Page 89 of The Faerie Morgana
The door was thick and heavy. Now, with the wind battering it, it was almost impossible to open. Braithe pushed, and cursed, and pushed again. She felt a compulsion to hurry, to get out, to be present to what was happening. As a last resort shecried, “By the hand of the Lady, door, I command you to open!” She shoved again, and it swung wide.
Braithe nearly fell out into the storm. Only the force of the wind kept her upright. She saw them immediately, just steps away. Morgana stood like a windblown statue, her black robe swirling around her knees, her silver hair blending with the driving snowflakes. Gwenvere, swathed in Morgana’s fox fur cloak, huddled by the parapet, gripping it with both hands, her face distorted and grotesque. There was no trace of the beautiful queen in that face. Looking at her was like looking into the maw of a wolf.
Braithe’s heart clenched with a sudden terror. She left the door standing open as she moved toward them, clinging to the wall against the pressure of the tearing wind.
She knew they couldn’t hear her. She needed to be closer. She struggled along the parapet, desperate to call out, to warn Gwenvere off. She had just drawn breath when the queen, abruptly releasing her hold on the parapet, leaped forward.
Gwenvere struck Morgana with both hands and her head, deliberately and violently. She threw all her weight into her attack, and though she was a slight woman, her momentum drove her into Morgana’s body.
Morgana’s eyes widened, and her hands flew up, but she was too late. She stumbled backward. Her knees caught the edge of the parapet, and her long body swayed for an instant, out of balance, and then she fell. Braithe screamed her name into the fury of the wind. Gwenvere twisted to face her when she heard it and shouted an inaudible curse.
From Morgana there was nothing.
BOOK THREE
THE FAERIE MORGANA
35
Sobbing Morgana’s name, Braithe clung to the outer parapet and peered over. The wind had subsided almost instantly, which frightened her further. The storm had undoubtedly been Morgana’s doing, and now that she…
The snow fell more gently in the sudden, terrifying silence, drifting flakes instead of the ones that had thundered against the windows of the tower. Braithe bent far over the parapet, though the height made her head spin. She peered into the snow-spattered darkness, her heart thudding so hard she could barely hear anything but its desperate pounding.
Behind her, Gwenvere began screaming. It wasn’t her fault! The priestess had slipped! The storm had caused her to fall!
Braithe was distantly aware of the queen’s tirade, but she didn’t care what she was saying and didn’t respond. She was searching for some sign of Morgana.
The thing she spotted first was the priestess’s black robe. It floated slowly toward the ground, its folds spread wide like the wings of a great bird. It was outlined by snowflakes, and more flakes gathered on its surface as it drifted this wayand that on the dying wind, settling at last just beneath the wall.
Braithe cried, “Morgana! Where are you?”
In another moment she had her answer. A silver-gray dove spread her wings against the snowy backdrop, tilting right, then left, graceful and deliberate. She rose above the edge of the wall, high enough for her obsidian gaze to meet Braithe’s, and then she made a lazy half circle and flew off toward the forest.
Braithe’s tears were freezing on her cheeks, and her throat ached from calling for Morgana, but she hugged herself, shuddering with relief. Morgana would be safe. Gwenvere could not reach her. No one would know how she had escaped, or where she had gone. Even she, Braithe, would not know where she came to earth.
A cold claw of a hand gripped her elbow and pulled her back from the parapet. “Say nothing!” Gwenvere shrilled. “You will say nothing, or I will—I will have you banished!”
When Braithe pulled her arm free, she felt the queen’s sharp nails scratch her skin. She would have liked to slap Gwenvere’s hand—or her face—but she restrained herself. “There will be no need. I will no longer live in Camulod while you remain!”
“Arthur will order you!” Gwenvere snapped. She hugged the fur cloak around her. “Who do you think you are? I am your queen, and you will—”
“You are not my queen.” Braithe spoke through gritted teeth. “And if you don’t get out of my way, I will go to the king and tell him you are a traitoress.”
“You won’t!” But Gwenvere stepped to one side. Her cheekswere an unbecoming red, and her wind-tousled hair hung in ugly tangles around her shoulders. “I know you won’t, Braithe,” she said, her tone suddenly moderating, confiding. “I will pay you. I will see to it you have everything you want. Here, take this cloak!” She pulled off the fur and held it out.
Braithe made no move to take it. “Your husband gave that to his half sister as a gift. Would you like to explain to him why you have it? And tell him what has become of Priestess Morgana?”
“I told you, she slipped.” The hot flush of Gwenvere’s cheeks receded all at once, and her eyes flooded with convincing tears. “This is terrible, Braithe!” Her voice rose to the naive, childish tone she had perfected, and two perfectly natural-looking tears slid down her now-white face. She put out her hand, the fingers shaking. “Oh, Braithe, don’t you think we should go down, look for her? Maybe there’s a chance—”
Braithe spat in her face.
When Braithe stepped back through the door into the tower, leaving Gwenvere in shocked silence, she found the Blackbird waiting on the landing.
“What’s happened?” he croaked. “I saw it again, Gwenvere attacking Morgana. Were you not watching?”
Braithe hurried to him and put her hand under his arm. “Come, sir,” she said in an undertone. “We must talk, but not here. She’s coming.”
“Who?” He looked past her, and she felt anxiety shiver through his flesh into her hand. “Is it Morgana?”
