Page 109 of The Faerie Morgana
The tallest of the four women moved ahead of the others as the little group came to a halt. She spoke in a voice even deeper than Morgana’s. “Is this the true king?”
“It is, sister.”
“And you are the Lady’s daughter?”
“So I am told.”
One of the other fae spat in the sand. The first one didn’t look back, but she held up one long-fingered hand. “The Blackbird says this is so, sister. We will not argue.” She lifted her chin in Morgana’s direction. “Why do you bring Arthur to us?”
“The Lady inspired me.”
The woman who had spat said, “The Lady you claim is your mother?”
Morgana gave her a steady look. “Have I said so?”
“This doesn’t matter,” the first one said. “All that matters is that you have entrusted the body of the true king to our temple. We will keep it safe from curious eyes.”
“I must take the sword to the Isle of Apples, though,” Morgana warned.
“For what purpose?”
“To await the next true king.”
“And when will that man come?”
“No one knows.”
The testy one said, “And if it’s a woman?”
“Then,” Morgana said evenly, “she will be the true queen, and I will serve her with all my heart.”
Braithe trembled with awe as she watched this exchange. All the tales of the fae she had heard in her childhood came rushing back at the sight of these terrifying creatures. Their robes were as gray as the fog, making their harsh faces and waist-length hair loom out of the mist like phantoms. They swayed as they walked, and their eyes glittered, catlike, shining with power and malice. They were the demons that parents warned their children would come for them if they didn’t behave. She told herself Morgana would protect her, would not allow them to enslave her or trade her for something they wanted, but she could believe that these women—if they could be called that—would not hesitate to use one frightened girl for their secret rituals, sacrifice, debauchery, or simply entertainment.
The tallest faerie left the others behind, standing in pools of mist that swirled about their knees. She stepped up to Morgana and peered into her face. Braithe shrank back, wishing she could disappear.
“You look like her,” the faerie said.
“The Blackbird says this, too.”
“Is he well, our mage?”
“Well enough. Greatly aged, but sometimes he sheds his age as if it were nothing but a disguise.”
“Yes. I have seen this.” The faerie looked past Morgana at the body of Arthur, lying as if carved of granite in the center of the boat. “I suppose there was no saving him.”
“I did all I could.”
“No doubt.” The faerie raised a hand to her sisters on the shore. They came down the slope, sinister shapes of gray and silver, and bent to lift the bier between them. Morgana stepped between them to take the sword from Arthur’s hands and set it point down beside her.
The faerie said, “The youngster will be king, then.”
“He will.”
“His reign will be brief.”
Morgana inclined her head in acceptance of the prophecy, but Braithe felt a thread of anger pierce her fear. It wasn’t fair to Mordred to decide his fate before he had even taken his crown! She drew breath to protest, but Morgana gave her a slight shake of the head. Obediently, Braithe kept her own counsel as the fae carried Arthur—her first, her only love—along the dock and up the slope into the mist. It was her turn to fight tears. She turned away to hide them, not watching for the last glimpse of the king.
There were no farewells, no well-wishing that she heard. In only moments Morgana climbed back into the boat, and Braithe shipped the oars and began to row. She glanced back just once, as the boat curved away into the lake, but the four faeries had disappeared.
