Page 66 of The Faerie Morgana

The cold winds of winter warmed, bit by bit, transforming into spring zephyrs laden with the scents of blossom and the nesting calls of birds.

Braithe busied herself restoring Morgana’s neglected apartment to its proper order, cleaning her robes, washing her nightdresses and shifts.

She oiled the priestess’s sandals against the day she would put aside her boots.

She stayed as close to Morgana as she could, but the priestess usually left her apartment when dawn had barely broken over the Isle, its light not yet strong enough to pierce the mists that drifted in from Ilyn.

Usually, Braithe was not yet awake. She knew the priestess was walking, going miles and miles around the Isle, sometimes along the beaches, often through the woods, following the paths the deer had worn through the brush.

Morgana had always turned to the earth for her comfort, and often, when Braithe finally found her, she would be conferring with some creature of the forest: a sparrow or a moth, or the old fox with its silver muzzle and scarlet tail.

Braithe took care not to disturb these conversations.

She knew Morgana and the Blackbird had spoken. She didn’t know what had been said, but she supposed Morgana’s walks, and her silence, were her way of dealing with whatever he had told her.

Braithe had her own worry, although she knew it couldn’t be as important as whatever was weighing on Morgana. She had become, somehow, the barrier between Niamh and Morgana.

The elder priestess brought her complaints about Morgana to Braithe. “Where is she?” she often demanded to know. “When will she come back to the anteroom and work with petitioners?”

Braithe understood her frustration, although she suspected it was more about the absence of the tribute Morgana brought in than the time spent in the Temple. “Priestess Morgana is eager to see the supplicants, but I believe the Blackbird needs her just now.”

“For what?” Niamh snapped. “Does he not think the Temple needs her, too?”

Braithe answered as mildly as she could. “I couldn’t say, Priestess. Perhaps you could ask him?”

Niamh scowled. “Priestess Morgana has been back on the Isle for weeks. What could possibly take so long to accomplish?”

Again, Braithe replied, “I don’t know. Neither of them has told me anything.”

“A very poor response,” Niamh growled. “And no help to any of us.”

There was nothing Braithe could say except “I’m sorry. Shall I tell Priestess Morgana you’ve been looking for her?”

“Don’t bother,” Niamh said sourly. “Morgana will always do exactly as she pleases.”

Braithe could not deny the truth of that. And it was true there was nothing she could do about any of it except wait for the priestess to confide in her.

That moment finally arrived just before the spring festival.

The acolytes were busy festooning the Temple with garlands of greenery studded with flowers, their high, laughing voices tumbling out into the bright spring air.

The refectory smelled of honey and toasted chestnuts as the cooks prepared sweet cakes and spiced cider, traditional fare for the celebration.

Morgana, returning from one of her hours-long rambles, strode past all this activity without seeming to notice it. She beckoned to Braithe. “I would like to speak with you,” she said. “If you are not otherwise occupied.”

Since Braithe was always available to the priestess for whatever she needed, this seemed unusually grave.

Her heart fluttered as she nodded and left the flowers she was arranging to follow Morgana to her apartment.

All the doors and windows in the residence stood open to the fresh air, but after they had gone in, Morgana closed her door and went to stand by the window.

The happy sounds of festival preparation wafted past her, but she seemed to be bracing herself against something evil.

Braithe sat on a stool, her hands in her lap, waiting.

Facing out into the sunny afternoon, Morgana said, “The Blackbird told me something shocking, Braithe.”

“Can you tell me, Priestess?”

Morgana turned to her, one hand on her sigil, the other on the windowsill. “The Blackbird says I am fae, brat. That I was not born to Ygraine. She was my foster mother, and the one who gave birth to me—my true mother—was fae.”

Braithe stared at her, stunned by the revelation.

All the old tales came rushing back, making her head spin as she thought of the evil things the fae had done, the grief they had caused, the mischief that her mother had worked so hard to prevent.

But this was Morgana! This was her idol, her mentor, her teacher.

Morgana had never done anything evil in her life.

Morgana said, in a dull voice, “You are shocked, also. I have trouble believing it myself.”

Braithe shook her head, unable to think what to say.

“If you wish to leave me, Braithe, to give up being my handmaid, I will not blame you.”

That startled Braithe into speech. “Morgana, no!” She barely realized she had not used the priestess’s title. “Oh, no, I would never—I could not—”

“Surely you do not wish to serve one of the fae.”

The pain in Morgana’s voice, the misery in her eyes, was more than Braithe could bear.

She jumped to her feet and crossed the room to look directly up into Morgana’s face.

The priestess’s eyes had gone completely gold, a sign of the emotions simmering within her.

Braithe’s voice trembled as she spoke with as much intensity as she could muster.

“Listen to me. Being fae must not be the curse they say it is.”

“But the fae deceive. They lie. They steal animals and kidnap children. They—”

Braithe put up a hand. “Priestess, stop!” Morgana blinked at the unusual command.

Braithe twisted her hands as she sought the words that would express the strength of her feelings.

Finally, she said, “We know that some have done those things. It must be that—that the fae are like people, good and bad, strong and weak, wise and foolish. The bad ones are the ones my mother always tried to placate, but you—you could never be one of those. Everyone sees how hard you work, how devoted you are, how gifted! You are not capable of lying, or of deception. You would not steal. You could not, and that means—that means we are wrong about the fae!”

“Are you not curious about who my mother was?” Morgana’s gaze fell to her sigil, and she turned it in her fingers.

“Of course! Do you know?”

“I do.” Morgana lifted the sigil into the slanting afternoon light. “You know what this symbol represents, Braithe,” she said, her voice so deep it rumbled against the walls. Deep and quiet and intense. Was that fear, Braithe wondered, or sorrow?

