Page 9 of The Faerie Morgana
Morgana gave her a sidelong glance. “My half brother is pretty enough. But all kings?”
Braithe laughed and shrugged, and Morgana tipped up her face again, remembering, speaking almost to herself. “The Blackbird has always watched me. Even when I first arrived, when I was crying myself to sleep at night and huddling in a corner of the workroom, missing my home and my mother, I felt his eyes on me. When I lost my temper with one of the other acolytes and caused a jar to fall on her head—withouthaving touched it—he stopped the acolyte mistress from punishing me. From that day forward, he was my only teacher.
“The other acolytes were jealous. They pinched me when no one was looking, or put flies in my bed, or pulled my hair.”
“Oh!” Braithe exclaimed. “Nothing that mean has happened to me—well, Priestess Iffa is quick with a slap if I’m slow in answering, but no one else troubles me.”
“I am glad of that. Such cruelty is pointless, but children…” Morgana waved one long-fingered hand, as if to brush away everything she had just said.
“I wish they had not treated you so.”
“Ah, well. It is far behind me now. In any case, the Blackbird tutored me himself, and when he found that I remembered everything he taught me, he worked me harder. I have learned Latin, some Greek, even a bit of Saxon. I could converse with those Romans who threaten to overrun Lloegyr. I could curse the Saxon barbarians in their own tongue.” She grimaced, and her voice hardened. “I would quite like to do that one day. They are everything evil in the world.”
A dragonfly, as blue as the lake, as delicate as a single willow frond, descended from the holm oak and hung, wings aflutter, in front of Morgana’s face. Morgana tilted her head, watching him. The little creature came closer, so close his fragile wings nearly brushed her nose.
Morgana whispered, “I am fine, little brother. Thank you. Off with you, now,” and the dragonfly flitted away, circling once before ascending back into the holm oak.
Braithe’s mouth hung open as she watched his progress.When he was gone, she blinked in amazement at Morgana. “How— What just happened?”
“The dragonfly? He came to calm me. Because when I think of the Saxons—” She spread her hands and blew out a breath. “And now I am calm.”
“Adragonfly? I don’t understand!” Braithe cried. Two spots of uncomfortable pink appeared in her cheeks.
Morgana put a hand on her arm. “It is nothing to be afraid of, brat. Nothing for you to worry about. When one is such as I, these things are not uncommon.”
“When one is such as you!” Braithe repeated. “Where is there anyone such as you?”
Morgana fell silent as she pondered the question. “I have no idea,” she said, at length. “I have always known I was different. Odd, even. Strange that I should be the only one.”
“You’re not alone, though,” Braithe said stoutly. “I am here beside you.”
“I thank you for that. It mystifies me that I should have been made this way. In any case, I have strayed from my tale, have I not?”
“The true king.”
“I never met him until that day in the Temple.” She turned her gaze out to the lake once again. “Though I knew he existed. My mother nearly died bearing him, and then she did die with her next babe. The babe did, too. I understood my half brother would one day inherit my father’s crown, but that was all. Then, when the Blackbird brought me to the lake for my first lesson in scrying, we both had a surprise.” She paused, remembering. “I had been scrying for years without knowing it.
“The mist was heavy on the lake that day. We were on that flat bit of beach on the other side of the garden, the one with those thick roots growing up through the earth. We sat on one of those roots, and it curved so high my feet barely reached the ground. The Blackbird had to lean on his staff to lower himself to it.
“He pointed his staff at the mist. ‘Now, Morgana. When I concentrate, I see things against the fog, and I hope you will learn to do that. It’s called scrying. Right now, I see—’
“I interrupted him, although I had not meant to. ‘I see a boy on a horse. He carries a spear and a sword, and he wears a crown.’
“The Blackbird nearly dropped his staff, and those gray eyebrows flew up his forehead. He said, ‘What?’
“I answered, ‘Is that not what you see, sir?’
“He stared at me for a long time before he said, ‘It may be. But your vision is your own.’
“I asked him what it meant, and he answered, ‘Only the scryer can say its meaning, Morgana. Gaze at the scene, and try not to think too hard about it. The answer may come to you.’
“And it did, Braithe. It came to me clearly, although I did not grasp how important the answer was.”
Braithe gazed at her, rapt. “What was it? What was the answer?”
“Words came into my head. They were not my words, and they were spoken in some way only I could hear, so I repeated them for the Blackbird. ‘The one true king. Arthur Dragoun.’
“The Blackbird turned as white as that rock.” She pointed to one of the pale stones strewn about the boulder they sat on. “And that was the end of that day’s lesson.”
