Page 71 of The Faerie Morgana

Morgana left Braithe and Loria to prepare Arthur’s body.

She went to the council room for the great sword and was just taking it from its pedestal when she realized she was not alone.

She heard the half-stifled sob of a heartbroken boy and turned to find Mordred huddled in a corner, his head on his knees, his hands over his head.

Morgana laid the sword on the table and crossed the room to crouch before the boy. “My lord? Can I help you in some way?”

He lowered his hands, but slowly, as he struggled for control.

He had grown quickly in the past year, legs too long for his body, hands and feet seeming to belong to a bigger person.

Morgana thought he must be fourteen now, or fifteen.

He would be tall soon, his chest and his shoulders filling out to match the rest of him.

For now, he was still mostly a boy with a tearstained face and quivering beardless chin.

He raised his wet-lashed eyes to hers. They were black as night, shining with tears.

She thought he might one day be a handsome man, not that it mattered.

He said tremulously, “Priestess, I don’t want to be king.

” Grief was written in every line of his face and body.

“Arthur is the rightful king, and I—I just want him back!” A fresh sob broke from his throat, and he dropped his face again in humiliation.

Morgana settled to her knees. In a strange way, Mordred’s raw grief was a relief to witness.

She could not give in to tears, although she imagined they might ease the aching of her heart.

She stayed where she was, neither speaking to nor touching the prince but not wanting him to be alone.

Who was there to comfort a boy who had just become king against his inclinations, who had seen his boyhood vanish in a stroke?

She was not acquainted with his teachers or his swordmaster, but she hoped they were kind. They were all he had left.

Braithe found her there, now sitting cross-legged on the floor, her eyes closed and her head resting against the wall.

The prince sat next to her. His tears had dried, leaving his eyes glazed and empty.

The morning sunshine glowed beyond the window with a gaiety that mocked their sorrow.

No birds sang. No cattle lowed or goats bleated.

No children laughed or cried. The unnatural silence of sorrow gripped the castle.

Braithe touched Morgana’s shoulder. “He’s ready, Priestess.”

Morgana opened her eyes as she straightened, and her sigh of acceptance came from deep in her body. She turned to Mordred. “My lord. You will want to come and say goodbye.”

She got to her feet, turning to the prince to wait for him. He stared up at her, awareness beginning to return to his face. He said, in the voice of an older man, “Yes, of course, Priestess. Thank you.” It was as if he had grown up overnight.

Braithe led the way to the king’s bedchamber. Loria smoothed the blanket beneath Arthur’s body one more time and stood back. The Blackbird was at the foot of the bed, his head bowed, his face invisible.

Braithe heard Mordred draw a steadying breath, then watched as he stepped to his brother’s side. He put a hand on Arthur’s arm. Braithe knew it had already gone cold, but Mordred didn’t flinch from the sensation. He had found strength in himself.

He spoke as if Arthur could hear him. “You were a good brother, sir. You were an even better king. I am not the man you were, but I vow to you I will do my best.”

Braithe glanced up at Morgana, whose face was impassive but whose eyes glinted gold with emotion.

Mordred lifted his hand and stepped back from the bed. He addressed his words to the Blackbird. “I beg you will remain in Camulod, sir. To advise me.”

The Blackbird lifted his head. “Of course, my lord. As you wish it.”

Mordred turned to Morgana. “I suppose I must arrange the funeral pyre.”

“No, my lord. That will not be necessary. There will be no pyre for King Arthur. The Lady has other plans.”

Braithe shot her a glance of surprise, but Morgana’s face told her nothing. The Blackbird, however, nodded. “The priestess will need a boat, my lord, and two men to carry the king to the dock.”

Mordred absorbed this, gazing down at his brother’s pale face. He said, “And a boatman?”

“No,” Braithe heard herself say, although she hadn’t thought it through. “No, my lord, we need no boatman. I will row.”

He blinked at her. “Can you do that?”

“I can,” she said firmly. And if I cannot , she thought, the Lady will guide us .

The Blackbird asked Morgana, before the two servingmen prepared to carry Arthur’s body down to the dock, if she thought a period of public mourning might have been preferable.

She gave him a bleak look. “Perhaps,” she said, her voice and face imbued with a deep weariness that would take years to erase. “But I have been told this is what the Lady commands.”

“Told? Told by whom?”

She didn’t answer, but he saw the flicker of a hawk’s wings passing the window, and he could guess.

Morgana had grown more fae through the years, he supposed.

It seemed she learned as much in communion with the beasts and birds as she ever had under his tutelage.

Her eyes were golden nearly all the time now, overcoming the rich brown of her childhood.

She had grown leaner than ever, which made her look dramatically tall.

It was hard to remember, but he didn’t think he had ever approached her height, even in his youth.

“Where are you taking him, Morgana?” he asked.

“There’s an ancient temple, built by the priests of old. He will rest there, and the fae will watch over him.”

“How do you know that?”

“I went there, two days ago, when I knew I could not save him.”

“You went there?” The Blackbird’s breath came suddenly short. “But I have not yet told you about the temple.”

She flashed him her golden gaze. “No.”

“Then how—”

“I saw the temple in the blade of the great sword when the sun shone in it.” He saw that she had taken the great sword from its pedestal.

It was in its leather scabbard, and its point rested on the floor with its heavy hilt braced between her two hands.

“The vision was perfect in every detail, as I learned when I traveled to the White City.”

“I suppose you changed your shape.”

“I traveled as an owl. I have done that before.” She rubbed her arms as if remembering what it felt like.

“And I saw them. The fae. Not many of my people left, I suppose, but still there, tall women, a few men, most with silver hair.” A faint, sad smile touched her narrow lips.

“They recognized me,” she said, her voice soft with melancholy. “They knew.”

“They have been waiting for you for a very long time.”

“Could I not have visited before?”

“Again, my dear Morgana, I wanted to wait until your maturity, but I have come to accept that we don’t have control over some events. You are still young, but your wisdom belongs to the ages.”

“I believe I am—what?—twenty-four, perhaps? Twenty-six? I don’t keep track.”

“Whatever the precise number, I have no doubt you will live many times that.”

Morgana tilted her head so that the high sun caught her silver braids and made them flash as if she wore a circlet of light. “And you, sir? How old are you?”

The Blackbird laughed, the dry, unresonant laugh of a very old man. “I lost count of the years long ago, Priestess. You will do the same.”

“Is that a blessing, or a curse?”

“Outliving those you love is painful.”

“But others come along.”

“They do.” He sighed and let his chin drop. “But they can never replace the ones who came before.”