Page 67 of The Faerie Morgana

Priestess Niamh asked again if you will ever return to your duties in the Temple,” Braithe told Morgana.

“I hope you told her to scry for herself if she needs an answer.”

“You know I did not, Priestess.” Braithe smiled a little, trailing one hand over the side of the boat, her fingertips brushing the cold water.

They were on their way back to Camulod in a boat with a single oarsman.

The Blackbird huddled at the stern, hunched over his staff.

Braithe and Morgana sat in the bow, side by side.

Their boat had just entered the circling mist. It seemed to float out of time.

Braithe knew it was moving, because she could see the smooth water ripple against its bow, but there was nothing else to see, and nothing to hear but the delicate slipping of the oars through the waters of Ilyn.

Sunshine silvered the upper edge of the mist, adding to the dreamlike sensation.

Braithe wished they could keep on like this forever, embraced by the peace of Ilyn.

She didn’t want to think about Niamh or the Temple or Camulod or Gwenvere.

She would even be content to forget Arthur for a time.

But that wasn’t to be. The boat moved inexorably forward under the deft propulsion of the boatman.

They emerged from the mist and pressed on, soon finding themselves at the dock beneath the castle.

Braithe tipped her head back to look up at the familiar wall sparkling in the sunshine, the pennants fluttering in the breeze.

Suddenly alarmed, she seized Morgana’s arm. “Priestess. Those are battle flags.”

Morgana followed her gaze and muttered, “Oh, no.”

The familiar scarlet of Camulod’s pennants, proudly flying when the king was in residence, had been replaced by blue ones with Arthur’s crest in black. They were the same ones carried by the flag-bearers when the king and his knights went to war.

“What does it mean?” Braithe whispered. The boatman brought the boat up to the dock with barely a bump. He leaped nimbly out, tied the rope to the bollard, and held his hand out to Morgana, then Braithe. He used both hands to support the Blackbird as the old man climbed out.

Morgana led the way with a strong step, up through the woods toward the farmer’s gate. The Blackbird trailed behind them. “I have waited too long,” Morgana said, her voice tight with tension. “She has already done it.”

“Do you mean Gwenvere?” Braithe panted.

“She has betrayed them. Betrayed them all. Even Lancelin.”

“But—but how?”

“All that is needed is a messenger dispatched to the Roman camp, bearing information about the king’s plans. Arthur would no doubt confide in her. And as you said, she has ways of persuading people to do her bidding, as if they can no longer tell right from wrong.”

“You should have pushed her off the courtine,” Braithe said grimly.

“I know. I could not bring myself to it.”

“What can we do now?”

“Seeing us—seeing me —will shock her. She must believe I am dead, or else she truly believes I am a witch. Either way, my turning up just now will terrify her. Like most bullies she has no real courage, and she will suspect I know what she is.”

As they reached the farmer’s gate, Braithe asked, “Do you have a plan, Priestess?”

“Not much of one. I suppose I will have to try reason.”

“I will not return to her service.”

“No.” Morgana spoke their names to the guard, and the gate swung open. “You are no longer her companion or her servant, but having been those things, you know everything about her. You must take care. She will fear you, too, and that is dangerous.”

Braithe glanced back at the Blackbird, hobbling behind them as they moved through the narrow gate. “And the Blackbird?” she asked softly.

“Oh, yes. Everyone fears the Blackbird.”

Word quickly spread that the Blackbird, the priestess, and the priestess’s handmaid had returned.

Bran hastily assembled a greeting party that gathered on the step just below the lesser hall.

Marcus was there, looming above the kitchen maids.

He bowed to Morgana and the Blackbird as if they were the king and queen, and the maids waved shyly at Braithe.

There was a grim air about the castle that made Morgana’s neck prickle. Bran stood stiffly, pushing at his gray hair with his fingers, uncertain of his duties in this matter. Morgana could guess Gwenvere would not be happy with the steward if he offered them hospitality.

After a moment of consternation, it seemed Bran made his decision. He stopped ruffling his hair and said, as if it were any other visit, “Priestess Morgana, will you require the same apartment?”

She said, “I would appreciate it.”

He turned to the Blackbird. “Sir? Your room has been shut up all this winter. If you can wait a bit, I will have it aired.”

The Blackbird grunted assent.

Bran turned to Braithe and hesitated. Her position in the household had always confounded him. “Braithe,” he began. “I am so sorry, but—”

She flashed her dimples at him. “A pallet in Priestess Morgana’s apartment will serve me well.”

He gave her a grateful nod. “I will arrange it.” He glanced around, rubbing his hands together. “Well, there are a few things that will need to be done. Perhaps you would like to have something to drink while we—”

“No, thank you, Bran.” Morgana thought it best to go straight to it. Delay would not make it easier. “While you make your arrangements, we will call on the queen.”

Bran began ruffling his hair again. The maids glanced uneasily at each other. Tension emanated from the staff, making Braithe sidle closer to Morgana. Even the Blackbird felt it, straightening his back and scowling at everyone and everything.

Bran led the way to the staircase that would take them up to the royal chambers.

The air grew darker as they climbed higher, though spring sunshine glimmered on the floorboards and warmed the stone walls.

Morgana had seen such a thing in the Temple when one of the priestesses was ill.

This, she supposed, was due to Gwenvere’s evil temper. All of Camulod would be affected.

The door to the council chamber was shut, as was the door to the king’s bedchamber, but the queen’s apartment door stood open. At the sound of their approach, the maid Loria peered out of the doorway. With a little gasp, she quickly withdrew back into the room.

The Blackbird hung back to let Morgana and Braithe lead the way into the apartment. They found Gwenvere standing in the center of the room, but she took an involuntary step back when she saw Morgana. “You!” she whispered. Her cheeks reddened and then paled.

