Page 62 of The Faerie Morgana

Sobbing Morgana’s name, Braithe clung to the outer parapet and peered over. The wind had subsided almost instantly, which frightened her further. The storm had undoubtedly been Morgana’s doing, and now that she…

The snow fell more gently in the sudden, terrifying silence, drifting flakes instead of the ones that had thundered against the windows of the tower.

Braithe bent far over the parapet, though the height made her head spin.

She peered into the snow-spattered darkness, her heart thudding so hard she could barely hear anything but its desperate pounding.

Behind her, Gwenvere began screaming. It wasn’t her fault! The priestess had slipped! The storm had caused her to fall!

Braithe was distantly aware of the queen’s tirade, but she didn’t care what she was saying and didn’t respond. She was searching for some sign of Morgana.

The thing she spotted first was the priestess’s black robe.

It floated slowly toward the ground, its folds spread wide like the wings of a great bird.

It was outlined by snowflakes, and more flakes gathered on its surface as it drifted this way and that on the dying wind, settling at last just beneath the wall.

Braithe cried, “Morgana! Where are you?”

In another moment she had her answer. A silver-gray dove spread her wings against the snowy backdrop, tilting right, then left, graceful and deliberate.

She rose above the edge of the wall, high enough for her obsidian gaze to meet Braithe’s, and then she made a lazy half circle and flew off toward the forest.

Braithe’s tears were freezing on her cheeks, and her throat ached from calling for Morgana, but she hugged herself, shuddering with relief.

Morgana would be safe. Gwenvere could not reach her.

No one would know how she had escaped, or where she had gone.

Even she, Braithe, would not know where she came to earth.

A cold claw of a hand gripped her elbow and pulled her back from the parapet. “Say nothing!” Gwenvere shrilled. “You will say nothing, or I will—I will have you banished!”

When Braithe pulled her arm free, she felt the queen’s sharp nails scratch her skin. She would have liked to slap Gwenvere’s hand—or her face—but she restrained herself. “There will be no need. I will no longer live in Camulod while you remain!”

“Arthur will order you!” Gwenvere snapped. She hugged the fur cloak around her. “Who do you think you are? I am your queen, and you will—”

“You are not my queen.” Braithe spoke through gritted teeth. “And if you don’t get out of my way, I will go to the king and tell him you are a traitoress.”

“You won’t!” But Gwenvere stepped to one side.

Her cheeks were an unbecoming red, and her wind-tousled hair hung in ugly tangles around her shoulders.

“I know you won’t, Braithe,” she said, her tone suddenly moderating, confiding.

“I will pay you. I will see to it you have everything you want. Here, take this cloak!” She pulled off the fur and held it out.

Braithe made no move to take it. “Your husband gave that to his half sister as a gift. Would you like to explain to him why you have it? And tell him what has become of Priestess Morgana?”

“I told you, she slipped.” The hot flush of Gwenvere’s cheeks receded all at once, and her eyes flooded with convincing tears.

“This is terrible, Braithe!” Her voice rose to the naive, childish tone she had perfected, and two perfectly natural-looking tears slid down her now-white face.

She put out her hand, the fingers shaking.

“Oh, Braithe, don’t you think we should go down, look for her? Maybe there’s a chance—”

Braithe spat in her face.

When Braithe stepped back through the door into the tower, leaving Gwenvere in shocked silence, she found the Blackbird waiting on the landing.

“What’s happened?” he croaked. “I saw it again, Gwenvere attacking Morgana. Were you not watching?”

Braithe hurried to him and put her hand under his arm. “Come, sir,” she said in an undertone. “We must talk, but not here. She’s coming.”

“Who?” He looked past her, and she felt anxiety shiver through his flesh into her hand. “Is it Morgana?”

“No,” she said. “Gwenvere.”

They had descended only two steps when Gwenvere burst through the door. She stood on the landing, gripping the fur cloak in front of her as if for protection. She had recovered her voice. “Braithe, wait! Wait!”

The Blackbird twisted his neck to look up the stairs at her, but Braithe urged him on, down the single flight of stairs to his own small chamber.

She opened that door and ungently pushed him inside.

Gwenvere called, “I need to speak with—” But she didn’t get to finish her thought.

Braithe cast her a glance full of loathing before she slammed the door so hard it rocked on its hinges.

