Page 27 of The Faerie Morgana

Braithe sat in a miserable huddle, head down and arms wrapped around herself, all through the voyage across the lake.

She felt the separation from Arthur as an ache beneath her breastbone, as if something had been physically ripped out of her body.

She feared she would never see him again, never feel the touch of his hand, never smooth his fair hair from his forehead or smile into his sky-blue eyes.

She gazed into the inevitable mist that surrounded the boat as it bobbed across Ilyn, and thought for the first time that the Isle seemed like a prison.

When they disembarked, she and Morgana walked up the slope from the dock in a mood of the purest dejection.

Morgana was clearly humiliated and angry, but it was more than that.

She had not spoken a word since they left Camulod, and even through her own unhappiness, Braithe sensed her pain.

The Blackbird had hurt the priestess deeply.

It was worse for someone like Morgana, who never spoke of her feelings, who pretended she had none.

Morgana would not have the release of tears.

Braithe had never seen her weep, and she was not certain she could.

As they reached the herb garden, Morgana slowed her steps and then stopped. “Braithe, will you tell Priestess Niamh I am here? I need a moment.”

“Of course, Priestess. Give me your bag, and I’ll put it in your chamber.”

“Niamh first, if you don’t mind. I prefer to get it over with.”

Braithe put out a hand for the bag. “Priestess,” she said. “I am not completely clear about what has happened, but I know—and there is no doubt the Blackbird knows—that your intentions are always good.”

Morgana handed over the bag without meeting Braithe’s eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, but offered no further explanation.

Braithe was loath to leave her, but she did as she asked.

She shouldered Morgana’s bag along with her own and gathered up the basket of herbs and tinctures to take to the storeroom.

She hurried through the open doors of the Temple as quickly as she could while balancing her burdens.

She passed the menhirs and the empty stone without a glance, no longer enchanted with them as she had once been.

She sidled into the antechamber, where she found Niamh on the dais, the low altar before her.

A petitioner was just setting a tiny purse on the table, reaching with her other hand for the pottery jar Niamh held out.

Braithe dropped her bags and set down the basket as she waited for the woman to depart, her precious jar in her hands. She bowed to Braithe as she passed. Braithe couldn’t summon a smile, but she nodded to her.

Niamh heaved a gusty sigh as she picked up the small purse and weighed it in her hand. “This was hardly worth the trouble,” she complained. She pushed herself to her feet and shook out her robes. “Braithe, I see you’re back. Priestess Morgana with you?”

“Yes, Priestess. She’s in the herb garden and needs to speak with you.”

“She couldn’t come into the Temple herself?”

“She finds comfort in your garden, Priestess Niamh.”

It was a sly remark, but Braithe had worded it deliberately, and it had the intended effect. Niamh preened a little, pleased at your garden .

“Very well. I suppose she needs comfort after these past weeks.”

“Yes.”

“The king is dead, I believe?”

Braithe blinked. How could she have heard the news so soon?

“You look surprised. Do you not think I can scry?”

“Oh. Of course, Priestess. I just— It has all happened so fast.”

“Yes. And the Blackbird wants some other member of the Nine to bless the new king at his coronation. That does surprise me, I admit.”

Braithe spread her hands. “I have no explanation.”

“No?” Niamh adjusted the sigil that hung from her neck and started out of the anteroom. “Hmm. The Blackbird does not always explain himself, but he has the Lady’s authority, and we do as he wishes.”

Braithe murmured her thanks, then picked up her things and set off for Morgana’s chamber.

She passed several acolytes on the way, and they looked at her curiously, but she didn’t speak to them.

What could she say? She and Morgana had been sent away from Camulod in disgrace, after all they had done to save Arthur.

To protect him. It was utterly unfair, and she would never forgive the Blackbird for humiliating Morgana.

He was supposed to be the wise man, the Lady’s representative in the Temple. He should have known better.

“You have always been his favorite, which has caused no end of envy,” Niamh said, in her blunt fashion. “What happened?”

Morgana, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, slumped on the stone bench beneath the holm oak while a great cluster of mistletoe shivered in the breeze just above her head.

It was tempting to unburden herself to Niamh.

