Page 107 of The Faerie Morgana
The Blackbird lifted his head. “Of course, my lord. As you wish it.”
Mordred turned to Morgana. “I suppose I must arrange the funeral pyre.”
“No, my lord. That will not be necessary. There will be no pyre for King Arthur. The Lady has other plans.”
Braithe shot her a glance of surprise, but Morgana’s face told her nothing. The Blackbird, however, nodded. “The priestess will need a boat, my lord, and two men to carry the king to the dock.”
Mordred absorbed this, gazing down at his brother’s pale face. He said, “And a boatman?”
“No,” Braithe heard herself say, although she hadn’t thought it through. “No, my lord, we need no boatman. I will row.”
He blinked at her. “Can you do that?”
“I can,” she said firmly.And if I cannot, she thought,the Lady will guide us.
The Blackbird asked Morgana, before the two servingmen prepared to carry Arthur’s body down to the dock, if she thought a period of public mourning might have been preferable.
She gave him a bleak look. “Perhaps,” she said, her voice and face imbued with a deep weariness that would take years to erase. “But I have been told this is what the Lady commands.”
“Told? Told by whom?”
She didn’t answer, but he saw the flicker of a hawk’s wings passing the window, and he could guess.
Morgana had grown more fae through the years, he supposed. It seemed she learned as much in communion with the beasts and birds as she ever had under his tutelage. Her eyes were golden nearly all the time now, overcoming the rich brown of her childhood. She had grown leaner than ever, which made her look dramatically tall. It was hard to remember, but he didn’t think he had ever approached her height, even in his youth.
“Where are you taking him, Morgana?” he asked.
“There’s an ancient temple, built by the priests of old. He will rest there, and the fae will watch over him.”
“How do you know that?”
“I went there, two days ago, when I knew I could not save him.”
“You went there?” The Blackbird’s breath came suddenly short. “But I have not yet told you about the temple.”
She flashed him her golden gaze. “No.”
“Then how—”
“I saw the temple in the blade of the great sword when the sun shone in it.” He saw that she had taken the great sword from its pedestal. It was in its leather scabbard, and its point rested on the floor with its heavy hilt braced between her two hands. “The vision was perfect in every detail, as I learned when I traveled to the White City.”
“I suppose you changed your shape.”
“I traveled as an owl. I have done that before.” She rubbed her arms as if remembering what it felt like. “And I saw them. The fae. Not many of my people left, I suppose, but still there, tall women, a few men, most with silver hair.” A faint, sad smile touched her narrow lips. “They recognized me,” she said, her voice soft with melancholy. “They knew.”
“They have been waiting for you for a very long time.”
“Could I not have visited before?”
“Again, my dear Morgana, I wanted to wait until your maturity, but I have come to accept that we don’t have control over some events. You are still young, but your wisdom belongs to the ages.”
“I believe I am—what?—twenty-four, perhaps? Twenty-six? I don’t keep track.”
“Whatever the precise number, I have no doubt you will live many times that.”
Morgana tilted her head so that the high sun caught her silver braids and made them flash as if she wore a circlet of light. “And you, sir? How old are you?”
The Blackbird laughed, the dry, unresonant laugh of a very old man. “I lost count of the years long ago, Priestess. You will do the same.”