The Blackbird’s room was in nearly complete darkness. One small candle flickered wanly on his table, barely illuminating the stones he had cast. A shallow bowl of water rested nearby, trembling now with the force of the door.

“You were scrying?” Braithe pulled a stool close to the table for him and held his arm while he lowered himself onto it.

“I was.” His ancient voice cracked. “Were you there? Did you see?”

“I did, sir.” Braithe pulled a second stool up and sat down. She leaned forward. “I must break faith with the priestess to tell you what has happened, but be assured she is safe.”

“Perhaps my vision was wrong. I am not so strong as I was.”

“Your vision was correct, sir.” Braithe felt bold with him, even maternal.

She laid her smooth, small hand on his much-wrinkled one.

“You will scry again. Look for a dove with wings the color of this silver clasp on my dress. No bird should be flying in this snowstorm, but this one did. You must see where it landed.”

“A—a dove?” The Blackbird clutched his staff close to him, as if it had answers. “Why do you tell me this, Braithe? Why should I seek a dove at this moment? Does it—”

She released his hand and sat back. She watched his hooded eyes widen as he realized, and his spine straighten as it did in moments of great stress. He drew a rasping breath and released it with a great sigh of resignation. “A dove,” he said.

“Yes, sir. A dove.”

“Priestess Morgana took the shape of a dove.”

“She did.”

“She has done this before.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t tell you.” It was Braithe’s turn to draw a deep breath and release it. “She swore me to secrecy, sir, but now—I must break my promise to her.”

“You have seen her change her shape.” Oddly, the Blackbird seemed neither surprised nor upset by the revelation.

“I have. Not into the shape of a dove, but an owl. A cat. A—a person.”

“Ah.” The Blackbird slumped again and rubbed one tired hand over his face. “You are right, Braithe. I must discover where she has descended.”

“There is no time to waste,” Braithe said. “She will be naked, and it’s cold.”

“Naked, yes. I knew. But in all that happened afterward, I forgot.”

Braithe said, “I must collect her robe from where it fell before someone else finds it.”

“Go and do that now, Braithe. But beware Gwenvere! She is more powerful than such a woman should be, and more dangerous.”

The residents of the castle were all asleep except for the early-rising bakers.

Braithe had no trouble slipping down the stairs and out to where she believed Morgana’s robe and sigil would lie.

She had just rounded the curve of the tower and was making her way along the outer wall when she saw Gwenvere.

The queen, wrapped once again in the fox fur cloak, carried an oil lamp that shone yellow through the drifting snow.

Blinded by its light, she didn’t see Braithe as she bent forward, searching the ground.

Braithe knew in an instant she was searching for Morgana’s body, no doubt to drag it into the woods.

She would not care whether Morgana still lived or not.

She would only care that her crime was not discovered.

Braithe found the robe by stepping on it.

It was already coated with snow, almost invisible on the snowy earth.

The precious sigil was tangled in its folds, as was Morgana’s shift, and her boots lay askew beneath it.

Silently, Braithe gathered all of it in her arms, then backed away, around the curve of the tower, going inside once more.

She climbed back up to the Blackbird’s aerie and plopped the whole pile onto his narrow bed. He was bent over the bowl of water, peering into its surface, stirring it with one gnarled finger and gazing into it again as the ripples faded. He didn’t look up.

“Do you see her?” she asked softly.

“I do. Just give me a— There, I think she is descending. There’s so much snow! I worry for her.”

Braithe crept up behind him and stretched her neck to look over his shoulder.

The water trembled under the Blackbird’s finger, then gradually smoothed.

She sensed he was holding his breath, and realized she was, too.

Of course, she couldn’t see anything. She watched the shivering surface of the water just the same, longing for even a glimpse of the dove, to know Morgana was safe.

The Blackbird extended his hand, palm down, over the bowl. The gesture reminded Braithe of the day Morgana had assisted the boy Arthur to draw the great sword of prophecy from the stone. When he drew his hand back, she drew a sharp breath and clamped her hand over her lips.

She saw. The water was smooth as glass, reflective as a mirror, and she saw the dove darting and diving through the falling snow. In the background, she could just make out the outlines of trees, of a little beach, a fragment of the lake.

The Blackbird said, “I see her!”

Braithe said, softly, wonderingly, “I do, too.”

In other circumstances, she might have wept with elation. She had scried! Of course, it was with the Blackbird’s help, but just the same—she had actually scried!