Page 39 of The Faerie Morgana
Morgana waved a hand to extinguish the candle. She scooped up the stones to return them to the wooden cup, and she spilled out the ashes that had shown her the awful news. Wearily, with the sense that there was no one in the world who could understand the trap she was in, she rose, stepped off the dais, and trudged out of the anteroom.
She had very little time, a day perhaps, none she dared waste. She would have to prepare quickly, to go immediately.
She would need Braithe to help her, lest she appear at Camulod naked.
Braithe was at supper in the refectory with the acolytes when Dafne, the silent servant of the Nine, appeared in the doorway. She crooked a skinny finger in Braithe’s direction. The acolyte mistress started to rise, but Braithe forestalled her, jumping up from the bench and starting toward the door.
“Dafne has come from Priestess Morgana,” she said. “I must ask you to excuse me. I am needed.”
The mistress waved a dismissive hand, and Braithe joined Dafne to hurry past the dormitory and up to the residence. As she followed, she eyed Dafne’s rounded shoulders and habitually bent head, and wondered. She didn’t think anyone on the Isle had ever heard Dafne’s voice. Even now, she had only gestured to indicate where they were going. It was a strange thing, but she put it out of her mind as Dafne left her at the door toMorgana’s chamber. Braithe waited until she had moved down the corridor to knock and go in.
She found Morgana in her shift, her slender arms and long legs bare, her smooth skin shining in the candlelight. She had cast aside her black robe and was sifting through a little pile of clothes on her bed. She looked up when Braithe came in.
“Oh, brat, thank you for coming so quickly!” she said, in an exaggeratedly light tone. “I need you to help me choose which of these garments will work for what I need to do.”
“Where did you get those, Priestess? And what work do you need to do?” Braithe tried to answer the priestess in the same casual manner, disguising the sinking of her heart. Whatever Morgana’s answer might be, she knew she would not like it.
“I found the clothes in the storeroom,” Morgana said. “Dafne keeps a supply for the boatmen, and some are castoffs from our visitors.” She held up a dark homespun tunic and a pair of ragged leggings. “Too short for me, of course, but I can wear hose. There’s a pair here somewhere.”
“Priestess, those are men’s clothes.”
“Yes.” Morgana wriggled out of her shift, leaving her small breasts bare until she pulled the tunic over her head. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of it, but she kept it on.
“Why?” Braithe asked simply.
Morgana turned to her, the leggings in her hands. “I must go to Camulod, Braithe. As quickly as I’m able.”
“Camulod!” Braithe stared at her in dismay. “But the Blackbird forbade you—”
“The Blackbird has not seen what I have.”
“What is that? What has happened?”
“It has not happened yet. I intend that it never will.” Morgana settled onto the side of her bed and began to tug on the threadbare leggings. Braithe saw there were holes in them. The strings that held them up had broken and been retied many times.
“What did you see?” she asked.
“Morgause. Uther’s widow. She will try to achieve what her husband failed to do.”
“To murder Arthur? But why— Oh.” Braithe pressed both her hands to her chest in alarm. “She wants the crown for her son. For Mordred.”
“Yes. The signs were clear. She intends to be regent until Mordred is of age, then see him take the throne in the place of the true king.”
Morgana stood up to tie the waist strings of the leggings and to dig through the pile of clothes for a belt. It was wide and black, with a sheath for a knife attached. When she buckled it around her hips, she made a convincing figure of a man.
Except for the torrent of black hair that fell down her back.
Braithe said, “Your hair…”
“I will cut it off.”
“No. I will plait it and tie it up.”
“You will have to do it after I shift.”
“You’re going to shapeshift again?”
“I must, Braithe, or the Blackbird—and anyone else who has seen my face—will know it is I, and interfere with what I must do.”
