Page 115 of The Faerie Morgana
On the last day before the ritual was to begin, Braithe went down to the shore to fetch the priestess for the evening meal. Morgana was standing in the water, her robe wet to the knees, her head bowed, her face nearly hidden by the shimmering curtain of her hair.
Water-born, Braithe remembered. That was what Olfreth had said when Morgana became one of the Nine.Water-born.The Lady’s daughter. Fae.
She stood at the lake’s edge, waiting in silence for Morganato complete whatever it was she was doing. The dinner bell rang, but Morgana did not move. Braithe made no sound.
Morgana gave a sudden sigh, and, lifting her head, she caught sight of Braithe waiting for her. She stretched out her hand. “Come into the water, my own brat,” she said softly. “You will hear the call. I know you will.”
“But, Priestess, I—”
Morgana interrupted her, smiling. “Don’t tell me again you have no magic, Braithe of the Temple. Your magic has been slow in coming to you, but it has come nonetheless. Here, take my hand.”
Braithe kicked off her sandals and stepped into the lake so she could put her small, plump hand in Morgana’s long, thin one. The chill of the water surrounded her ankles and then her calves, but she hardly felt it. Instead, she felt the call of the Lady. It did not come through her ears but sang in her blood, tingled in her bones, made her shiver with the sense of something vital and exciting, terrifying and satisfying.
Morgana said, “You understand?”
Braithe nodded. “I do,” she whispered.
“This will not be easy.”
“No.”
“But necessary.”
“There will be a cost,” Braithe said. “Someone— One of us—”
“Yes, I sensed that also. The ritual may be too much for someone.”
“Do you know who? Someone frail, like the Blackbird, or Niamh, or—someone who knows nothing of magic?”
“You mean Sir Lancelin, I suppose, but I cannot tell you, nor do I want to know, brat. It may be no one, after all. But if I knew who might pay the price for this magic, I might not be strong enough to do the work, and this is a battle we must not shrink from.” Morgana looked down then, taking in the sodden skirt of her robe, the chilled pallor of her skin. She made a slight sound of disgust and said, “This would have been easier in the shape of a fish.”
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Morgana surveyed the inner chamber with a critical eye. Every detail had to be right. Everything she would need had to be laid out near to her hand. Once the ritual began, there must be no interruptions.
“Have I missed anything?” Braithe asked.
“No.” Morgana knew she sounded brusque, but her mind was already hours ahead, focused on what must be done, rehearsing the steps in her mind. She had conferred at length with the Blackbird, who vowed to add his power to hers. Lancelin had offered himself as the central figure of the ritual, since he felt responsible for Gwenvere continuing to be a threat, but the Blackbird had forbidden it. He, too, worried that the power they would command to effect this charm would be too much for someone unused to magic.
“We’re ready, then,” Braithe said.
Morgana made herself take a deep breath and release it slowly. “Yes. There is nothing further to do.”
She had thought several times in the past days that she must be feeling something like what Arthur’s war party felt as itprepared to go into battle, perhaps even how Arthur himself must have felt. All her forces were mustered. Her weapons were ready. The plan was laid, and the goal was set. If they failed, if it all came to naught, the blame would fall on her, and rightly so. This was her campaign. She was its leader.
She wondered if her enemy had any idea of what was coming.
As they gathered in the inner chamber of the Temple, the power of what they were going to do surrounded them even before they began. Morgana knew the others felt it, and she was proud of her sister priestesses for their sensitivity, their willingness, and their courage. She was proud of Niamh and Olfreth for convincing them. Even Preela, often prickly and jealous, took her chair solemnly, her wizened features set in determined lines. Niamh took her place with her chin up, clearly aware of the risk to them all of tapping into such great magic. The rest of the Nine followed her example to the best of their various abilities, and all were seated and ready for the Blackbird to bring in Sir Lancelin.
Braithe stood beside Morgana’s chair, ready to aid her in whatever way she needed. The low table was pulled close to Morgana’s knees. It held three cups of divination stones, an assortment of candles of various sizes, bundles of the most fragrant herbs the garden had to offer, and the silver bowl sparkling with clear rainwater. Next to it lay the tiny carved wand, its leaves and flowers glowing softly in the muted light.
Braithe had begun to tremble in anticipation of the magic tocome, and despite the gravity of the moment, and the tension already building in her own blood and bones, Morgana permitted herself another moment of pride, just for her handmaid.
The fae should witness the courage of these ordinary humans. They would understand that my mother was right to choose Lloegyr.
Her mother had also chosen her. She gathered herself, palming the sigil at her breast, drawing in her power, girding herself with the need and the purpose of this moment. When the Blackbird came into the chamber with a stony-faced Lancelin beside him, she was ready. Dafne backed out of the door and closed it. Braithe bent to light the candles with an ember carried in a pair of tongs. Morgana bowed her head for a moment, letting her silence pervade the room. When she looked up, she found the gazes of the Nine fixed on her, and she bowed to them all. “There is nothing more to say, sisters. This is a great work we can only do together.” She felt the support of the Blackbird. She sensed the wariness of Lancelin, the guilt and regret and the dangerous hope flaring in his heart. She felt a quiver of anxiety in herself, but she thought of Mordred, of Loria and Bran and all the other faithful ones who made up the population of Camulod. She thought of Gwenvere’s treachery and betrayal, and the lives it had cost, and she quelled her fear. She was fae, but she was more than that. She was human, too, because she had learned from the people around her how to be human.
Morgana closed her eyes for a moment, focusing her intention. When she felt it begin to sing in her blood, she took up the mortar and pestle and began to crush the herbs into a paste. The ritual was, in many ways, similar to the ceremony of choosinga new priestess, except that the weight of responsibility that lay on all of them was greater than any they had ever assumed. She remembered the prophecy and knew that a great price would be paid for the magic done this night. There was no avoiding it.
