Page 86 of The Faerie Morgana
Morgana blinked and looked down at her handmaid. “B-Braithe?”
Braithe tugged at her, and hardly knowing she did it, Morgana stumbled after. Braithe didn’t speak again until they had reached the turning of the corridor and started up the staircase. Morgana said, a little foolishly, “What are you doing here?”
Braithe gave a mirthless chuckle. “What amIdoing, Priestess?” She pulled Morgana up to the tread she stood on and wrapped her arm around Morgana’s waist. They climbed side by side as Morgana blinked in confusion. She said, “What?” and then, “I don’t know what happened.”
“I can see that,” Braithe said. “Let me get you into bed, and we will talk.”
“But Braithe… Lancelin…”
“I know,” Braithe said soothingly. “I know. Come. Let us get out of this stairwell.”
In moments, guided by Braithe’s firm arm, Morgana found herself back in her dim bedchamber. Beyond her window the dawn light was rising. She began to shiver in her flimsy nightdress. Braithe was fully dressed, even shrouded by a heavy cloak. She made Morgana get into bed and pulled the blankets over her.
Morgana rubbed her face with her cold fingers, struggling to comprehend. What had come over her? What had she been doing?
All she knew for certain was that Braithe had saved her from a terrible mistake. She dropped her hands and gazed at her handmaid with eyes that burned with fatigue. “Do you know what happened? Was I in a trance? Under a spell?”
“Possibly,” Braithe said gently.
“Surely there is no one who could magick me! No one has the power!”
“I don’t know the answer to that, Priestess, but don’t worry. I will sit here while you sleep. When you wake, perhaps things will be clear.”
Morgana moaned, “I feel as if nothing will ever be clear again.”
Braithe patted her shoulder through the blankets. “Sleep now. I will watch. We can talk in the morning.”
“But—” Morgana began. A wave of drowsiness swept over her, as irresistible as the impulse that had driven her down the stairs. “But, Braithe. What were youdoingthere?” She was asleep before she heard the answer.
Braithe sat beside Morgana’s bed as the last stars vanished and the fragile dawn crept up the eastern horizon. She was tired, but not sleepy. The shock of seeing Morgana about to go into Lancelin’s bedchamber—where Braithe knew Gwenvere already was—still made her sick with horror. She racked her brain as she kept her watch, trying to understand what had happened.
Morgana was the most disciplined person Braithe had ever known, and the most dedicated to her work. Surely she hadnot intended to go to Lancelin’s bed! Not that he would have refused her, if he had been alone. Who could refuse her?
But she was untouchable. All the priestesses were, but none were as beautiful, as elegant, as desirable as Priestess Morgana. Lancelin was already betraying his king with the king’s own wife. He would surely not balk at taking a priestess if she offered herself.
And what was Braithe to tell Morgana in the morning about her own presence in that corridor? She had promised the Blackbird not to reveal their secret, but she could not see that she had any choice.
By the hand of the Lady, she thought, secrets were like weapons, and the longer they were kept, the sharper they became.
Morgana groaned in her sleep, and her limbs twitched restlessly. Braithe put a hand on her shoulder and shushed her as she might a child. Morgana whimpered but settled down again and slept. Braithe brushed back the silver strands of hair that tangled around the priestess’s face and neck, then smoothed the covers that had been creased in her restlessness. When she saw that Morgana had returned to a deep sleep, Braithe rose from her chair and went to the table.
The divining stones were still as Morgana had left them the night before. Braithe bent to look at their pattern, but they told her nothing she didn’t already know. She sighed and picked up the leather cup to restore them to it.
“Don’t,” Morgana said hoarsely from the bed.
Braithe started, dropping the cup. She turned to see thatMorgana was awake, sitting up in bed with one of her pillows clutched in her arms. The priestess said, “Did you read the stones?”
“Priestess,” Braithe said. “You know I can’t—”
“No, I suppose not.” Morgana tossed aside the pillow, pushed back the blankets, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Braithe hastened to fetch her dressing gown and helped her to put it on. Morgana walked unsteadily to the table and bent over the scattered stones, leaning on her hands as if unsure of her balance. Still in the hoarse voice of early waking, she said, “They showed me Sir Lancelin with a woman. And I—I don’t know what happened. I slept, and dreamed, and when I woke I was about to go into his room.”
“You were not yourself.”
“I am still not myself.” Morgana rubbed at her temples. “Do you know who was with him? With Lancelin?”
Braithe hesitated, warring with herself, knowing she was about to break her promise to the Blackbird. Finally, with a burst of anger that she should have been put in this position, she blurted, “I do know. It was the worst possible person.”
Morgana turned her head to look over her shoulder. Her eyes glinted gold in the rising light, looking very catlike in the faint rays of sunshine slanting through the window. “Gwenvere,” she whispered. “It was Gwenvere.”
