Page 97 of The Faerie Morgana
“Are you not curious about who my mother was?” Morgana’s gaze fell to her sigil, and she turned it in her fingers.
“Of course! Do you know?”
“I do.” Morgana lifted the sigil into the slanting afternoon light. “You know what this symbol represents, Braithe,” she said, her voice so deep it rumbled against the walls. Deep and quiet and intense. Was that fear, Braithe wondered, or sorrow?
And then she knew. She knew what—or rather who—the symbol stood for and she understood what secret the Blackbird had been keeping all these years. She anticipated what Morgana was about to tell her. “The Lady is your mother,” Braithe blurted, her voice breaking with astonishment. “They say she was the last of the fae in Lloegyr, but…”
“They are wrong, it seems. If the Blackbird is to be believed, I am the Lady’s daughter.”
“And your father?”
“He says he has never known. I may not be fully fae, although he thinks I am. It’s possible that I am a half-blood, like the ones the bards sing about. The ones they say come into Lloegyr pretending to be human, seducing young girls and enticing young men away from their homes.” She turned abruptly back to thewindow. “I hope I am not one of those. If I am to be fae, then I would rather be fully fae.”
Braithe put her hands on her hips and declared, a little too loudly, “If you are fae, Morgana of the Temple, half or whole, then being fae must be a very fine thing.”
Morgana bent her head, and the setting sun gleamed on her unbound silver hair, making it look as if she wore a halo. “I have always thought you are a gift of the Lady’s, my Braithe,” she said. “Perhaps you are a gift from my Lady mother to sustain me in her purpose.”
“And her purpose is…?”
“To protect Lloegyr. To protect the king. The Blackbird blames himself now, after long thought, but I wonder. Perhaps he was right in the first place. Perhaps I have failed in my duty.”
It was a bitter thing to speak those words aloud, to hear the painful truth in her own voice. Morgana had been over and over it these past days, wondering what she could have done differently, speculating endlessly over whether, if she had known her true nature, she might have followed the Blackbird’s order more closely.
It was not until today, communing with a ladybug who fluttered down to her shoulder and stood with shining red-and-black wings lifting and settling, preening in the spring sun, that she decided. There had been no other choice she could have made.
Uther had intended to surrender Lloegyr for his own profit.He had been a traitor, a man who cared for nothing but his own ambition. He had hated his own son, Arthur, knowing he was no match for Arthur’s wisdom and character. He had betrayed his own knights, ready to let the Romans take them prisoner, enslave them, sell them to the Saxons. Though the Lady, her mother, had laid other plans, she would have understood how the course of Lloegyr’s history had changed. She would have recognized that Uther was unworthy of the crown he had won through deceit. She would surely have preferred that Arthur assume his throne early than lose his kingdom to the Romans before he had a chance to ascend to it.
And if the Lady had not foreseen Uther’s treachery, she would surely not have foreseen the danger posed by Queen Gwenvere.
Morgana said to Braithe now, “I wish with all my heart that I could remain here on the Isle, working in the Temple, living in peace with our sisters, but I cannot.”
“Because of Gwenvere.”
“Because of Gwenvere. She is a greater danger to Lloegyr even than the Romans or the Saxons, because she can destroy the country from within.”
Braithe’s freckled brow creased. “I don’t understand.”
Morgana crossed to the table, where her cup of divining stones rested. She picked it up, shook it lightly, then spilled the stones out on the tabletop. Braithe moved to stand by her shoulder, and together they studied the pattern.
“Do you see it?” Morgana asked. Braithe shook her head. “Don’t try, brat,” Morgana said softly. “Let the pattern speak in its own time. Perceive its message in your spirit, not yourmind. Minds are restless, cluttered with trivial things. Spirits are patient.”
Morgana had read the pattern immediately, and her heart grew heavy with understanding. She waited, allowing her own spirit to adjust to this new burden even as she gave Braithe time to grasp the meaning in her own way.
At length, Braithe looked up, her blue eyes glimmering with shallow tears. “She will betray him to the Romans,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“But why? Why would she do that?”
“I think Gwenvere longs to become a Roman. She wears their clothes. She styles her hair in the Roman fashion. She deceived Arthur in order to become queen, but Camulod bores her. I suspect she believes she can ingratiate herself with Rome by allying herself with one of their centurions, perhaps a legate. She might even be able to do it. Her looks and her name will carry weight with Rome.” Morgana paused, looking down at the stones. “The fae sent her out of revenge, because the Lady banished them. They sent her to ruin the Lady’s plan.”
“That explains her power over people,” Braithe said.
“Yes. She even wielded that power over me, preventing me from speaking truth to the king. No one else possesses that power but the fae, and it seems they bestowed it upon her.”
“I saw it,” Braithe said.
“Did you?”
