Page 92 of The Faerie Morgana
Could that be the Blackbird? Relief and gratitude brought Morgana to her knees, where she waited, shivering and sick, for her rescue to arrive.
36
During her long recuperation from her flight from Camulod, Morgana saw no one but Braithe. Niamh came to her door every day, bringing food or a cup of broth in her own hands, but she was not admitted. Others came with worried faces, remembering the last time the priestess had been so ill, when everyone in the Temple thought she might die. Morgana asked Braithe to reassure them that she was not as sick as all that, but still not feeling up to speaking to anyone. She asked once if the Blackbird had come, but Braithe shook her head, hard-eyed, pinch-lipped.
Morgana made no comment on his absence. She barely stirred from her bed for three days, sleeping, waking to eat, sometimes simply lying still and pondering what had happened. She couldn’t seem to get warm enough, even when perspiration dripped from her temples and her hands and feet seemed to burn. The cold was in her bones, in her heart and her belly, as if her hours huddled in the snow had frozen something in the very center of her.
Once, as she lay staring blankly at her window, Braithe cameto sit beside her bed. She sat quietly for a moment, and Morgana felt her gaze on her. Braithe said at last, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Morgana turned her head to savor the sight of her pretty handmaid’s bright curls, her round cheeks. “Perhaps,” she said. “It is such a strange thing to try to comprehend.” Her gaze slipped back to the window, where the sky was a cold, hard blue. “She tried to kill me. She meant it to happen.”
“She did.”
“Had I been someone else, someone different, my body would be lying broken beneath the courtine.”
“Yes.”
“How can such a woman remain queen of Lloegyr?” Morgana still watched the unfeeling sky, and had the odd sense that the answer should be there somewhere.
“I don’t know.”
Morgana turned her eyes back to Braithe. “Do you understand what she is?”
Braithe met her gaze directly and spoke with grave deliberation. “I think so, Priestess. I think Gwenvere is a changeling.”
Morgana gave a tiny nod. “Changeling,” she agreed, and breathed a long sigh. “I should have seen it. Should have known. I cannot imagine why I did not.”
“I think I know that, too, Priestess.”
“Tell me, then, brat.”
“She magicked you. And Arthur. And Lancelin, even the Blackbird.”
“But not you?”
“I doubt she thought I was important enough to bother with.”
Morgana tried not to sigh again, but she couldn’t help it. She had escaped Gwenvere’s reach, but Arthur had not, nor was Lloegyr safe from the changeling queen. “I wish I knew what to do.”
“You still need rest, Priestess. Perhaps your mind will be clear when you feel like yourself.”
Morgana nodded. “Wise as always, little Braithe. My surprising brat.”
Braithe didn’t blush at the compliment as she used to do. She looked, in fact, as solemn as Morgana felt. They sat on together in silence, letting the problem hang in the air between them, unresolved.
On the fourth day Morgana woke to a sun-filled sky glittering off what remained of the snow. She sat up and pushed off the excessive blankets. Braithe was still there, as she had been from the beginning. Seeing Morgana rouse she exclaimed, “You’re feeling better!”
Morgana smiled, warmed even more by affection for her. “I am, brat. Thank you for staying by me.” Braithe brought her a cup of hot cider, and she drank it straight down. “And now,” she announced, “I am getting out of this bed.”
Braithe helped her to wash and dress, and plaited her hair, in her joy insisting on an elaborate pattern that created a shining fall of silver from her temples and crown.
Morgana stepped out into the corridor of the residence andwandered into the deserted Temple. She paused at the stone, resting still in the center, a silent reminder of the past. She touched it with her fingers and bowed her head for a moment, remembering. Arthur had needed her help on that day. He needed it again now, but would he allow her to offer it? She doubted he would believe the truth about his queen, and the effort might break the trust between herself and her half brother. That, she feared, would break her heart.
She left the Temple and strolled down the slope toward the herb garden. The sun had melted most of the snow, leaving only scraps of white under the bushes and in the holm oak’s shade. There were hints of spring in the furled buds and shy new leaves here and there. She savored the smell of lavender, though its spears were still winter gray. The thyme needed tilling, but she would leave that to Niamh. Despite her worries for Arthur, and for Camulod, it nourished her to be home once again. It made her stronger to feel the Isle’s soil beneath her feet, and it calmed her spirit to hear the subtle wash of the waves against the beach.
It was a much simpler place than the castle. The conflicts here were straightforward: girls competing with each other, priestesses wrangling over this or that obscure principle, a procession of supplicants who brought their problems to the Isle and departed soon after. She looked up into the cloud of mistletoe clinging to the bare branches of the holm oak. She was just thinking that some of it should be harvested soon when she heard his voice.
She made herself turn at a deliberate pace to hide her eagerness. It was indeed he. Her heart lifted, and her spirit swelledwithin her, filling her body and brain until they felt as if they would burst. She did not know why he had not come sooner, but she trusted that now she would understand, and the relief of that made her eyes sting.
