Page 18 of The Faerie Morgana
“But she’s the acolyte mistress, and she says I am no longer an acolyte.”
Morgana uncoiled her long form and stood up. “Tell me, brat,” she said. “Do you wish to remain an acolyte?”
Braithe, encumbered by her bundle, struggled to her feet. “I wish I could. I know I’ll never be a priestess, but truly, most of us won’t. I don’t mind about that, but—Priestess Morgana, I don’t want to leave the Temple. I want to do what I’ve been doing these past months, assisting you. Doing what you need done when you’re too busy to do it yourself.”
“Well, then,” Morgana said. “That is what you shall do. If you are no longer an acolyte, then you will be my—my—I need a word.” She lifted one hand as if she could find it in the air.
Braithe clutched her bundle, thinking, then said, “‘Handmaid’ is a good word, isn’t it?”
“A very good word indeed. It will be your title. Handmaid.”
“Priestess Niamh won’t like it,” Braithe said.
“Niamh won’t do anything to endanger the tribute I bring in,” Morgana said. “Oona was generous today, and Niamh knows that. And,” she added, “so does Iffa.” Braithe looked up at her with such trust in her freckled face that Morgana’s bogwood heart softened, just a bit. “Tell me honestly now, brat. Would it please you to be my handmaid?”
Braithe’s smile was watery but joyous, the last of her tears disappearing in a surge of hope. “Nothing could please me more!”
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Morgana bent forward to look directly into Iffa’s eyes. “I need my handmaid if I am to do the work that falls to me.” Her deep voice rang against the walls. “Unless you would like to assist me yourself, Priestess?”
The Nine were seated in the inner chamber, called together by Niamh in an attempt to smooth the troubled waters roiling around them. Niamh cleared her throat and muttered, “Priestess Morgana, this is not helpful.”
Morgana turned to her. “Priestess Niamh. You know how many hours I spend with our supplicants. I rely on Braithe to help me.” She gave the rest of the Nine a narrow-eyed glance. “Every one of you knows that Priestess Iffa is trying to send the acolyte away to spite me.”
Iffa bridled, and spat, “How dare you malign me in such fashion!”
“Yet you do not deny it. How good to see that though you are petty, you are not a liar.”
“Morgana!” Niamh exclaimed. “Please restrain yourself!”
Morgana leaned back in her tall chair, one hand on the armrest,the other on her sigil. “There are any number of acolytes with no magic. No deep sight. No gift for potions. No knack with salves or tinctures. Does the acolyte mistress expel them all?”
“There are other considerations,” Iffa muttered. “Attitude is one.”
“Does my little handmaid have an attitude issue?” Morgana demanded, her voice deepening further as her temper frayed. “Or is it yours?”
“I don’t have to explain my reasons to you!” Iffa shrilled.
“Then to whom?” Morgana sat back, folding her arms. “Perhaps it is time we discuss your habitual abuse of the acolytes.”
“Abuse!” Iffa cried, and turned to Niamh. “Will you stand up for me, or not?”
Niamh looked so miserable at this that Morgana felt a stab of remorse. The elder priestess was far better at nurturing fractious plants than fractious women, and the occasion had turned an unwelcome focus on her. Morgana drew a slow breath to cool the fire of her temper. She was too tired for this, but she supposed it was part of her work to be patient with the priestesses as well as the supplicants. To state that she spent more time with their petitioners than any other priestess was not hyperbole. It was perfectly true. She could have refused some of them, but they had all traveled far, and for some it was the only journey they would ever be able to afford. She didn’t have it in her heart to hand them over to another priestess, one who might not be able to help.
Just the same, Niamh was doing her best. In an uncharacteristic gesture of conciliation, Morgana raised her hand, palmout. “I concede that bringing up other issues is not helpful. I suggest we concentrate on the question of Braithe.”
Joslyn, who rarely spoke in these meetings, said softly, “So well said, Priestess Morgana. Our tempers…” She let her sentence trail off, which was wise, Morgana thought, and considerate. Joslyn had not lost her temper, nor had any of the others.
It was she herself, prodded by Iffa’s insistence that Braithe be banished, who had given in to her frustration and her anger. She had spoken a hard truth, but it should be dealt with in a different way.
Mindful of the Blackbird’s frequent admonishments that she behave with more restraint, Morgana nodded to Joslyn. “Thank you, Priestess. I regret my loss of composure, sisters. I suggest a compromise: Priestess Iffa may release Braithe as an acolyte, but she will concede that Braithe remains on the Isle as my handmaid. I do need her. I will be grateful if we can agree.”
She felt the surprised glances coming her way. Her sister priestesses, in the months since her selection, had never known her to apologize. She had not actually apologized, but it was as close as she was likely to come. She rather wished the Blackbird, who scolded her so often about her pride, had been here to witness it.
Niamh turned an expectant gaze on Iffa. Iffa grunted something that may have been assent, and Niamh seized the moment. “Well, good. Thank you, sisters, for working out your differences.”
Morgana rose, inclined her head to the elder priestess, and left the inner chamber to hasten to her apartment. Braithewould need reassurance. When she reached her room, she found not only her little handmaid but the Blackbird waiting for her. Braithe was pacing, wringing her hands. The Blackbird leaned against the wall below the window, his staff braced against his shoulder, his head bowed so that all she could see was the faded crown of his hat.
