Page 77 of The Faerie Morgana

The Nine decided, without argument, not to fill poor little Joslyn’s chair until after the ceremony.

They mourned her for three days, but then Niamh declared it was time to resume their regular duties.

They had all been worried about Olfreth, who had also collapsed under the weight of the great magic, but she had managed to recover.

Joslyn, struck unconscious at the very moment their aim was achieved, slipped away before Morgana could try to help her.

It was tragic. Morgana grieved for Joslyn, but her grief was eased by relief that it was not Braithe.

Braithe’s magic was growing daily, though Morgana suspected her handmaid did not truly appreciate how much she had already acquired.

She had been worried that the power they had called upon to remove their enemy would prove too much for her, but she had not reckoned with the sturdy breeding of a country girl.

Braithe had been shaken, as they all were, but it was she who kept Olfreth from falling to the floor and saw her to her bed.

Lancelin had not seen what Morgana and the Blackbird had, what those with deep sight understood, but he did not question the account of it.

He prepared to leave for Camulod on the third day, anxious to convey the news to the boy king, to swear fealty to him, to guide him in rebuilding Lloegyr’s defenses.

Before departing, though, the knight sought out Morgana.

She barely recognized him when he appeared in the anteroom, a penitent in search of absolution.

He seemed to have aged a lifetime. Morgana was in the priestess’s chair, but no supplicants had been admitted, nor would they be until the final ceremony had taken place.

Lancelin knelt before her. “I could not leave without begging forgiveness, Priestess.”

“I believe that has already been granted,” she said.

“I mean forgiveness for my behavior with you,” he amended, still on his knees, but with his hands folded before his belt.

His eyes did not meet hers, and his pale cheeks flamed.

“I behaved toward you as I would have toward any woman I admired, but I understand now how wrong I was. I wish you will not think ill of me as we part.”

Morgana had to think how to respond. Should she confess she had liked being treated like a woman and not a priestess? Or should the mystique of her position—to say nothing of her true self—be preserved?

She decided to keep silent. The less known about her, the more effective her power would be. No one but Braithe knew that even she had nearly succumbed to the changeling’s manipulation.

“Sir Lancelin,” she said, finally. “You were not the only one who came under the changeling’s influence. If you crave forgiveness, it is freely given.”

He nodded and rose from his knees. “I thank you, Priestess Morgana.” He bowed his head, then walked away stiffly, his steps as uncertain as those of a very old man.

Braithe had been watching from a little distance, and she stepped out of the shadows to await Morgana’s instruction.

“Fetch Dafne for me, will you?” Morgana said.

Braithe went off to find her, and Morgana drew a charm from her pocket that she had created that morning.

It had been remarkably easy to do. All the Temple still resonated with magic, rivulets and currents of it circulating randomly, subsiding only slowly.

It was useful in making a charm like this one.

Dafne came in so quickly Morgana thought she must have been waiting outside. She stood before the priestess’s chair, her chin lifted but her face impassive, as if she expected nothing good.

Despite the sadness of the day, Morgana felt a slight lift of her heart.

She could still do something for someone who needed it.

Acts of service brought her satisfaction.

She lifted the charm in her palm to show Dafne.

It was a simple thing, a tiny stitched linen pouch containing a pinch of herbs for healing, a single strand of Morgana’s own hair for protection from the fae, and a songbird’s feather to inspire the reconnection of Dafne’s mind with her voice.

“Dafne,” she said. “The fae who harmed you have just lost a great battle. I consider the restoration of your voice the spoils of war.”

Dafne’s lips moved, and her eyelids fluttered as if to suppress sudden tears. She took the charm in her two hands and held it to her breast.

Morgana said, “You will not speak immediately. You will find that your ability returns bit by bit. A year from now, you will chatter like an acolyte.”

At this, Dafne’s lips curved, just a little. Morgana had never seen her smile before. It was an unsure, unpracticed expression, but it was there. She hoped she would one day understand fully what had happened to Dafne.

The Blackbird appeared in the door to the anteroom, and Morgana rose. “Is it time, sir?”

“It is, Priestess.”

“Very well.” Morgana shook out the skirts of her black robe, centered her sigil over her breast, and stepped down from the little dais. “I will fetch it.”

“I believe your handmaid has already done that.”

Morgana saw, as she entered the Temple, that he was right.

Despite its weight, Braithe had managed to carry it from Morgana’s chamber.

She stood now beside the stone with the scabbard point digging into the earth between the flagstones and the hilt with its single red jewel resting against her shoulder.

She, of course, would not be able to lift it high enough.

That task fell to Morgana. Even Morgana would need both the strength of her arms and the power of her magic to accomplish it.

As Morgana took the great sword into her hands, Braithe nodded to the acolytes assembled in ranks in the Temple and led them in the recitation. The stanza was long, but Braithe had trained them well:

Waves of the sea will not be controlled.

River waters will not be contained.

Lightning chooses its strike.

Thunder speaks at will.

Fire dies to nothing or devours the wood.

Wind may ruffle trees or root them from the earth.

Power is pride. Pride is weakness.

With the words of the stanza echoing in her ears, Morgana focused on the great sword and the waiting stone.

She had the sudden memory of the young Arthur reaching for the hilt.

He had been younger than Mordred was now, but golden and glowing where poor Mordred was dark and shadowed.