And then she knew. She knew what—or rather who—the symbol stood for and she understood what secret the Blackbird had been keeping all these years.

She anticipated what Morgana was about to tell her.

“The Lady is your mother,” Braithe blurted, her voice breaking with astonishment.

“They say she was the last of the fae in Lloegyr, but…”

“They are wrong, it seems. If the Blackbird is to be believed, I am the Lady’s daughter.”

“And your father?”

“He says he has never known. I may not be fully fae, although he thinks I am. It’s possible that I am a half-blood, like the ones the bards sing about.

The ones they say come into Lloegyr pretending to be human, seducing young girls and enticing young men away from their homes.

” She turned abruptly back to the window.

“I hope I am not one of those. If I am to be fae, then I would rather be fully fae.”

Braithe put her hands on her hips and declared, a little too loudly, “If you are fae, Morgana of the Temple, half or whole, then being fae must be a very fine thing.”

Morgana bent her head, and the setting sun gleamed on her unbound silver hair, making it look as if she wore a halo. “I have always thought you are a gift of the Lady’s, my Braithe,” she said. “Perhaps you are a gift from my Lady mother to sustain me in her purpose.”

“And her purpose is…?”

“To protect Lloegyr. To protect the king. The Blackbird blames himself now, after long thought, but I wonder. Perhaps he was right in the first place. Perhaps I have failed in my duty.”

It was a bitter thing to speak those words aloud, to hear the painful truth in her own voice.

Morgana had been over and over it these past days, wondering what she could have done differently, speculating endlessly over whether, if she had known her true nature, she might have followed the Blackbird’s order more closely.

It was not until today, communing with a ladybug who fluttered down to her shoulder and stood with shining red-and-black wings lifting and settling, preening in the spring sun, that she decided. There had been no other choice she could have made.

Uther had intended to surrender Lloegyr for his own profit.

He had been a traitor, a man who cared for nothing but his own ambition.

He had hated his own son, Arthur, knowing he was no match for Arthur’s wisdom and character.

He had betrayed his own knights, ready to let the Romans take them prisoner, enslave them, sell them to the Saxons.

Though the Lady, her mother, had laid other plans, she would have understood how the course of Lloegyr’s history had changed.

She would have recognized that Uther was unworthy of the crown he had won through deceit.

She would surely have preferred that Arthur assume his throne early than lose his kingdom to the Romans before he had a chance to ascend to it.

And if the Lady had not foreseen Uther’s treachery, she would surely not have foreseen the danger posed by Queen Gwenvere.

Morgana said to Braithe now, “I wish with all my heart that I could remain here on the Isle, working in the Temple, living in peace with our sisters, but I cannot.”

“Because of Gwenvere.”

“Because of Gwenvere. She is a greater danger to Lloegyr even than the Romans or the Saxons, because she can destroy the country from within.”

Braithe’s freckled brow creased. “I don’t understand.”

Morgana crossed to the table, where her cup of divining stones rested. She picked it up, shook it lightly, then spilled the stones out on the tabletop. Braithe moved to stand by her shoulder, and together they studied the pattern.

“Do you see it?” Morgana asked. Braithe shook her head. “Don’t try, brat,” Morgana said softly. “Let the pattern speak in its own time. Perceive its message in your spirit, not your mind. Minds are restless, cluttered with trivial things. Spirits are patient.”

Morgana had read the pattern immediately, and her heart grew heavy with understanding. She waited, allowing her own spirit to adjust to this new burden even as she gave Braithe time to grasp the meaning in her own way.

At length, Braithe looked up, her blue eyes glimmering with shallow tears. “She will betray him to the Romans,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“But why? Why would she do that?”

“I think Gwenvere longs to become a Roman. She wears their clothes. She styles her hair in the Roman fashion. She deceived Arthur in order to become queen, but Camulod bores her. I suspect she believes she can ingratiate herself with Rome by allying herself with one of their centurions, perhaps a legate. She might even be able to do it. Her looks and her name will carry weight with Rome.” Morgana paused, looking down at the stones.

“The fae sent her out of revenge, because the Lady banished them. They sent her to ruin the Lady’s plan. ”

“That explains her power over people,” Braithe said.

“Yes. She even wielded that power over me, preventing me from speaking truth to the king. No one else possesses that power but the fae, and it seems they bestowed it upon her.”

“I saw it,” Braithe said.

“Did you?”

“She makes men—and women, too—do what she wants them to do. Things they would never do if they were not magicked.”

“You are thinking of Lancelin,” Morgana said somberly. “We know him to be a man of honor and integrity. For him to betray the king he serves does not fit his character.”

“But what can we do?”

“We must warn Arthur.”

“He will not listen to us. Not if he is still under her spell.”

“Perhaps he will not. But we must try.” Morgana scooped up the scattered stones to replace them in their cup. “Braithe, I think Arthur forgot—forgot about you, what you were to him—because he was magicked.”

“Oh.” Braithe’s eyes filled with sudden tears.

Morgana said, “What is it, brat? Why are you weeping?”

Braithe said, with a tiny sob, “Because it means he could have—he might have—if she had not—” She pressed her hands to her cheeks, wet now with her tears.

Morgana put a hand on her shoulder. “Yes,” she said, as gently as she knew how. “You were also a victim, Braithe. I am so sorry you were hurt.”

Braithe smiled, though tears still slipped down her cheeks. “I was, Priestess, but now—now I understand! It hurts far less this way.”

Morgana squeezed her shoulder, then patted it. “Now, brat,” she said. “Let us lay our plan to put an end to the changeling’s treachery.”