Page 84 of The Faerie Morgana
Morgana hung up her robe and sigil and dropped her nightdress over her head. It was tempting to pour out the stones, to see what had called her handmaid away, but she passed the table without touching the cup. She loved Braithe too well to scry just to satisfy her curiosity. Surely, when Braithe was ready to tell her, she would.
She pulled her curtain against the wintry air seeping through her window and went to bed, but she lay awake for a long time, wondering again about Gwenvere. Should a queen not feel the same sense of duty as a king? Clearly this queen did not.
She twisted and turned beneath her blanket, irritated by the sense of strange forces moving beneath the surface of castle life.
And what darkness lurked above, in the Blackbird’s tiny chamber? How long could he keep his silence?
Braithe was not happy about keeping her secret from Priestess Morgana. She sometimes wished she had refused the Blackbird’s request. She should have told him that if he wanted to keep track of the queen, he could wear the charm himself!
Of course, he couldn’t do that. She was the only one who could reasonably follow Gwenvere when she left her chamber. She did not disagree with the Blackbird that there was danger there, but she wasn’t sure there was anything she could do about it.
Except watch. And that she did, whenever the charm trembled against her skin, growing warmer and warmer by the moment until she hurried to see where Gwenvere had gone, to discover what she was doing.
Her habit, since receiving this strange commission from the Blackbird, was to meet the queen emerging from her chamber. “Oh, my lady! One of the maids said you sent for me.”
“What?” Gwenvere would say. “What maid? I am only stepping out for some air.”
“Ah. What a good idea. Shall I accompany you?”
It was the only way she knew to do as she had been asked. She could feel Gwenvere’s resentment at her interference. Heat emanated from her slender body, not the warmth of affection or friendship but of anger. Still, the queen could hardly refuse, as she so often had demanded that Braithe be at her side all through the day and into the night.
On this night, Braithe was too late for subterfuge. She was just emerging from the stairwell when Gwenvere disappeared down the corridor toward the other chambers on her level of the tower. Aside from the queen’s own apartment, there were only three of them. One was where the king slept. Its door was firmly closed, and no light showed in the cracks around it. The second was the king’s council chamber, where the door stood open, but with no lamp or candle shining within.
The third, as Braithe had learned when she carried his charm to him, belonged to Sir Lancelin.
Braithe stepped into the open door of the council chamber to hide herself. She leaned out of the doorway just far enough that she could see Gwenvere, Arthur’s queen, open the door to Lancelin’s bedchamber and sidle in.
The Blackbird opened his door immediately, so quickly Braithe knew he had not been sleeping. He was bareheaded, and strands of his unbound gray hair fell down his chest to mingle with the long tresses of his beard, so she couldn’t see where some ended and others began. He was leaning on his staff, and she tried to recall if she had ever seen him without it. She had not.
“Braithe,” he croaked. He stepped aside to let her enter. His chamber was dimly lit by a thick candle, and the cold night air swept in through his uncurtained window, making the flame dance and tremble. “Something has happened?”
“Something, yes,” Braithe said. She pulled the door closed behind her and stood with her arms wrapped around herself against the icy breeze. “I have done what you asked, sir. But tonight—”
“Is Morgana all right?”
“Morgana, yes! I left her in her bedchamber. Then my charm summoned me, and I ran down the stairs. I was just in time to see the queen going into Sir Lancelin’s bedchamber.”
The Blackbird stiffened, and his hooded eyelids lifted to show the flash in his black eyes. “Lancelin!” he exclaimed. “Are you sure you were not mistaken?”
“I was not mistaken. I delivered something to him weeks ago, and Bran told me where his room is.”
“But I—” The old man scowled as he turned abruptly and moved to the table where the candle flame shivered in the cold.
Braithe recognized the cup of stones resting on the table. It matched the one Morgana kept, although this cup was far older, the rim of leather worn shiny by years of handling. She stepped close to watch as the Blackbird scattered the stones across the little table, then bent over them to read the pattern.
He stared down at the stones for a long time. “I am a fool,” he said under his breath.
Braithe had no idea what to say to that. It might be true. The years had perhaps caught up with the Blackbird. Perhaps itwasn’t possible to attain such a great age without some weakening of faculties.
“I knew she was a violent woman,” the Blackbird muttered. “But this—I should have guessed.”
“And the stones are telling you?”
“I will show you,” he said. She moved closer, and he pointed with his gnarled forefinger at the whorls and swoops the stones made. “These twists and turns show a woman of uncertain temperament, even of undue influence, if you will.” His finger moved. “This little pile, where the stones bump against each other, is the tangle of her feelings, anger and jealousy and fear of something, I don’t know what. Her emotions are like a thicket of brambles, where she can’t find her way out. And here…” His finger moved again, trembling with his own emotion over the stones. “Here is what I should have seen, the moment I laid these old eyes on her.”
Braithe peered at the curling stream of shining black and white, like a constellation of stars in a moonless sky. Somehow, the configuration of the stones meant something to her. It wasn’t a vision, but a perception. An insight. A conviction.
She said, “Something evil has tainted her spirit. She will never care for anyone or anything except herself. She has not the capability.”
