Page 34 of The Faerie Morgana

Niamh bridled at this and began to say something else, but the king had already walked away, starting toward the residence as if he knew exactly where he would find his sister.

Braithe dashed to Morgana’s mirror to smooth her hair, to pat her cheeks to bring color to them, to check that her robe was straight.

When she turned back, she found Morgana’s open eyes fixed on her.

“Priestess! You’re awake.”

“He is here, is he not?” Morgana’s voice was stronger than Braithe had heard it in days. She pushed herself up to sit and began to pat at her disordered hair with her fingers.

Braithe hurried to help her, snatching up a brush on the way. “How did you know?”

“I cannot think of another reason my handmaid would be primping before the mirror.”

Braithe’s cheeks burned, and she avoided Morgana’s eyes as she plumped pillows and smoothed the coverlet.

She brushed the long strands of silver hair so they fell smoothly over the priestess’s shoulders.

She had just finished this when the knock sounded.

She had an urge to check herself in the mirror again, but aware of Morgana’s gaze, she crossed straight to the door and opened it.

“Braithe,” Arthur said. He smiled, and even as she bowed, he reached for her hand to press his lips to her fingers.

“My lord,” she murmured, eyes downcast.

“It’s good to see you.” He squeezed her fingers before releasing her hand. “Is she better?”

“I think she is, by the hand of the Lady.” Braithe stepped aside so he could see for himself.

Arthur looked past her to the bed where Morgana sat, pillows at her back, blanket over her long legs, startling silver hair spilling over her shoulders. His smile died as he stared at her. His face paled, and his lips parted as if he would speak, but could not.

“My king,” Morgana said softly.

“Sister,” he whispered. “What— How did this—”

She held out her hand with its elongated fingers, and he crossed the room to take it. “You’re cold,” he said, chafing her hand between his own.

“No,” she said, and one of her rare smiles appeared for the first time since she had resumed her own shape. Braithe sighed to see it, and inwardly blessed Arthur for inspiring it. “Warm enough, thanks to the brat here. I am very glad to see you, sir.”

He seized a chair and pulled it close to the bed.

Braithe came to stand at the foot, where she could watch them both.

“How did you come to be so ill?” Arthur said, seating himself, leaning forward to look into his sister’s face.

“And what magic transformed your hair into—into—” He made a helpless gesture, finally saying, “Into this river of moonlight?”

“A romantic description,” Morgana said, glancing down at the white tresses trailing across her breast.

“Tell him,” Braithe blurted. Morgana shot her a look of fire, but Braithe spread her hands defensively. “I will close the door. Surely you can trust your brother with your secret.”

“I trust my king,” Morgana said.

Braithe murmured, “Your king should know what happened, Priestess. She could try again.”

Arthur turned his head to give her a quizzical look.

“What? What happened? Who might try—” He tugged his forelock in a boyish gesture, which made him look like the lad he truly was.

It was as if, in his confusion, the sobering mantle of responsibility fell briefly from his shoulders.

Even his voice rose a little in pitch, abandoning the bass notes it had recently acquired.

He said, “I marvel at the transformation of your hair, sister. They say such a thing belongs only to the fae, but that can’t be so. ”

“You know my parentage as well as I, sir.”

Braithe hurried to close the door, and to draw the bar across.

Morgana exhaled a long sigh and let her head fall back against her pillows.

“Braithe is right, I think. We should tell you the tale. I will let her do it, because too much speaking tires me. But,” she added, managing despite her weakness to sound stern, “I will correct your mistakes, brat.”

“I have no doubt,” Braithe said, affecting a dry tone. She understood the warning.

Arthur said, “What are the two of you talking about? Braithe, tell me quickly!”

It wasn’t quick, but Braithe told the story as economically as she could.

She began with Morgana being sent away from Camulod for having given Uther a flawed charm.

She recounted Morgana’s vision of Morgause and the assassin.

“This will surprise you, my lord,” she said.

“But your sister posed as a man in order to gain access to the castle, and to prevent the assassination attempt.”

