Page 47 of The Faerie Morgana
Braithe busied herself smoothing the coverlet over Morgana’s knees. “I can’t explain,” she said. “I just— Perhaps it was the Lady, reaching out to me.”
“But why is Morgana ill?” Arthur asked, with consternation on his face. “Is it something serious? She should have recovered, surely, by this time.”
Braithe said, “The shock of killing a man has weighed on the priestess’s spirit.” It was true enough that she could tell herself she had not lied to the king. “Priestess Morgana is a healer, my lord, not a destroyer. Now she has nightmares, and no appetite to speak of.”
Arthur turned to lay his muscular hand on one of Morgana’s long, deceptively delicate ones. “This is a terrible tale. I owe you my throne once again, sister,” he said, his voice once again sounding that bass note. “How can I ever thank you?”
“No need,” Morgana said.
But Braithe said, “You must take steps to ensure such a thing never happens again.”
Arthur scowled. “I will certainly see to that. Morgause is universally disliked as a troublemaker, but I never suspected she would go so far.” He stood, touching Morgana’s shoulder, then paced the bedchamber. “I must do something,” he growled. His righteous anger was a powerful thing, and the air seemed to absorb it, to vibrate with its power.
It made Braithe’s breathing quicken. She watched him, her mouth a little open, her tongue just touching her upper lip. It was a meaningful moment, serious and tense, yet what she wanted was to touch him. To take his hand. To stand close enough to feel the drum of his heartbeat through her skin.
“I would have her hanged for this,” Arthur said grimly, “if I could prove it.”
Morgana, her eyes still closed, murmured, “Better not, sir. It would be a shadow on your reign, which has just begun. Set a watch on her.”
Braithe interjected, knowing it was not her place, “Banish her, my lord.”
Arthur stopped pacing and looked directly at her. “A very good idea, Braithe. That is the most practical choice.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment, a little spurt of pride erupting in her breast.
Morgana said, “But there is Mordred to consider. He is the son of a traitoress, but he is also your half brother.”
“And he is a fine lad,” Arthur said. “He is not gifted with asword, but he works hard at it and is diligent at all his studies.” He slapped his thigh as he made his decision. “It is good that I came, sister. Good that we make this plan together. Morgause will go from Camulod, and be banned forever, but I will keep Mordred in the court. See that he is brought up as he should be.”
“A wise choice,” Morgana said, but her voice had grown weak. Her eyelids drooped. Braithe bent to plump her pillow, then straightened. “Come, my lord,” she murmured. “Allow me to order a meal for you and your men, and you can speak with your sister again when she has rested.”
He smiled at her. “Dine with us,” he said.
She inclined her head. “If it pleases you, of course.”
Morgana’s eyes opened one more time, and there was something in them that made Braithe flush. A warning?
But Arthur’s invitation thrilled her in heart and in body.
Whatever Morgana’s eyes might be saying could not compete with that feeling.
19
Braithe did not return to Morgana’s room after dinner. Morgana could have called Dafne if she wanted something, but she had no need. She felt much stronger, a surge of refreshed health imparted by Arthur’s visit. His presence had renewed her compulsion to protect him.
The sensation was something like love, but not the kind of love that would break her vow to the Temple. It resided in her spirit, not her body. It was a love mixed with respect and hope, and the abiding desire to guard the future of Lloegyr, a desire she knew Arthur shared. She hoped her failure to disclose her secret did not dishonor the regard she held for him.
She was out of bed and on her feet before he and his men started back across Ilyn the next morning. Still in her shift, she stood by the window to watch their boat slip silently into the mist. The two guards were at the oars. Arthur stood in the bow with one foot braced against the hull, his arms crossed over his breast.
Morgana raised her hand, palm outward in his direction, and murmured:
In every darkness there is a light, a beacon to draw the wanderer.
Beneath the lamp is rest and warmth, but beware. The shadows beyond are full of peril.
She didn’t know why that stanza had come to her. She dropped her hand and went to her table to cast the stones, but they told her nothing new.
Instead they showed her an image of her handmaid standing on the shore, watching the king’s boat pierce the circling mist. Morgana pressed her hand to her breast in concern for her little brat. It was hardly unusual for a young girl to yearn for a man, but Arthur was no usual man. He was a king, with a king’s responsibilities. She hoped Braithe would not break her heart over him. She considered warning her, but would she hurt Braithe’s feelings by doubting her commitment to her vow? It was not a situation within Morgana’s experience, and she hesitated to offend one who had been so fiercely loyal.
