Page 38 of The Faerie Morgana

The boat that came from Camulod to convey the priestess and her handmaid across Ilyn was three times the size of any Braithe had seen before.

There were six men to row it, as well as an armed guard in the bow and another in the stern.

The two guards bowed to Morgana as they assisted her to board, and even nodded courteously to Braithe as they stowed their bags and the basket of herbs and remedies Morgana had ordered.

There were actual seats instead of wooden benches, and they were offered blankets and drinks before they embarked.

Morgana behaved as if this was only her due, but Braithe was thrilled by the grandeur, taking in every detail of the padded seats, of the uniformed oarsmen, of the beautifully polished wood of the boat itself.

She bounced in her seat, too excited to sit still.

One of the guards, a well-muscled man not much older than herself, winked and grinned at her reaction, and she had to cover a laugh with her hand.

Niamh and Joslyn stood on the dock to see them off. Niamh looked as if she had bitten something sour, her usual expression. Joslyn glowed with pride at seeing her sister priestess escorted as if she were royalty.

But of course Morgana was royalty. She was the daughter of a queen, the stepdaughter of a slain king, the half sister of the great King Arthur.

She reclined in the seat provided for her, long legs stretched out, hands tucked into her sleeves, her strong-featured face impassive.

Braithe had been inspired that morning to plait her hair high on her head, and she was proud of the way it looked, glowing like a silver crown in the early sunlight.

Niamh stood still as the oarsmen set to, but Joslyn waved and smiled. Morgana seemed not to notice, but Braithe enthusiastically waved back.

Her heart beat swiftly and happily in her breast as she reveled in the glorious spring morning, vibrant with birdsong and new growth everywhere. Even the mist that soon wrapped the boat and its occupants in silken folds of gray seemed full of promise, magical, nothing to dampen Braithe’s joy.

When she felt Morgana’s bemused glance at her, Braithe made herself settle into her seat and fold her hands in her lap as she waited for the first glimpse of Camulod.

And of the king. She would see Arthur again, at last.

Her promise to Morgana had not been lightly made.

She would keep her word, no matter the cost. She would not lie with Arthur, even if he wished it, but it would not violate her pledge to look upon his beautiful face once again, to relish the sky blue of his eyes, nor to remember what had passed between them.

She felt Morgana’s eyes rest on her once again, but she looked away, out over the rippling blue water of Ilyn. She revered Morgana, and she would keep her promise, but her private thoughts were her own.

Morgana, her skin prickling with awareness of Braithe’s excitement, touched her sigil, sending a plea to the Lady to ensure she had not made a mistake in allowing Braithe to accompany her.

She worried about it still, despite their promises to each other.

Morgana was ignorant of the ways of love, and often impatient with how romantic passions interfered with the proper order of things.

She could only hope her half brother had not made a rash choice in his bride.

Even a king could be deceived by love. If that was the case, how would she protect him?

She hid the tumult of her thoughts behind the still mask of her face, but she couldn’t take pleasure in the first fragrance of spring, or in the delicacy of the thin sunshine that greeted the boat as it emerged from the mist. As the oarsmen swept them toward the dock below Camulod, the great jeweled walls sparkled gaily high above their heads, as if the castle itself were already celebrating the great event.

White wedding banners had replaced the scarlet ones above the keep, and the gardeners had been busy grooming the path that led to the main gate and hurrying the bloom of the flowers that lined the way.

As the boat docked and the guards helped their passengers out, a little group of greeters appeared. Clearly they had been watching for the priestess’s arrival. Morgana searched among them for her half brother, but in vain. He had sent Bran, his steward, and she recognized three of his knights.

The welcoming party swarmed down the path to meet them formally, each bowing to Morgana in her black priestess’s robe, nodding politely to Braithe.

Bran, who had held his post from when Morgana was a child, said, “Welcome, Priestess. The king has asked that you be made comfortable, and then wait for him in his private chambers.”

“Thank you, Bran. It’s good to see you again.”

“I am honored you remember me, Priestess. This way, please.”

