Page 49 of The Faerie Morgana
She tried to put him out of her mind, but his words haunted her. She kept hearing them, especially in the small hours of the night.You have no idea what you’ve done.
But I do!she wanted to scream.I saved the king from his father’s poison, and I saved him again from Morgause’s assassin!
She imagined an argument in which she spoke all the right words, forced the Blackbird to listen to her, to understand what had happened and why she had done what she did, even to apologize to her for the things he had said, but it was only that—imagination. He would not listen to her then, would not give her a chance to explain now. He was set on some plan he had never described to her. He was laying the fault for its failure at her feet.
It was egregiously unfair. He had shamed her, wounded her,and he continued to let his silence hurt her. It was maddening, and it was painful, and she suffered more because there was nothing she could do about it.
She thought of sending him a message, pouring her heart out in a letter. She thought of magicking the letter to be certain he read it, forcing him to open his stubborn mind to her. She could do it, could create a tincture of calamus root for persuasion, with a touch of betony to break through his resistance. She would mix the tincture at the full of the moon to intensify its power, while a new beeswax candle burned on her altar. She could sprinkle it over her missive, seal it with the sigil of the Lady pressed into wax, then send it with one of the boatmen to Camulod.
She would not do it. She would never do such a thing. She had never magicked anyone just to please herself, and she would not stoop to such an action now, no matter how unhappy she was. She felt a great reluctance to manipulate the Blackbird in any way, despite everything. She had always been honest with him, and she had taken honest actions, with only the weal of the kingdom in her heart. If being cut off from the Blackbird’s regard was the price she paid, she would have to pay it without demur.
There was nothing for her to do but to bury herself in her work, and that she did. As the chill of winter wrapped the Isle and the Temple in its damp folds, and the priestesses and acolytes changed their summer robes for heavy woolen ones, Priestess Morgana worked harder than anyone. The tribute from her sessions in the anteroom grew so swiftly that even Iffa refrained from making sour remarks. As Morgana’s fame spread, more and more supplicants came requesting her by name. The Templecoffers filled with coins, enough to ensure a comfortable winter for everyone on the Isle.
It was the life Morgana had planned. She did her best to take satisfaction from it, to be proud of her work, to think of nothing else. As time went on, she grew skilled at shutting out thoughts of the Blackbird. At times, she even managed to convince herself she had forgotten all about him, that she had no need of him anymore.
But the chasm of misunderstanding that had opened between them remained a flaw that marred the smooth surface of her Temple life. In moments of weakness, when she did not expect it, she sometimes felt a sudden spasm of loneliness for which she had no defense. She could only put a hand to her breast and bow her head as she waited for it to pass.
Braithe said nothing, but when Morgana was in the midst of such a moment of grief, the touch of Braithe’s small hand gave her comfort.
Braithe, too, was nursing an aching heart. Morgana sensed it, and she worried. Perhaps she should have warned Arthur off, made him take responsibility for allowing a young girl to nurture feelings for him. He might not have listened in any case.
Her half brother was, in the end, a man, and a king besides. Men and kings did as they pleased, no matter how fine their characters. She told herself if Braithe wanted to speak of it, she would listen. Otherwise, there was nothing she could do.
And so the two of them carried on, united in their silence. If once in a while their eyes met in mutual understanding, neither gave voice to their private thoughts. There was no point.
20
Two quiet years passed on the Isle of Apples. Priestess Murragh died, and the acolyte Minet was selected to take her chair. The Blackbird did not visit, and the priestesses stopped asking Morgana about him. She was glad of that, because hearing his name still pained her. The king did not return, either. Morgana sometimes saw Braithe gazing out toward the lake with a look of longing, and she knew her handmaid was thinking of Arthur. She thought of giving her a tincture to help her forget, but unless Braithe asked for it, it was better to let her deal with her sadness on her own.
A steady stream of supplicants brought their petitions to the moss-hung anteroom, seeking love potions or soothing salves or healing tinctures. Along with their purses, they left news of Lloegyr and Camulod, precious bits of information. The priestesses passed them on to the acolytes, who were always hungry for news about the homes and families they had left behind.
Braithe collected the stories and made sure Morgana heard them. She took care to report them without elaboration, knowing how unreliable word of mouth could be, but even so, afeeling of optimism grew among the Temple inhabitants, including Braithe and Morgana. There were many accounts from a variety of women, and they were tales of triumph. There could be no doubt that Lloegyr flourished under the rule of King Arthur Dragoun.
He had gathered a great number of knights in Camulod, and they were reputed to be the bravest and strongest fighting force Lloegyr had ever seen. They wore the finest mail and helmets the armorers of Camulod could create, and they carried magnificent swords worked in the forge of the castle. They had pushed the Romans to the east and north, out of Lloegyr, and the brutal Saxon warriors fled with their defeated allies. Arthur posted cadres of knights in each of Lloegyr’s outlying villages to guard against raids, and in the peace he created, harvests and husbandry throve. His people were both proud and content, well-fed, safe in their homes, prospering.
As the end of the third year of Arthur’s reign approached, Morgana said to Braithe, “I think the Blackbird was mistaken.”
The two of them were seated on their favorite stone bench under the holm oak, savoring a gold and scarlet autumn sunset and a sweet evening breeze. Morgana had untied her sandals to let her toes sink into the cushion of thyme beneath the bench.
Braithe was in the act of shedding her own sandals, but she paused and turned to look up at Morgana. “Mistaken?” She straightened, her eyes wide. Morgana supposed she had startled her. It was the first time she had voluntarily spoken the Blackbird’s name in nearly three years. “Mistaken about what, Priestess?”
Morgana lifted her face into the slanting sunshine. “He said Ihad ruined everything by allowing Uther to die. That it was too soon for Arthur.”
Braithe’s cheeks colored at hearing Arthur’s name. “If he said that, then I agree. He was mistaken. Your half brother is a brilliant king.”
“I have worried over what the mage said,” Morgana admitted. “I have lain awake more than once, thinking about it.”
“You could have told me.”
“I think you suffer your own hard thoughts in the darkness, brat. You do not need mine.”
Braithe dropped her head. “My thoughts are of no matter. Imagination only.”
“Imagination, perhaps. But your thoughts do matter.”
“Do you know what I did?”
Morgana’s heart sank. The truth of it was in Braithe’s eyes, in her voice, in her trembling lips. “Oh, brat,” she said softly. “I had hoped that wouldn’t happen.”
