Page 21 of The Faerie Morgana
On that morning, alone for the moment with the prince, she knelt beside the bed. She rested her folded arms on the blankets and let her forehead fall against them, so tired she could hardly hold up her head. She sat that way for many minutes, listening to the birdsong rising beyond the castle walls, the muted sounds of people beginning to stir in the keep. She was just thinking that she should struggle to her feet, go through her basket of supplies once again, search for some remedy she had not yet tried. A prickling sensation on one wrist made her lift her head and blink her dry eyes open.
A drab little bird, brown and black with a yellow beak, was perched on her arm. As she gazed at it, it put its tiny head to one side and regarded her. Its eyes were black and shiny and deep, and when it chirped, something in her quivered in recognition.
“Oh,” she breathed.
It chirped again, and fluttered its tail.
“Oh. Yes. Yes.”
The bird hopped from her arm onto the bed, then flapped its wings just enough to move to the windowsill, where it sat watching her.
With effort, feeling every muscle cry out at being forced to move, Morgana got to her feet and staggered to the table where her basket waited. In the very bottom, in a lidded cup she had forgotten was there, was a small set of divining stones, black and white pebbles gathered from the lake shore and polished until they shone. She carried the cup to the bed and spilled the stones out onto the blanket. She stared at them, scooped them up, spilled them out a second time, then a third, examining them each time, first with disbelief and doubt, then with growing suspicion. She bent over the washbasin to peer into the clear water, breathing slowly in, exhaling more slowly through pursed lips. Finally, she saw it.
Uther cut the stems of monkshood with his own hand and wrapped them in a bit of burlap. He gave them to his manservant and bid him boil them into a syrup. He stood by, combing his red beard with his fingers and eyeing the pot to make certain no part of the lethal herb was wasted. When the manservant completed the task and poured the syrup into a pottery jar, Uther corked it and slid it into his pocket.
Morgana looked up to find that the Blackbird was standing on the opposite side of the bed. His eyes opened wide withalarm, and his grip on his staff turned his knuckles white. “What is it?” he demanded. “Your eyes are more gold than brown!”
Morgana pulled herself up to her full height, pressing her fist against her heart. “He was poisoned,” she said, her voice deep and angry. “Arthur was poisoned. And I know who committed this offense.”
The shock of the news that the prince had been poisoned swept Camulod with the force of a sudden thunderstorm. The courtiers fell silent. The servants went about white-faced. Even the knights and their lackeys ceased their sword practice and withdrew into the barracks as if their presence might make the prince worse.
Braithe listened from the corridor as the Blackbird and Morgana argued. She couldn’t surmise what it was about.
“Morgana,” the Blackbird said. “You will cause us to be thrown out of the castle, or worse, before your work is done.”
“Sir, I read the stones three times!”
“I do not doubt you,” the Blackbird said.
“We need to accuse him!” she repeated. “We need to set a guard, to warn—”
“Heal Arthur first. Then we will work to protect him.”
“Braithe!” Morgana called, and Braithe immediately put her head around the door.
“Yes, Priestess.”
“Can you find my foraging knife?”
“Of course. Just one moment.” Braithe found it at the bottomof the basket, unwrapped it, and turned to hand it to Morgana, hilt first.
Morgana took it in one hand, the other a curled fist against her lips. “I should have guessed,” she muttered. “I should have scried the first day we came. Three days wasted!”
“Let us not waste any more, then,” the Blackbird said. Braithe could see he was attempting to be brisk, even bracing, but they were all exhausted, and the effort fell flat.
Morgana said, “We have to clear the poison from his body. We need elf dock.”
“Wh-what’s elf dock?” Braithe asked in a faint voice, chilled by fear that she should know, that she had forgotten a lesson.
Morgana didn’t seem to notice. “It doesn’t grow on the Isle. I think I can find it in the woods here, though. Will you stay with the prince while I go out to search?”
“Of course,” Braithe said.
“Bathe his forehead and chest. He needs moisture.”
“I will.”
“I know a place elf dock grows,” the Blackbird said. “I will show you.”