Morgana barely recognized the interior of Camulod’s west tower.

Vases of greenery stood in every corner, dotted with the earliest of spring flowers.

Tapestries and hangings covered every wall.

As Morgana and Braithe followed Bran up the stairs, past the lesser hall and then the greater one, they saw housemaids furiously cleaning and polishing and arranging bits of decorative glass and pottery retrieved from the storerooms. The air was redolent with the scents of roasting meats and baking bread.

Morgana tended to have an abstemious appetite, but even she found the smells enticing.

Arthur’s chambers had been moved to the floor just above the great hall.

When Morgana stepped onto the landing, she saw that most of the floor was taken up by the king’s bedchamber, a dressing room, and a private audience room.

Opposite his apartment, a door to another spacious room stood open, alight with the morning sun streaming through its east-facing window, where white woven curtains rippled in the breeze.

A wide bed with an elaborately carved headboard boasted a white coverlet heavily embroidered with gold and silver thread, and a variety of decorative objects covered every surface Morgana could see.

This, she guessed, was to be the new queen’s bedchamber.

Bran paused before a door that was ajar only a few inches. He knocked on the wall beside it with his staff, then pushed the door all the way open and gestured to Morgana and Braithe to go through.

The austerity of this large room, Arthur’s council chamber, contrasted dramatically with the elaborate decorations elsewhere in the castle, and it made Morgana’s lips twitch.

It was exactly as she would have expected.

Arthur would tolerate excesses being committed in honor of the upcoming celebration, but he would want his own surroundings to be spare.

Indeed, aside from an assortment of chairs arranged before one large, high-backed one, there was little in the room by way of adornment.

There was, in fact, only one object that did not need to be there.

This hung from a pedestal that had clearly been created to display it.

Its blade was hidden beneath a plain leather scabbard.

Its hilt rose into the light, simply decorated with leaves and branches carved into the grip and a single red jewel shining from the pommel.

The great sword of the true king.

Morgana gazed at it, recalling that day in the Temple, how heavy the sword was, how important to Lloegyr. Her fingers flexed, reliving the energy that had surged through them to aid Arthur in freeing the sword from the stone.

Arthur’s voice interrupted her contemplation. “Sister!” She turned, her robe whispering on the wooden floor. “Priestess,” he added, and grinned.

She inclined her head, not too deeply, for she was one of the Nine, but deeply enough to honor his position.

“My king.” Then, lifting her eyes to his, she gave him her own restrained smile.

“Brother.” She had not seen him in more than three years.

He had grown into a man, broad-shouldered in his drab tunic, with muscled thighs showing beneath the fabric of his plain leggings.

He had grown taller, too, now only half a head shorter than she.

Behind him was a boy, dressed very much as Arthur was, as if in imitation. He was as dark as Arthur was fair, with black eyes and straight black hair. Morgana didn’t recognize him.

Her half brother stepped forward and embraced her, lightly kissing both of her cheeks. She felt a glow in her breast at the gesture, at the filial feeling that had survived their long separation.

He said, “Thank you for coming. You are the only one I want to perform the ceremony.”

“It is a great thing for a king to marry,” she said. “I am glad to be part of it.”

“Wait until you meet my bride,” he said.

His eyes were the blue of Ilyn in summer, bright with happiness, shining with hope.

“We expect her tomorrow, if all goes well. She will be the most beautiful queen Camulod has ever seen!” He turned to the boy.

“Do you remember my half brother? He was small when you were here last.”

“Ah, Prince Mordred,” Morgana said. “I did not recognize you, sir. Well met.”

He inclined his head to her, his pale cheeks flushing. “Priestess Morgana. Welcome.”

She thanked him and turned to Arthur, curious.

Arthur grinned again. “My little brother follows me everywhere,” he said. “They call him my shadow.”

It was difficult to guess the boy’s age. He was slight, with a haunted look to his black eyes, and he spoke still with the high, thin voice of a boy. He shuffled his feet, and his cheeks reddened more. She said, “You have a fine role model in your elder brother,” and Prince Mordred nodded.