Page 40 of The Faerie Morgana
“But for how long can you hold the shape, Priestess? Youknow how it exhausts you. Sometimes you can barely walk afterward, and to become a man…”
Morgana gave her a tired smile and began to take off her strange clothes. “I count on your help, brat. And your silence. If Morgause has any hint that I am coming to prevent this crime, she will stop me. She has all the power. I have only the weapon of surprise.”
16
Assuming a man’s shape turned out to be less dramatic than becoming an owl, or a falcon, or any of the other creatures Morgana had tried. She was already as tall as any man, her arms and legs as long, though perhaps not as thick nor as strong. The genitalia were such a small shift she hardly noticed, except that she was glad of clothes meant to protect them. It was the face that challenged her.
She meant the features to look as different from her own as she could without being odd enough to attract attention. She already possessed a sturdy jaw, a strong nose, a high forehead. She concentrated on broadening her cheekbones, thickening her nose and her lips, and setting her eyes deeper into their sockets, with heavy lids and circles beneath.
When she was done, she turned to Braithe, waiting with her arms folded tight around her. Braithe gasped. “If I had not been standing right here, Priestess—”
“Fortunately you were. Now you can plait my hair, if you would. I must go quickly.”
Braithe pushed a stool forward so Morgana could sit and shecould begin braiding the long dark tresses. “You will need a boatman, will you not?”
“I will row myself.”
Braithe’s busy fingers paused. “Have you ever done such a thing?”
“Oh, yes. When I was an acolyte and I could take no more of Iffa’s scolding, I would often sneak away, take one of the rowboats, and go out on the lake.”
“But in the dark? It’s dangerous.” Braithe began again, sorting the long strands, weaving them tightly together. “The mists can confuse you, lead you where you don’t mean to go.”
“I will take care.”
Braithe’s fingers paused again. “Priestess. I should go with you.”
“I need you here, Braithe. To meet me when I return, to clothe me again, to make my excuses while I recover.”
Slowly, Braithe resumed her work. “How long will you be? I will worry.”
“I can’t say how long, but I will return as soon as I can. It shouldn’t be more than a day or two, because Morgause will make her move before the coronation.”
Braithe twisted up the plaits, pinned them into place, and covered them with a cloth cap. “I wish I had magic so I could do something to protect you.”
Morgana stood up and reached for her sigil, which lay on the discarded black robe. “Wear this for me,” she said, holding it out on her palm. “Under your clothes, against your heart. It will tell you when I am on my way back, and you can meet me on the dock.”
Braithe took it and looped the cord over her head, then tucked the amulet inside her bodice. “Be careful, Priestess.”
Morgana slung a cloak around her shoulders and checked that the knife she had lifted from the workroom was in its sheath at her belt. “I will take as much care as I can,” she assured Braithe. “But I must do this.”
“I know.” Braithe clasped her hands together beneath her chin. “Of course you must. Arthur has to be protected.”
Morgana tied the string of the cloak at her neck, touched her brow in farewell, and strode out.
Slipping into one of the rowboats in the darkness was much easier than it might have been in the daylight. Braithe had been right about the mist. People did get lost in it, but Morgana rather liked it. Her sense of direction was sure, and being surrounded by the soft grayness, her cheeks cool and damp, her eyelashes sparkling with droplets, soothed her nerves. She rowed steadily, but easily, through the fog. There was no need to rush. What she had seen took place in daylight. What she needed to do now was to review every detail of what her deep sight had shown her, and to devise a plan to intervene.
And not let the Blackbird see her.
The Blackbird had banished her because her charm failed to protect Uther, but she could not fathom his reasoning. Why would he want Uther to survive, and why would he not listen to her explanation?
The worst of it was that she had lost trust in the Blackbird,just as he evidently had lost trust in her. She was loath to defy his orders, but protecting Arthur was all that mattered now. It was more important than the Blackbird’s ego. More important than her own life. The future of Lloegyr and the life of the true king were entwined by fate. One would not survive without the other. If Arthur were to die, so would Camulod, and Lloegyr with it, sooner or later. Somehow she had always known this. The great mystery was that the Blackbird seemingly did not.
Morgana, in man’s guise, joined the encampment of cottars and farmers and laborers who had come on foot and by oxcart to attend the coronation of the young king. It was a celebratory gathering, made more joyful by the casks of ale sent out by Bran, the steward. A musician played lively tunes on a lyre, accompanied by two wooden flutes. The flutes’ shrill tones cut through the midnight air, not quite in tune with the lyre but charming in their enthusiasm.
No one paid much notice to the newcomer, the tall young man who sidled through the crowd to crouch by the fire and extend his chilled fingers to the flames. A plump woman pressed a tankard of ale into his hands, twinkled at him, then melted back into the crowd. A loaf of bread made the rounds, and then a wheel of cheese, everyone generous in their excitement, grateful for the rare pause in their labors, pleased to dance and laugh, even sing when the musicians played a familiar tune.
The party was just as Arthur would want it to be. Every once in a while, someone brandished a tankard above his head andcried, “To the new king! King Arthur!” and everyone whooped agreement as they drank. It was late, and Morgana knew there would be aching heads when the sun rose, but no one seemed to mind. They were happy and hopeful, full of optimism for the future of their land.
