Page 78 of The Faerie Morgana
Braithe took a few steps toward the door that led to the staircase, but she stopped and turned, her hurt and resentment too intense to resist. “I don’t understand her!” she cried. “Why should she be so unhappy? She has everything! She is beautiful, she is the queen, and she has—” She broke off, stopping herself before she could say it.
“She has Arthur,” Morgana finished for her.
Braithe’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “She has Arthur. Beautiful, kind, good King Arthur, who adores her. But none of it is enough.” Braithe gazed out at the mountains beginning to disappear in the dusk, and a sigh rose from deep in her chest. “If I had even one part of such good fortune… You can’t understand what it’s like, Priestess, to—to love someone you can never have.”
“Oh, brat,” Morgana said. “Perhaps I understand better than you think.”
When Braithe left to go to the queen with the news, Morgana sat on, watching the beauty of the white stars awakening in the black sky. She had almost told Braithe of her most shameful private thoughts. She caught herself just in time, but it was tempting to speak everything, as if Braithe were her equal. The truth was that there was no one who was her equal. Well, except the Blackbird, but it seemed he was lost to her. Occasionally she thought of climbing the stairs to his room to see if he would speak with her, but then she remembered what he had said, how angry he had been, how bleak and cold his eyes had looked. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bear the thought that he might close his door in her face.
There was no one she could confide in. No one she could tell how her heart had leaped in her breast at the sight of the tallest knight, who could only be Lancelin, riding behind the king, well and whole.
Morgana had always been a creature of discipline. She disciplined her skills. She disciplined her behavior. She had always disciplined her thoughts, too, but that hadn’t been difficult. Somehow she had reached adulthood without having inappropriate or rebellious thoughts, except for minor moments of resistance against her staid teachers, or her slower-witted sister priestesses. The thoughts intruding on her mind now caught her by surprise. They shook her trust in her own character. She wished she had someone to advise her what it all meant. And what she should do about it.
She paced along the courtine, seeking respite in movement. She did not enjoy self-examination. She had never suffered anydoubt about her role in life, or the strength of her devotion to it. She had always been proud—arrogant even, as the Blackbird had said—but she had never failed in her duty to the king, to the Temple, to the petitioners who sought her help. And yet now—
She spun about and began to pace back the way she had come, her breath whistling in her throat. The night had grown cold, and the fragrance of the first autumn fires burning in grates sifted up to where she walked. It was good that she had things to do, preparations to make, instructions to give in advance of the return of the war band. If she went to her chamber, lay in her bed, the thoughts she didn’t want to have would surge up. She would see his lean face, remember his dark eyes, sense the heat of his body near her own. She would dream of him, dream of what could never be, and she didn’t think she could bear it.
This, she understood now, was what Braithe felt. She had considered it to be her handmaid’s weakness, to feel so about a man.
Now it was her weakness, too, and Morgana found herself humbled in the face of it.
31
The Blackbird had a lacquered blue bowl in his room that he kept full of water for the purpose of scrying. Despite the undeniable weakening of his deep sight over the years, when he looked into the shimmer of the water, he also saw Arthur and his band returning, the pennant of victory flying proudly above them.
He had seen something else, too, and that worried him. It had kept him wakeful all through the night.
The Blackbird had hardly set foot outside of his small chamber at the top of the western tower in weeks, but now he asked Marcus, the servingman who had been waiting upon him in his aerie, to find Braithe. She was usually at Gwenvere’s side, but he hoped she could visit him before the triumphant fighters returned. Marcus carried away his message and returned with word that Braithe would come to him as soon as she had assisted dressing the queen.
The Blackbird had never paid much attention to the way women looked. He was more or less indifferent to whether they were old, young, tall, short. He had always had trouble with theconcept of feminine beauty, no doubt because of his lifelong habit of disinterest. He understood, in a vague way, that the priestess Morgana was a striking woman, especially since her long hair had turned silver, but it was not something he thought about.
He was startled, then, when Braithe arrived at his door, by her appearance. Her fair curls clung to her freckled cheeks, and her blue eyes were clear and wide. She was delightfully plump, and when she smiled a greeting, she flashed charming dimples. Morgana’s little handmaid had grown up while he had secluded himself.
Her manners matched. She bowed courteously and said, “Sir, I was glad to receive your request. It’s good to see you looking well.”
The Blackbird harrumphed and made some response, but he was pleased. It had not been planned that Morgana should have a handmaid, but this girl had been a good choice to assist the priestess, and she had acquired impressive poise. It was too bad the queen should take up so much of her time, but the Blackbird had reason to believe that would not continue for much longer. It was for this reason he had summoned her.
“Sit.” His voice was dry and thin in his own ears, and he supposed he should use it more often. He pointed at a stool beside his tiny table.
“Thank you, sir,” Braithe said, as if it had been a polite invitation.
The Blackbird slumped opposite her, gripping his staff. His chair had uneven legs and rocked beneath him when he settled into it. “I need your assistance, Braithe,” he said.
She tilted her head, assessing this. “Do you mean you wish me to ask the priestess to help with something?”
“No!” he said, with too much force. Braithe blinked, but she didn’t flinch. No doubt having to serve the fractious queen had taught her to hold her composure. Truly, she had become a polished young lady. He said, in a milder tone, “No. It is you I need in this case.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“You are no doubt aware that I occasionally scry,” he said.
“I am.” Her eyes were steady, and her hands relaxed in her lap. Usually his presence made people nervous, but nothing in her demeanor gave that away.
“I have seen something that alarms me,” he said.
Braithe’s brow furrowed suddenly, and the façade of her composure cracked, just a bit. “Not the king?”
“As it happens, no.” Her brow smoothed again. He supposed that, like Morgana, she felt that the safety of the true king mattered above all else. It was another admirable quality, and he felt a flicker of something like affection for the girl.
