Page 9 of The Faerie Morgana

“An owl,” Braithe whispered.

“An owl,” Morgana repeated. “I was an owl.” She passed her hands over her face, over her body, as if getting to know them once again. “But why are you weeping?”

Braithe held out her hand with the three feathers lying weightless in the center. Her voice trembled with the import of what she had witnessed. “Everyone knows only the fae can shift their shape!”

“Come now, my little brat. Everyone is wrong,” Morgana said, lightly, as if it didn’t matter at all. “It would not be the first time.”

Braithe’s voice deserted her. It did matter, and it terrified her. The fae were evil. Dangerous. They lied, and stole, and people had good reason to hate them. If anyone else had seen Morgana…

Morgana seized her hand, and the feathers drifted to the ground. “It was like a dream,” she said.

“If you were dreaming, then so was I,” Braithe said, gripping Morgana’s long fingers in her shorter ones. She steadied at the contact, and the fog of shock began to clear from her mind.

“I have never known a shapeshifter,” Morgana said.

Braithe choked, full of alarm at what it meant, “But, Morgana—could you be fae?”

“No. My mother was merely human, the wife of a king. This is some—some magic I don’t yet—” Morgana stumbled and clutched Braithe’s hand more tightly. “Oh. I am so tired. My legs—I am not sure I can walk.”

“What’s the matter?” Braithe’s heart thudded with a new anxiety. “Are you ill?”

“I think I must be, Braithe. So weak…”

Braithe set her fears aside and put her shoulder under Morgana’s arm. Together they took a couple of halting steps. “I will help you to your bed.”

Morgana didn’t answer but leaned heavily on Braithe’s shoulder. Braithe put an arm around her narrow waist and did her best to share her weight.

It was awkward, assisting her to climb up from the beach, then to make slow progress through the garden.

The eastern horizon turned rosy as they struggled.

Morgana stumbled once, twice, a third time as they hobbled toward the dormitory, and Braithe, so much shorter, found it hard work to keep Morgana on her feet.

She managed it, but barely. They staggered into the dormitory, where one or two acolytes were beginning to stir.

They reached Morgana’s pallet just as her legs gave out.

With alarm, Braithe saw that perspiration had broken out over Morgana’s cheeks and neck, as if she had a fever.

She undid the tie at the neck of her robe, but she couldn’t remove it, though she tried.

Morgana was no help. Her hands shook, and her breathing was shallow and rapid.

Braithe pulled a blanket over her, but she stayed beside her, wiping the sweat from her forehead, chafing her wrists. Morgana’s eyes were closed, and when Braithe spoke to her, she didn’t respond.

Braithe thought she should get help, assistance from someone who knew how to treat a fever, if that was what this was, but she feared it was dangerous to leave Morgana alone.

She knelt beside the pallet and took Morgana’s cold hands in hers.

“Morgana, please. Try to tell me what you need. I don’t know—”

One of Morgana’s hands lifted, then fell limply back. “Rest,” she muttered. “Sleep.”

“Perhaps a potion…” But Braithe let the thought go. As yet, she was useless at potions, both at making them and at knowing which one was needed. And what potion could cure an illness caused by shapeshifting? She muttered, “I think I should call Niamh.”

At this, Morgana’s eyelids fluttered open, and though her gaze was hazy, she tried to focus on Braithe’s face. “No,” she whispered. “Tell no one. The owl—secret.”

“I understand,” Braithe said, though her heart quaked. She wished, in truth, she had not seen the owl become Morgana.

“Promise,” Morgana breathed, as her eyelids slid closed once more.

Reluctantly, Braithe murmured, “I promise, of course I do. I won’t tell them, but they’ll want to know what’s wrong with you, and you seem so ill that I—”

The small, clear sound of the gong interrupted her. It rang through the Temple, resounding in the dormitory, echoing from the trees around the compound. Every acolyte startled awake, and the quicker ones scrambled for their clothes as the gong sounded again, and then again.

“It’s done!” someone cried, and another exclaimed, “They’ve decided!”

Morgana’s fingers tightened on Braithe’s. “I must get up,” she said hoarsely.

“No!” Braithe murmured. “Stay where you are. I will go and ask.”

Morgana forced her eyes to open, and with shaking limbs, she sat up and put her feet on the floor. “Help me up.”

“Morgana, no! You’re too weak. And suppose it isn’t you?”

The corners of Morgana’s mouth curled without amusement. “Oh, Braithe, my little brat. It is me. I have seen it.”

Braithe helped her to stand, and as she stood close, ready to support her, she felt the great effort Morgana made to collect her strength, to stand straight.

She didn’t have long to wait. Priestess Niamh appeared in the doorway to the dormitory and scanned the rows of pallets until she found Morgana’s.

With a sniff, as if she were performing some unpleasant task, she came to stand before Morgana, her hands pressed together before her in the ritual gesture.

Braithe noticed, despite the apprehension of the moment, that Niamh’s nails were dark with garden dirt.

“Acolyte Morgana,” Niamh intoned, with the formal address.

“Priestess Niamh.” Somehow, Morgana contrived to make her voice sound as it usually did, deep and strong and carrying.

Niamh said, “The conclave has met, as required upon the death of one of the Nine. It is my duty to inform you that you are offered the chair that belonged to Priestess Nola. Will you accept it?”

Morgana drew herself up to her full height, and Braithe marveled at the sheer power of her will. “I accept the chair, Priestess.”

“Hmm. Well, then,” Niamh said. “You have been chosen as one of the Nine Priestesses of the Lady’s Temple.” She sniffed again. “May your service bring you joy.”

“Thank you, Priestess,” Morgana said in a steady voice. She stood where she was, tall and still and impassive, and didn’t collapse back onto her bed until Niamh was gone.