Page 23 of The Faerie Morgana
“Thank you, sister,” he rasped. “Priestess.”
The Blackbird, leaning on his staff at the end of the bed, said, “Morgana, you have not slept or eaten nearly enough. I will stay with the prince while you do both those things.”
Morgana wanted to protest, but she knew he was right. “He should have more of the elf dock tincture every hour, sir.”
“I will see to it.”
“And he must drink, but not too much or too fast.”
“I understand.”
Still she hesitated, looking down at her brother, until Braithe said, “Priestess, go. I will stay to assist.”
Morgana did, finally, but at the door she looked back at Braithe, who was glowing as she prepared to sponge the prince’s forehead once again. Morgana understood. She should have seen this coming. She should get her handmaid away before any harm was done. She—
She gave herself a shake, turned, and went through the door, shutting it firmly behind her. She was too tired to think. She must face this problem another time.
She found her way to the bedchamber that had been prepared for her. She threw off her black robe and, wearing only her shift, folded herself into the blanket. It took some time to fall asleep, though she needed it so badly. When she finally slept, it was the sort of thick slumber that made her unable to wake herself when awful dreams assailed her. They were nightmares of Arthur in pain, of dangerous arguments with Uther, of Morgause’s cold black eyes, and finally, of innocent little Braithe yearning for a man who could never be hers.
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The Blackbird marveled at the bond that grew between Arthur and Morgana. Though they had spent almost no time together, they were easy with each other, respectful and trusting, a relationship that was very nearly affection. Arthur’s gratitude for Morgana’s care, and her relief at his returning health, filled the bedchamber with a warmth the Blackbird perceived as light, pouring out each time he opened the door. It was bright, clear, sparkling like sunshine on blue water.
Day by day, as Arthur grew stronger and Morgana breathed easier, laughter began to grow in the chamber. It spilled over into the corridors, making servants step lightly on their errands and courtiers smile as they passed through the hall. Arthur’s small brother, Mordred, came daily with his nurse, and Arthur smiled at him, tousling his hair, slipping him sweets when the nurse wasn’t watching.
Uther came once to the bedchamber to stand just within the doorway, frowning at something Morgana was doing with a mortar and pestle, while Braithe stood watching, ready to hand her anything she might need.
Uther growled, “Are you not done magicking my son, Priestess?”
The Blackbird, slumped on a cushioned chair in a corner of the room, straightened in alarm, but Morgana went on grinding roots of elf dock and leaves of wormwood for a salve. She delayed answering. When she did speak, it was with an icy arrogance that caused a chill of apprehension in the Blackbird’s nerves.
“I have not magicked Prince Arthur, stepfather.” She gave one last twist to the pestle and laid it aside. “I have effected an antidote to the poison he was given.” She drew herself to her full height and turned the golden glitter of her eyes to the king. “I can’t help but wonder, my lord,” she said in her deep voice, “that you have not done more to find who attempted to kill your son.”
Uther’s small eyes grew smaller as he lifted his head to glare, and the Blackbird felt his resentment at having to look up at Morgana. “Yousay he was poisoned,” Uther grunted. “No one else does.”
Morgana’s chin thrust forward, and the Blackbird stiffened again, fearful of what Uther was capable of doing if pushed too far.
Morgana said coolly, “No doubt troubles me, my lord. What sickened my half brother was poison, and in truth—” Her face was stiff with an anger that Uther did not perceive. It was a fault in him that he failed to recognize danger when he encountered it. The Blackbird suspected that Morgana could be very dangerous if she chose to be. Her voice dropped to an insinuating murmur. “In truth, stepfather, I believeyouknow that.”
Uther, crude and insensitive as he was, didn’t hear Morgana’s emphasis on the wordyouor he didn’t respect it. Either was a serious error.
“Never mind,” the king grunted. “I merely came to assure myself my son is going to live. I’m going to leave Camulod for a time. There’s a Roman cohort on the other side of the Chindl, and we have to prevent them crossing.”
At this news, Arthur pushed himself up against his pillows. He said, “My lord, you must wait for me. I will—”
Morgana interrupted. “You will not. No fighting. Not for some weeks yet.”
Uther had been halfway to the door, but he turned back, showing his teeth in an unpleasant grin. “You’re a prince, Arthur. Are you going to let a woman tell you what you can and can’t do?”
At that, the Blackbird thrust himself to his feet and stepped between the king and the bed. “The priestess has saved your son’s life,” he said, in as harsh a tone as his old voice could muster. “You should thank her, my lord. You might need her one day.”
Uther barked a laugh. “Need a priestess? Hardly, old man. All I need are my knights and my sword.”
Without farewell, he stamped out of the bedchamber, flinging the door to so that it banged against the doorframe, causing a wooden cup to fall from its shelf. The Blackbird turned, one eyebrow cocked, to gaze at Morgana. She gazed back, her face impassive but her lips curling.
“I wish you would not laugh, Morgana,” the Blackbird said. “Uther is a brutal man.”
“He is no danger to me,” she answered. “Rather the reverse.” She turned back to Arthur, as if the whole scene had been merely a distraction. “Now, my lord. Until you have no more sickness, you must keep a layer of this salve on your chest and your belly.”
