Page 76 of The Faerie Morgana
Morgana surveyed the inner chamber with a critical eye. Every detail had to be right. Everything she would need had to be laid out near to her hand. Once the ritual began, there must be no interruptions.
“Have I missed anything?” Braithe asked.
“No.” Morgana knew she sounded brusque, but her mind was already hours ahead, focused on what must be done, rehearsing the steps in her mind.
She had conferred at length with the Blackbird, who vowed to add his power to hers.
Lancelin had offered himself as the central figure of the ritual, since he felt responsible for Gwenvere continuing to be a threat, but the Blackbird had forbidden it.
He, too, worried that the power they would command to effect this charm would be too much for someone unused to magic.
“We’re ready, then,” Braithe said.
Morgana made herself take a deep breath and release it slowly. “Yes. There is nothing further to do.”
She had thought several times in the past days that she must be feeling something like what Arthur’s war party felt as it prepared to go into battle, perhaps even how Arthur himself must have felt.
All her forces were mustered. Her weapons were ready.
The plan was laid, and the goal was set.
If they failed, if it all came to naught, the blame would fall on her, and rightly so.
This was her campaign. She was its leader.
She wondered if her enemy had any idea of what was coming.
As they gathered in the inner chamber of the Temple, the power of what they were going to do surrounded them even before they began.
Morgana knew the others felt it, and she was proud of her sister priestesses for their sensitivity, their willingness, and their courage.
She was proud of Niamh and Olfreth for convincing them.
Even Preela, often prickly and jealous, took her chair solemnly, her wizened features set in determined lines.
Niamh took her place with her chin up, clearly aware of the risk to them all of tapping into such great magic.
The rest of the Nine followed her example to the best of their various abilities, and all were seated and ready for the Blackbird to bring in Sir Lancelin.
Braithe stood beside Morgana’s chair, ready to aid her in whatever way she needed.
The low table was pulled close to Morgana’s knees.
It held three cups of divination stones, an assortment of candles of various sizes, bundles of the most fragrant herbs the garden had to offer, and the silver bowl sparkling with clear rainwater.
Next to it lay the tiny carved wand, its leaves and flowers glowing softly in the muted light.
Braithe had begun to tremble in anticipation of the magic to come, and despite the gravity of the moment, and the tension already building in her own blood and bones, Morgana permitted herself another moment of pride, just for her handmaid.
The fae should witness the courage of these ordinary humans. They would understand that my mother was right to choose Lloegyr.
Her mother had also chosen her. She gathered herself, palming the sigil at her breast, drawing in her power, girding herself with the need and the purpose of this moment.
When the Blackbird came into the chamber with a stony-faced Lancelin beside him, she was ready.
Dafne backed out of the door and closed it.
Braithe bent to light the candles with an ember carried in a pair of tongs.
Morgana bowed her head for a moment, letting her silence pervade the room.
When she looked up, she found the gazes of the Nine fixed on her, and she bowed to them all.
“There is nothing more to say, sisters. This is a great work we can only do together.” She felt the support of the Blackbird.
She sensed the wariness of Lancelin, the guilt and regret and the dangerous hope flaring in his heart.
She felt a quiver of anxiety in herself, but she thought of Mordred, of Loria and Bran and all the other faithful ones who made up the population of Camulod.
She thought of Gwenvere’s treachery and betrayal, and the lives it had cost, and she quelled her fear.
She was fae, but she was more than that.
She was human, too, because she had learned from the people around her how to be human.
Morgana closed her eyes for a moment, focusing her intention.
When she felt it begin to sing in her blood, she took up the mortar and pestle and began to crush the herbs into a paste.
The ritual was, in many ways, similar to the ceremony of choosing a new priestess, except that the weight of responsibility that lay on all of them was greater than any they had ever assumed.
She remembered the prophecy and knew that a great price would be paid for the magic done this night. There was no avoiding it.
She took her time grinding the vervain and lavender, the rosemary and thyme, the blackberry leaves and a single leaf of mistletoe.
When the paste was completely smooth, she scraped it into the beaker Braithe held out and covered it with sour wine.
She held it between her hands, gazing into the dark surface of the liquid until it grew warm between her fingers and began to bubble and steam.
Morgana took the first sip, ignoring the bitter taste, swallowing quickly. She passed the beaker to Niamh, who passed it on to Olfreth, then Preela, and all the rest of the Nine. When it came back to Morgana, she drained the last bit and set the beaker aside.
Even before she cast the stones, magic swirled through the chamber, as distinct a force as if a warm tide had risen from the stone floor.
She shook the first cup and spilled the stones across the smooth wood of the table, and the Nine left their chairs and came to the table to gaze down at the patterns of black and white.
No one spoke, but several of the priestesses drew startled breaths, and two—Olfreth and Joslyn—gave little moans.
Morgana understood. The power they were commanding was dark and dangerous.
Any with deep sight would be struck by it. Alarmed by it.
They repeated the ritual with the two remaining cups of stones, each approaching the table to bend above it and try to read the message.
By the time they were done, the candles had burned low and the water in the silver bowl sparkled with promise.
