Page 12 of The Faerie Morgana
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.
6
Morgana was ill for three days, but she labored to hide the fact. The ceremony of her acceptance into the Nine, of taking her seat in the vacant bogwood chair, went on and on, filling all three of those days, giving her no respite. The rituals were tedious, filled with platitudes she knew no one believed. She gritted her teeth and kept her back straight and her head high, refusing to give in to the weakness that had assailed her after flying through the night in an unfamiliar shape. Faithful Braithe stayed close beside her through it all, offering a steady shoulder to lean on, a firm hand when it seemed her legs might give way.
When the ceremonies came to an end at last, Morgana repaired to her new bedchamber, asking Braithe to accompany her, ostensibly to help her arrange her things. It was the first chance since the selection they had to speak in private. The apartment was small, but along with the surprising luxury of an actual bed instead of a pallet, it boasted a door that could be closed. This Morgana hastened to do the moment they were both inside.
She stretched herself on the bed with a great sigh. “I sometimesthought I would not make it through,” she murmured. “Without you, brat, I would have collapsed a dozen times.”
“You must rest, Priestess,” Braithe said.
Morgana gave a pale groan. “It is so odd to hear you call me that. Four days ago, I was an acolyte just like you.”
