Page 13 of The Faerie Morgana
“Shall I bring you some food? Perhaps a bit of ale to revive you?”
“What I need,” Morgana said, “is a tincture of elderberries.”
“For recovery,” Braithe said.
“Yes. There is some in the workroom. Do you think you could—”
“Of course.” Braithe moved to the door. “I know some of the acolytes are hoping to see you. Shall I say you’re resting?”
Morgana let her eyes close. “Whatever you think best,” she murmured. “I leave it to you.”
She listened to Braithe’s light steps cross the room, and the open and close of the door, and then she slept. When Braithe returned, she took two spoonfuls of the tincture before sleeping again. Braithe brought her a pottery bowl of soup, which Morgana dutifully drank, along with more of the elder tincture, then fell asleep once more.
The morning light teased her awake as the sun rose above the eastern woods and shone through the window of her new room, casting a tree-leaf pattern across the polished flagstones of the floor. She blinked and yawned, feeling more herself than she had since her arms became wings and her feet became talons. She pushed herself up and went to the washbasin to splash water on her face and hands.
She found, when she turned from the basin, that someonehad hung a black robe, the mark of her changed status, on a wooden wall hook. It had been newly sewn for her, and the dyed wool was smooth and soft. She lifted it from the hook and held it up to her shoulders, fully expecting it to be far too short.
It was not. The fabric brushed just past her ankles. Even the sleeves were long enough for her to tuck her hands into. This, she knew, was the doing of Olfreth. Patterns—creating them and seeing them—were Olfreth’s special gift.
Her old brown robe had disappeared, and someone had laid a new undertunic at the foot of the bed. Morgana put that on, then dropped the black robe over her head and drew the wide sash tight around her lean middle. It was perfect. She found a coiled thong holding the Lady’s sigil lying on the bedside stand and lifted that over her head, letting the amulet rest just above the sash. With her hand on the sigil and a rush of well-being flowing through her, she started out the door to find Olfreth and thank her.
She found the Blackbird waiting in the dim hallway, leaning against the wall with one hand on his staff, his eyes closed. She stopped in the doorway. “Sir?”
His eyes opened slowly, and he straightened. He began to speak but had to pause to clear his throat. “Morgana. You’re up at last.”
“Is it so late?”
“Your sister priestesses are breaking their fast.”
“Did you come to wake me?”
He said gravely, “I came to see if you are ill.”
“Why would you think I am ill, sir?”
“I have eyes,” he said dryly. “I have been watching you these three days. Is it a fever?”
She pretended to brush a nonexistent bit of fluff from her new robe while her brain spun. She had never concealed anything from the Blackbird before, but some instinct prevented her from telling him what had happened. What would he say? Would he forbid her from changing her shape? She couldn’t bear the idea that she would never again know the exhilaration of occupying an alien form, despite the exhaustion it had caused.
She met his gaze wide-eyed. “It could have been a fever. It has passed.”
“You requested elder tincture. I worried for you.”
She lifted one shoulder dismissively. “It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing. I feared you might not make it through the ceremonies.”
“And yet I did. No one else noticed.”
“No one observes in the same way I do, Priestess. And,” he added offhandedly, “no one else knows you as I do. Except perhaps your girl, Braithe.”
Morgana chuckled. “Is she my girl?”
His beard twitched. “I think she must be. I hope you’re glad about that.”
“I need her,” Morgana said simply. “She is much stronger than her size would imply.”
“So,” the Blackbird said, his eyebrows lifting. “She is not, after all, without a talent.”