“You dressed as a man?” Arthur asked Morgana.

“I did.” She gave Braithe a sidelong look. “That was the easy part.”

“And what was the hard part?”

Braithe held her breath.

Morgana said only, “Dealing with Morgause and her assassin.”

“But—wait.” Arthur frowned, looking from Braithe to Morgana. “I’m not sure I understand. Did you say her assassin? We were told a man came into the queen’s chambers to kill her for some reason, but she managed to kill him instead. Are you saying Morgause herself hired the killer?”

“He was meant for you, my lord,” Braithe said. “To preserve the throne for Mordred.”

Arthur’s blue eyes darkened until they were almost indigo. “And Morgana? It was you who killed the man?”

“It was necessary.” Morgana let her eyelids drift down as she drew a tremulous breath. “You’re doing well, brat. Finish the tale.”

Braithe said, “I had a feeling something was wrong. I was supposed to wait for the priestess to return, but I was so worried that I set out in one of the rowboats to cross Ilyn by myself. I found the priestess on the shore below Camulod, exhausted.”

“But how could you have known she needed you?”

Braithe busied herself smoothing the coverlet over Morgana’s knees. “I can’t explain,” she said. “I just— Perhaps it was the Lady, reaching out to me.”

“But why is Morgana ill?” Arthur asked, with consternation on his face. “Is it something serious? She should have recovered, surely, by this time.”

Braithe said, “The shock of killing a man has weighed on the priestess’s spirit.” It was true enough that she could tell herself she had not lied to the king. “Priestess Morgana is a healer, my lord, not a destroyer. Now she has nightmares, and no appetite to speak of.”

Arthur turned to lay his muscular hand on one of Morgana’s long, deceptively delicate ones. “This is a terrible tale. I owe you my throne once again, sister,” he said, his voice once again sounding that bass note. “How can I ever thank you?”

“No need,” Morgana said.

But Braithe said, “You must take steps to ensure such a thing never happens again.”

Arthur scowled. “I will certainly see to that. Morgause is universally disliked as a troublemaker, but I never suspected she would go so far.” He stood, touching Morgana’s shoulder, then paced the bedchamber.

“I must do something,” he growled. His righteous anger was a powerful thing, and the air seemed to absorb it, to vibrate with its power.

It made Braithe’s breathing quicken. She watched him, her mouth a little open, her tongue just touching her upper lip. It was a meaningful moment, serious and tense, yet what she wanted was to touch him. To take his hand. To stand close enough to feel the drum of his heartbeat through her skin.

“I would have her hanged for this,” Arthur said grimly, “if I could prove it.”

Morgana, her eyes still closed, murmured, “Better not, sir. It would be a shadow on your reign, which has just begun. Set a watch on her.”

Braithe interjected, knowing it was not her place, “Banish her, my lord.”

Arthur stopped pacing and looked directly at her. “A very good idea, Braithe. That is the most practical choice.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment, a little spurt of pride erupting in her breast.

Morgana said, “But there is Mordred to consider. He is the son of a traitoress, but he is also your half brother.”

“And he is a fine lad,” Arthur said. “He is not gifted with a sword, but he works hard at it and is diligent at all his studies.” He slapped his thigh as he made his decision.

“It is good that I came, sister. Good that we make this plan together. Morgause will go from Camulod, and be banned forever, but I will keep Mordred in the court. See that he is brought up as he should be.”

“A wise choice,” Morgana said, but her voice had grown weak. Her eyelids drooped. Braithe bent to plump her pillow, then straightened. “Come, my lord,” she murmured. “Allow me to order a meal for you and your men, and you can speak with your sister again when she has rested.”

He smiled at her. “Dine with us,” he said.

She inclined her head. “If it pleases you, of course.”

Morgana’s eyes opened one more time, and there was something in them that made Braithe flush. A warning?

But Arthur’s invitation thrilled her in heart and in body.

Whatever Morgana’s eyes might be saying could not compete with that feeling.