Page 72 of The Faerie Morgana

Mordred accompanied his brother’s body as it was borne down the stairs of the west tower and through the keep.

The prince held himself very straight, his face rigid, showing nothing of his grief and his fear.

Morgana, pacing on the other side of the bier, nodded approval of his bearing and his courage.

She sensed his anxiety and wished she could reassure him.

The Blackbird would be at his side, which would help, but he would take the throne at a dangerous moment for Lloegyr, and there was no one to help him lead the fighting men.

If only Lancelin… But Sir Lancelin had disappeared, as had Gwenvere. There were wicked whispers that they had run away together, but Morgana knew better. Lancelin’s regret had been real. And Gwenvere’s days of enchanting men were over.

Was she dead? Morgana didn’t know, nor did she care. All that mattered was that Gwenvere was gone from Camulod, to spread her poisons no more.

The bearers walked slowly, as Mordred had ordered, to allow the mourning people of Camulod to say farewell to their king.

Braithe and Loria had dressed his body simply, as he would have preferred, in a dark blue tunic and pale leggings, his hair brushed away from his face and held by his silver coronet.

Morgana had laid the great sword upon his chest and curled his fingers around the hilt.

He was beautiful, even in death, even without the sparkle of his sky-blue eyes, the sweet curve of his smile.

Maids and ladies openly wept. Knights and their lackeys were stone-faced, but their eyelids were heavy with sorrow, and there were many inadvertent sobs.

Bran, deprived of the formality of a funeral, had nevertheless set out tables laden with cider and ale and the traditional bitter bread.

Morgana approved all of this, and the Blackbird, though he hid behind the brim of his hat, walked behind Mordred in support.

He leaned on his staff, but the pace was an easy one, and Morgana sensed how the energy of his presence surrounded Mordred.

The Blackbird could not rule for the boy, but he could strengthen him.

As the procession passed through the main gate, the knights of the council knelt, their fists to their chests. Morgana had held her composure until this moment, but the gesture filled her breast with such a great grief she was afraid she would weep like one of the kitchen maids.

Braithe, walking behind her, whispered, “Just a little farther, Priestess. A little farther.”

Morgana silently blessed her, and remembered what the Blackbird had said. Outliving those you love is painful. Braithe was her little sister, her handmaiden. Her friend. She couldn’t bear to think of a world without her.

They left the castle behind and made their slow progress down through the woods toward the lake.

People followed, creating a procession just as they might have done for a funeral pyre.

When they reached the dock, the bier was lowered gently into the waiting boat.

The boat was draped with Arthur’s flags, blue with the black crest. Their edges trailed in the water, rippling on its surface as they had once rippled in the wind.

Morgana stepped into the prow at the head of the bier. Braithe sat behind it, settling herself on the bench seat, and shipped the oars.

No one spoke as the boat slipped away across the sun-dappled waters of late afternoon.

Morgana glanced back to see Arthur’s subjects standing in rows along the shore, shading their eyes against the slanting light for their last glimpse of the king.

She raised a hand in farewell, thinking she might never see any of them again, and then she turned forward to watch their progress.

Braithe’s rowing had improved enough that Morgana wondered if she had been practicing. Seemingly without effort, she propelled the boat steadily away from Camulod and out into the center of the lake.

Braithe did not know their destination, and Morgana had seen it only with owl’s eyes, but it didn’t matter.

When they were well out from shore, they felt the familiar power surge beneath the boat.

Braithe lifted the dripping oars and rested them on their locks as the boat sped forward.

It wasn’t long before the mist that surrounded the Isle of Apples rose before them, but the boat kept beyond its boundary, sweeping to the right and then bending to the left in a long semicircle.

Several times Morgana looked down at Arthur’s still form, his pale face glowing faintly in the waning daylight.

It hardly seemed possible he would not open his eyes, look up at her, ask her with his sweet smile where they were going.

She wondered that the intensity of her grief, the piercing physical power of it, did not wake him.

Surely such a force of energy should recall him to his body, revive the beat of his heart and the thrum of blood in his veins.

She felt an overwhelming desire to lean down and place a kiss on his icy cheek, but she refrained.

She had never kissed her half brother—indeed, she had never kissed anyone since being taken from her foster mother—and Braithe would wonder at it.

She couldn’t have explained the impulse.

She didn’t completely understand it herself.

