Page 37 of The Faerie Morgana
“Of course, Priestess. Give me your bag, and I’ll put it in your chamber.”
“Niamh first, if you don’t mind. I prefer to get it over with.”
Braithe put out a hand for the bag. “Priestess,” she said. “I am not completely clear about what has happened, but I know—and there is no doubt the Blackbird knows—that your intentions are always good.”
Morgana handed over the bag without meeting Braithe’s eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, but offered no further explanation.
Braithe was loath to leave her, but she did as she asked. She shouldered Morgana’s bag along with her own and gathered up the basket of herbs and tinctures to take to the storeroom. She hurried through the open doors of the Temple as quickly as she could while balancing her burdens. She passed the menhirs and the empty stone without a glance, no longer enchanted with them as she had once been. She sidled into the antechamber, where she found Niamh on the dais, the low altar before her. A petitioner was just setting a tiny purse on the table, reaching with her other hand for the pottery jar Niamh held out.
Braithe dropped her bags and set down the basket as she waited for the woman to depart, her precious jar in her hands. She bowed to Braithe as she passed. Braithe couldn’t summon a smile, but she nodded to her.
Niamh heaved a gusty sigh as she picked up the small purseand weighed it in her hand. “This was hardly worth the trouble,” she complained. She pushed herself to her feet and shook out her robes. “Braithe, I see you’re back. Priestess Morgana with you?”
“Yes, Priestess. She’s in the herb garden and needs to speak with you.”
“She couldn’t come into the Temple herself?”
“She finds comfort in your garden, Priestess Niamh.”
It was a sly remark, but Braithe had worded it deliberately, and it had the intended effect. Niamh preened a little, pleased atyour garden.
“Very well. I suppose she needs comfort after these past weeks.”
“Yes.”
“The king is dead, I believe?”
Braithe blinked. How could she have heard the news so soon?
“You look surprised. Do you not think I can scry?”
“Oh. Of course, Priestess. I just— It has all happened so fast.”
“Yes. And the Blackbird wants some other member of the Nine to bless the new king at his coronation. That does surprise me, I admit.”
Braithe spread her hands. “I have no explanation.”
“No?” Niamh adjusted the sigil that hung from her neck and started out of the anteroom. “Hmm. The Blackbird does not always explain himself, but he has the Lady’s authority, and we do as he wishes.”
Braithe murmured her thanks, then picked up her things and set off for Morgana’s chamber. She passed several acolytes onthe way, and they looked at her curiously, but she didn’t speak to them. What could she say? She and Morgana had been sent away from Camulod in disgrace, after all they had done to save Arthur. To protect him. It was utterly unfair, and she would never forgive the Blackbird for humiliating Morgana. He was supposed to be the wise man, the Lady’s representative in the Temple. He should have known better.
“You have always been his favorite, which has caused no end of envy,” Niamh said, in her blunt fashion. “What happened?”
Morgana, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, slumped on the stone bench beneath the holm oak while a great cluster of mistletoe shivered in the breeze just above her head. It was tempting to unburden herself to Niamh. It would be such a relief to shed the weight of sole responsibility. Perhaps she could rest then. Perhaps her shame would recede.
But Niamh would always place her confidence in the Blackbird, certainly more than she would in Morgana, the youngest of the Nine, the most gifted and the most resented. Competition was the way of the Temple, and it never ceased. Only if Niamh had seen for herself what Uther intended would she understand, and now that Uther was gone, that would never happen.
Morgana straightened her spine and released her arms to link her hands in her lap and feign composure. “Priestess Niamh, the Blackbird tasked me with making a charm to protect the king in battle, but the king was killed. The Blackbird is furiouswith me and ordered me away from Camulod. I believe he has requested another to bless the new king at his coronation.”
“Hmm.” Niamh peered at her from beneath her gray eyebrows. “Your charm failed?”
Morgana had no answer for that.
“We have never known a charm of yours to fail.”
That had been true, and it was another source of envy from some of the Nine. It was still true. Morgana could not say that, however, and the assumption of her failure rankled. “Nevertheless,” she said dully, “Uther is dead.”
“I know. I saw it this morning.”
