Page 85 of The Faerie Morgana
The Blackbird turned his head slowly toward her, his black eyes narrowed. “I was told you had no magic.”
She met his gaze with a steady one of her own. “So was I, sir. So was I.”
33
As winter closed its icy fingers around Camulod, the grip of war eased. It was too cold for the Saxons to go raiding, setting Arthur free to turn his attention to domestic matters. He asked Morgana’s assistance in his council chamber as he judged disputes and settled complaints. She was better at detecting a lie than any of his bailiffs. He would sit with his elbow on the arm of his chair and his chin in his hand, listening to the arguments, then turn to her, eyebrows lifted, awaiting her opinion. Often she merely shook her head, or nodded. Sometimes she murmured a word of advice.
The cottars and tradesmen who brought their troubles before the king would gaze at her, wide-eyed with wonder at speaking before one of the Nine.
Morgana sat on Arthur’s left at the great circular table. On his right, where she could see him without turning her head, was Sir Lancelin, Arthur’s second-in-command, his most trusted lieutenant. Morgana felt a quiver deep in her body at watching Lancelin’s dark face or listening to his deep voice rendering an opinion. It was too cold now for them to sit on thebench on the courtine, but here, in the council chamber, they were so close they could have touched hands.
On Midwinter Eve, Braithe convinced Morgana to attend dinner in the great hall. It was a glittering affair, women wearing torcs of bronze or gold over their brightest gowns, their hair twisted high and studded with jewels. The men wore new tunics and fine high boots, with wide leather belts and shining silver buckles. Braithe looked enchanting in one of Gwenvere’s cast-off gowns. It was the green of new leaves, of spring grass, and Braithe’s fair curls were brilliant in contrast.
Gwenvere herself wore the simplest of white gowns, with a silver torc and a jeweled brooch at her shoulder. She had made Braithe braid and rebraid her pale hair until it attained just the sleek shape she wanted to support her slender gold crown. She looked as if she were carved of ice, glistening and cold.
Morgana’s seat was at the high table with the king and queen, Sir Lancelin, and several other highborn knights and their ladies. She sat with her hands in her lap, conscious of the severity of her black robe, the simplicity of her hair, tied in a heavy knot behind her nape. It was odd for her even to be aware of her appearance, and it embarrassed her. She fixed her gaze on Braithe, at one of the lower tables, and wished she could sit with her.
Gwenvere made sparkling conversation with the people near her, engaging Lancelin in particular. Arthur leaned back in his big chair, looking tired but content. Morgana, too, reclined in her chair, watching people smile and laugh and enjoy the feast. No one spoke to her, but she was glad of it. She had no lightconversation to offer. She ate a little of each course, sipped sparingly at the goblet of wine before her, and wondered how long she must stay before she could escape without giving offense.
Toward the end of the dinner, Lancelin caught her eye and nodded somberly, as if he understood. Morgana lifted one eyebrow, and she thought he might almost smile, but Gwenvere laid her slim hand on his sleeve, distracting him. Morgana turned her head away.
As Morgana prepared for bed that night, the full moon hung high and small in a starry sky, framed by her window. She felt restive and cross, and wished she had resisted Braithe’s urging to attend the dinner. The sounds of laughter and music still rose from the great hall, grating on her nerves like pebbles against her bare skin. Instead of getting into bed, as she had intended, she went to her table and spread out the tools of divination.
She would not scry for herself. That was dangerous. It would, as the Blackbird had taught her on a foggy day long ago, open her to things better left to the passage of time. She remembered that day with her usual clarity: the mist rolling in from the lake, the sounds of the acolytes chanting in the Temple, even the scent of soup simmering in the kitchens, a pungent fragrance that pierced the grayness. The Blackbird had given her a clear warning. She had not forgotten, but something burned in her breast, some need or urge or compulsion. She wanted to quell it, but it wouldn’t subside.
She hesitated, looking over her tools. There was somethingshe needed to know, some bit of information calling to her, nibbling at the edges of her mind. She couldn’t scry for herself, but perhaps—surely she could scry for Lancelin. Could that do any harm? She could do it to protect him. Or to advise him. If she saw herself in her vision, that would be incidental, not deliberate. And not prophetic, about which the Blackbird had been specific.
