to be laid over it. Their childhood had been bleak, focused solely on survival, but she would have liked such a bond.

She supposed that was partly why she clung to Morgana, who was so kind to her.

She watched with pride as the knights about to go into battle knelt before her idol.

Morgana, tall and elegant in her black robe, held her right hand high above their heads, while her left cradled the symbol of her service, the Lady’s sigil.

She recited the blessing in her deep voice.

Braithe spoke it with her, but so softly no could hear:

Go forth with courage, defenders of Lloegyr. Wear the Lady’s favor upon your sleeve, and feel her power in your heart. You are the air, the earth, the water of this land. You banish the darkness and bring the light. You are Lloegyr itself, and the Lady’s grace is upon you.

Only when the rite was complete did Braithe realize that Uther, in his arrogance, had not knelt before his stepdaughter.

He was the only one of the assembled court not to do so, and Braithe marveled at it.

Uther Dragoun, shortsighted and foolish, was making an enemy of the most powerful person in Camulod.

Braithe whispered this to Arthur later. She was helping him into bed, and she made certain he still wore Morgana’s protective charm. As she smoothed the blanket over his legs, she murmured, “You know, my lord, I have seen your half sister when she is angry. You would not like it.”

Arthur gazed up at her from his pillows. “Tell me about it, little Braithe. Why would I not like it?”

“She would not be angry at you, never that. But one who offends her learns very quickly not to raise her ire.”

Arthur pushed himself up a little higher. “I sense a story. Tell me!”

Braithe glanced at the chair that rested by the table, then decided to be bold.

She sat on the edge of the bed, where she could feel the hard muscles of his leg against her back.

He shifted his body, and she thought perhaps she had been too familiar, despite having nursed him all these weeks, but then, when he settled, his leg was even closer to her, warm and strong.

A secret smile tugged at her lips. In the soft voice of one telling a bedtime story, she said, “Priestess Morgana works very hard. She is impatient with anyone who hinders her. There is one of the Nine who often does just that.”

“Tension among the priestesses?” Arthur said, his eyes bright with interest. “With the air full of all that magic? That sounds perilous.”

Braithe laughed, then leaned a little forward to whisper, “I will tell you a secret, sir. There isn’t a great deal of magic at the Temple, except around your sister.”

His eyebrows rose. “Is there not? But we are told that the priestesses wield the Lady’s magic upon command!”

“I know. I was told the same when I first arrived on the Isle. They still say it, but…” She shrugged.

“Two or three of the priestesses have some magic. The others have none, though they will never admit the lack. The real magic lies with Priestess Morgana, and word of that has spread beyond the Isle. Supplicants come seeking her out by name. Her potions and salves and tinctures are finer than any, and her charms, like the one you wear, have real power.”

“But she gets angry?”

“She mustn’t know I told you,” Braithe confided. Arthur touched his lips with his fingers, and she grinned. “She can spoil a cup of cider with a gesture. I saw her spill soup into the priestess’s lap without touching the bowl.”

“Those are just pranks,” Arthur said.

“True. But once, when the other priestess—she’s called Preela—tried to interfere with a charm Morgana was making—charms are the hardest of all, and they require concentration—Morgana stopped Preela’s voice for three days.

” Braithe no longer smiled, remembering how upset Niamh had been.

Everyone knew it was Morgana’s doing, but most were of the opinion that Preela deserved her punishment.

“The charm was for a supplicant who carried a heavy purse. Preela wanted the tribute.” She shrugged.

“Preela’s charms are useless. She earns hardly any tribute. ”

“This Preela—she recovered?” Arthur said.

“Yes. And she stopped interfering with Priestess Morgana’s work.”

“A wise choice,” Arthur said. He put out his hand and took Braithe’s from where it lay on the coverlet.

Her heart leaped at his touch, and she had to lower her gaze so he would not see the warmth she felt rising in her cheeks.

“Tell me another story, Braithe,” he said softly, holding her fingers.

“I have been too long in this bed, and I am not ready to sleep again.”

She knew she should withdraw her hand, blow out the candle, insist that he get his rest, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Instead, she let her hand rest in his, savoring the feel of his warm skin, the strength of his fingers—his willingness to extend the touch.

The dim bedroom seemed to be a space all their own, apart from the outside world.

He was a boy, and she a girl, and for these few stolen moments it didn’t matter that he was a prince and she a handmaid.

The night air seemed to sparkle with the magic created merely by them being together. Alone.

Braithe settled back, her hand warm and soft in his, and began another tale.

The Blackbird came to Morgana after the rite of blessing.

She had taken a seat at one end of the long kitchen table for a simple meal of soup and bread.

She was avoiding the riotous dinner in the great hall, where the knights and their lackeys would be drowning their anxiety about the coming conflict in ale.

Only two maids remained in the kitchen, scrubbing pots at the stone sinks at the far end of the long room.

The Blackbird sank wearily onto the bench opposite Morgana and said, without preamble, “He wants a charm.”

She knew who he meant. Morgana put down her spoon and folded her arms. “The hubris astonishes me.”

“And me.” The Blackbird gave a short, bitter sigh. “He is not a wise man, of course.”

“He is not, sir, but you are. You must know I will refuse.”

“I am sorry about this, Priestess, but I must insist,” he said heavily.

“The danger is real. There must be accord between the Temple and Camulod if Lloegyr is to survive. If the Romans swallow up Lloegyr, as they have all the lands around us, the Saxons will have free rein to loot and murder as they wish. Rome will consider our people’s suffering the price of conquest.”

“But does Rome not promise peace as the reward for submission to the empire?”

“Promises are cheap, and easily broken.”

“So I have observed.”

“Powerful men care more for power than they do for people. It is the way of the world.”

“Is that an excuse?”

“A reason.” He sighed again, and she heard the breath rattle in his chest.

“Sir, are you well?”

He made a dismissive gesture with his wrinkled hand. “I’m well enough. I need you to do this for me, Morgana. To placate Uther. To protect the people.”

Morgana pushed her bowl aside and leaned across the table to look into the Blackbird’s eyes. “Sir, my brother will do a better job of protecting the people, because he cares about them. You must know this.”

“Arthur is not yet king.”

“Only because Uther stands in his way. Uther, who tried to murder his own son!” She pressed her fingers over her mouth and stole a glance toward the stone sinks, but the kitchen maids were banging pots and splashing water and appeared not to have heard.

The Blackbird muttered, “We have no proof.”

“I saw it, sir.”

“I know, but that is not proof.”

“He needs to learn to respect the Nine. Instead, he treats me as if I were a servant.”

“He treats everyone like that,” the Blackbird said, but she saw by the flicker of his eyelids that he knew how weak an argument it was.

Temper flared in her belly like a fire improperly banked, and she had to grit her teeth to control it. She said tightly, “I will not do it. He has not earned the right to ask.”

“No, he has not. But if you do not perform this chore, he will know. We cannot afford a rift between the Temple and Camulod, and that’s a hard truth. The destiny of Lloegyr is at stake.”

Morgana gazed at him, making no reply. He said, “Think about it, Priestess. I beg you, use your deep sight. Surely you will see that the best course is to comply.”

Morgana bent her head and touched the sigil at her breast. “Yes, sir. I will.” She spoke out of respect for the Blackbird, but the words gave her an uncomfortable shiver of premonition.

As she slid out from the bench to make her way to her chamber, she suffered the disturbing impression that she was walking a cliff’s edge of risk.

She didn’t quite know why. She hoped the stones would tell her.