Page 64 of The Faerie Morgana

During her long recuperation from her flight from Camulod, Morgana saw no one but Braithe.

Niamh came to her door every day, bringing food or a cup of broth in her own hands, but she was not admitted.

Others came with worried faces, remembering the last time the priestess had been so ill, when everyone in the Temple thought she might die.

Morgana asked Braithe to reassure them that she was not as sick as all that, but still not feeling up to speaking to anyone.

She asked once if the Blackbird had come, but Braithe shook her head, hard-eyed, pinch-lipped.

Morgana made no comment on his absence. She barely stirred from her bed for three days, sleeping, waking to eat, sometimes simply lying still and pondering what had happened.

She couldn’t seem to get warm enough, even when perspiration dripped from her temples and her hands and feet seemed to burn.

The cold was in her bones, in her heart and her belly, as if her hours huddled in the snow had frozen something in the very center of her.

Once, as she lay staring blankly at her window, Braithe came to sit beside her bed. She sat quietly for a moment, and Morgana felt her gaze on her. Braithe said at last, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Morgana turned her head to savor the sight of her pretty handmaid’s bright curls, her round cheeks. “Perhaps,” she said. “It is such a strange thing to try to comprehend.” Her gaze slipped back to the window, where the sky was a cold, hard blue. “She tried to kill me. She meant it to happen.”

“She did.”

“Had I been someone else, someone different, my body would be lying broken beneath the courtine.”

“Yes.”

“How can such a woman remain queen of Lloegyr?” Morgana still watched the unfeeling sky, and had the odd sense that the answer should be there somewhere.

“I don’t know.”

Morgana turned her eyes back to Braithe. “Do you understand what she is?”

Braithe met her gaze directly and spoke with grave deliberation. “I think so, Priestess. I think Gwenvere is a changeling.”

Morgana gave a tiny nod. “Changeling,” she agreed, and breathed a long sigh. “I should have seen it. Should have known. I cannot imagine why I did not.”

“I think I know that, too, Priestess.”

“Tell me, then, brat.”

“She magicked you. And Arthur. And Lancelin, even the Blackbird.”

“But not you?”

“I doubt she thought I was important enough to bother with.”

Morgana tried not to sigh again, but she couldn’t help it. She had escaped Gwenvere’s reach, but Arthur had not, nor was Lloegyr safe from the changeling queen. “I wish I knew what to do.”

“You still need rest, Priestess. Perhaps your mind will be clear when you feel like yourself.”

Morgana nodded. “Wise as always, little Braithe. My surprising brat.”

Braithe didn’t blush at the compliment as she used to do. She looked, in fact, as solemn as Morgana felt. They sat on together in silence, letting the problem hang in the air between them, unresolved.

On the fourth day Morgana woke to a sun-filled sky glittering off what remained of the snow. She sat up and pushed off the excessive blankets. Braithe was still there, as she had been from the beginning. Seeing Morgana rouse she exclaimed, “You’re feeling better!”

Morgana smiled, warmed even more by affection for her. “I am, brat. Thank you for staying by me.” Braithe brought her a cup of hot cider, and she drank it straight down. “And now,” she announced, “I am getting out of this bed.”

Braithe helped her to wash and dress, and plaited her hair, in her joy insisting on an elaborate pattern that created a shining fall of silver from her temples and crown.

Morgana stepped out into the corridor of the residence and wandered into the deserted Temple.

She paused at the stone, resting still in the center, a silent reminder of the past. She touched it with her fingers and bowed her head for a moment, remembering.

Arthur had needed her help on that day. He needed it again now, but would he allow her to offer it?

She doubted he would believe the truth about his queen, and the effort might break the trust between herself and her half brother.

That, she feared, would break her heart.

She left the Temple and strolled down the slope toward the herb garden.

The sun had melted most of the snow, leaving only scraps of white under the bushes and in the holm oak’s shade.

There were hints of spring in the furled buds and shy new leaves here and there.

She savored the smell of lavender, though its spears were still winter gray.

The thyme needed tilling, but she would leave that to Niamh.

Despite her worries for Arthur, and for Camulod, it nourished her to be home once again.

