Page 73 of The Faerie Morgana

The voyage to the Isle of Apples was slower and gentler than the trip to fae country had been.

Morgana and Braithe floated through the darkness in silence, nodding sleepily as the Lady’s magic propelled them.

They drifted smoothly through the circle of mist and reached the familiar little beach and the ancient dock just as the sun rose to gleam on the waters of Ilyn and pick out the tiny wildflowers blooming here and there along the shore.

To Morgana’s surprise, Niamh was waiting for them in the fragile early-morning light.

She stood with her hands clasped before her, her gray braids falling over her shoulders.

She lifted her head as they climbed out of the boat, and her black eyes, usually sharp, glittering with temper, were softer, weary and accepting.

“Priestess,” Morgana said, bowing her head to her elder. “We are home.” She carried the great sword in her two hands.

Niamh raised a gray eyebrow at the sight of it but made no comment. She said only, “The Isle is glad to see you back, Priestess Morgana.” She nodded to Braithe. “And you, Braithe. We have heard the sad news from Camulod.”

A fresh upsurge of grief pierced Morgana’s breast. “A tragedy for Lloegyr.”

Niamh inclined her head in agreement, then gestured up the slope, leading the way with stiff, short steps through the herb garden toward the residence. “Dafne has prepared an early breakfast for you both. I will sit with you, if I may, and hear your account.”

“Of course,” Morgana said.

“Kind of you and Dafne,” Braithe offered. “Priestess Morgana needs rest, also. Which I shall see to,” she added, with an air of asperity.

Niamh made a sound that might have been a chuckle, or it might have been critical of the handmaid giving orders, but she pressed on.

They passed two acolytes with trowels and buckets, coming down to work in the herb garden, but otherwise saw no one.

The dormitory was nearly silent, and the residence completely so.

Niamh led them to the kitchen, where Dafne waited with cups of cider and a simmering pot of porridge.

Fresh hen’s eggs, boiled and peeled, filled a small bowl, and a loaf of bread lay on a board with a knife and a dish of butter.

Despite her fatigue, Morgana’s mouth watered at the sight of all of it. It was very good to be home.

Not until they had each eaten a bowl of porridge and a salted egg did Niamh speak again. “I gather, Priestess Morgana,” she said in her creaking voice, “that you have been to fae country.”

“In a way,” Morgana said. She put her spoon down and folded her arms, remembering the fog that covered the shore of fae country, and how the fae themselves seemed to emerge from it as if they were created by the mist. “We docked on their shore, and they were waiting for us. They took the king’s body and promised to watch over it, but we were not invited to follow them. ”

“Probably best,” Niamh said.

Braithe started, and turned to her. “Why, Priestess?”

“The Lady had good reason to banish the fae from Lloegyr. They can be capricious and cruel. They think of us as weak, short-lived. More like pets than people.”

Morgana saw Dafne turn to give Niamh a look that blazed with some unspoken emotion. She picked up her cup, wondering what that was about.

She let Niamh’s remark go unanswered. The Temple had no idea that she was fae, and she saw no point in telling them. They found enough reasons to resent her without knowing her true nature.

“And so,” Niamh said. “Will you return to Camulod?”

“No,” Morgana said. “I am no longer needed there.”

“And the Blackbird?”

“He has pledged to stay and support the new king. The boy king.”

“And you?”

“I,” Morgana said, her voice going very deep, “will replace the great sword in the stone, to await the coming of the next true king.”

“Ah,” Niamh sighed. “How sad that neither of us will live to see it.”

Morgana busied herself cutting a slice of cheese so she didn’t have to respond.

When their breakfast was over, Niamh went out to speak to the other priestesses about Morgana’s return, and to ask Olfreth to rearrange the Temple schedule to include her.

Morgana and Braithe rose from the table, ready to make their way to Morgana’s room.

Braithe went ahead to see to bedding and towels and a basin of wash water.

Morgana, burdened by the heavy sword, moved more slowly toward the door.

She stopped when she found Dafne—silent, swift, efficient Dafne—standing in her way. The older woman’s thin face was drawn, and her lips worked as if she were trying to speak. “Dafne,” Morgana said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Dafne pointed to her throat with one shaking finger and mouthed in a hoarse, voiceless whisper, “Give it back.”

