Page 62 of The Faerie Morgana
“Oh, yes. She thinks the things you do—moving things with your mind, scrying, divination—she says those are signs of witchcraft.”
“I assume you protest?”
“Of course! I have tried to explain that you are a priestess, one of the Nine, and that priestesses have special abilities.”
Morgana dropped her arm to lean on the windowsill with both hands and lift her face into the moonlight. “It is said that green eyes signal an envious nature. The lady’s eyes are very green.”
“But why should she be envious of you? You are the king’s sister, hardly a threat.”
“She is probably envious of you, too, of any woman close to the king.”
“Not I,” Braithe said. “She regards me as a servant, nothing more.”
“A very pretty servant, with charming dimples and curly fair hair.” She glanced down at Braithe. “Let us think about this, brat. Do we stay, at the king’s pleasure? Or do we beg to be excused?”
They fell silent, turning their faces forward to watch a few brave stars struggle to shine against the brilliance of the moon. The sounds of the castle began to recede as the moon climbed higher, the lowing of cattle and the occasional whicker and stamp of horses in the stable fading until it seemed all of Camulod slept except themselves.
Braithe was beginning to yawn when the thick-bodied little bird, his mottled plumage barely visible in the moonlight, fluttered silently to the windowsill and came to rest there. He cocked his head, gazing intently up at Morgana. She drew a long breath and held out her hand. The bird, a nightjar, one of the plump little creatures that nested on the ground and only showed themselves at dusk or dawn, put one delicate claw on her hand and then the other. His grip was cool and hard as he balanced on her finger.
Braithe whispered, “Priestess…”
“Shhhh.”
She lifted her hand so the bird could look into her eyes. The message the nightjar brought was as clear as the light in his bright black eyes. She felt the weight of the knowledge sink onto her shoulders, and she knew it would not soon be lifted.
When she had absorbed what the nightjar had to tell her, she extended her arm beyond the window casing, and the bird, with the churring noise unique to his species, lifted from her finger and flew across the keep toward the woods, a slash of brown and dun in the pale light.
Braithe stood watching, her own blue eyes reflecting stars in their irises. Morgana stood back from the window, wrapping her arms around herself and tucking her chin.
“Is all well, Priestess?”
“No. Little brother came with a warning.”
“About the queen?”
“About the queen.” Morgana slipped her sigil over her head and laid it on the table, then untied her robe.
Braithe knelt before her to undo her sandals and took her robe as she slipped it off. She hung it carefully on its hook, straightening the folds against the wall.
“She is a danger to the king,” Morgana said. “A danger to the king, and to Lloegyr. I do not yet know what form that danger takes.”
“We will have to stay,” Braithe said. She crossed to the bed and folded back the coverlet. As Morgana settled onto the edge of the bed, Braithe added, “I know I have no magic, Priestess,but I saw something—an illusion, perhaps, but—when the queen first arrived, it seemed to me there was another woman behind her face. A different woman.”
“I suspect you perceived the real woman behind the façade.”
“You do sense danger, though.”
“I do. But what am I to do?” Morgana rubbed her eyes with her palms. “I don’t know what form it takes, which means I don’t know what to do about it.”
“It is not for me to advise you, but…”
“Of course it is for you to advise me! Who else will do it?” She didn’t saynow, but she knew Braithe understood.
“I think when you have rested, you will be able to think this through.”
“Yes.” Morgana swung her legs up onto the bed and pulled the blanket over them. “You should go to bed, too,” she said. “We will make a plan tomorrow.”
Braithe touched her hand, briefly, and departed.
