Page 51 of The Faerie Morgana
Seek not for answers. They will find you.
“Sometimes the words of the Lady are beyond my comprehension,” Morgana said.
“Often.” Braithe smiled at the thought as she bent to replace her sandals. “We should go to dinner, Priestess.”
“Very well.” Morgana also slipped her feet back into her sandals and tied the laces. They rose and began to walk side by side up the slope toward the Temple.
They had just reached the Temple grounds when Braithe said unexpectedly, “Don’t laugh, Priestess, but this stanza—I think I understand it.”
Morgana raised her eyebrows. “Do you indeed?”
A blush warmed Braithe’s freckled cheeks, but she nodded. “I think so.”
“Tell me.”
“It seems to me—that is—”
“Now, brat, there is no need to be shy about it. Share your insight with me.”
“It seems to me that it means today’s sorrow may be tomorrow’s joy.” Braithe shrugged. “Because the answers will find you in their own time.”
Morgana paused, midstride, and turned to look down at her handmaid. “By the hand of the Lady, Braithe. That is a profound reflection.”
Braithe looked up at her, suddenly grinning, all seriousness evaporating. “Do you think so? Well, good! I hope I remember it!”
BOOK TWO
MORGANA THE WITCH
21
In the early days of the fourth year of his reign, King Arthur decided to marry.
Morgana was one of the first on the Isle of Apples to learn of this. Niamh sent Braithe to fetch her, and she attended the elder priestess in the inner chamber as soon as she had finished with the day’s petitioners. She was tired, because there had been complex requests that needed intricate instructions and carefully prepared tinctures, as well as one tiny but powerful charm, which always sapped her energy.
When she stepped into the room she was surprised to find the elder priestess sitting alone in her official chair. Morgana inclined her head to her, and Niamh raised a hand in acknowledgment. Morgana crossed to her own chair and settled into it, stretching out her long legs with a weary sigh.
“Do you need refreshment?” Niamh asked. Her voice had gotten higher and thinner in the past year, a sound like the scraping of windblown branches on stone. “Dafne is just outside.”
“She is going to bring me some cider. It was a long day.”
“Profitable?”
“Mostly. Some were modest, but one or two substantial purses.”
“Good. Good. Because—” The old priestess sighed and leaned on one elbow as she gazed into Morgana’s face. “Because you are going to Camulod, and we don’t know how long you will be away.”
Morgana had relaxed in her chair, but now she straightened, her eyebrows rising. Her brows had remained dark, despite the silvering of her hair. The contrast surprised her on the rare occasion she saw her own reflection. “Why—” she began, but Dafne came into the room, interrupting her.
When Dafne had served her a cup of cider, with a bit of bread and cheese alongside it, and another for Niamh, she departed. Morgana picked up her cup. “Something has happened, I gather.”
“Yes. Well, something is going to happen.” Niamh propped her chin on her fist and watched Morgana with canny black eyes beneath heavy wrinkled lids. “Your half brother has decided to take a wife.”
“Oh!” Morgana had lifted the cup to her lips, but she lowered it again. “Oh, Arthur is—has he a maid in mind?”
“He has already negotiated with her family, I am told. Her father is from the western reaches, a modest holding, I hear, but he sent four knights from his demesne to serve the king at Camulod.”
“And the girl?” Now Morgana did take a deep draught of the cider and cradled the cup in her long fingers. This was news sheshould have expected, of course. Arthur was twenty, and it was time for him to marry.
