Page 74 of The Faerie Morgana

“But there’s Preela and Iffa,” Braithe said impatiently.

“They will try to remove you from the Nine. They already think you should not be one of them.” She stood back to survey her work.

Deciding it was done, she brushed her hands briskly together.

“Now, Priestess, you should rest. If you ring your bell, I will come to braid your hair and help you dress.”

Morgana chuckled, and Braithe turned to stare at her. Morgana rarely laughed, and at this moment, with the problem of Dafne hanging over them, Braithe couldn’t think what was funny.

“I am sorry, brat,” Morgana said, sobering. “Sometimes I think you are wiser than I am. You think about food, sleep, and clothes, while my mind rambles through less practical fields.”

Braithe smiled, feeling slightly maternal, which she liked. “I’m glad to be useful. Do you find it strange to be back, after our absence?”

Morgana sat on the edge of her bed, stroking the coverlet with her long fingers.

“I had no desire to leave the Isle in the first place,” she said.

“But I could not refuse Arthur, or the Blackbird. I longed to come back, and I am glad to be here.” She lifted her hand and let it fall idle in her lap. “Yet, oddly, I feel out of place.”

Braithe linked her fingers before her as she recited:

The skylark flies far from her nest

And finds it changed when she returns.

The nestlings think it is she who has changed.

The pieces no longer fit together.

Morgana breathed a thoughtful sigh. “Before all of this happened, I would have misunderstood that stanza.”

“I think you will write new stanzas, Priestess. In the long life that lies ahead of you, the acolytes will recite your words.”

“Perhaps,” Morgana said. “Perhaps that will happen.”

“Don’t think about it now. Rest,” Braithe said. Morgana nodded, but she didn’t move. “Something still troubles you,” Braithe prompted.

“Everything troubles me,” Morgana admitted. “But I worry about Lancelin especially. Prince Mordred—King Mordred as he will be—needs his courage and experience. And his humility.”

“You will scry to find him,” Braithe said. “But not today.”

Morgana sighed again, wearily this time, and gave in.

She lay back on her pillow, her hands folded on her chest in what Braithe thought must be an unconscious imitation of her last glimpse of Arthur.

Morgana had not spoken about it, but her attitude in repose revealed her feelings, and Braithe shared them.

Braithe waited at the door until she saw Morgana’s eyes close. When her breathing slowed and steadied, she crept out of the room, closing the door behind her as quietly as she could.

Braithe was walking toward her own room when Priestess Joslyn intercepted her.

“Braithe,” she said. “Can you tell me the news? Everyone is asking.”

Braithe paused, though she longed for her bed.

Priestess Joslyn had always been kind to her, and though Joslyn was young and timid, she had developed a surprisingly fine reputation for her work with the supplicants.

She was as popular among those who came seeking help as was Olfreth, who had such deep sight. Only Morgana was more in demand.

“You have all heard about the king,” Braithe said.

“Yes, and we mourn him. We will have a ceremony when Priestess Morgana is ready.” Joslyn stepped a little closer. “You may think this is trivial, but we are all wondering what will become of Queen Gwenvere now. So young to be widowed, and they say she is a great beauty.”

Beautiful as a shining snake is beautiful , Braithe thought.

Even now, remembering the aura of evil surrounding Gwenvere, she shuddered.

As the widow of the slain king, Gwenvere could still be a power in Lloegyr, and a danger, but she could not tell Priestess Joslyn that.

She said, “She was very ill for a time.”

“Grief, I suppose?”

Braithe hesitated. She had no wish to lie to Joslyn, or to anyone, about who Gwenvere truly was, but neither could she bring herself to tarnish Arthur’s memory by repeating the story of his queen’s betrayal.

She said only, “I think she may have gone home to her family while we were caring for King Arthur.”

“Ah. The poor lady.”

To this Braithe had no reply. Joslyn diffidently touched her arm. “You look exhausted, Braithe. You should sleep a bit. If you like, I will listen for Priestess Morgana’s bell.”

It was Joslyn’s typical kindness, and it made Braithe’s eyes sting. She managed a shaky smile of thanks as she went into her room.

She threw off her clothes and lay down on her bed, though it had no sheets and only a linen coverlet. She plumped her pillow and turned on her side, hungry for sleep. Longing to forget, if only for a while.

But she couldn’t rest. It wasn’t only her sorrow that kept her wakeful.

Thoughts tumbled through her mind, making her hands clench.

Joslyn, though well-meaning, had brought up Gwenvere, and there was no one who knew better how dangerous she could be than Braithe herself.

Lancelin had repented of his connection with her and its cost to his liege.

But with Arthur gone, would he change his mind?

He was a powerful man, with deep influence in Camulod, and in Lloegyr.

He had taken Gwenvere away, as Morgana had asked, but Braithe worried that Gwenvere might recover and wield her particular magic once again.

That magic could twist the mind of even the bravest man.

After a time, Braithe gave up trying to sleep.

She rose and, still in her camisole, poured water from the waiting ewer into the washbowl.

It was foolish, perhaps, as the instances in which magic had responded to her were rare, even unpredictable.

But at this moment, she suffered such a craving for reassurance that she meant to try.

She bent over the basin, waiting for the swirling water to clear. When it did, sparkling faintly in the smooth gray stone of the washbasin, she watched it for a moment, her lips a little apart, her heart lifting.

When she was done, she returned to her bed, slipped under the coverlet, and instantly fell sound asleep.