Page 110 of The Faerie Morgana
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The voyage to the Isle of Apples was slower and gentler than the trip to fae country had been. Morgana and Braithe floated through the darkness in silence, nodding sleepily as the Lady’s magic propelled them. They drifted smoothly through the circle of mist and reached the familiar little beach and the ancient dock just as the sun rose to gleam on the waters of Ilyn and pick out the tiny wildflowers blooming here and there along the shore.
To Morgana’s surprise, Niamh was waiting for them in the fragile early-morning light. She stood with her hands clasped before her, her gray braids falling over her shoulders. She lifted her head as they climbed out of the boat, and her black eyes, usually sharp, glittering with temper, were softer, weary and accepting.
“Priestess,” Morgana said, bowing her head to her elder. “We are home.” She carried the great sword in her two hands.
Niamh raised a gray eyebrow at the sight of it but made no comment. She said only, “The Isle is glad to see you back, Priestess Morgana.” She nodded to Braithe. “And you, Braithe. We have heard the sad news from Camulod.”
A fresh upsurge of grief pierced Morgana’s breast. “A tragedy for Lloegyr.”
Niamh inclined her head in agreement, then gestured up the slope, leading the way with stiff, short steps through the herb garden toward the residence. “Dafne has prepared an early breakfast for you both. I will sit with you, if I may, and hear your account.”
“Of course,” Morgana said.
“Kind of you and Dafne,” Braithe offered. “Priestess Morgana needs rest, also. Which I shall see to,” she added, with an air of asperity.
Niamh made a sound that might have been a chuckle, or it might have been critical of the handmaid giving orders, but she pressed on.
They passed two acolytes with trowels and buckets, coming down to work in the herb garden, but otherwise saw no one. The dormitory was nearly silent, and the residence completely so. Niamh led them to the kitchen, where Dafne waited with cups of cider and a simmering pot of porridge. Fresh hen’s eggs, boiled and peeled, filled a small bowl, and a loaf of bread lay on a board with a knife and a dish of butter. Despite her fatigue, Morgana’s mouth watered at the sight of all of it. It was very good to be home.
Not until they had each eaten a bowl of porridge and a salted egg did Niamh speak again. “I gather, Priestess Morgana,” she said in her creaking voice, “that you have been to fae country.”
“In a way,” Morgana said. She put her spoon down and folded her arms, remembering the fog that covered the shoreof fae country, and how the fae themselves seemed to emerge from it as if they were created by the mist. “We docked on their shore, and they were waiting for us. They took the king’s body and promised to watch over it, but we were not invited to follow them.”
“Probably best,” Niamh said.
Braithe started, and turned to her. “Why, Priestess?”
“The Lady had good reason to banish the fae from Lloegyr. They can be capricious and cruel. They think of us as weak, short-lived. More like pets than people.”
Morgana saw Dafne turn to give Niamh a look that blazed with some unspoken emotion. She picked up her cup, wondering what that was about.
She let Niamh’s remark go unanswered. The Temple had no idea that she was fae, and she saw no point in telling them. They found enough reasons to resent her without knowing her true nature.
“And so,” Niamh said. “Will you return to Camulod?”
“No,” Morgana said. “I am no longer needed there.”
“And the Blackbird?”
“He has pledged to stay and support the new king. The boy king.”
“And you?”
“I,” Morgana said, her voice going very deep, “will replace the great sword in the stone, to await the coming of the next true king.”
“Ah,” Niamh sighed. “How sad that neither of us will live to see it.”
Morgana busied herself cutting a slice of cheese so she didn’t have to respond.
When their breakfast was over, Niamh went out to speak to the other priestesses about Morgana’s return, and to ask Olfreth to rearrange the Temple schedule to include her. Morgana and Braithe rose from the table, ready to make their way to Morgana’s room. Braithe went ahead to see to bedding and towels and a basin of wash water. Morgana, burdened by the heavy sword, moved more slowly toward the door.
She stopped when she found Dafne—silent, swift, efficient Dafne—standing in her way. The older woman’s thin face was drawn, and her lips worked as if she were trying to speak. “Dafne,” Morgana said. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Dafne pointed to her throat with one shaking finger and mouthed in a hoarse, voiceless whisper, “Give it back.”
Morgana, still burdened by the sword, led Dafne to the inner room. It was empty at this hour, all the priestesses engaged elsewhere. Morgana laid the sword gently on the floor before she took her chair and looked across the low table at Dafne. “Dafne, the only way I will know what it is you want, or why you believe I am able to give it to you, is to scry. Do I have your permission to do that? Or are there secrets you would rather keep?”
