Page 104 of The Faerie Morgana
Change is the only constant.
She would always wish, though, that the price of change—hers, the Blackbird’s, Lancelin’s, even Arthur’s—need not be tragedy.
40
The horns sounded late that day, when the sun had already sunk behind the western hills and the first stars had begun to shine above Camulod. Morgana knew instantly, without confirmation from Braithe and Loria, who were watching from the window, that they were not announcing a victory.
“The flags…” Braithe said. “Where are the flags?”
The great main gates were pulled open, and the stablemaster summoned his men to the keep. The warhorses, sweat-soaked and weary, plodded through, riders sagging in their saddles. Six men carried a litter just behind them. Sir Lancelin, recognizable by his height and leanness, walked beside it, one hand on the frame to steady it. He held his helmet under his arm, and his hair hung lank and dirty around his chin.
Braithe was right. No pennants flew above the returning fighters. No bugler joyfully announced the return of the king. A cart drawn by two oxen held the bodies of the slain, and a dozen injured men rode in another just behind.
Bran strode out into the keep to meet the party, and Braithe flew down the stairs to join the other staff as they gathered.Morgana followed more slowly, carrying her basket of salves and tinctures, and a fresh pile of bandages she had folded in her idle moments. Behind them Gwenvere still lay unresponsive. The Blackbird promised to remain beside her.
By the time Morgana reached the keep, everyone knew the king had been wounded. The whispers were urgent, soft, fearful. The inner circle of knights gathered around Arthur as he was lifted carefully from the litter and laid on a pallet to be carried to his room. Lancelin wore a bloodied bandage on one shoulder and limped painfully due to some invisible injury, but he refused to leave Arthur’s side. The wounded moaned and begged, and the smell of blood and filth filled the keep.
Morgana took up a position opposite Lancelin, looking down at the king as she walked beside his pallet.
Braithe tried to follow, but Morgana pressed her basket into Braithe’s hands. “See to the others,” she said tersely. “You know what to do. Get the maids to help you.”
Braithe slowed her steps, clearly reluctant. One of the wounded men, groaning in pain, called out, “Priestess! Priestess, please help me.” Braithe turned back to answer his call, Morgana’s basket braced on her hip.
Morgana gazed at Arthur’s still, white face. His fair hair was dark with blood and his tunic was soaked with it. The smell of it, like a copper pot left too long on a fire, rose to sting her nostrils. Arthur’s eyes opened briefly to meet hers, and she saw that he knew he was dying. She wanted to reassure him, to console him, but the lie would not pass her lips.
When she looked across the pallet at Lancelin, desperate tounderstand how this could have happened, she saw the charm. Her charm. The one she had created, had magicked with all her knowledge and power, to protect the true king. It hung now from Lancelin’s neck, and she whispered fiercely, nodding at it, “Why?”
The look Lancelin gave her was that of a broken man. There was neither arrogance nor pride in his eyes, and his chin trembled. He said, in a voice full of misery, “He made me wear it.”
A surge of fury made Morgana’s hands and heart shake. She wanted to shriek at him, to accuse him, to vent her growing despair on him. Somehow, gritting her teeth, she managed to rein herself in, to keep walking, to think only of what she might need to attempt to heal the king of his injuries.
Loria met them at the door to the king’s bedchamber. Morgana ordered, “Fetch the Blackbird.”
“He’s with the queen.”
“I do not care. I need him.”
It was Morgana’s second night in a row of no sleep, but she didn’t think about it. She did what she could to dress Arthur’s wounds, but he had lost a terrifying amount of blood. His hair and clothes and even his boots were soaked with it. She labored over him without ceasing, with the Blackbird on the opposite side of the bed. When she had given him a tincture of willowbark and poppy to ease his pain, and one of goldenseal to attempt to ward off the effects of being struck by unclean weapons, she brought out an unburned candle from her basket andset it on the bedside table. She could at least make a charm to strengthen him, to give him a bit of time.
To the Blackbird she said, her voice dry and hoarse from fatigue, “Had I known I was fae, perhaps I could have learned how to salvage a life that is draining away.”
“Even the fae cannot defy death, Morgana.”
“I cannot lose him, sir.”
“You can’t save him, Priestess.” She looked into his weary black eyes and saw the awful truth there. It was just as she had known when she first saw Arthur and recognized the terrible wounds he bore.
She knew without being told that the Blackbird would have laid down what was left of his own long life if it would help Arthur. She, too, would lay down her life to save the true king, but she knew of no way to effect such an exchange. Arthur would die, and she didn’t yet understand why.
She found the herbs she wanted and began to crush them into a powder. She stirred a bit of water into it and lit the candle to warm the mixture. She found an old, rusty amulet in her basket, unsuitable for a king, but it was all she had. When the mix had dissolved into a paste, she pressed it into the amulet and sealed it, then laid it on Arthur’s breast. Eased by her ministrations, he slept.
She stood looking down at him, her throat aching with sorrow. “I need to talk to Lancelin.”
“He has gone to assist Braithe.”
She hesitated, fearful of leaving Arthur alone for even a moment.
The Blackbird said, “I will fetch him for you, Priestess.” She cast him a sad, grateful glance, and nodded.
