Page 26 of The Faerie Morgana

When Braithe touched her shoulder and she opened her eyes, Morgana found the room drenched in morning light. Beyond the window, the rowan tree’s branches barely stirred, and the keep was unnaturally quiet.

She sat up. “What is it?”

“The Blackbird is here. He wants to speak to you.”

“Oh.” The last shred of sleepiness vanished, and Morgana swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Tell him I need a moment to wash and dress.”

“I did, Priestess.” Braithe spoke in an unusually small voice.

Morgana raised her eyebrows. “Is something wrong, brat?”

“He is—that is—” Braithe looked down at the robe she had in her hands, the sigil on its thong looped across it. “The Blackbird is angry. Very, very angry.” She looked up again. “He looked as if he might strike me with that staff of his. It’s terrifying.”

“Oh.” Morgana pushed herself up and walked to the washbasin.

Her feet were sore, but she was otherwise recovered.

She said, “Well. That is not good news, although I know he would never strike you. No doubt he is upset about my shapeshifting because I never told him.” She exhaled a long breath as she bent to splash water on her face.

Dabbing her cheeks with a towel, she faced Braithe and tried to speak calmly.

“Go and see to Arthur. I will deal with the Blackbird.”

“But why is he angry?” Braithe laid the robe ready on the bed. “What happened?”

“I did something. That is, I failed to do something. I will explain later. Go now, brat.”

When Braithe had left, and Morgana had dressed and woven her hair into two long plaits, she opened the door to her bedchamber.

The Blackbird was leaning against the wall opposite the door, his head down, his staff beside him.

At the sound of the door, he looked up, and the sight of his face shocked her.

Morgana had hoped Braithe was exaggerating, but this white-lipped, narrow-eyed fury was exactly what her handmaid had described. “Sir,” she began. Her voice faltered, which she hated. She hardened it to stop its shaking. “Sir, listen to me—”

“I will not,” he spat. “I am sending you straight back to the Isle, Priestess. I may never want to see you again.”

“But, sir, why—”

“Why? Have you no idea what disaster you have wrought?”

“A disaster? In what way is my shapeshifting a—”

“The king is dead!”

“The king?” For a moment, Morgana could not think what he meant. “I know he died, but, sir—I did not kill him!”

“You may as well have.” The Blackbird’s voice grated with something like despair. “He went to war without the protection you were supposed to provide!”

For once, the Blackbird stood as straight as he must have when he was young, his shoulders back, his chin lifted. That frightened Morgana more than the fierce burning of his dark eyes. “I made the charm,” she said. “But I—knowing what he planned, I couldn’t—”

“It was not your decision to make!”

“There was no time to consult with you, sir. You did not know what he meant to do.”

The Blackbird’s lip curled behind his gray beard, and he gripped his staff with both hands.

Morgana took a step backward. He would not strike Braithe, but she felt the waves of fury and fear emanating from him, and she thought he might actually strike her.

“I have warned you about your arrogance over and over again,” he said.

“And now, because you thought you knew better than I, because you were so certain you were the one to make the decision, you have changed the course of history!”

“No! Sir, that’s not right,” she said helplessly. “What I saw—Uther meant to betray us. You heard him! You were there to translate for him, and you must have— Even the knights were shocked by it, and they—”

The Blackbird shook his head. “The knights of Camulod would never bend the knee to Rome, no matter what Uther said.”

“But he put them in harm’s way! I saw it. He almost succeeded in surrendering Lloegyr to the centurion! He—he was on the point of—” Morgana shook her head, her thoughts thick and slow. She was desperate to grasp why the Blackbird refused to understand her.

“How does Uther’s death help us to defend Lloegyr?” he demanded.

Morgana clenched her fists at her sides, fighting and then losing the battle for her temper.

The effort lasted no more than a few seconds.

Her voice dropped, a voice that came from the fount of fury in her own heart and a welling resentment at being misunderstood.

“Tell me, sir,” she said, her voice low and hard.

“Tell me now. How did Uther’s life help Lloegyr? ”

“You,” the Blackbird said, in a voice that throbbed with rage, “have no idea what you’ve done, Morgana. Uther is dead, so Arthur must ascend the throne, and I tell you, I warn you— It is not his time! It is too soon!”

Morgana’s voice was every bit as angry as his, tight with fury and anxiety and confusion. “Is Arthur not the true king? Have I been wrong all these years?”

“He is,” the Blackbird said. His voice dropped, and his shoulders suddenly slumped into their usual roundness. “But the proper order is broken, Morgana. I trusted you to play your part, and you have failed.”

“Why would it be in the proper order for Uther to betray us all?”

“The Lady did not foresee such a thing, and I do not believe it would have happened.”

“But what if it had? And what is the proper order, sir?” Morgana struggled to keep her voice even.

“It is that Uther should preserve the crown until Arthur is of age.”

“But he wasn’t—”

“You don’t know what he was going to do, Morgana! If he had been protected, if he had come home safely from this battle…”

“Sir! You don’t know what he was going to do, either!”

The look the Blackbird gave her made her heart ache, and what came next was even worse.

“I took a vow, long ago, to protect Lloegyr, and now… You have failed Lloegyr, Morgana. And you have failed me.”

These words, from the one person in the world who had been Morgana’s mentor and supporter since she was tiny, hurt so much she could no longer speak.

She felt the pain in her throat, in her chest, in her belly.

She would have preferred that he raise his staff and strike her with it.

She would have bowed her head and accepted the blow as being easier to bear than this accusation, this awful judgment.

He turned away from her now and slammed through the door, leaving her trembling.

They had clashed before, but not like this.

The cruelty of his accusation made Morgana feel as if everything she had achieved before this moment no longer mattered.

She had lost him. The Blackbird had been her parent, her teacher, her guide.

He was all the family she possessed, her only equal, and he…

He had repudiated her.

She stood where she was, sick with shame and an overwhelming sense of loss. She had no idea how much time passed before the door opened once again. She threw up her head, hoping against hope he had come back, that he would apologize, that they would reconcile.

But it was Braithe. She stood in the doorway, her head ducked. Tears trembled on her eyelashes, and her lips were swollen, as if she were about to cry.

“Tell me,” Morgana said resignedly.

“We have to leave,” Braithe answered, her voice breaking. “He ordered the boatman, and we have to pack our things and go this moment.”

“But—the coronation—there has to be a priestess for the blessing—”

“He has sent to the Temple for someone else. You are forbidden to attend.”

Braithe’s tears spilled over, and Morgana pressed her hands over her own dry eyes. “I am sorry, Braithe. You can stay, surely.”

Braithe shook her head. “No,” she choked. “Not that I would stay without you.”

Morgana dropped her hands. “That seems cruel.”

“It’s because I—I argued with him.”

“You argued? With the Blackbird?”

Braithe sniffled, and wiped her tears with the heels of her hands. In a steadier voice she said, “He’s wrong, Priestess. You know it, and I know it, and so I told him.”

Despite everything, Morgana laughed. It was a small, sour little laugh, but it was a laugh just the same.

“Oh, brat,” she said. She stepped forward and embraced her handmaid, hugging her small body to her in search of comfort for them both.

“You may be little, my Braithe, but you possess a mighty spirit!”