It was something vague, something about last chances and the bitter finality of this farewell.

The boat with its tragic burden moved far faster than any boatman could have propelled it. The mist-filled night was only half gone when it slowed and turned, pulling to the left. Braithe gave a tiny gasp, then whispered, her voice hushed with wonder, “Priestess! Do you see?”

“Oh, yes,” Morgana said. “I see.”

The temple of the fae was alive with small, flickering lights that lifted and fell and swooped this way and that, like rebel stars come to earth.

They glittered through the blanket of mist, giving just enough light to illumine the shore.

As the boat drifted toward the land, four figures appeared out of the starlit fog and paced down the little hill toward the dock.

“Priestess!” Braithe exclaimed. “They look just like you!”

“I know.”

“They will not like me coming here,” Braithe said, and Morgana heard the tremor of fear in her voice. “They might—they could—”

“We won’t be going ashore,” Morgana told her. “They are coming for Arthur’s body. They won’t trouble about you.”

“But now I know where their temple is, and they…”

“You could never find it again unless you were invited.”

The boat bumped gently against the dock, and Morgana climbed out to secure it to the bollard. When the rope was secure, she stood waiting.

The tallest of the four women moved ahead of the others as the little group came to a halt. She spoke in a voice even deeper than Morgana’s. “Is this the true king?”

“It is, sister.”

“And you are the Lady’s daughter?”

“So I am told.”

One of the other fae spat in the sand. The first one didn’t look back, but she held up one long-fingered hand. “The Blackbird says this is so, sister. We will not argue.” She lifted her chin in Morgana’s direction. “Why do you bring Arthur to us?”

“The Lady inspired me.”

The woman who had spat said, “The Lady you claim is your mother?”

Morgana gave her a steady look. “Have I said so?”

“This doesn’t matter,” the first one said. “All that matters is that you have entrusted the body of the true king to our temple. We will keep it safe from curious eyes.”

“I must take the sword to the Isle of Apples, though,” Morgana warned.

“For what purpose?”

“To await the next true king.”

“And when will that man come?”

“No one knows.”

The testy one said, “And if it’s a woman?”

“Then,” Morgana said evenly, “she will be the true queen, and I will serve her with all my heart.”

Braithe trembled with awe as she watched this exchange.

All the tales of the fae she had heard in her childhood came rushing back at the sight of these terrifying creatures.

Their robes were as gray as the fog, making their harsh faces and waist-length hair loom out of the mist like phantoms. They swayed as they walked, and their eyes glittered, catlike, shining with power and malice.

They were the demons that parents warned their children would come for them if they didn’t behave.

She told herself Morgana would protect her, would not allow them to enslave her or trade her for something they wanted, but she could believe that these women—if they could be called that—would not hesitate to use one frightened girl for their secret rituals, sacrifice, debauchery, or simply entertainment.

The tallest faerie left the others behind, standing in pools of mist that swirled about their knees. She stepped up to Morgana and peered into her face. Braithe shrank back, wishing she could disappear.

“You look like her,” the faerie said.

“The Blackbird says this, too.”

“Is he well, our mage?”

“Well enough. Greatly aged, but sometimes he sheds his age as if it were nothing but a disguise.”

“Yes. I have seen this.” The faerie looked past Morgana at the body of Arthur, lying as if carved of granite in the center of the boat. “I suppose there was no saving him.”

“I did all I could.”

“No doubt.” The faerie raised a hand to her sisters on the shore. They came down the slope, sinister shapes of gray and silver, and bent to lift the bier between them. Morgana stepped between them to take the sword from Arthur’s hands and set it point down beside her.

The faerie said, “The youngster will be king, then.”

“He will.”

“His reign will be brief.”

Morgana inclined her head in acceptance of the prophecy, but Braithe felt a thread of anger pierce her fear.

It wasn’t fair to Mordred to decide his fate before he had even taken his crown!

She drew breath to protest, but Morgana gave her a slight shake of the head.

Obediently, Braithe kept her own counsel as the fae carried Arthur—her first, her only love—along the dock and up the slope into the mist. It was her turn to fight tears.

She turned away to hide them, not watching for the last glimpse of the king.

There were no farewells, no well-wishing that she heard. In only moments Morgana climbed back into the boat, and Braithe shipped the oars and began to row. She glanced back just once, as the boat curved away into the lake, but the four faeries had disappeared.