Page 33 of The Faerie Morgana

For two days, Morgana lay in her bed, barely moving. Braithe never left her side except to fetch fresh water and bowls of food she didn’t eat. She slept on the floor in Morgana’s chamber, rousing instantly if the priestess made any sound or moved a limb.

On the morning of the third day, Niamh came to the door.

Her knock was so quiet Braithe didn’t hear it.

Braithe, focused on trying to spoon a bit of broth between Morgana’s unresponsive lips, didn’t notice that the old priestess had come in until she was standing at the foot of the bed, her hands tucked into her long sleeves, gazing down at Morgana.

“What’s wrong with her?” she demanded.

“She’s ill,” Braithe said. She could never tell anyone Morgana’s secret. It would not help, and it would only cause more suspicion and distrust in the Temple if they knew.

“Ill.”

“Yes.”

“Looks half dead to me.”

Braithe dragged herself to her feet.

“You don’t look well yourself, Braithe.”

“I’m just tired.”

Niamh rocked on her toes, her eyes on Morgana, who did indeed lie as still as the dead. After a moment she turned to Braithe, who wavered on her feet, exhausted. “Better get Olfreth in here. Decide what’s wrong with her.”

Olfreth could be a problem, Braithe thought. If she decided to scry to discover what had brought Morgana to this state…

She said, “I think Joslyn might be a better choice, Priestess. She is so good at potions, and surely one of them—”

“Hmm. Not sure random potions are the answer here, Braithe.”

“They wouldn’t be random, Priestess. And Joslyn is the only one— That is, Priestess Joslyn is fond of Priestess Morgana.”

“Priestess Joslyn has not yet returned from the coronation.”

Braithe had forgotten that. “Someone else, then. But not Olfreth.”

“You think Olfreth doesn’t like Morgana?”

Braithe was too weary to be diplomatic. She gave Niamh a speaking look. “I know quite well she doesn’t. I expect you know that, too.”

Niamh’s wrinkled lips twitched slightly, but she didn’t admit to the truth of the observation.

She said only, “Very well, Braithe. I will ask Sennet to come see to Priestess Morgana. But you—” She pointed her finger at Braithe and shook it.

“You go to your bed. Sleep. Leave the priestess to us for the time being.”

“But I—”

“No arguments,” Niamh said with asperity. “You will be no good to her or to yourself if you collapse. Off with you.”

Reluctantly, though the idea of sleep was so inviting, Braithe backed out of the room, keeping her eyes on Morgana as she went.

When she stepped out into the corridor, she saw Priestess Sennet hurrying toward her.

Braithe would much have preferred Joslyn, but she thought Sennet would be kind enough. Morgana would be safe in her care.

Braithe, suddenly so weary she could barely stand, tottered off to her own little room and collapsed on her bed. The morning sun poured through the gauze curtain at her window, but it didn’t matter. She was asleep within moments.

She slept all through the day, not dreaming, not even rolling over.

She woke briefly to eat the supper brought to her by Dafne, used her chamber pot, then slept again until the rising sun woke her.

She climbed out of bed on sleep-stiffened legs and hobbled to the window, where she tried to revive herself with deep breaths of the cool morning air, noticing it had begun to smell faintly of autumn.

Still groggy from her long sleep, Braithe splashed water from the basin over her face, and then over her body.

It was shockingly cold, but she did it again and then again, until she began to come fully awake.

She was pulling her brown robe over her shift when someone knocked on her door. “Come in. I’m up.”

The door opened gingerly, and Priestess Sennet peered around it. “Braithe.” The priestess’s hair was tousled and her robe tied wrong. Her sigil hung crookedly from her neck. “Good, you’re dressed. You’d better come.”

As Braithe hurried after Sennet toward Morgana’s bedchamber, she asked, “What is it? Is the priestess all right? What has happened?”

Sennet said over her shoulder, “She’s all right, yes. You’ll see in a moment. No point in my telling you.”

Braithe’s pulse throbbed in her throat, and she barely restrained herself from shoving past the priestess to reach Morgana sooner.

Sennet paused in front of Morgana’s door, a warning hand raised. “Niamh is with her. Try not to— I mean, there is no need to alarm Priestess Morgana.”

“Alarm her?” Braithe, truly worried now, sidled past the older woman to open the door.

