Page 29 of The Faerie Morgana
Arthur pushed himself up a little higher. “I sense a story. Tell me!”
Braithe glanced at the chair that rested by the table, then decided to be bold. She sat on the edge of the bed, where she could feel the hard muscles of his leg against her back. He shifted his body, and she thought perhaps she had been too familiar, despite having nursed him all these weeks, but then, when he settled, his leg was even closer to her, warm and strong. A secret smile tugged at her lips. In the soft voice of one telling a bedtime story, she said, “Priestess Morgana works very hard. She is impatient with anyone who hinders her. There is one of the Nine who often does just that.”
“Tension among the priestesses?” Arthur said, his eyes bright with interest. “With the air full of all that magic? That sounds perilous.”
Braithe laughed, then leaned a little forward to whisper, “I will tell you a secret, sir. There isn’t a great deal of magic at the Temple, except around your sister.”
His eyebrows rose. “Is there not? But we are told that the priestesses wield the Lady’s magic upon command!”
“I know. I was told the same when I first arrived on the Isle. They still say it, but…” She shrugged. “Two or three of the priestesses have some magic. The others have none, though they will never admit the lack. The real magic lies with Priestess Morgana, and word of that has spread beyond the Isle. Supplicants come seeking her out by name. Her potions and salves and tinctures are finer than any, and her charms, like the one you wear, have real power.”
“But she gets angry?”
“She mustn’t know I told you,” Braithe confided. Arthur touched his lips with his fingers, and she grinned. “She can spoil a cup of cider with a gesture. I saw her spill soup into the priestess’s lap without touching the bowl.”
“Those are just pranks,” Arthur said.
“True. But once, when the other priestess—she’s called Preela—tried to interfere with a charm Morgana was making—charms are the hardest of all, and they require concentration—Morgana stopped Preela’s voice for three days.” Braithe no longer smiled, remembering how upset Niamh had been. Everyone knew it was Morgana’s doing, but most were of the opinion that Preela deserved her punishment. “The charm was for a supplicant who carried a heavy purse. Preela wanted the tribute.” She shrugged. “Preela’s charms are useless. She earns hardly any tribute.”
“This Preela—she recovered?” Arthur said.
“Yes. And she stopped interfering with Priestess Morgana’s work.”
“A wise choice,” Arthur said. He put out his hand and took Braithe’s from where it lay on the coverlet. Her heart leaped at his touch, and she had to lower her gaze so he would not see the warmth she felt rising in her cheeks. “Tell me another story, Braithe,” he said softly, holding her fingers. “I have been too long in this bed, and I am not ready to sleep again.”
She knew she should withdraw her hand, blow out the candle, insist that he get his rest, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she let her hand rest in his, savoring the feel of his warm skin, the strength of his fingers—his willingnessto extend the touch. The dim bedroom seemed to be a space all their own, apart from the outside world. He was a boy, and she a girl, and for these few stolen moments it didn’t matter that he was a prince and she a handmaid. The night air seemed to sparkle with the magic created merely by them being together. Alone.
Braithe settled back, her hand warm and soft in his, and began another tale.
The Blackbird came to Morgana after the rite of blessing. She had taken a seat at one end of the long kitchen table for a simple meal of soup and bread. She was avoiding the riotous dinner in the great hall, where the knights and their lackeys would be drowning their anxiety about the coming conflict in ale. Only two maids remained in the kitchen, scrubbing pots at the stone sinks at the far end of the long room.
The Blackbird sank wearily onto the bench opposite Morgana and said, without preamble, “He wants a charm.”
She knew who he meant. Morgana put down her spoon and folded her arms. “The hubris astonishes me.”
“And me.” The Blackbird gave a short, bitter sigh. “He is not a wise man, of course.”
“He is not, sir, but you are. You must know I will refuse.”
“I am sorry about this, Priestess, but I must insist,” he said heavily. “The danger is real. There must be accord between the Temple and Camulod if Lloegyr is to survive. If the Romans swallow up Lloegyr, as they have all the lands around us, theSaxons will have free rein to loot and murder as they wish. Rome will consider our people’s suffering the price of conquest.”
“But does Rome not promise peace as the reward for submission to the empire?”
“Promises are cheap, and easily broken.”
“So I have observed.”
“Powerful men care more for power than they do for people. It is the way of the world.”
“Is that an excuse?”
“A reason.” He sighed again, and she heard the breath rattle in his chest.
“Sir, are you well?”
He made a dismissive gesture with his wrinkled hand. “I’m well enough. I need you to do this for me, Morgana. To placate Uther. To protect the people.”
Morgana pushed her bowl aside and leaned across the table to look into the Blackbird’s eyes. “Sir, my brother will do a better job of protecting the people, because he cares about them. You must know this.”
