Page 19 of The Faerie Morgana
Morgana stepped inside and shut the door behind her. “Braithe, it is settled. You may stop fretting. You are going to stay here with me.” Then, addressing the Blackbird, “Sir? I did not expect you. Is something wrong?”
He pushed back his hat and straightened, leaning on his staff. He looked older than ever, as if whatever had happened had added even more years to the many he had already achieved. “Yes, Priestess,” he said wearily. Something is terribly wrong. It’s Arthur. We must hurry, or I fear he will die before we reach him.”
The boat felt crowded to Morgana. It was smaller than she remembered from her voyage as a four-year-old. Braithe, her young face solemn, sat in the prow with her arms wrapped around herself beneath her cloak. Morgana folded herself onto the middle bench as best she could, but there was barely room for her long body. The boat felt unbearably slow, too, with the Blackbird rowing, but she supposed it was tension that created that impression. She faced forward, her arms around her bent knees, and gazed toward the far shore, willing the boat to move faster.
She could have reached the castle in a fraction of the time if she had taken a bird’s shape: a jackdaw, or a falcon, perhaps. For this purpose, she would have accepted the reveal of her secret to the Blackbird, but it might not have helped. She would have arrived at the castle with none of the things she needed, including clothing. She had hurried to the workroom to gather her supplies into a basket while Braithe packed clothes and toiletries for an extended stay at Camulod.
The Blackbird had been summoned by Arthur’s tutor and had hurried to the prince’s bedchamber. He had found the boy half-conscious, vomiting and feverish. Morgana packed what she had in the workroom: feverfew and elder syrup, a tincture of poppy and several roots of ginger. She added a branch of mistletoe, on a hunch, and sweet fennel. For anything else she would have to forage outside the castle. At the last minute Braithe had held out her foraging knife, winning a fervent look of thanks from Morgana as she stowed it in her basket.
The basket was tucked now beneath her feet, protected by the skirts of her robe. The winter wind was icy, but the sun was bright, flashing off the lake’s ripples, and she had to shade her eyes to watch Camulod, massive and proud on its rock promontory, come into view.
When the boat bumped against the dock, Morgana was on her feet before the first bollard was within reach. With her basket in her arms, she climbed out of the boat, striding up the dock even as the Blackbird was shipping the oars and tying the ropes, with Braithe’s help. Morgana made herself wait on the bank for the two of them, then led, surefooted, up the slope and throughthe trees. It had been years since she had trod this path, but she remembered every step, as she remembered everything.
When Braithe caught sight of the great bulk of Camulod, like a giant ship cresting the forest treetops, she gasped. “It’s sobig.”
“And old.” The Blackbird panted as he struggled to keep pace with Morgana. “No one remembers who laid the first stone.”
“Not even you, sir?”
He gave a mirthless snort. “I am so old I barely recall my own name.”
It seemed to Morgana that their pace dragged, though it wasn’t a long walk. Soon enough they passed out of the woods into the clearing that was a garden now, its trees turned into castle doors and roofs and walls. Braithe said, “The wall! It sparkles.”
“Yes.” Morgana felt a rush of nostalgia at the sight of the glittering courtine circling the keep. “There are bits of quartz and pitchstone set among the stones,” she told Braithe. “Someone must have thought Camulod should be surrounded by jewels. Beautiful, is it not?”
“It’s magic,” Braithe whispered.
Morgana said, “I always thought so, when I was a child.”
The two stone towers rose like forbidding sentinels above their heads as they approached the main gatehouse, where the gate was wide enough for three horses to pass through abreast. As they came near, the guards recognized the Blackbird, and the gate swung open. The three guards of the watch stood aside as the trio entered the keep. The gatemaster bowedto the Blackbird and eyed Morgana with awe. Her black robe proclaimed her one of the Nine. It was a great event when one of the Temple priestesses ventured from the Isle of Apples to Camulod.
The gatemaster spoke only to the Blackbird. “Hope Ilyn was smooth for you today, sir.”
The Blackbird nodded. “Calm waters. Any news?”
“Everyone worried about the prince.”
“As are we all.”
The Blackbird’s staff thudded against the packed earth as he led the way across the busy keep, where dairymaids and laundresses and cellarers hurried about their duties with solemn faces and lowered voices. Morgana sensed their anxiety, saw it in their somber faces. It matched her own. A little cluster of knights stood outside the east tower, where their barracks were, heads bent together as they spoke quietly. The horsemaster emerged from the stables to watch Morgana and Braithe follow the Blackbird into the west tower through a side door.
They walked swiftly along a corridor to a curving stone staircase, then up three flights, past the lesser hall, then the great hall, all the way to the royal chambers.
The prince lay in a canopied bed, propped on pillows and surrounded by flickering candles. It was a huge room, with wardrobes and cupboards lining the walls. There was a large window, but a curtain had been drawn across it, and the room was thick with candle smoke and the sour smell of illness. A chamber pot reeked in one corner, making a sour taste rise in Morgana’s throat.
She gave the room one assessing glance and ordered, “Open that window,” without waiting to be introduced to the little clutch of servants huddled at one side of the room. “Prince Arthur needs air.” She strode to the bedside, setting her basket on the nearest table and bending forward to look at her half brother’s face.
She had not seen Arthur since the day she had aided him in pulling the great sword from the ancient stone. Though he was still young, his soft adolescent features had settled into strong lines, a straight nose, a sculpted jaw, a fine high forehead. He was, however, very ill. It showed in the sallowness of his skin, the limpness of his fair hair against the pillow, the gray hollows of his cheeks.
His eyes opened, their clear blue almost purple against the reddened lids. He drew a rasping breath and whispered, “My sister.”
She put her hand on his chest. “My king,” she said, her voice low and intense. “Be silent. You need your breath.”
“Are you…” His voice trailed off, and his eyelids sagged.
“I am here to heal you.”
He tried to open his eyes again, but his lids trembled and refused to lift. Morgana’s chest filled nearly to bursting with compulsion, a fire rising from her belly to inflame her heart with the need to save him.