Morgana lay on a pile of pillows, her face pale as wax, though her eyes were open. They shifted to Braithe when she came in, glinting gold. She lifted one hand, weakly, and reached for Braithe’s. “You see, brat.” Her deep voice scratched in her throat. “You see the price I have paid.”

Braithe couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think. She gazed down at Morgana, at her lean form covered in blankets, her long fingers entwined with her own short ones. She was struck completely dumb.

“Is it so ugly?” Morgana sighed.

Braithe forced herself to draw breath, to blink. “No!” she said. “No, it is not ugly, it’s—it’s beautiful. It’s just—just a surprise.”

She reached down with her free hand to stroke Morgana’s long, thick hair.

Hair that had been black yesterday, as black as the fur of the cat whose form she had borrowed.

Hair that was now silver, the color of moonlight, of sea-foam, of lilies in the spring.

It glinted in the sunlight falling through the window. “Beautiful,” Braithe whispered.

Morgana’s narrow lips curved, just a little, before her eyelids fluttered closed. “Sleep,” she murmured.

“I will be right here,” Braithe murmured. She couldn’t resist lifting a strand of the bright hair to let it run through her fingers. “I will be right here beside you.”

Silent Dafne brought a pallet to Morgana’s bedchamber so Braithe could sleep near her mistress in more comfort.

When she handed Braithe a pillow, their fingers brushed.

Braithe felt the tingle of magic that was becoming familiar to her.

She looked more closely at Dafne, but she saw only the woman’s dour face, her eyes averted as usual.

Braithe shivered a little and told herself she would think about it later.

She thanked Dafne and laid the pillow on her pallet, then drew it close to Morgana’s bed.

She lost track of how much time passed as the priestess roused only to drink a little broth, or to allow Braithe to wash her and change her linens.

Joslyn, returned from Camulod, came to see how she was doing, and together she and Braithe worried over her.

“Something must have happened!” Joslyn said. “Surely there was some curse, or perhaps someone poisoned her!”

Braithe would have liked to confide in Joslyn, but she refrained. Morgana considered her shapeshifting to be an ability that was more powerful because no one knew of it. Braithe kept her counsel, but she begged Joslyn for potions and tinctures that would restore Morgana to health.

Autumn came as Morgana languished, bedridden and weak.

One golden morning, when the leaves had already begun to turn and the apples were ripening on the trees, Braithe hurried to the window of the bedchamber, drawn by the call of a horn blown from the dock.

Below the residence the acolytes poured out of the refectory, abandoning their breakfast in favor of whatever excitement the horn proclaimed.

Three priestesses emerged from the Temple and stood on the steps, their hands in their wide black sleeves, waiting to see who had arrived with such ceremony at the Isle of Apples.

Braithe caught her breath when she recognized him, and she pressed her hand to the place in her belly that suddenly throbbed.

It had been only weeks since she last saw Arthur, but he seemed to have grown in that brief span of time, as if the responsibility of the crown had spurred him to grow taller, to become stronger, to wield an even greater presence than he already did.

Braithe thought he walked as if he were limned in light, as if the Lady smiled on him from the lake where she dwelled.

He strode purposefully up through the garden, with two of his knights scrambling to keep up.

His fair hair gleamed in the sun, outshining the narrow coronet that circled his brow.

He wore a simple tunic of dark blue over leggings like those of any serf.

Aside from his coronet, only his sword belt, dark leather gilded with gold, signified his rank.

The king paused before the priestesses, who inclined their heads to him. Niamh was one, and Braithe, leaning from the window, heard her rasping voice clearly.

“Welcome, my lord. We did not expect this honor today.”

He touched the charm at his breast. “I have come to see my sister.”

Braithe’s heart suddenly thudded so loudly she barely heard the rest of the exchange.

“I am sure she will be pleased,” Niamh began, but Joslyn stepped forward to murmur into her ear.

“Hmm,” said Niamh. She turned back to the king.

“My lord, the priestess Morgana is unwell, and has been confined to her bed for some time. This has naturally caused us concern, and I’m not sure she is able to receive visitors. ”

Braithe nearly shouted through the window that for the king, Morgana would rouse herself.

She couldn’t bear the thought that Arthur might be turned away, that she would not get to see him.

She was drawing breath to call out when he put up a graceful hand.

“I am aware she is ill, Priestess. Word reached me at Camulod, and I wasted no time in setting out.”