Page 93 of The Faerie Morgana
The Blackbird hobbled down the slope toward her, his overlong robe catching on the stones here and there. He pointed up to the mistletoe and said, as if they had only parted that morning instead of years before, “Most powerful herb in the garden.”
The Blackbird took his time getting to the point of their long-delayed meeting. It was good to speak with Morgana again, and he was in no hurry to rush their congenial sharing of memories. He looked into her dark eyes, more gold than brown after what she had endured. He admired the deep timbre of her voice, the line of her jaw, the upward tilt of her eyelids. He thought her silver hair flattered her strong features, although she would not appreciate him saying so.
He felt something hard and tight in his chest loosen, just from being near her once again. She was the daughter he had never had—could never have had—and he had missed her more than he admitted to himself.
When he felt the growing chill in the wintry air as the sun slid down its path west of the Isle, he said, “Priestess Morgana, you’ve been ill, and it’s getting cold. I have something to tell you, but it’s a complicated tale and I don’t want you shivering while I do.”
She cast him a sidelong glance. “You are going to tell me, sir? At last?”
“I have spent these past days deciding how to do it,” he said. “Although how you knew I had something to tell you…”
She spread her long-fingered hands. “I often know things I should not. I have never had an explanation.”
“Priestess,” he began, then had to stop to clear his throat. “Morgana. My story will undoubtedly help.”
“Come then,” she said, putting her hand on his arm in an unusual gesture for her. “Let us go up into the residence. We will be more comfortable there.”
They settled into their customary seats in the inner chamber. Dafne appeared the moment they sat down, bearing a tray of hot cider and fresh biscuits. Morgana pressed a pottery cup of cider into the Blackbird’s cold hands and took one for herself, cradling its warmth between her palms.
The Blackbird sipped the fragrant brew and sighed with enjoyment. “No one makes cider as sweet as this. I think the acolytes must pour their hearts into the process.”
“As you say,” Morgana said. She drank, too, then set her cup down. “I have been waiting for you to speak to me for such a long time, sir. Are you no longer angry?”
“Holding on to anger is pointless,” he said, in a voice so low he might have been addressing himself. “What’s done is done.” He glanced up at her from beneath his hooded lids. “You did what you thought best for Lloegyr.”
Morgana didn’t answer, but the knot of hurt and resentment deep in her heart, tied hard in the years just past, began to release.
“I have spent these past years trying to convince myself that it was not my fault that Uther died before his time. But—” He paused, and Morgana had to twist her fingers together to hold her patience. “But I cannot escape culpability. I should have spoken sooner. I misjudged the moment.”
Morgana released her fingers. “Sir. Hear me, please. You also did what you thought was best for Lloegyr.”
At this, the Blackbird nodded, but it was almost a tremor of his head waggling upon his wattled neck. “Perhaps. Perhaps. It is safe to say, Priestess, that we both meant well. These decisions weigh on those who must make them, do they not?”
“Yes,” she said, and stopped. She didn’t want to distract him. She was still waiting to hear his tale—the tale she had thought he might never tell.
“Yes.” He drained the cup of cider and took a biscuit from the tray, though he didn’t taste it. He turned it in his fingers, as if its honey-glazed surface could tell him something. He coughed again and laid the biscuit aside. “I must tell you the story of your birth, Morgana.”
She nearly dropped her own cup. “What? My what?”
“Your birth.”
Her hands began to shake, and she set her cup down so as not to drop it. “But I— My mother—”
“It is not what you think.” He took off his hat and laid the disreputable thing on the floor at his feet. He rubbed his handsthrough his straggling gray locks as if to ease a headache. “Please do not blame me for keeping this secret. I swore to it when I first saw you, and it has been a hard thing to decide to break my promise.” He fell silent, staring past her as if someone were there looking back.
Impatience made Morgana prompt him. “Sir—”
He sighed and reflexively combed his beard with his fingers. “It is difficult to speak of these things, Morgana. I have held them close for so very long. It has become the habit of a lifetime.”
Morgana leaned toward him. “It is time to lay down that burden, sir. Tell me, and if there are decisions to be made, perhaps we can make them together.”
His beard twitched in what she had always believed passed for a smile. “Thank you, Priestess.”
“I am just Morgana to you, sir. You are the closest thing I have ever had to a family, since you led me away from my mother’s knee.”
The Blackbird said, on a long sigh, “She was not your mother, Morgana.”
She stared at him, sure she must not have heard properly. “What?”