Morgana, still burdened by the sword, led Dafne to the inner room.

It was empty at this hour, all the priestesses engaged elsewhere.

Morgana laid the sword gently on the floor before she took her chair and looked across the low table at Dafne.

“Dafne, the only way I will know what it is you want, or why you believe I am able to give it to you, is to scry. Do I have your permission to do that? Or are there secrets you would rather keep?”

Dafne shook her head. She pointed to the divination tools lying in wait on the table, then to Morgana.

“Very well. Make yourself comfortable while I begin.”

Dafne tugged forward the chair kept for the Blackbird, with its worn cushion.

She set it opposite the table and settled herself in it as Morgana drew a cup of stones and the saucer used to burn herbs close to her hand.

She flicked a candle to life, then spilled some of the waiting herbs, thyme and rosemary and sage, into the saucer.

She tipped the candle flame to touch them and watched the fragrant smoke rise in gentle curls.

She knew the rumors about Dafne but had never pried into the woman’s history.

This was a curious moment, rather like meeting a supplicant in the anteroom, but with the shared history between the two of them, there was something intimate about it.

Dafne was not a supplicant, nor was she a stranger.

She had more or less given Morgana a command, and Morgana wanted very much to understand.

She waited for the ashes to cool in their saucer, then stirred them with her forefinger.

As was her wont, she drew a contemplative breath, then exhaled slowly through pursed lips as she gazed into the ashes and waited for an image to come into her mind.

When it did, she drew a sharper breath of recognition.

It was fae country, where she had so recently, and so briefly, visited.

There were the sparkling lights, glowing through the drifting fog.

There were the tall buildings, indistinct in the mist, and there—almost invisible in their gray robes—were the fae, moving here and there.

As she watched, her fingers pressed together in wonder, one of them turned and gazed at her.

She had no idea if it was a woman or a man, but whoever it was clearly felt her presence.

The image faded as the ashes cooled, and Morgana leaned back in her carved chair.

She could almost have forgotten Dafne’s presence in this moment of communion with one of her own kind, friendly or not.

She felt a strange yearning toward those tall figures, toward the misty cityscape with its twinkling lights.

In the White City she would not be an outcast, separate, isolated.

There she might meet others as equals. There she might…

She blinked and gave her head a small shake. Her future did not lie in fae country. It lay here, in the Lady’s Temple. She felt Dafne’s hopeful gaze. “You were in fae country, Dafne?”

Dafne nodded.

“You did not go willingly, I assume.”

She shook her head.

“Then, you were abducted?”

Another nod, and a pinching of Dafne’s lips, from either anger or grief, it was difficult to tell.

“I need a moment more,” Morgana said. She leaned forward again to take up the cup of stones and spill them across the table.

She scanned them, scooped them up, and spilled them again.

The repetition was not really necessary, although it was always good to add perspective. She knew now what had happened.

“The fae took your voice.”

A nod.

“They took your voice and gave it to one of their own who had none.”

Another nod.

“And you think I can give it back to you because—because you recognize me,” Morgana said. “You know what I am, because you lived among my kind.”

Slowly, slowly, Dafne nodded again. Her gaze fixed on Morgana’s, and Morgana had no doubt they understood each other.

“I would prefer no one else knows,” Morgana said. “Fitting in has always been a problem for me, and if everyone on the Isle knows I am fae—”

Dafne put up a hand, and Morgana stopped speaking. Then, with a deliberate gesture, Dafne pressed her fingers to her lips, the universal sign for silence. It was a promise.

Morgana bent her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Dafne. I will do all that I can.”

“So it’s true,” Braithe said. She was busy making up Morgana’s bed, setting out a fresh robe. She placed a folded towel next to the washbasin and faced the priestess with her hands on her hips.

“The rumors, yes. More or less true.”

Braithe spoke as firmly as she could. “You can’t give her what she wants, Priestess.”

“And why may I not do that, brat?”

“Because she will reveal your secret.”

“I think not. I believe she will keep it, as you do.”

“You can’t take the chance,” Braithe said brusquely. She turned back to her work, bending to find an untouched dish of soap under the washstand to set on the towel. “They are already envious, waiting to pounce on any mistake you might make.”

“Not all of them,” Morgana said mildly. “There’s Joslyn and Olfreth.”