Page 88 of The Faerie Morgana
“What? How dare you accuse me—”
“Really?” Morgana ungently pulled her away from the door. “Am I imagining you were about to enter the bedchamber of a man not your husband, at nearly midnight?”
“You know nothing!”
“On the contrary, I know almost everything.” Morganatwisted her hand, forcing Gwenvere to stumble backward down the corridor.
“Witch!” Gwenvere grunted, her delicate features crumpling at the pain in her wrist. “No one will believe anything you say!”
Morgana dragged the queen toward the stairwell, jerking her upright when she tripped on the hem of her nightdress. “I am one of the Nine,” Morgana said. “People believe everything I say, because they know I do not lie.” She made Gwenvere start up the steps. “In fact, I cannot lie, for some reason. I am the exact opposite of yourself.”
Gwenvere pulled back, trying again to free herself, and nearly fell down the stairs. Only Morgana’s relentless grip held her upright. “Where are you taking me?” Gwenvere panted.
“To my bedchamber, where we can talk.”
“No!”
“No?” Morgana tugged her up to the next landing, and then on, up the next set of steps. “Very well. We will go up to the courtine. We will disturb no one there.”
“I won’t go, witch! I’ll scream for the guards!”
Morgana tightened her grip. “Will you? And admit you were roaming the tower in search of a different bed?”
“You have no right—”
“But I do.” Morgana yanked her on, higher and higher. She was sure she was bruising Gwenvere’s pale skin, but she didn’t care. The queen’s breath came in whimpers at the unaccustomed exertion as she was forced either to climb or be dragged. Morgana said, “My life’s work is to protect the true king, my lady, and that is what I intend to do.Thatgives me the right.”
They reached the door that led out to the top of the courtine. Morgana turned the latch with her free hand and thrust Gwenvere out into the snowy night. She followed, taking care to shut the door behind her.
The queen immediately began to shiver in her light garments. “I’ll freeze!” she whined. “Is that your intent?” Gwenvere demanded, her teeth already chattering. “That I should die of the cold?”
“Oh, no,” Morgana said. “Not that. Here, take my cloak. It was a gift to me from your husband. You remember him? The king you have made cuckold?”
Gwenvere seized the cloak with greedy hands and wrapped herself in it. Morgana’s black robe was not particularly warm, but she burned within and hardly felt the cold. A sudden abrasive wind whipped the hem of her robe and slashed at the heavy folds of the fur Gwenvere now wore.
Gwenvere had to shout above the noise of the wind. “What do you want, witch?”
Morgana’s deep voice cut through the wind’s racket. “I want you to leave Camulod, my lady. I know you now. You are a woman without conscience or honor or sense of duty, and I want you gone before you destroy the king’s reign.”
Gwenvere’s lip curled, almost a snarl. She leaned closer, shoving her small face toward Morgana’s. Morgana didn’t move, but she felt a grudging admiration for the smaller woman’s courage. She surely had some idea of what one of the Nine could do.
“Listen to me, witch-priestess!” Gwenvere cried. The wind whipped her hair around her face and tangled it around herslender neck. “Listen! I am queen here, and I take no orders from any witch!”
Morgana’s own lip curled with anger and with certainty. Her fury drove the wind higher and louder, but her voice cut through it as easily as a knife cuts soft cheese. “You will take an order from me, Gwenvere!” She folded her arms, pressing the sharp edges of her sigil against her body. “You will tell the king you have made a mistake, that you cannot be his queen. You will leave Camulod, go back to your father, or find another husband. It matters not to me what you do, so long as you set Arthur free!”
Gwenvere staggered before a great gust and grabbed hold of the inner parapet to keep from falling. She was all but blinded by her hair, and the fur cloak rose and fell around her, beating against her legs. She shrieked, “I will not! You believe I have no power, but you mistake me!” She gripped the icy edge of the parapet, slick with snow. “You think you know everything, but you don’t!”
Morgana stiffened her legs against the buffeting of the wind. It howled around the tower, tearing at the pennants, battering the walls and windows with torrents of icy snowflakes that rattled like bits of gravel. Fury rose within her, threatening to erupt. Her sigil vibrated against her body, singing with power, hot with anger at the offenses of this woman. The greatest temptation of Morgana’s life hung before her.
She had only to make the gesture, to open her palm and stretch out her fingers. The parapet Gwenvere clung to would crumble, the stones carried off by the wind, leaving nothingbut empty space between Gwenvere of Camulod and the frozen ground far below. Morgana’s fingers twitched in readiness. Her own hair, so heavy and bright, fluttered about her, uniquely hers, a sign of her strength and her magic.
But she hesitated. Did she want this on her conscience? Could she bear this weight on her spirit forever?
She stared at Gwenvere’s distorted features through the slash of snowflakes and the shimmer of her own hair, and thought not.
Braithe waited in Morgana’s chamber, thinking the priestess would bring Gwenvere there to confront her, but as the minutes crept past and they didn’t come, she began to worry. She knew what Gwenvere was capable of. She knew how she could strike without warning, without hesitation, without thought or control. Too fearful to wait, Braithe seized one of the priestess’s cloaks and threw it around her shoulders.
She had just opened the door when she heard the unmistakable bang of the door high above her, the door that led to the top of the courtine. She paused, listening for voices, for whispers, for shouts, but all she could hear was the rising howl of the wind. She bent her head, searching within herself for direction. A moment later she dashed up the stairs, one flight, two, three, until she reached the door leading outside.
