Page 90 of The Faerie Morgana
“No,” she said. “Gwenvere.”
They had descended only two steps when Gwenvere burst through the door. She stood on the landing, gripping the fur cloak in front of her as if for protection. She had recovered her voice. “Braithe, wait! Wait!”
The Blackbird twisted his neck to look up the stairs at her, but Braithe urged him on, down the single flight of stairs to his own small chamber. She opened that door and ungently pushed him inside. Gwenvere called, “I need to speak with—” But she didn’t get to finish her thought. Braithe cast her a glance full of loathing before she slammed the door so hard it rocked on its hinges.
The Blackbird’s room was in nearly complete darkness. One small candle flickered wanly on his table, barely illuminating the stones he had cast. A shallow bowl of water rested nearby, trembling now with the force of the door.
“You were scrying?” Braithe pulled a stool close to the table for him and held his arm while he lowered himself onto it.
“I was.” His ancient voice cracked. “Were you there? Did you see?”
“I did, sir.” Braithe pulled a second stool up and sat down. She leaned forward. “I must break faith with the priestess to tell you what has happened, but be assured she is safe.”
“Perhaps my vision was wrong. I am not so strong as I was.”
“Your vision was correct, sir.” Braithe felt bold with him, even maternal. She laid her smooth, small hand on his much-wrinkled one. “You will scry again. Look for a dove with wingsthe color of this silver clasp on my dress. No bird should be flying in this snowstorm, but this one did. You must see where it landed.”
“A—a dove?” The Blackbird clutched his staff close to him, as if it had answers. “Why do you tell me this, Braithe? Why should I seek a dove at this moment? Does it—”
She released his hand and sat back. She watched his hooded eyes widen as he realized, and his spine straighten as it did in moments of great stress. He drew a rasping breath and released it with a great sigh of resignation. “A dove,” he said.
“Yes, sir. A dove.”
“Priestess Morgana took the shape of a dove.”
“She did.”
“She has done this before.”
“Yes, but I couldn’t tell you.” It was Braithe’s turn to draw a deep breath and release it. “She swore me to secrecy, sir, but now—I must break my promise to her.”
“You have seen her change her shape.” Oddly, the Blackbird seemed neither surprised nor upset by the revelation.
“I have. Not into the shape of a dove, but an owl. A cat. A—a person.”
“Ah.” The Blackbird slumped again and rubbed one tired hand over his face. “You are right, Braithe. I must discover where she has descended.”
“There is no time to waste,” Braithe said. “She will be naked, and it’s cold.”
“Naked, yes. I knew. But in all that happened afterward, I forgot.”
Braithe said, “I must collect her robe from where it fell before someone else finds it.”
“Go and do that now, Braithe. But beware Gwenvere! She is more powerful than such a woman should be, and more dangerous.”
The residents of the castle were all asleep except for the early-rising bakers. Braithe had no trouble slipping down the stairs and out to where she believed Morgana’s robe and sigil would lie. She had just rounded the curve of the tower and was making her way along the outer wall when she saw Gwenvere.
The queen, wrapped once again in the fox fur cloak, carried an oil lamp that shone yellow through the drifting snow. Blinded by its light, she didn’t see Braithe as she bent forward, searching the ground. Braithe knew in an instant she was searching for Morgana’s body, no doubt to drag it into the woods. She would not care whether Morgana still lived or not. She would only care that her crime was not discovered.
Braithe found the robe by stepping on it. It was already coated with snow, almost invisible on the snowy earth. The precious sigil was tangled in its folds, as was Morgana’s shift, and her boots lay askew beneath it. Silently, Braithe gathered all of it in her arms, then backed away, around the curve of the tower, going inside once more.
She climbed back up to the Blackbird’s aerie and plopped the whole pile onto his narrow bed. He was bent over the bowl of water, peering into its surface, stirring it with one gnarled finger and gazing into it again as the ripples faded. He didn’t look up.
“Do you see her?” she asked softly.
“I do. Just give me a— There, I think she is descending. There’s so much snow! I worry for her.”
Braithe crept up behind him and stretched her neck to look over his shoulder. The water trembled under the Blackbird’s finger, then gradually smoothed. She sensed he was holding his breath, and realized she was, too. Of course, she couldn’t see anything. She watched the shivering surface of the water just the same, longing for even a glimpse of the dove, to know Morgana was safe.