Her heart ached anew with the pain of loss, for herself, for Camulod, for Lloegyr, and she wished with all her spirit she did not have to do this.

But there was no one else. This was her heritage, passed on to her by the Lady, and she could not shirk it. She drew a long breath, furrowed her brow with concentration, and lifted the sword toward the stone.

She recalled making a much greater effort when she had aided the young Arthur to draw it out.

Now the sword slid home inside the chunk of granite as if it had been waiting to return.

The shining blade disappeared beneath the dappled stone, and the hilt clicked into place as neatly as if the stone were a scabbard.

A long sigh rippled through the watchers as Morgana, her hands empty now, stepped back.

As she had not done for years, she bowed to the stone, acknowledging the power it once more held, before she turned away, her head high to hide the tears that she knew glimmered in her eyes, and strode from the Temple to seek sanctuary beside the lake.

She didn’t know how long she had been sitting alone on her favorite boulder, watching the sunshine turn the ring of mist to silver, when she heard a step coming through the trees and down the slope to the beach.

She didn’t turn. It would be Braithe, or the Blackbird, come to commiserate.

She didn’t want sympathy, but she would not rebuff either of them.

There had been a butterfly resting on her upraised palm, its wings tickling her skin. As the steps came closer, the butterfly lifted from her hand, brushed her cheek with its silken wing, and flew away.

Morgana sensed him before he spoke, and she tensed. Lancelin.

No other person of her acquaintance engendered such complex emotions in her.

She still felt them. Desire was one, but so was shame.

Anger, but also admiration, for his courage and his willingness to admit his faults.

He had endangered her life’s work, but he had also taught her how fragile a heart could be.

She turned her head to watch him over her shoulder. He made a compelling figure, even now, with his long legs and lean face, his dark hair falling past his chin. He had the unmistakable look of a champion. Lloegyr would need that.

Unsmiling as always, he nodded to her. “I hope I do not disturb, Priestess.”

“No. I thought you had already gone.”

He came to stand beside the boulder, looking down at her. “I return to Camulod today, with the Blackbird. He has ordered a boat.”

“I am glad. Mordred will need you both.”

“I will serve him as best I can.”

“Good.”

“I hope so.”

“Come, let us walk a little,” she said. He nodded, unsmiling, and they began to stroll along the lake’s edge.

“What happens now?” Lancelin asked, after they had gone a little distance.

Morgana said, “At one time, I thought I could predict what would happen. I have learned otherwise.”

“You could scry, could you not?”

“Sometimes it is better to let life unfold in its own way. But I do not need to scry to know that you will be a great help to the boy king.”

Lancelin paused and turned to her. “Priestess, I thank you for your confidence in me.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I swear I will lay down my life for Lloegyr.”

“This is a noble vow, Sir Lancelin.”

He inclined his head to her. “I don’t know if you and I will meet again.”

“We will not, sir. Our time together is done.”

He nodded acceptance, though she felt his regret. She felt it, too, but she forbore to admit it. It was, she considered, better this way. She was not a normal woman, and he had a promise to keep. Theirs was a final farewell.

Niamh and Olfreth came with Braithe and Morgana to watch the Blackbird and the knight board the craft that would carry them back to Camulod.

When their things had been loaded onto the boat, Sir Lancelin climbed aboard without looking back, but the Blackbird hesitated, then turned to walk back up the little slope to where Morgana stood.

She stood a little way from the others, a tall, slender figure in black, her silver braids twisted high on her head in one of Braithe’s concoctions.

There was something heartbreakingly lonely about her, despite the company.

She would, he feared, always be set apart, isolated by her power and her gifts.

And of course, her faeness.

He stood before her, his back as straight as he could make it. “Priestess,” he said. “I believe the Lady’s plan has been rewritten. You have restored it.”

She answered, “I hope so, sir.”

Her eyes glinted pure gold all the time now, all traces of brown vanquished. They recalled the eyes of that other woman he had known so long ago. Morgana’s were even more beautiful, and he wished he could tell her so.

In a lower voice, meant only for her ears, he said, “Your mother would be proud.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, they shone with tears. “I hope that, too. And I—” She swallowed and then put out her hand for him to take. “And as time passes, I hope I can make you proud, sir.”

“I already am,” he said. He squeezed her hand. He would have liked to embrace her, but they had never done that, and this was no time to start. Instead, he said, “I am proud of what you have become, Morgana. The Temple is fortunate to have you. Lloegyr is fortunate to have you.”

He released her hand and turned to the others. “Priestesses,” he said, inclining his head. “I will return for the selection. Send word.”

“We will, sir,” said Niamh.

Olfreth added, “It will be soon. We should fill the empty chair.”

“Yes. Lloegyr counts on the Nine, and the country will sense the shortage.”

He inclined his head once again, including Braithe in the gesture, and hobbled back to the dock.

As the boatman rowed them away toward the encircling mist, he sat facing the little group on the beach.

He reflected that the flow of magic on the Isle of Apples had risen to a level he had not seen since the Lady disappeared beneath Ilyn.

Morgana, he had no doubt, would make good use of it.

As the boat slid into the mist, he turned his face forward, watching for Camulod to appear, silently begging the Lady to protect her daughter, and to intercede for them all.