Page 15 of The Faerie Morgana
Braithe bit back the response that rose to her lips. The weakness of Iffa’s charms was no secret. Braithe let her gaze slip sideways to hide her scorn. “Yes, Priestess.” She folded her handsat her waist, as demure a posture as she knew how to adopt. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” Iffa said, a note of triumph in her thin voice.
“Then why—” Braithe glanced at her pallet, behind the chair Iffa had been sitting in. All her possessions were piled there. Her spare undertunics, her extra robe, the sandals she wore in summer, even the ones she had outgrown, had been removed from her cupboard and stacked on the bed. On top of the pile she saw her comb, her facecloth, her eating-knife, and her cup. “What’s happening?” she asked uneasily. “Who moved my things?”
Priestess Iffa said, “You’re leaving the Isle.”
Braithe drew a startled breath. “What? Why?”
Iffa looked down her impressive nose at Braithe and clicked her tongue. “Your behavior has been acceptable, Braithe—well, until these past months—but I’m sorry to say your skills don’t justify your continued study in the Temple.” She didn’t look in the least sorry. “You’re not the only acolyte to be leaving, of course. There are four of you. We need the space for acolytes with more promise.” The priestess nodded toward the pile on the bed. “We would have let you collect your own possessions, but of course—” Her lips curved in a mirthless smile. “You were not here. You are never here.”
“But, Priestess Iffa, I don’t want to leave the Temple!”
“How unfortunate.”
“Priestess Morgana needs me.”
“This is not her decision to make, but mine.Iam mistress of the acolytes.”
“But—but where will I go?” Braithe gave up her demure posture and pointed to the small pile of her possessions. “Those things are all I have in the world! I have no protector, no prospects, no—”
“You will return to your mother, surely.”
Braithe’s temper rose, and she folded her lips together to stem the threatening outburst. There was no point in arguing. She did not need deep sight to perceive how much Iffa was enjoying this moment. Iffa’s great nose practically twitched with pleasure.
Braithe knew acolytes were occasionally sent away. They might have broken too many rules, or been unable to memorize the stanzas, or decided the vow of celibacy they all swore was too stringent. Those who, like Braithe, knew they would never become one of the Nine found other work to do, other ways to support the Temple. Braithe had never heard of one being sent away because she had no magic, but that was, in essence, Iffa’s assertion.
This was meant to punish Morgana. That was obvious. But what could she do about it? She had no power and no authority, and her loyalty to Morgana had not made her popular. Braithe’s heartbeat thudded in her ears as she wondered what would happen if Iffa had her way. Did Niamh agree? The rest of the Nine?
She did her best to hide the tremor in her voice. “Please excuse me, Priestess. Priestess Morgana has need of this salve, and I promised to fetch it for her.” She turned away from the sight of her things tossed on her bed as if they were rubbish and hurried out of the dormitory.
Iffa cawed, “Straight back, mind you, Braithe! Your boat will be here soon.”
Braithe made no answer.
7
The anteroom where the priestesses met with supplicants was a gloomy space, lit by a single candle on a low altar and festooned with drooping willow branches and great sheets of moss harvested from the lakeshore. The moss filled the air with the scent of drying greenery. The candle flickered weakly through the shadows, barely illuminating the divination tools arranged around it.
The atmosphere was created deliberately to convey a sense of mystery and exaggerate the power of the priestesses. The first time Braithe had stepped into the anteroom, the fine hairs on her arms and neck rose, and gooseflesh prickled her arms. Now she just wished Niamh would clear away the folds of moss, put up wall sconces, create a welcoming place for the women who brought their sad tales to the priestess: stories of sick children, wounded husbands, dying sisters. They were poor women, wealthy women, young, old, any age in between, their shoulders slumping under the weight of their responsibilities and their fears.
The journey to the Isle of Apples was seldom easy. The overland trip to the shore could be arduous, even dangerous, withRoman cohorts harassing the farms and villages, and odd bands of Saxons wandering the countryside in search of plunder. Even crossing the lake could be perilous, particularly if there was no money to pay a boatman. Some women had to row themselves. Others managed to hire a boat to bring them to the Isle, then had no money to pay for the return journey.
Braithe, her heart still bumping with her own worries, found Morgana seated on the dais of the anteroom, her chin on her hand as she gazed past the altar to three women on the benches below. One was young and well-dressed. The others were gray-haired and weary-looking, clinging together for courage. There would be no tribute from them, but Braithe knew Morgana would not care. She set the jar of salve on the altar, and Morgana nodded her thanks, then beckoned to the two older women.
Glancing at each other uneasily, the pair rose and approached the altar, where the stones of divination still lay where they had been spilled. Morgana leaned forward to pick up the jar of salve. It was just beyond her reach, and Braithe bent to move it closer. Before she touched it, it slid across the altar into Morgana’s hand, and one of the gray-haired women hissed in surprise. The other elbowed her into silence.
This little moment would be remembered, recounted, wondered at. It would become part of the lore of the Lady’s magic, of the power she bestowed on her priestesses. No one beyond the Temple would know that this gift was unique to Morgana.
When Morgana began to speak, her deep voice echoed off the flagstone floor, despite the damping effects of the curtains of moss. “Listen carefully, grandmothers,” she said. She heldup one long finger, and both supplicants appeared to hold their breath. “I will give you this salve, and three leaves of mistletoe to crush into it, but not until you reach your home. Apply the salve sparingly to the child’s rash, three times a day. Watch that he does not take any into his mouth. It will sting, but it will reduce the lesions. Wrap cloths around his hands to prevent him from scratching. I have no doubt he will cry, and beg you to stop, but you must keep this up until all the ointment is gone. Do you understand?”
One of the women seemed unable to speak, but the other whispered, “Yes, Priestess.”
Morgana held the jar out to Braithe. “Give them this, and three bits of mistletoe from the basket. Is there a cloth we can wrap them in?”
Braithe, accustomed to such requests, slid a bit of burlap from beneath the waiting basket of herbs. She selected the bits of mistletoe and wrapped them in the cloth along with the jar. She held out the little bundle to the women. The one who had spoken took it from her with hands that trembled. Braithe made sure the bundle was securely in her grip before she released it. The woman murmured, “Thank you.”
The other one asked, “Will he recover? He suffers so!”