The magic was so thick in the chamber that it felt to Morgana as if she were breathing underwater.
A brief glance at her sisters, at the Blackbird, at Lancelin, told her that they all felt it.
Beside her, Braithe’s breathing seemed labored, and Morgana felt a spasm of fear for her handmaid.
She thrust it away as her fingers hovered over the bowl of water on the far side of the table.
The bowl slid toward her as if it had been waiting to be called, and close at her shoulder Braithe breathed a long sigh.
Morgana knew what she had to do. She had already accepted it, though it made her feel as if she were being split in two.
The same reluctance that had kept her from pushing Gwenvere from the courtine in the storm still dwelt in her spirit, despite everything.
The Blackbird had taught her that magic was a tool for healing and helping, not destroying.
But, as she had forced herself to accept, what she would do here, in this chamber, with her sisters beside her and her handmaid at her elbow, was for the good of Lloegyr.
It was for the healing of these people she cared for, despite knowing now she was not truly one of them.
For one wild moment, Morgana thought of changing her shape, right here in front of them all.
A sea eagle, perhaps, a creature that could fly away and do this deed without involving the servants of the Temple.
But what if she failed? What if the fae trapped her, and it was she who died and not Gwenvere?
That was too great a risk. If the fae were allowed to continue to persecute the humans of Lloegyr, it would mean the end of everything the Lady had worked for.
She hardened her heart and bent over the shimmering water to gaze into it until she found her enemy.
It was not difficult. Her instinct led her straight to the western demesne where Gwenvere, the changeling, the traitoress, had returned to her father’s house.
She stood on a balcony, a slender, dramatic figure with airy skirts billowing about her and her fair hair unbound, tresses lifting in the wind.
She sensed Morgana’s presence, and her head whipped around, searching.
Morgana picked up the tiny wand and cradled it in her hand. She drew a single deep, magic-soaked breath, and then she struck.
Braithe felt the blow in her own body, not as pain, but as a force that seemed to fill her chest and her belly and echo in her head.
It made her stagger and reach for something to steady herself.
The priestesses, those who were sensitive, groaned with the strength of it, and Joslyn pressed her fingers to her lips to stifle a cry.
They all knew what it meant. Morgana had explained it, and the Blackbird had given his solemn, sad approval.
This was the moment, and Braithe understood what it cost Morgana, in her conscience, in her gift, in her inherited power.
Morgana braced her hands on her knees as she glared into the silver bowl.
The waves of power that shook the room created flashes of light and shifting, frightening shadows.
Braithe would not have been surprised to see Morgana lift right from the floor.
A heartbeat later she felt as if she, too, would levitate.
The priestesses could no longer keep silent.
They hissed and groaned, even those with weak magic.
It was like being caught in a whirlpool, buffeting them this way and that, making heads ache and throats close.
Braithe thought she heard one or two of the priestesses choking, as if they were drowning.
Lancelin was on his feet, gripping the back of his chair and watching everything with a fierce intensity, fighting his own fear and discomfort although he had no magic at all.
The Blackbird slumped forward over his staff, his head dipped so low his hat brim touched his chest. Braithe was alarmed for him but too busy staying on her own feet to do anything to help.
Only Morgana seemed unaffected. Braithe steadied enough to watch her through the drifting curtain of her hair. She saw her jaw flex, her eyes narrow. Her shoulders quivered with her effort, and Braithe thought the end must be near.
She could only hope the end was for Gwenvere, and not Lloegyr.
The Blackbird peered into the silvery water, gripping his staff so hard his fingers hurt.
He saw the same thing Morgana did, although his vision was slippery and fractured, the image of Gwenvere coming in and out of focus.
He let his eyelids close as he poured his own strength into Morgana’s, and he felt her gratitude as she absorbed it.
He wondered at the strength of her power, even greater than her mother’s.
It was a terrible thing that each of them had been forced to confront the same enemy—not Gwenvere herself, the betrayer, but the fae.
For the Lady, having to fight her own kind had broken her, in the end.
The Blackbird could only hope Morgana was more resilient.
When Morgana made a sudden sound, a hoarse grunt that came from deep in her body, the Blackbird’s eyes flew open, and he saw it. He saw the act Morgana had been unable to bring herself to before, but now did for the good of these people.
Gwenvere clung to the railing of her balcony, fighting. Her hair flew in the wind of Morgana’s onslaught, and even in the uncertain reflection in the silver bowl, he could see that her eyes were wide with fury and terror.
She couldn’t hold on. Morgana, true fae, not changeling, was too strong for her. The wind of Morgana’s attack knocked Gwenvere from her feet and loosened her grasp on the railing of her balcony. She lifted into the air, twirling like a leaf before the wind, and sailed away from the tower.
She disappeared into the dimness of wind-whipped mists beyond, tumbling toward her doom.
The Blackbird exhaled a great breath. Braithe took a sobbing one as the thick magic began to subside in the chamber.
Morgana, exhausted, came to her knees, her hands to her temples. She stayed that way for a full minute before she raised her head and whispered, “Who was it, Braithe? Who did we lose?”