Page 30 of The Faerie Morgana
“Arthur is not yet king.”
“Only because Uther stands in his way. Uther, who tried to murder his own son!” She pressed her fingers over her mouth and stole a glance toward the stone sinks, but the kitchen maids were banging pots and splashing water and appeared not to have heard.
The Blackbird muttered, “We have no proof.”
“I saw it, sir.”
“I know, but that is not proof.”
“He needs to learn to respect the Nine. Instead, he treats me as if I were a servant.”
“He treats everyone like that,” the Blackbird said, but she saw by the flicker of his eyelids that he knew how weak an argument it was.
Temper flared in her belly like a fire improperly banked, and she had to grit her teeth to control it. She said tightly, “I will not do it. He has not earned the right to ask.”
“No, he has not. But if you do not perform this chore, he will know. We cannot afford a rift between the Temple and Camulod, and that’s a hard truth. The destiny of Lloegyr is at stake.”
Morgana gazed at him, making no reply. He said, “Think about it, Priestess. I beg you, use your deep sight. Surely you will see that the best course is to comply.”
Morgana bent her head and touched the sigil at her breast. “Yes, sir. I will.” She spoke out of respect for the Blackbird, but the words gave her an uncomfortable shiver of premonition. As she slid out from the bench to make her way to her chamber, she suffered the disturbing impression that she was walking a cliff’s edge of risk. She didn’t quite know why. She hoped the stones would tell her.
13
As Morgana passed Arthur’s chamber she heard the gentle murmur of Braithe’s voice. She hesitated, but she told herself if Arthur wasn’t feeling well, Braithe would surely come for her, so she walked on, hurrying now. Uther wanted the charm before he and his knights rode out at dawn. If she decided to make it, it would take time. If she decided not to… In truth, she had no idea what she would do, but she hated the idea of one of her creations, which held so much of her spirit, hanging from his thick neck, touching his skin.
She lit the candle in her room, then drew the cup of stones from the bottom of her basket, where it had lain beneath the stores of herbs she had brought with her. She had a few leftovers from the making of Arthur’s charm that she could use. The Blackbird had given her another amulet to fill, and she was gratified to see that it was not silver or magical, just an old iron locket, plain and striped with rust. She laid the ugly thing beside her basket to await her decision.
The table in her chamber was too crowded for divination, so she crouched on the wooden floor to scatter the stones. Theypoured from the cup, a stream of black and white, shining dully in the candlelight. She bent over them to read the pattern they had made, breathing in, breathing slowly out through pursed lips.
It was not easy. The stones appeared to have fallen randomly, as if perhaps the uneven floor had skewed their design. Several had skidded off to the side, where they had been stopped by a roughness in one of the floorboards. Others huddled in the center, without creating the usual whorls and curves. She gazed at them with tired eyes, searching for the sense of their message, calling on her deep sight to pierce her reluctance and show her what she needed to know.
Finally, she rose and went to her scrying bowl to peer into the candlelit surface of the water. When the vision came, it shocked the breath from her body.
Uther stood before a man in Roman battle dress, helmeted and armored in an arrangement of iron plates fastened with bits of leather. He wore a woolen tunic and hobnailed sandals, as did the dozens of men behind him, but his stance and the quality of his armor—and the elaborate hilt of the sword at his belt—signified wealth and importance.
Uther wore his coronet, but not his sword, nor did he carry his usual leather shield. He bowed to the Roman and touched his fist to his chest, the gesture of fealty. In exchange, the Roman presented him with a fat purse and a new sword that glimmered in the sunlight when he slid it out of its scabbard.
Morgana’s stomach turned as she grasped what this ceremony meant.
If this future came to pass, Uther would secure his crown by ceding Lloegyr to Rome.
Morgana pressed both her hands to her chest, flattening the sigil into the folds of her robe. She squeezed her eyes closed, doubting what she had seen, questioning her own deep sight, although it had never once misled her. When she opened her eyes, she returned to the floor to gaze at the pattern the stones had made; nothing had changed. It was true.
Her heart thudded as she scooped up the stones and cast them once more. The pattern, or the lack of it, was precisely the same. She did it a third time, in the vain hope something would change. She could not make a mistake. The import of what she saw, of what it meant for Lloegyr, for Camulod, even for the Temple, was profound.
And the decision she had to make was both simple and awful.
She stood up, went to the table where her basket waited, and began to sort through the ingredients.
Braithe came in just as she was filling the ironwork amulet with her mixture. “Priestess!” Braithe exclaimed. “If you needed me…”
“I did not,” Morgana said, a little more brusquely than she had intended. She had no intention of ensnaring Braithe in this turn of events.
“But is this the charm for the king? Did you not need moremonkshood? I only brought one blossom but I could have gone for more.”
“No. No one is going to poison Uther. This is a charm for battle.”
“And you had everything necessary?”
