Page 100 of The Faerie Morgana
The color in Gwenvere’s cheeks rose and fell like the flame of a candle. Her eyes began to glitter green fire, but she tried to speak in her little-girl voice. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Oh, you do,” Morgana answered. “You most certainly do.” She moved forward into the room, forcing Gwenvere to take another step back. The window behind her was open, and Morgana saw Gwenvere’s eyes slide toward it.
“Are you afraid I will push you after all?”
“I am not afraid of you,” Gwenvere said, but the tremor in her voice belied her words.
“You should be,” Morgana said. “You should fear me. I am sworn to protect the king, and I know that you have betrayed him in every way possible.”
“You lie!” Gwenvere suddenly sprang forward, shoving herself between Morgana and Braithe as she ran to the door. “Bran!” she shrilled. “Bran! Come here!”
It took the steward some time to obey. When he finally did, he stood silently, stoically, in the doorway, his hands hanging empty beside him. Behind him, the Blackbird leaned against a wall, his chin tucked, his hat brim drooping.
“Get them out!” Gwenvere snapped, pointing at Morgana and Braithe. “I want them out of the castle!”
Morgana inclined her head to Bran, and he nodded in return, then drew himself up. He lifted his chin, but he didn’t move.
Gwenvere screeched, little-girl voice abandoned, “Bran! You idiot old man, have you lost your hearing?”
He answered in a steady voice. “I heard you, my lady, but I could never turn away one of the Nine.”
She swiveled to Loria and spat, “Get someone who will follow my orders. Go down to the gate, get one of the guards. Or get Marcus!”
Morgana nodded to Loria, too. The maid wrapped her arms around herself, and anxious perspiration broke out on her forehead. Morgana made one small gesture, extending a hand, palm out. Loria still trembled, but she held her ground beside the washstand. One of the other maids, older and more frail, huddled in a corner, doing her best to be invisible.
“Have you all lost your minds?” Gwenvere shrieked. Her body began to shake with temper. “Have you forgotten who I am?” she demanded, glaring around at them, fists on her hips. “The king will hear about this!”
“He will indeed,” Morgana said. “He will hear all of it, Gwenvere. He will know about your dalliance with Lancelin, which will break his heart. He will know about your attempt to kill me, which will shock him. And—” Her voice dropped to its lowest pitch. “And he will learn how you betrayed him to the Romans.”
“He won’t believe you!”
“Why should he not believe me?” Morgana asked. “You accuse me of witchcraft, yet you have convinced a king, your husband, not to believe anything said against you.”
“Arthur loves me.”
“Does he? Or did you magick him?”
The flush faded instantly from Gwenvere’s cheeks. “How dare you! Witch-priestess! You—you—”
Gwenvere was possessed of a prodigious temper, as Morgana knew, but it was something the Blackbird had not yet witnessed. Her eyes narrowed, and her chest heaved. Her nostrils flared, and she made claws of her fingers. It was like seeing a fire in the woods in summer, small at first, a flicker, flaring into a raging inferno in seconds.
The maids were familiar with this firestorm. Both scurried to the far end of the room, their hands over their mouths. Bran also had experience of it, and though he didn’t move, he gripped the doorframe with one hand as if it could protect him. Braithe had seen this conflagration before, and she stepped up beside Morgana as if, between the two of them, they could protect the others.
The last fragments of Gwenvere’s self-control were consumedby the flames of her fury. She seized a pottery pitcher from the washstand and threw it so hard her face distorted with the effort.
Her aim was unnaturally sharp. The pitcher flew toward Morgana’s head as surely as if it had been a stone, expertly directed.
Braithe sucked in a breath, but Morgana’s right hand was already up, palm out, fingers stretched. The pitcher stopped in midair as if it had struck a wall. It spun end over end, then fell to the floor, breaking into a dozen jagged pieces.
Gwenvere was undeterred. Swiftly, she bent to snatch up one of the shards. She bared her teeth, gripping the sharp fragment of pottery like a crude knife in her fist, and lunged toward Morgana. Braithe cried out. Even Loria stumbled toward the queen, her hands out as if she could stop her.
There was no time for Morgana to consider. It was not a moment for restraint. Instinctively, energy surged through her as if she had caught a lightning bolt. It flashed up from her belly and into her breast. It drove along her arm and out through her raised hand, a pulse of pure, irresistible power, as if she had thrown a spear.
It found its target, striking Gwenvere directly in the center of her chest. Arthur’s traitorous queen dropped the shard of pottery as she went instantly, deathly silent, and collapsed into a nerveless heap.
39
Between them, Braithe and Loria lifted Gwenvere and laid her on her bed. She lay as one dead, though her slight bosom rose and fell with her breath, and her pulse fluttered faintly at the base of her throat. The Blackbird came into the chamber to stand over her for a time, scowling. Bran asked what he could do.