It would be such a relief to shed the weight of sole responsibility.

Perhaps she could rest then. Perhaps her shame would recede.

But Niamh would always place her confidence in the Blackbird, certainly more than she would in Morgana, the youngest of the Nine, the most gifted and the most resented.

Competition was the way of the Temple, and it never ceased.

Only if Niamh had seen for herself what Uther intended would she understand, and now that Uther was gone, that would never happen.

Morgana straightened her spine and released her arms to link her hands in her lap and feign composure.

“Priestess Niamh, the Blackbird tasked me with making a charm to protect the king in battle, but the king was killed. The Blackbird is furious with me and ordered me away from Camulod. I believe he has requested another to bless the new king at his coronation.”

“Hmm.” Niamh peered at her from beneath her gray eyebrows. “Your charm failed?”

Morgana had no answer for that.

“We have never known a charm of yours to fail.”

That had been true, and it was another source of envy from some of the Nine. It was still true. Morgana could not say that, however, and the assumption of her failure rankled. “Nevertheless,” she said dully, “Uther is dead.”

“I know. I saw it this morning.”

“Well done, Priestess.”

Niamh shrugged. “My deep sight is not as strong as yours, Morgana, but it’s handy.”

“Of course.” Morgana looked up into the elder priestess’s sun-spotted face. “So now, Arthur will be crowned, though he is barely old enough to take the throne.”

“Sixteen, I believe? That is very young for such responsibility.”

“He thinks and talks like a man already, and the people love him.”

“They did not care for Uther, I understand.”

“No.”

Niamh said, “I would welcome your advice about who I should send to Camulod.”

“Joslyn,” Morgana answered, without hesitation. “She does everything with elegance.”

“She does, and she will be pleased you recommended her.” Niamh picked up the skirt of her robe as if on the point of leaving, but she paused. “Morgana,” she said, “I know we are not—shall we say, close? But I am the elder priestess, and you can confide in me if you wish.”

Morgana said, with a humility foreign to her, “Thank you, Priestess. I will remember.”

“Hmmm.” Niamh arched one eyebrow in doubt, but she didn’t insist. Nodding to herself, she set off toward the residence.

Morgana wrapped her arms around herself once again and let her head droop. Even the scents of the herb garden could not soothe her heartbreak. She supposed she would just have to accept it.

Late in the afternoon, Braithe found her still sitting on the bench beneath the holm oak. She touched her shoulder, saying, “Priestess, come. It’s late. You should eat, and sleep. Tomorrow things will look better.”

Morgana looked up into her handmaid’s earnest freckled face. “Such wisdom in one so young.”

Braithe’s dimples flashed briefly, then disappeared. “My mam used to say real wisdom is just common sense.”

“Your mother is a wise woman.”

Braithe held out her hand, and Morgana took it, allowing the girl to help her up. “I will rest,” she assured her. “I doubt I can eat anything.”

“Oh, you can,” Braithe pronounced. “I will find something good.”

Morgana held on to Braithe’s hand a bit longer than necessary.

It was soothing to feel the smooth, strong little hand in hers.

Knowing that Braithe cared was surprisingly comforting.

She finally released her and lifted the hem of her robe as they walked up the slope.

Braithe said, “Did Priestess Niamh come?”

“Yes. She will send Joslyn, who will be perfect for the ceremony.”

“Good. And surely, whatever has happened between you and the Blackbird, you will reconcile soon?”

Morgana considered that, turning her mind inward, to the secret she was forced to hold, to the wound in her heart at the Blackbird’s anger. “That I cannot know,” she murmured. “I can only hope.”

Braithe brought a tray to Morgana’s chamber with a tempting salad of summer greens, a fresh loaf of bread, and a dish of berries.

Morgana ate everything, as much to see Braithe’s satisfied nod as to sate her hunger, but she did feel better afterward.

She sent Braithe off to her own meal while she went to the Temple anteroom.

It was empty at this hour, all petitioners having departed and the other priestesses and the acolytes at their supper.

A compulsion had driven her to the moody space. Something was calling to her. Warning her. She wanted to resist, to put aside any further worries, but she didn’t dare. This compulsion had the feel of her own magic, demanding her attention.