Page 99 of The Faerie Morgana
“Seeing us—seeingme—will shock her. She must believe I am dead, or else she truly believes I am a witch. Either way, my turning up just now will terrify her. Like most bullies she has no real courage, and she will suspect I know what she is.”
As they reached the farmer’s gate, Braithe asked, “Do you have a plan, Priestess?”
“Not much of one. I suppose I will have to try reason.”
“I will not return to her service.”
“No.” Morgana spoke their names to the guard, and the gate swung open. “You are no longer her companion or her servant, but having been those things, you know everything about her. You must take care. She will fear you, too, and that is dangerous.”
Braithe glanced back at the Blackbird, hobbling behind them as they moved through the narrow gate. “And the Blackbird?” she asked softly.
“Oh, yes. Everyone fears the Blackbird.”
Word quickly spread that the Blackbird, the priestess, and the priestess’s handmaid had returned. Bran hastily assembled a greeting party that gathered on the step just below the lesserhall. Marcus was there, looming above the kitchen maids. He bowed to Morgana and the Blackbird as if they were the king and queen, and the maids waved shyly at Braithe.
There was a grim air about the castle that made Morgana’s neck prickle. Bran stood stiffly, pushing at his gray hair with his fingers, uncertain of his duties in this matter. Morgana could guess Gwenvere would not be happy with the steward if he offered them hospitality.
After a moment of consternation, it seemed Bran made his decision. He stopped ruffling his hair and said, as if it were any other visit, “Priestess Morgana, will you require the same apartment?”
She said, “I would appreciate it.”
He turned to the Blackbird. “Sir? Your room has been shut up all this winter. If you can wait a bit, I will have it aired.”
The Blackbird grunted assent.
Bran turned to Braithe and hesitated. Her position in the household had always confounded him. “Braithe,” he began. “I am so sorry, but—”
She flashed her dimples at him. “A pallet in Priestess Morgana’s apartment will serve me well.”
He gave her a grateful nod. “I will arrange it.” He glanced around, rubbing his hands together. “Well, there are a few things that will need to be done. Perhaps you would like to have something to drink while we—”
“No, thank you, Bran.” Morgana thought it best to go straight to it. Delay would not make it easier. “While you make your arrangements, we will call on the queen.”
Bran began ruffling his hair again. The maids glanced uneasily at each other. Tension emanated from the staff, making Braithe sidle closer to Morgana. Even the Blackbird felt it, straightening his back and scowling at everyone and everything.
Bran led the way to the staircase that would take them up to the royal chambers. The air grew darker as they climbed higher, though spring sunshine glimmered on the floorboards and warmed the stone walls. Morgana had seen such a thing in the Temple when one of the priestesses was ill. This, she supposed, was due to Gwenvere’s evil temper. All of Camulod would be affected.
The door to the council chamber was shut, as was the door to the king’s bedchamber, but the queen’s apartment door stood open. At the sound of their approach, the maid Loria peered out of the doorway. With a little gasp, she quickly withdrew back into the room.
The Blackbird hung back to let Morgana and Braithe lead the way into the apartment. They found Gwenvere standing in the center of the room, but she took an involuntary step back when she saw Morgana. “You!” she whispered. Her cheeks reddened and then paled.
“I,” Morgana said dryly.
“But you fell,” Gwenvere blurted. “I saw you!”
“I was pushed,” said Morgana. “As you know better than anyone.”
Gwenvere’s hands came up to her temples. She took another step backward, as if to deny what her eyes were telling her. Her voice was thin and uncertain. “It was a great height, yet—yet you are alive.”
“As you see.” Morgana did nothing to moderate the edge in her voice. The sight of Gwenvere in her Roman gown and the coronet she did not deserve ignited a fire in Morgana’s breast that made her long to wield the Blackbird’s staff. She gripped her sigil with both hands, seeking self-control.
“How can that be?” Gwenvere quavered. “That you are—that you still—”
“I am not so easily defeated, Gwenvere,” Morgana said, deliberately leaving out her title. “You misjudged me.”
Gwenvere straightened, lifting her chin, obviously trying to gain command of the situation. Her voice was still strained, but stronger. “Witchcraft, isn’t it? That’s what saved you? Witchcraft!”
“Perhaps witchcraft is why I know what you have done. What you are.”
