Page 116 of The Faerie Morgana
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 candleshad 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 andgroaned, 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 ownkind 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?”
47
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 questionthe 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.”