“I,” Morgana said dryly.

“But you fell,” Gwenvere blurted. “I saw you!”

“I was pushed,” said Morgana. “As you know better than anyone.”

Gwenvere’s hands came up to her temples. She took another step backward, as if to deny what her eyes were telling her. Her voice was thin and uncertain. “It was a great height, yet—yet you are alive.”

“As you see.” Morgana did nothing to moderate the edge in her voice. The sight of Gwenvere in her Roman gown and the coronet she did not deserve ignited a fire in Morgana’s breast that made her long to wield the Blackbird’s staff. She gripped her sigil with both hands, seeking self-control.

“How can that be?” Gwenvere quavered. “That you are—that you still—”

“I am not so easily defeated, Gwenvere,” Morgana said, deliberately leaving out her title. “You misjudged me.”

Gwenvere straightened, lifting her chin, obviously trying to gain command of the situation. Her voice was still strained, but stronger. “Witchcraft, isn’t it? That’s what saved you? Witchcraft!”

“Perhaps witchcraft is why I know what you have done. What you are.”

The color in Gwenvere’s cheeks rose and fell like the flame of a candle. Her eyes began to glitter green fire, but she tried to speak in her little-girl voice. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh, you do,” Morgana answered. “You most certainly do.” She moved forward into the room, forcing Gwenvere to take another step back. The window behind her was open, and Morgana saw Gwenvere’s eyes slide toward it.

“Are you afraid I will push you after all?”

“I am not afraid of you,” Gwenvere said, but the tremor in her voice belied her words.

“You should be,” Morgana said. “You should fear me. I am sworn to protect the king, and I know that you have betrayed him in every way possible.”

“You lie!” Gwenvere suddenly sprang forward, shoving herself between Morgana and Braithe as she ran to the door. “Bran!” she shrilled. “Bran! Come here!”

It took the steward some time to obey. When he finally did, he stood silently, stoically, in the doorway, his hands hanging empty beside him. Behind him, the Blackbird leaned against a wall, his chin tucked, his hat brim drooping.

“Get them out!” Gwenvere snapped, pointing at Morgana and Braithe. “I want them out of the castle!”

Morgana inclined her head to Bran, and he nodded in return, then drew himself up. He lifted his chin, but he didn’t move.

Gwenvere screeched, little-girl voice abandoned, “Bran! You idiot old man, have you lost your hearing?”

He answered in a steady voice. “I heard you, my lady, but I could never turn away one of the Nine.”

She swiveled to Loria and spat, “Get someone who will follow my orders. Go down to the gate, get one of the guards. Or get Marcus!”

Morgana nodded to Loria, too. The maid wrapped her arms around herself, and anxious perspiration broke out on her forehead.

Morgana made one small gesture, extending a hand, palm out.

Loria still trembled, but she held her ground beside the washstand.

One of the other maids, older and more frail, huddled in a corner, doing her best to be invisible.

“Have you all lost your minds?” Gwenvere shrieked. Her body began to shake with temper. “Have you forgotten who I am?” she demanded, glaring around at them, fists on her hips. “The king will hear about this!”

“He will indeed,” Morgana said. “He will hear all of it, Gwenvere. He will know about your dalliance with Lancelin, which will break his heart. He will know about your attempt to kill me, which will shock him. And—” Her voice dropped to its lowest pitch.

“And he will learn how you betrayed him to the Romans.”

“He won’t believe you!”

“Why should he not believe me?” Morgana asked. “You accuse me of witchcraft, yet you have convinced a king, your husband, not to believe anything said against you.”

“Arthur loves me.”

“Does he? Or did you magick him?”

The flush faded instantly from Gwenvere’s cheeks. “How dare you! Witch-priestess! You—you—”

Gwenvere was possessed of a prodigious temper, as Morgana knew, but it was something the Blackbird had not yet witnessed.

Her eyes narrowed, and her chest heaved.

Her nostrils flared, and she made claws of her fingers.

It was like seeing a fire in the woods in summer, small at first, a flicker, flaring into a raging inferno in seconds.

The maids were familiar with this firestorm.

Both scurried to the far end of the room, their hands over their mouths.

Bran also had experience of it, and though he didn’t move, he gripped the doorframe with one hand as if it could protect him.

Braithe had seen this conflagration before, and she stepped up beside Morgana as if, between the two of them, they could protect the others.

The last fragments of Gwenvere’s self-control were consumed by the flames of her fury. She seized a pottery pitcher from the washstand and threw it so hard her face distorted with the effort.

Her aim was unnaturally sharp. The pitcher flew toward Morgana’s head as surely as if it had been a stone, expertly directed.

Braithe sucked in a breath, but Morgana’s right hand was already up, palm out, fingers stretched. The pitcher stopped in midair as if it had struck a wall. It spun end over end, then fell to the floor, breaking into a dozen jagged pieces.

Gwenvere was undeterred. Swiftly, she bent to snatch up one of the shards. She bared her teeth, gripping the sharp fragment of pottery like a crude knife in her fist, and lunged toward Morgana. Braithe cried out. Even Loria stumbled toward the queen, her hands out as if she could stop her.

There was no time for Morgana to consider.

It was not a moment for restraint. Instinctively, energy surged through her as if she had caught a lightning bolt.

It flashed up from her belly and into her breast. It drove along her arm and out through her raised hand, a pulse of pure, irresistible power, as if she had thrown a spear.

It found its target, striking Gwenvere directly in the center of her chest. Arthur’s traitorous queen dropped the shard of pottery as she went instantly, deathly silent, and collapsed into a nerveless heap.