Page 28 of The Faerie Morgana
And Uther must survive. Morgana must ensure that, however much she loathed him.
The question the Blackbird wrestled with, this moonlit summer night, was whether Morgana could be convinced without revealing too much.
The Blackbird’s deep sight had faded with his mounting age, but he recalled the vision vividly, as if he had experienced it only yesterday instead of lifetimes ago. He had seen the true king with a retinue of knights, shining and handsome, more glorious than any collection of warriors in history. He had seen them riding through the highlands of Lloegyr beneath royal-blue pennants, with Arthur’s crest painted in black. Farmers and villagers hurried to the side of the road to see them pass. Maidens handed them flowers, and their mothers offered loaves of bread and wheels of cheese, while their men bent the knee in fealty.
When Arthur was born, the vision reappeared, and when Ygraine showed the Blackbird the babe, he recognized him instantly. It fell to the Blackbird to choose his name. He had to stand by, mute, as Uther Dragoun ordered his stepdaughter to be banished from the castle. Ygraine had not told her new husband the truth of her daughter’s birth, and the Blackbird didn’t dare. Not yet.
It was all the Lady’s plan. Each of them—Ygraine, Uther, Arthur, Morgana, and most especially, the Blackbird himself—was a part of it. If one element failed, the entire edifice could collapse.
The Blackbird had seen the true king fulfilling his destiny, but the Arthur he saw had been a grown man, tall and broad-shouldered, noble of mien. That Arthur had not been a half-grown boy, his beard barely visible, his hair fine and pale as a child’s.
The time had not yet come for the vision to manifest. It was too soon. It was all coming too soon, and the Blackbird didn’t know what he should do to prevent it.
12
A job for a man, not a boy,” Uther shouted.
Braithe, feeling as if her heart would crack with fear, had been forced to stand silently with the other courtiers as Arthur argued with his father. “I want to fight,” he insisted, in a voice older than his years. “These are my people, too, my land—”
But Uther, to Braithe’s relief, had flatly refused. She didn’t need deep sight to know what drove Uther. He craved being seen as the strongest, the bravest, the real king. He had been furious when it was his son, rather than himself, who was invited to the Temple to pull the Lady’s sword from the stone. He hated Morgana for her part in that. He had seen how his people feared for Arthur’s life, had grieved over the possibility of his death, and had rejoiced when he survived.
Uther knew he was not popular with his court, and the love the people held for his son rankled. Morgana stood near the door of the king’s war room, her chin tucked, her cat’s eyes brilliant as she watched.
Uther caught sight of her, and his face suffused with temper. He snapped, “What is the witch doing here?”
Braithe gasped. Everyone knew that witches were crones concocting dangerous philters and wicked charms in their woodland huts. To call one of the Nine a witch was a shocking thing to do. Even the Blackbird, standing at Uther’s right hand, lifted his bowed head to stare at the king. Arthur, on Uther’s left, moved a little away, as if to divorce himself from his father’s offense.
Morgana’s deep voice cut through the stunned whispers that erupted at Uther’s insult. “You call me witch, stepfather? Yet before you go to fight, no doubt you will beg the protection of the Temple.”
Uther’s face darkened even more as he glared at her above the heads of the people. The courtiers murmured uneasily among themselves. Morgana was right. In times of war, it was customary to ask for the blessing of the Lady, and if a priestess was available, she would always be called upon to bestow it.
Braithe’s stomach clenched as tension swirled around her. The men who would follow Uther tomorrow into battle against the Romans stood stiffly, their faces impassive, denying their fear. The ladies and their servants were less stoic, some touching good-luck charms that hung at their necks or their belts, others clutching at each other’s hands, their bodies pressing close together, seeking comfort as they awaited the king’s response.
Braithe had been diligent in learning the litanies of the Temple. She could have recited the blessing for protection herself, though it was more or less useless coming from someone with no magic.
There was a proper way to bestow the blessing, as everyoneknew, and only one of the Nine could perform it. It was no wonder Uther’s intransigence disturbed his subjects. People found comfort in ritual. It was one of the reasons the Temple survived.
Uther’s mouth worked behind his coarse red beard as he struggled to find a way out of the mistake he had made. Braithe thought perhaps he would fail, but Arthur intervened.
“Of course, Priestess, all here beg your blessing in this dark moment.” He turned to his father, and Braithe hoped she was the only one who detected the note of contempt in his voice. “I feel sure King Uther wishes the same.”
It was a deft bit of diplomacy. Uther saw that his son had given him a way out, and he took it, though without grace.
“My son is right,” he growled. “Of course we’re grateful one of the Nine is here to perform the rite.”
He didn’t sound grateful, nor did he acknowledge that the priestess was his own stepdaughter. Braithe caught the telling glance that passed between Morgana and Arthur, and had the situation not been so serious, she could have laughed aloud. Morgana and Arthur, though they had not grown up together, worked as one, as if they had. They had deftly skirted a conflict that could affect the battle to come. Braithe had never been close to any of her brothers and sisters, though there were so many of them. There was no blame to be laid over it. Their childhood had been bleak, focused solely on survival, but she would have liked such a bond.
She supposed that was partly why she clung to Morgana, who was so kind to her. She watched with pride as the knights about to go into battle knelt before her idol. Morgana, tall and elegantin her black robe, held her right hand high above their heads, while her left cradled the symbol of her service, the Lady’s sigil. She recited the blessing in her deep voice. Braithe spoke it with her, but so softly no could hear:
Go forth with courage, defenders of Lloegyr. Wear the Lady’s favor upon your sleeve, and feel her power in your heart. You are the air, the earth, the water of this land. You banish the darkness and bring the light. You are Lloegyr itself, and the Lady’s grace is upon you.
Only when the rite was complete did Braithe realize that Uther, in his arrogance, had not knelt before his stepdaughter. He was the only one of the assembled court not to do so, and Braithe marveled at it. Uther Dragoun, shortsighted and foolish, was making an enemy of the most powerful person in Camulod.
Braithe whispered this to Arthur later. She was helping him into bed, and she made certain he still wore Morgana’s protective charm. As she smoothed the blanket over his legs, she murmured, “You know, my lord, I have seen your half sister when she is angry. You would not like it.”
Arthur gazed up at her from his pillows. “Tell me about it, little Braithe. Why would I not like it?”
“She would not be angry at you, never that. But one who offends her learns very quickly not to raise her ire.”
