Page 30 of The Faerie Morgana

After delivering the basket to the harried cooks, it was easy to turn the wrong way as she left the kitchen and dash up the stairwell toward the royal chambers.

She passed the great hall, where maids were already setting the huge table with trenchers and spoons and knives.

She went farther up, to the floor where she and Braithe had slept when they were here, and on to the floor above.

Here she slowed her steps, eyeing the corridors, ducking her head if she had to pass a housemaid or a manservant.

Morgause had taken the rooms that had once belonged to Ygraine.

Morgana had not entered the apartment as an adult, but she remembered it perfectly.

She knew where the bedchamber was, and the main door into the sitting room.

She also remembered clearly the secret entrance into the queen’s dressing room, a narrow door with a low lintel that anyone of height had to duck beneath.

It was hidden in a corner of the corridor, easy to miss.

It was the door through which Ygraine had led the child Morgana out of Camulod and delivered her into the care of the Blackbird.

Morgana knew, because she had seen, what was happening behind that door. She gathered herself, then entered without knocking or asking permission.

She had been aware of what she would find in Morgause’s dressing room, but it was still sickening to see in person.

The queen, with only a dressing gown around her bony form, was handing a long, thin knife to a burly, bearded man who wore the garb of a soldier.

The light was dim, only a single sputtering candle on the dressing table, but Morgana was in time to see him pocket a fat purse with his free hand while taking the knife by the hilt.

A leather jerkin covered his torso from shoulders to hips, and he had wound a dark scarf around his neck, which presumably he would pull up to hide his face.

Even as Morgana burst into the room, he was ready to hide the knife beneath his jerkin.

Morgause’s sharp-boned face was pale as milk in the uncertain light of the candle. She gasped and whirled at the opening of the door. She screeched at Morgana, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The assassin shifted the knife in his thick hand, and Morgana knew he meant to throw it at her.

She took in the brutality in his fleshy face, the calculating gleam in his ice-gray eyes.

He radiated cruelty and greed, and she knew that to him, murdering a stranger who had burst in at an inopportune moment would be easy, meaningless, an act as natural as breathing.

She wondered how Morgause had found him and what her plot had cost her.

More than money, she suspected, but her deep sight had not shown her that.

Morgana said, glad of the deep male voice that came from her throat, “You are discovered, madam. Your plot has failed.”

The assassin growled, “You think you can stop us?”

Morgause’s voice was high and thin with panic. “Do it!” she screeched at the assassin. “Do it now! Before he calls the guards—”

Before she finished her command, the assassin’s arm was up and back, the blade of the knife poised between his fingers. He gave a small grunt of effort as he threw it directly at Morgana.

But she was ready.

She felt the furrowing of her forehead, the tension extending down the unfamiliar muscles of her face.

Her heart seemed to pause its beating, her lungs to grow still to conserve all her strength.

She gathered all of her power into one great strike of her special talent, one lethal blow by that odd gift no one else seemed to possess.

The knife was in the air, halfway between her and the assassin, when it turned, spun as swiftly as a falcon might as it plunged toward its prey.

Morgana’s heart jolted as it resumed beating, and her lungs opened for a swift breath.

The knife moved so fast she couldn’t follow its progress, and she had not finished drawing that breath when it found its target.

Neither the assassin nor Morgause had time to move or even to cry out.

Morgana had not aimed the weapon. Her blow was a blunt one, like the thrust of a thrown fist or the kick of an angry horse, but it somehow managed to be uncannily accurate.

She didn’t know where it would strike until she saw the bloom of blood at the base of the assassin’s throat and heard his terrified choking as the blade buried itself in his neck.

He scrabbled at the knife with his fingers, but the useless effort didn’t last long.

In seconds, he crumpled. His forehead hit the floor, his arms splayed wide.

His lifeless body propped awkwardly on his bent knees in a gruesome posture, as if his corpse were bowing to Morgana.

Blood pooled beneath his head and streamed over Morgause’s bare feet, staining the hem of her dressing gown as her mouth stretched wide, ready to scream.

Morgana crossed the room in three quick strides and clasped her masculine hand over the queen’s mouth.

Even in her own form, she was taller and stronger than the scrawny Morgause, but in this body, she was nearly twice the queen’s weight.

She shoved Morgause against the wall, her big hand clamped so tightly over Morgause’s mouth that the queen’s eyes widened with the sudden awareness that she could be the next to die.

She was right. It was possible. It wouldn’t take much, a shift of the hand down to her neck, a hard squeeze to close that thin throat, a refusal to let go no matter how she struggled and clawed and shook.

Morgause had shown no mercy to Arthur. Why should Morgana, sworn since childhood to protect the true king, show mercy to her?

She found no reason for mercy. What she found was a thread of logic.

If the queen were to die today, there would be no coronation. The entire celebration would be called off. The feast would be canceled, the people sent home in confusion and consternation that such a thing could happen on this very day, within the walls of Camulod.

Morgana had committed herself to seeing Arthur safely ascend to his throne. She could not let it be postponed while his knights searched for the murderer of the old king’s widow.

Slowly, one finger at a time, she lifted her hand from Morgause’s face. “Be quiet,” she murmured.

Morgause drew a tremulous breath and nodded. Her eyes were so wide Morgana thought the lids must hurt. Morgause pressed both her hands over her mouth, stopping herself from crying out. Or begging.

“Here is what you will do, madam,” Morgana said. “You will call a servant to deal with this body. Tell them one of the king’s men defended you. You can describe me if you like. It won’t matter.”

With her hands still covering her mouth, Morgause gave a tiny whimper and nodded again.

“Then you will attend the coronation with your son Mordred. You will both kneel to the new king and swear your fealty. You will see to it that the ceremony is both solemn and peaceful. You will not interfere in any way, or I will come back for you. Do you understand?”

Gradually, Morgause lowered her trembling hands. They were thin and bony and dark, like the claws of a fox. Indeed, her face had the deceitful look of one, too. She whispered, “I do.”

“And,” Morgana added, letting her voice drop as low as it would go, “if you ever again make an attempt on Arthur’s life, yours will end. This is not a threat. It is a promise.”

“Who are you?” Morgause spoke under her breath. “How did you know—”

“I will always know, Morgause. Believe that.”

The queen’s thin cheeks flared pink, then turned sallow again. She let her hands drop by her sides, and she dropped her head in acquiescence. She said in a voice that shook, “Shall I call someone now?”

“I think you should, while your assassin’s body is still warm.”

“Where will you be?”

“Gone.”