Page 77 of The Faerie Morgana
“I’ll do it,” Braithe said. “I hope the king and his knights slaughter them to the last man, every evil Saxon, and I will make an intention that it be so.”
“You will use no magic to that end,” Morgana said tersely.
Braithe glanced at the priestess’s grim face. “I have none to use.”
Morgana eyes flashed pure gold. “I believed that once, brat. I no longer do.”
Braithe sensed Morgana’s anxiety as the king’s absence, and that of his knights, lengthened, and she shared it. They were busy for a time with the refugees, but once Bran had settled those people in rooms beneath the inner curve of the wall, there was little to do but worry. Several times, when she could escape Gwenvere’s demands, Braithe found the priestess scattering the stones, peering into their patterns for answers. If she received any, she didn’t say.
Ten days passed, and all of Camulod grew uneasily quiet. One afternoon Braithe, sent to fetch a cup of cider for the queen, came upon Morgana alone in the kitchen. A vat of broth bubbled on the hob in the enormous fireplace, and Morgana crouched before it, her black robe falling in folds around her knees as she gazed into the steam.
Braithe said, “Priestess?” but Morgana threw up a hand for silence. Braithe stood where she was, her hands pressed together before her breast. She narrowed her eyes, wishing she could perceive what it was that Morgana saw in the billows of steam, but she saw only waves of moisture rising from the hot vat to dissipate against the timbered ceiling.
One of the kitchen maids appeared in the doorway, and a moment later, two more joined her. Braithe motioned to them to stay back. Wide-eyed, they obeyed, clustering in the corridor in respectful silence. For once, Braithe was glad they all believed her to be a priestess. It created the illusion of authority.
At last, when it seemed Morgana’s knees must begin to cramp, the priestess clapped her hands together and pushed herself to her feet. She saw the servants lined up in the corridor, waiting to come in, and she nodded to them. “Thank you,” she said gravely. “You will be glad to know that the king is on his way back to Camulod, and he is victorious.”
A maid, who Braithe thought had an attachment to one of the lackeys, burst out, “Is everyone safe?”
Morgana had started out of the kitchen, but in the corridor she paused before the maid, who blushed furiously under her regard. “I wish I could tell you that,” Morgana said. “I cannot see such details.”
The girl held Morgana’s gaze, but tears spilled down her plain face, and the woman next to her put an arm around her shoulders. “At least,” the girl said, in a voice on the point of breaking, “victory for the king.”
“Yes,” Morgana said. “We will know the details soon enough. Try not to worry.”
Braithe, forgetting Gwenvere’s cider, followed Morgana up the stairs. She was surprised when Morgana climbed past the level of her bedchamber and went on until she reached the door that led out onto the courtine. The priestess didn’t pause until she reached a bench that faced the mountains to the south, a place Braithe had not seen before. She settled herself and patted the spot next to her to invite Braithe to do the same.
Summer was fading, burnishing the hazel and alder leaves in the forest around the castle. Braithe, croft-born-and-bred, recognized the difference in the slant of the light, especially asevening began to close in. Everything took on a golden hue, the harbinger of autumn, beginning the slow farewell to sunny days and warm soil beneath the feet.
She wondered what her mother was doing now, or her brothers and sisters. It would be harvesttime, with hay to cut and pile in round stacks for the winter, wood to collect against the coming cold. They would be sunburned, hungry from their labors, exhausted at the end of each day. Did they have enough to eat? Did they ever think of her? By this time they could have forgotten there was ever another girl in the house.
Diffidently, should Morgana not care to speak of it, she asked, “What did you see in the steam?”
Morgana didn’t answer at first, and when she did, her voice was deep and soft and sad. “I saw the king, and the banner-bearer just behind him.” That was the sign of victory, Braithe knew. “Lancelin was there, and most of the knights.” She sighed. “There was a cart bearing the wounded, perhaps a dozen. And another laden with bodies.”
“Ours?”
“If they were Saxons, they would have left them where they fell.”
Braithe ventured to ask something she never had. “Are you sometimes sorry for having used your deep sight?”
“Sometimes. Not today.” Morgana shifted, folding her arms around her lean middle. “We will be ready. Graves already dug. Beds for the wounded.” She turned her head to Braithe. “I should speak to the queen, I suppose. Tell her there is good news, tell her what we need to do to prepare.”
“I can do that for you.”
Morgana nodded. “That would be best.”
“I’m not sure she cares, in truth,” Braithe said.
“Everyone cares about something,” Morgana answered.
Braithe pushed herself to her feet. “Some of us care too much,” she said, and flushed a little at the bitterness in her own voice.
“I know, brat. I am sorry.”
“I will go and tell her the news, Priestess.”
Morgana stood, too. “And I will start the preparations.”
