Page 45 of The Faerie Morgana
Braithe’s pulse throbbed in her throat, and she barely restrained herself from shoving past the priestess to reach Morgana sooner.
Sennet paused in front of Morgana’s door, a warning hand raised. “Niamh is with her. Try not to— I mean, there is no need to alarm Priestess Morgana.”
“Alarm her?” Braithe, truly worried now, sidled past the older woman to open the door.
Morgana lay on a pile of pillows, her face pale as wax, though her eyes were open. They shifted to Braithe when she came in, glinting gold. She lifted one hand, weakly, and reached for Braithe’s. “You see, brat.” Her deep voice scratched in her throat. “You see the price I have paid.”
Braithe couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think. She gazed down at Morgana, at her lean form covered in blankets, her long fingers entwined with her own short ones. She was struck completely dumb.
“Is it so ugly?” Morgana sighed.
Braithe forced herself to draw breath, to blink. “No!” she said. “No, it is not ugly, it’s—it’s beautiful. It’s just—just a surprise.”
She reached down with her free hand to stroke Morgana’s long, thick hair. Hair that had been black yesterday, as black as the fur of the cat whose form she had borrowed. Hair that wasnow silver, the color of moonlight, of sea-foam, of lilies in the spring. It glinted in the sunlight falling through the window. “Beautiful,” Braithe whispered.
Morgana’s narrow lips curved, just a little, before her eyelids fluttered closed. “Sleep,” she murmured.
“I will be right here,” Braithe murmured. She couldn’t resist lifting a strand of the bright hair to let it run through her fingers. “I will be right here beside you.”
Silent Dafne brought a pallet to Morgana’s bedchamber so Braithe could sleep near her mistress in more comfort. When she handed Braithe a pillow, their fingers brushed. Braithe felt the tingle of magic that was becoming familiar to her. She looked more closely at Dafne, but she saw only the woman’s dour face, her eyes averted as usual. Braithe shivered a little and told herself she would think about it later. She thanked Dafne and laid the pillow on her pallet, then drew it close to Morgana’s bed. She lost track of how much time passed as the priestess roused only to drink a little broth, or to allow Braithe to wash her and change her linens. Joslyn, returned from Camulod, came to see how she was doing, and together she and Braithe worried over her.
“Something must have happened!” Joslyn said. “Surely there was some curse, or perhaps someone poisoned her!”
Braithe would have liked to confide in Joslyn, but she refrained. Morgana considered her shapeshifting to be an ability that was more powerful because no one knew of it. Braithekept her counsel, but she begged Joslyn for potions and tinctures that would restore Morgana to health.
Autumn came as Morgana languished, bedridden and weak. One golden morning, when the leaves had already begun to turn and the apples were ripening on the trees, Braithe hurried to the window of the bedchamber, drawn by the call of a horn blown from the dock. Below the residence the acolytes poured out of the refectory, abandoning their breakfast in favor of whatever excitement the horn proclaimed. Three priestesses emerged from the Temple and stood on the steps, their hands in their wide black sleeves, waiting to see who had arrived with such ceremony at the Isle of Apples.
Braithe caught her breath when she recognized him, and she pressed her hand to the place in her belly that suddenly throbbed.
It had been only weeks since she last saw Arthur, but he seemed to have grown in that brief span of time, as if the responsibility of the crown had spurred him to grow taller, to become stronger, to wield an even greater presence than he already did. Braithe thought he walked as if he were limned in light, as if the Lady smiled on him from the lake where she dwelled.
He strode purposefully up through the garden, with two of his knights scrambling to keep up. His fair hair gleamed in the sun, outshining the narrow coronet that circled his brow. He wore a simple tunic of dark blue over leggings like those of any serf. Aside from his coronet, only his sword belt, dark leather gilded with gold, signified his rank.
The king paused before the priestesses, who inclined theirheads to him. Niamh was one, and Braithe, leaning from the window, heard her rasping voice clearly.
“Welcome, my lord. We did not expect this honor today.”
He touched the charm at his breast. “I have come to see my sister.”
Braithe’s heart suddenly thudded so loudly she barely heard the rest of the exchange.
“I am sure she will be pleased,” Niamh began, but Joslyn stepped forward to murmur into her ear. “Hmm,” said Niamh. She turned back to the king. “My lord, the priestess Morgana is unwell, and has been confined to her bed for some time. This has naturally caused us concern, and I’m not sure she is able to receive visitors.”
Braithe nearly shouted through the window that for the king, Morgana would rouse herself. She couldn’t bear the thought that Arthur might be turned away, that she would not get to see him. She was drawing breath to call out when he put up a graceful hand. “I am aware she is ill, Priestess. Word reached me at Camulod, and I wasted no time in setting out.”
Niamh bridled at this and began to say something else, but the king had already walked away, starting toward the residence as if he knew exactly where he would find his sister. Braithe dashed to Morgana’s mirror to smooth her hair, to pat her cheeks to bring color to them, to check that her robe was straight. When she turned back, she found Morgana’s open eyes fixed on her.
“Priestess! You’re awake.”
“He is here, is he not?” Morgana’s voice was stronger thanBraithe had heard it in days. She pushed herself up to sit and began to pat at her disordered hair with her fingers.
Braithe hurried to help her, snatching up a brush on the way. “How did you know?”
“I cannot think of another reason my handmaid would be primping before the mirror.”
Braithe’s cheeks burned, and she avoided Morgana’s eyes as she plumped pillows and smoothed the coverlet. She brushed the long strands of silver hair so they fell smoothly over the priestess’s shoulders. She had just finished this when the knock sounded. She had an urge to check herself in the mirror again, but aware of Morgana’s gaze, she crossed straight to the door and opened it.
“Braithe,” Arthur said. He smiled, and even as she bowed, he reached for her hand to press his lips to her fingers.