She crumbled dry rowan leaves into the flat pottery saucer, then dipped a spill into the candle flame. She let the leaves burn until the tiny flame died, leaving nothing but ash. She pulled the saucer close to her and moved the candle next to it, then stirred the still-warm ashes with her long forefinger. They rose up in a little cloud, and against it she saw Lancelin.
The room—it must be his bedchamber—lay in darkness, except for a narrow slash of moonlight cutting across the floor. His back was to her, his hair falling loose on his neck, his bare shoulders gleaming in the dimness. He had something in his hand, a tunic or a nightshirt, and as she watched, her fingers to her lips, he tossed it aside and turned toward his bed.
There was someone there. Someone with pale skin, slender limbs, a spill of fair hair. Morgana’s breath came quickly, painfully, and then, as if someone had shut a door, the vision was gone.
In its place stood the Blackbird, staring at her from the ash cloud. He did not look angry, as he had the last time she saw him. He looked sad. His eyes were so hooded by his wrinkled lids she could barely see them, and his mouth drooped beneath his gray mustache. Gently, as if to remonstrate but not scold, he gave one small shake of his head before the ash cloud dissipated.
Morgana’s throat ached with regret. She wished she had the remainder of the wine she had left in her goblet at dinner. She stumbled to her bed, awash in misery, and lay down without pulling back the coverlet. The Blackbird had been right. How he had managed to interrupt her scrying, to insert himself into it, she didn’t know, but it had been the proper thing to do. She knew better than to scry for personal reasons, just as she knew better than to scry for herself. It had been selfish and reckless, and it had hurt her just as he’d warned it could.
She rolled onto her side and buried her face in her pillow. She wished she could go up the stairs to the Blackbird, beg his forgiveness, promise she would not do it again. Tell him she didn’t fully understand why she had done it.
Obviously, he had been following her activities. He had scried for her. He must know her shameful secret.
In a fog of confusion, she refused to let herself think of who had been in Lancelin’s bed. It was none of her affair. It could only cause her pain, and she told herself she must be grateful to the Blackbird for interceding. She pulled the pillow away from her face and lay watching the moon climb in the sky until it passed toward the west, out of her sight, leaving nothing but the lonely stars to comfort her.
When Morgana finally fell asleep, it was as if she had fallen into a trance. She slept hard, and she dreamed.
In her dream, she was the one on Lancelin’s bed. Her body looked nothing like that of the woman she had seen, her legsmuch longer, her hair silver-white. Just the same, in her dream it was she who lay on his bed, waiting for him, yearning for him, discarding all her commitments to the Temple, to her principles, to her duty. She reached for him, ready to throw away years of discipline.
With a shock, as if she had been struck, she opened her eyes.
She was not in bed. She was standing in a corridor, not on the level of her own chamber, but the one of the council chamber, of the royal apartments. Of Lancelin’s room. She felt the cold stone beneath her feet, and a draught of night air brought gooseflesh to her bare arms. Her unbraided hair tumbled around her shoulders. She couldn’t think what she was doing. Her mind was a cloud of confusion, as if she had swallowed some potion not of her own making.
In a daze, she put her hand to the latch of Lancelin’s bedchamber. The compulsion that had driven her to scry for Lancelin had renewed, throbbing in her veins, driving her in a way she had never before experienced. She didn’t recall leaving her bed, making her way down the stairs, stumbling along the corridor to Lancelin’s chamber. Was she sleepwalking? She didn’t know. She knew only that she had to open that door, had to find him, had to satisfy the hunger that had overtaken her body. Her craving was stronger than any of her other senses.
Her breaths came swift and shallow. Her body trembled with wanting. With need. She pulled on the latch, and it gave beneath her hand. She put her palm on the heavy door to push.
Before it could open, a firm, small hand grasped her wrist with surprising strength and tore her hand away. Morganagasped, shocked out of her dream state into full awareness of where she was.
In an urgent whisper, Braithe cried, “Priestess!”