It made her stronger to feel the Isle’s soil beneath her feet, and it calmed her spirit to hear the subtle wash of the waves against the beach.

It was a much simpler place than the castle.

The conflicts here were straightforward: girls competing with each other, priestesses wrangling over this or that obscure principle, a procession of supplicants who brought their problems to the Isle and departed soon after.

She looked up into the cloud of mistletoe clinging to the bare branches of the holm oak.

She was just thinking that some of it should be harvested soon when she heard his voice.

She made herself turn at a deliberate pace to hide her eagerness.

It was indeed he. Her heart lifted, and her spirit swelled within her, filling her body and brain until they felt as if they would burst. She did not know why he had not come sooner, but she trusted that now she would understand, and the relief of that made her eyes sting.

The Blackbird hobbled down the slope toward her, his overlong robe catching on the stones here and there. He pointed up to the mistletoe and said, as if they had only parted that morning instead of years before, “Most powerful herb in the garden.”

The Blackbird took his time getting to the point of their long-delayed meeting.

It was good to speak with Morgana again, and he was in no hurry to rush their congenial sharing of memories.

He looked into her dark eyes, more gold than brown after what she had endured.

He admired the deep timbre of her voice, the line of her jaw, the upward tilt of her eyelids.

He thought her silver hair flattered her strong features, although she would not appreciate him saying so.

He felt something hard and tight in his chest loosen, just from being near her once again. She was the daughter he had never had—could never have had—and he had missed her more than he admitted to himself.

When he felt the growing chill in the wintry air as the sun slid down its path west of the Isle, he said, “Priestess Morgana, you’ve been ill, and it’s getting cold. I have something to tell you, but it’s a complicated tale and I don’t want you shivering while I do.”

She cast him a sidelong glance. “You are going to tell me, sir? At last?”

“I have spent these past days deciding how to do it,” he said. “Although how you knew I had something to tell you…”

She spread her long-fingered hands. “I often know things I should not. I have never had an explanation.”

“Priestess,” he began, then had to stop to clear his throat. “Morgana. My story will undoubtedly help.”

“Come then,” she said, putting her hand on his arm in an unusual gesture for her. “Let us go up into the residence. We will be more comfortable there.”

They settled into their customary seats in the inner chamber. Dafne appeared the moment they sat down, bearing a tray of hot cider and fresh biscuits. Morgana pressed a pottery cup of cider into the Blackbird’s cold hands and took one for herself, cradling its warmth between her palms.

The Blackbird sipped the fragrant brew and sighed with enjoyment. “No one makes cider as sweet as this. I think the acolytes must pour their hearts into the process.”

“As you say,” Morgana said. She drank, too, then set her cup down. “I have been waiting for you to speak to me for such a long time, sir. Are you no longer angry?”

“Holding on to anger is pointless,” he said, in a voice so low he might have been addressing himself. “What’s done is done.” He glanced up at her from beneath his hooded lids. “You did what you thought best for Lloegyr.”

Morgana didn’t answer, but the knot of hurt and resentment deep in her heart, tied hard in the years just past, began to release.

“I have spent these past years trying to convince myself that it was not my fault that Uther died before his time. But—” He paused, and Morgana had to twist her fingers together to hold her patience. “But I cannot escape culpability. I should have spoken sooner. I misjudged the moment.”

Morgana released her fingers. “Sir. Hear me, please. You also did what you thought was best for Lloegyr.”

At this, the Blackbird nodded, but it was almost a tremor of his head waggling upon his wattled neck. “Perhaps. Perhaps. It is safe to say, Priestess, that we both meant well. These decisions weigh on those who must make them, do they not?”

“Yes,” she said, and stopped. She didn’t want to distract him. She was still waiting to hear his tale—the tale she had thought he might never tell.

“Yes.” He drained the cup of cider and took a biscuit from the tray, though he didn’t taste it. He turned it in his fingers, as if its honey-glazed surface could tell him something. He coughed again and laid the biscuit aside. “I must tell you the story of your birth, Morgana.”

She nearly dropped her own cup. “What? My what?”

“Your birth.”

Her hands began to shake, and she set her cup down so as not to drop it. “But I— My mother—”