Page 82 of The Faerie Morgana
“A priestess is not like other women.”
“You are certainly not like other women.” He put his long fingers over her tightly wound ones.
She didn’t pull her hands away. She said very softly, “I thought you did not care for women.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Did you not say you would never wed?”
“Ah.” His fingers tightened over hers. “But that is a different issue, Priestess.”
She looked up into his face, and her heart gave a twinge at what she was about to do. “I have no experience, sir, but I think I grasp your intention. And I must tell you that as much as you are committed to your freedom, I am committed to the Temple.”
“Your vow.” He released her hand, but he drew his fingers away slowly, leaving her nerves afire.
She swallowed. “Yes. My vow.”
“It seems a great sacrifice.”
“It is.”
“What purpose does it serve?”
“It is both an outward and an inward sign of devotion. Of singular focus.”
“And do all the priestesses observe it?”
Morgana shrugged. “Sir, there are no men on the Isle. Nor in the Temple. If I were there, as I was intended to be…”
“Ah. So your sacrifice is greater than that of any of the others.”
She looked back into the tapestry of stars above her head, seeking the cool calm they offered. “I am afraid, at this moment, that it is.”
He unfolded his long body from the seat and stood before her. Before he left, he took one of her hands and pressed his lips to her fingers. “And now, Priestess Morgana,” he said. “I share your sacrifice.”
He walked away, his long strides bearing him quickly out of her sight. She sat alone for a time, wishing he were still there, wondering what was happening to her. “If only I could go home,” she whispered into the night.
The nightjar answered her, softly, sweetly, from the branches of the holm oak.
She whispered, “Thank you, little sister, but no. Not yet.”
Until the king released her, she would have to stay. She would have to be strong enough to resist this great temptation.
As the golden weeks of autumn faded into the silvery days of winter, Gwenvere’s resentment of Morgana intensified. She persisted in calling her the witch-priestess, not only in private but in public rooms, at dinner, in the presence of courtiers and knights, often in Morgana’s hearing. It seemed the only person in Camulod who was not aware of how the queen felt about the priestess was the king himself. He seemed not to hear her when she said something offensive, nor to see her when she was rude.
“To be fair,” Morgana said to Braithe one evening as Braithe was brushing her hair, “Arthur is occupied from morning till night with the affairs of the kingdom. I doubt there is a village he has not visited, or a hamlet where he has not offered to send an ox or a cow when it is needed. Perhaps he has no time to worry about what his queen is doing.”
Braithe hesitated, the brush poised above Morgana’s head. “Priestess,” she began, then bit her lip.
“What is it?”
“The queen—you know I have no magic, but—”
“Come now, brat. I think you must stop saying that.”
“I just…” Braithe met Morgana’s gaze in the mirror. She lowered the brush and stood turning it over in her hands. “I have seen it again. Several times.”
Morgana turned to face her. “What have you seen?”
