Page 117 of The Faerie Morgana
“I believe that has already been granted,” she said.
“I mean forgiveness for my behavior with you,” he amended, still on his knees, but with his hands folded before his belt. His eyes did not meet hers, and his pale cheeks flamed. “I behaved toward you as I would have toward any woman I admired, but I understand now how wrong I was. I wish you will not think ill of me as we part.”
Morgana had to think how to respond. Should she confess she had liked being treated like a woman and not a priestess? Or should the mystique of her position—to say nothing of her true self—be preserved?
She decided to keep silent. The less known about her, the more effective her power would be. No one but Braithe knew that even she had nearly succumbed to the changeling’s manipulation.
“Sir Lancelin,” she said, finally. “You were not the only one who came under the changeling’s influence. If you crave forgiveness, it is freely given.”
He nodded and rose from his knees. “I thank you, PriestessMorgana.” He bowed his head, then walked away stiffly, his steps as uncertain as those of a very old man.
Braithe had been watching from a little distance, and she stepped out of the shadows to await Morgana’s instruction. “Fetch Dafne for me, will you?” Morgana said. Braithe went off to find her, and Morgana drew a charm from her pocket that she had created that morning. It had been remarkably easy to do. All the Temple still resonated with magic, rivulets and currents of it circulating randomly, subsiding only slowly. It was useful in making a charm like this one.
Dafne came in so quickly Morgana thought she must have been waiting outside. She stood before the priestess’s chair, her chin lifted but her face impassive, as if she expected nothing good.
Despite the sadness of the day, Morgana felt a slight lift of her heart. She could still do something for someone who needed it. Acts of service brought her satisfaction. She lifted the charm in her palm to show Dafne. It was a simple thing, a tiny stitched linen pouch containing a pinch of herbs for healing, a single strand of Morgana’s own hair for protection from the fae, and a songbird’s feather to inspire the reconnection of Dafne’s mind with her voice.
“Dafne,” she said. “The fae who harmed you have just lost a great battle. I consider the restoration of your voice the spoils of war.”
Dafne’s lips moved, and her eyelids fluttered as if to suppress sudden tears. She took the charm in her two hands and held it to her breast.
Morgana said, “You will not speak immediately. You willfind that your ability returns bit by bit. A year from now, you will chatter like an acolyte.”
At this, Dafne’s lips curved, just a little. Morgana had never seen her smile before. It was an unsure, unpracticed expression, but it was there. She hoped she would one day understand fully what had happened to Dafne.
The Blackbird appeared in the door to the anteroom, and Morgana rose. “Is it time, sir?”
“It is, Priestess.”
“Very well.” Morgana shook out the skirts of her black robe, centered her sigil over her breast, and stepped down from the little dais. “I will fetch it.”
“I believe your handmaid has already done that.”
Morgana saw, as she entered the Temple, that he was right. Despite its weight, Braithe had managed to carry it from Morgana’s chamber. She stood now beside the stone with the scabbard point digging into the earth between the flagstones and the hilt with its single red jewel resting against her shoulder. She, of course, would not be able to lift it high enough. That task fell to Morgana. Even Morgana would need both the strength of her arms and the power of her magic to accomplish it.
As Morgana took the great sword into her hands, Braithe nodded to the acolytes assembled in ranks in the Temple and led them in the recitation. The stanza was long, but Braithe had trained them well:
Waves of the sea will not be controlled.
River waters will not be contained.
Lightning chooses its strike.
Thunder speaks at will.
Fire dies to nothing or devours the wood.
Wind may ruffle trees or root them from the earth.
Power is pride. Pride is weakness.
With the words of the stanza echoing in her ears, Morgana focused on the great sword and the waiting stone. She had the sudden memory of the young Arthur reaching for the hilt. He had been younger than Mordred was now, but golden and glowing where poor Mordred was dark and shadowed. Her heart ached anew with the pain of loss, for herself, for Camulod, for Lloegyr, and she wished with all her spirit she did not have to do this.
But there was no one else. This was her heritage, passed on to her by the Lady, and she could not shirk it. She drew a long breath, furrowed her brow with concentration, and lifted the sword toward the stone.
She recalled making a much greater effort when she had aided the young Arthur to draw it out. Now the sword slid home inside the chunk of granite as if it had been waiting to return. The shining blade disappeared beneath the dappled stone, and the hilt clicked into place as neatly as if the stone were a scabbard.
A long sigh rippled through the watchers as Morgana, her hands empty now, stepped back. As she had not done for years, she bowed to the stone, acknowledging the power it once more held, before she turned away, her head high to hide the tearsthat she knew glimmered in her eyes, and strode from the Temple to seek sanctuary beside the lake.
