Page 59 of The Faerie Morgana
Those were done now, however. He had cast the stones. He had scried in a flat dish of water, but he was no Priestess Morgana. He supposed his scrying had weakened over the length of his long life. His efforts had been frustrating, yielding nothing new.
He leaned his shoulder against the window casement, standing in a shaft of merry sunlight that was at odds with his darkmood. When he learned that the king had asked his half sister to preside over his wedding, the Blackbird retreated to his aerie and huddled there for hours, trying to sort through how he should feel and what he should do. He had not seen his protégée since their clash nearly four years before. He had spent many sleepless nights worrying that he had been wrong and had foolishly alienated the single living person who meant the most to him. He agonized over whether it was, after all, he himself who had done the damage to Lloegyr, threatened the reign of the true king, all by holding his secrets close to his breast and trusting no one—not even Morgana.
He had seen her arrive at Camulod, tall and lean and graceful, with her plump little handmaid at her side. The sight of her abundant hair gone silver as moonlight made his heart cramp in his chest. He suspected he had actually groaned. And today, he would have to stand behind Arthur as he married his lady, and face Morgana once again. Thinking of it, he tugged anxiously at his beard. What could he say to her? Or should he keep his own counsel, as he had for so long?
The Blackbird had grown more and more isolated since Arthur’s coronation, all by his own devices. The king sought his advice, and of course he gave it freely, if he had it, but he had no other social contacts. He had chafed at the wrangling of the Nine in the Temple, but now he remembered their drawn-out discussions with nostalgia. He had been furious with Morgana, so furious he had broken their connection, but now…
He missed her. He heard rumors of her achievements, stories of her popularity, accounts of her wielding prodigious power inher tinctures and charms and scrying and deep sight, and he wished he could speak of them with her. Tell her how proud he was. He wished he could, at last, tell her everything, but the vow he had sworn held him back. Perhaps swearing vows was the first great mistake.
Arthur’s wedding day was a blessed blur to Braithe. After arranging Morgana’s hair in the most regal manner she knew how, she spent an hour braiding and rebraiding Gwenvere’s until the lady was content. It finally hung in a dozen plaits over Gwenvere’s shoulders, each threaded with gold and sparkling with semiprecious stones. Even from beneath the gauzy veil she wore, Gwenvere’s hair glistened and shimmered whenever she moved.
Her gown had required another hour of adjusting and stitching and pinning. It was, as all her dresses seemed to be, in the Roman style, artfully draped and tied, and it took all of Braithe’s already tested patience to deal with the lady’s demands about this fold and that, this crease and that one, the position of the jewel that clasped it at her shoulder, the arrangement of the sash that secured it beneath her small breasts.
By the end of all of this, Braithe was sick of the smell of Gwenvere’s overly sweet floral perfume. She was repulsed by the odd, persistent heat of Gwenvere’s body, as if she always had a fever. She was weary of the little-girl voice that turned shrill when she was unhappy. Gwenvere was often unhappy.
The maids who had come with Lady Gwenvere from herfather’s demesne showed no reaction to any of it, although Braithe glanced their way more than once, expecting some display of feeling. Whatever emotions they might have had in their lady’s presence were schooled into dumbness. They never betrayed, even by a glance just between the three of them, how they felt about their mistress’s demands and complaints and exasperating orders.
Braithe had known difficult girls on the Isle. She knew women could be cruel to one another. This woman, however, privileged and spoiled and arrogant, made Braithe’s past conflicts with her own sex fade to nothing.
When the bridal party moved into the public eye, everything changed. Gwenvere deftly assumed the role of the shy maiden, charming the throng in the keep with her tilted green gaze, her childish voice, her graceful movements. It was like watching a dragon become a kitten.
The wedding ceremony itself was brief, led by Morgana’s commanding voice, culminating in the lifting of Gwenvere’s veil, the placing of the coronet on her shining head, and the joining of her hands with Arthur’s. He was dressed more richly than usual in a deep blue tunic with a wide studded belt and contrasting scarlet cloak, fitted fawn leggings and knee-high black leather boots. They made a stunning couple, the embodiment of a king and queen from the old fables of Lloegyr.
Priestess Morgana, her duties complete, stepped back and allowed the people to see their ruler and his bride. They cheered and tossed their caps in the air. Women threw flowers, and men bent the knee. The Blackbird stood leaning on his staff,watching everything from beneath the brim of his hat. Braithe, standing beneath the dais, saw the joyful glow in Arthur’s eyes and turned her face away.
Morgana stepped down from the dais under cover of the celebration. She slipped through the crowd and tried to make her way toward the tower unnoticed, but people saw her and parted to make way. Many bent their heads to her as she walked by. Several murmured respectful greetings. She answered them as best she could, but she hurried her pace, eager for the peace and quiet of her bedchamber.
Throughout the ceremony, she had been aware of the Blackbird’s presence. He had done nothing to draw attention to himself—or any more attention than was usual for the black mage who had come to reside at Camulod—but she felt him there, a node of power, of wisdom, of dedication, the attributes that had always drawn her to him, always held her respect, even devotion, and which now were denied her. It reminded her of what had been broken between them, and how helpless she was to repair it.
She had not attempted to speak to him. She felt certain he would not respond, that he would turn those piercing black eyes away from her, and she didn’t think she could bear that. She had focused instead on her half brother, on his happiness and pride, and the gratitude in his eyes when she held out the new queen’s coronet and he accepted it from her hands to place on Gwenvere’s flawless brow.
She reached her bedchamber, went in, and closed the door. The sounds of the ongoing festivities rose from the keep to pour through the unglazed window and fill her room, but she had no interest in them. She shrugged out of her robe, feeling overwarm and impatient. There was a dressing gown hanging on a hook in the wardrobe, and she pulled that on, then sat in front of the little silver mirror above her table to try to undo the confection her handmaid had made of her hair.
Her door opened quietly, and Braithe put her head around. “I thought you might be resting.”
“Come in, brat. I was trying to take down this edifice you created on my head.”
“I’ll do that for you, Priestess.”
“Herself doesn’t need you at the moment?”
“She has more attention than even she could want just now.” Braithe closed the door behind her and came to take the pins and the brush from Morgana’s hands. “Here, now,” she said. “I know how it went in, so I’ll be better at taking it out.”
“It was a stunning arrangement.”
“I wanted your hair to outshine hers.” Braithe gave a satisfied smile. “And it did.”
That made Morgana chuckle, and she relaxed, putting herself in Braithe’s hands. For several minutes they didn’t speak. Morgana closed her eyes when Braithe began to brush her hair, and she thought how indulgent it was to have someone else do that. Besides Braithe, it was a rare thing when someone touched her, and though she preferred it that way as a rule, the feeling of bristles against her scalp, of the massaging of Braithe’s sensitivefingertips, was surprisingly comforting, and she couldn’t help being sorry when Braithe finished.
“Now, Priestess,” Braithe said, as she looped Morgana’s brushed-out tresses into a loose tie. “You must lie down and rest. The king will expect you at the banquet this evening.”
“I suppose he will. Can you rest this afternoon?”
“I am expected to dress the lady—that is, Queen Gwenvere—for the dinner.”
“As if you’re a lady’s maid now.”
“Yes.” Braithe pursed her lips as she cleaned Morgana’s hairbrush and tidied the tabletop. “But I will not object, Priestess. It’s better I stay close to her.”
