Page 1 of The Faerie Morgana
PROLOGUE
The ancient stone had rested in the sanctuary of the Lady’s Temple for lifetimes beyond counting. It was there long before Morgana was born, before any of the Nine had claimed their carved bogwood chairs, before even the Blackbird came to serve. Its granite surface sparkled silver in the sun and obsidian in starlight. It was the stone of legend, mythical and yet real, hidden in a place where no man but the Blackbird could see it. The nine priestesses had sworn to guard it until the day it was needed, and so they had done.
Morgana measured her growth by the stone. When she first crossed Ilyn to the Isle of Apples, the top of it was level with her four-year-old shoulders, and the great sword’s hilt loomed above her head, its single jewel shining like a red eye peering down at the little girl. By the time she was ten, the stone reached her breastbone, and if she stood on tiptoe, Morgana could have reached the hilt of the sword with her fingertips. She grew swiftly after that, so that when she was fourteen the stone reached no higher than her hip. She could have gripped the hilt without stretching her arm.
She did not. Proud though she was, daring and headstrong and brash, she knew the sword was not for her.
Morgana continued to grow. When she became one of the Nine, she was the tallest priestess in the Temple, though the youngest. She was even taller than the Blackbird, though she suspected that if he would stand properly, lift his shoulders and straighten the hump of his back, he would equal her in height.
But perhaps the Blackbird no longer cared about standing tall. He had lived an unnaturally long life, as long, some said, as one of the fae, who were no more in the world. The Blackbird’s existence was one of the great mysteries of the Temple, even of Lloegyr. They called him the Black Mage when he was not present. When he was, no one called him anything.
Morgana had a lifetime ahead of her still, and she always stood as tall as she was able. She was long of arm and leg and neck, and she could reach higher, run faster, see farther than anyone.
Not that her sister priestesses ever reached very high, nor did they run, nor exert themselves unduly if they could avoid it. They dispensed potions and remedies and charms to the supplicants who found their way to the Isle. They performed the rites of the Temple precisely as they had learned them. They taught the acolytes to recite the stanzas by rote, without examining their content.
It irritated Morgana to hear the acolytes’ high, sweet voices reciting the words blankly, with no sense of their meaning:
The few retreat into the shadows of time. Who will recall?
Wisdom fades in darkness,
But the one who remains will remember.
Who were the few? Who was the “one who remains”? None of the priestesses seemed to know, or care. If any had ever known, they were long gone.
As a very young acolyte, Morgana had asked what it all meant, but her teachers scowled and told her to be quiet, to sit still, to concentrate, to be obedient. She scowled back, impatient with their elderly ways, with the weakness of their remedies, the failures of their charms, the shallowness of their devotions. The other acolytes mocked her for her refusal to behave, but she couldn’t help herself. Morgana was not good at sitting still, nor at being silent when there were so many questions to be asked. Not until the Blackbird took over her instruction did she find satisfaction in her studies.
Passing through the sanctuary now, the adult Morgana lingered beside the ancient stone, tracing the patterns in the granite with one long forefinger and wondering. Wondering when the Blackbird would finally trust her with its secrets. Wondering, indeed, if the Blackbird would ever speak to her again.
Her sister priestesses bowed when they passed the stone. Morgana did not. When Preela had pressed her about it, Morgana gave her a cool glance. “It is just a rock now, Priestess. The great sword is gone.”
Preela protested. “It’s not just a rock! It’s sacred!”
“It no longer has any power,” Morgana said. “Surely you feel that.”
“That is not the point.” Preela’s tone was sour and resentful. “Morgana, a bit of humility would ease your way in the world.”
“I know, Priestess. You have said so often enough.” She laidher palm on the stone and mused, “I have learned more than you realize.”
“Well,” Preela said, wrinkled lips pursing. “Thank the Lady for that.”
“Oh, yes. Thank the Lady.” But Morgana didn’t feel thankful. She felt defeated. Sad.
She wended her way down the slope from the Temple to the herb garden that spread at the foot of the gentle hill. Scraps of snow still lay under the shrubs and in the shade of the holm oak. The wintry sun made them glimmer, jewel-like, and gave her a stab of homesickness for the keep of Camulod and its sparkling courtine. Despite the cold and the dormancy of the herbs, she could smell the muted scent of lavender, its branches gone gray with winter. The rosemary was still strong, and she took a sprig in her hand to sniff. The thyme, thriving whatever the weather, smelled muddy. It needed the snow cleared around it, and its earth tilled to allow it to breathe.
She wouldn’t mention it, though. She would let Niamh, the elder priestess, with her sun-spotted face and fingers perpetually stained with earth, instruct the acolytes on the proper care of the herb garden. The acolytes tended to be nervous and tongue-tied around Morgana. They would forget anything she said to them.
She was standing beneath the holm oak, gazing up into the snow-iced cloud of mistletoe clinging to its branches, when she heard his voice. She blinked, doubting herself, then turned to see that it was indeed the Blackbird.
She had not seen him since the coronation, but he hadchanged very little. Perhaps he was a bit more stooped, and leaned more heavily on his staff. Certainly the rim of his battered black hat drooped lower over his face, and the hem of his brown robe trailed on the ground behind him as he hobbled down the slope to meet her. His long beard was more white than gray now, but his eyes, peering up at her from beneath wrinkled lids, were as bright with life as ever.
He spoke as if they had parted only that morning, instead of years before. He pointed a knotty finger up at the mistletoe and said in his creaking voice, “Most powerful herb in the garden.”
“You have no need to remind me of the powers of mistletoe, sir.” Morgana’s own voice was deep and carrying, like the ringing of an iron bell. “I learned them from you when I was barely ten years old. I remember the day very well.”
“Do you indeed?” He leaned on his staff as he fixed his gaze on her. His beard had grown so long it caught in the belt around his waist and tangled around the sigil of the Lady dangling from his neck.
“I do. Do you?” Morgana responded.
