1
The sun sank at a leisurely pace beyond the far shore of Ilyn, setting the ring of mist around the island alight.
Before she disappeared beneath the lake, the Lady had set the mist to protect the Isle of Apples.
Its silvery folds shifted as if it were a living thing, often frightening anyone making their way through it for the first time.
Braithe, handmaid of Priestess Morgana, paused on the beach below the herb garden to appreciate the fragile beauty of the cloud of fog and to breathe in the perfume of the summer evening.
She should have been at dinner with the acolytes, chatting and laughing as they left the labors of the day behind, but she had no taste for company this night.
There had been a long line of supplicants in the Temple anteroom that day.
The boats that had carried them here to the Isle had just departed to ferry them back across the lake.
As always, Braithe’s heart still resonated with their needs and griefs.
It was her nature to feel the emotions of others, particularly in their moments of stress.
As she grew older and worked longer at Morgana’s side, that empathy had grown deeper, her intuition sharper, and both occasionally left pain in their wake.
The requests of the petitioners today had not been unusual, but Braithe still needed time to let the sensations they engendered in her breast subside.
The worst had been a woman whose son had been wounded by a Roman spear.
After weeks, the wound had grown worse rather than better.
She was the simplest of country women, and she had to describe it for them as best she could, since men were not allowed in the Temple.
Braithe felt her mix of revulsion and fear and heartbreak, and knew the wound must be in terrible shape.
She also knew Morgana would recommend a paste of yarrow and honey.
When Morgana asked for it, Braithe had the jar ready in her hand, winning one of the priestess’s rare smiles.
The best of the day had been a young woman, very plain and thin, who begged for a love philter, saying she was caring for her younger sisters after their parents had died, but she needed a husband’s help on the farm.
When asked if she had a man in mind, she admitted she did, but that he was so shy he could not bring himself to propose to her.
Without parents to arrange the match, she had all but given up.
It had been a joy to watch Morgana magick a little jar of potion for her, and to see the relief and hope on the girl’s face.
Braithe gave her instructions with a light heart, confident Morgana’s magic would solve the problem.
There had been others, though fortunately not so dramatic: a salve for a persistent rash, a syrup for an infant’s cough.
The one that took the most time and kept other petitioners waiting on the uncomfortable benches of the anteroom was a potion for a woman desperate to conceive lest her husband put her aside.
It would be effective, Braithe had no doubt, but the creation of it left Morgana weary, with supplicants still waiting, and Braithe felt the priestess’s weariness added to her own.
Now, at the closing of this long day, Braithe felt oddly restless, despite her fatigue. Something had been nagging at her for hours, and it had drawn her here, to the shore of the lake.
The gentle push and pull of Ilyn’s waves usually soothed her.
She always savored the faint smell of fish and the chatter of night birds waking to the long summer twilight.
On this evening, though, calm eluded her.
She felt an insistent tug just beneath her breastbone, and it wouldn’t let her rest. She paced the short beach, peering out into the mist, then up at the cool stars flickering to life.
A dove cooed, then another. A nightjar gave its chuckling cry, and from the woods beyond the garden, a fox barked.
Braithe hugged herself, wondering what was wrong.
It had been four years since the death of King Arthur and the beginning of the reign of the boy king, Mordred.
Sometimes, to Braithe, it seemed like yesterday that she and Priestess Morgana had borne Arthur’s body to fae country for safekeeping.
Other times, she felt as if it had all taken place in the distant past, in another life, when she had been a different person. Younger. More tender. Softer.
She was no longer so soft. She had seen too much, and it had toughened her in the way a lighthearted lamb grows into a wary ewe.
She didn’t know if she would need to be tough in this moment.
She stood at the water’s edge, her sandaled toes lapped by Ilyn’s gentle tongue as she gazed out over the lake.
The answer was there, somewhere past the mist’s glowing folds.
Something was coming. Someone was coming, she suddenly realized, and in that moment, the tug beneath her breastbone became a fist of alarm.
By the time the boat appeared out of the fog, its prow carving smoothly through the darkening water, Braithe was not surprised. With her deepening intuition, she had sensed his presence before she saw him. But why this wave of anxiety? She had no reason to fear the old mage.
She hurried along the beach to the dock, and as soon as the boatman climbed out to tie up to the ancient bollard, Braithe reached down to give the Blackbird her hand. “Sir. It has been far too long since you’ve come to us.”
He peered at her from beneath his hat, which was so battered she marveled that its threads still held together. “Braithe,” he croaked. “Well met.”
As she helped him step up onto the dock, she saw there was a third person in the boat. The Blackbird pointed to him. “This is Idhri, boatman’s apprentice,” he said. “Idhri, Braithe of the Lady’s Temple.”
Braithe lifted her hand to the newcomer. “Welcome to the Isle.”
Idhri was lanky, with the thinness of adolescence. He had black hair that he wore in a thick braid falling over one shoulder. He raised a hand in greeting but ducked his head without speaking.
Braithe felt his discomfort. Whether it was simple shyness or awe at being on the shore of the Isle of Apples, she couldn’t guess.
He wore a tunic far too big for him and leggings that were too short.
He moved with a slight clumsiness, as if he had not yet grown into his body.
He reminded her of a foal she had seen once in the keep at Camulod, its thin legs too long for its torso, its eyes wide with wonder at the world.
She had wanted to stroke it, but it had shied away from her hand and hidden behind its big-bellied mother.
Braithe offered the Blackbird her arm to lean on as they made a slow progress along the dock and onto the beach.
No one on the Isle knew just how old the mage was.
Braithe suspected he didn’t, either. She was glad of her own strength and sure steps as she supported him up the slope and through the garden.
The boatman trailed after them, with young Idhri just behind, his arms full of traveling bags.
All of them matched their steps to the Blackbird’s as they skirted the sanctuary of the Temple, where the massive pillars and flagstone floor were shadowed by the gathering dusk.
They passed on to the low-roofed building that was the residence of the Nine Priestesses.
A chamber was always kept ready there for the Blackbird.
They were almost at the residence door when Priestess Morgana appeared. Starlight gleamed on her thick silver braid, and though her face was drawn with fatigue after the long day, her golden eyes shone with pleasure at seeing her mentor once again.
She came forward, her arm outstretched, and the Blackbird reached up to take her long-fingered hand with his own spotted one.
Braithe released him into Morgana’s care and stood back to watch them greet each other.
They didn’t embrace, but they looked into each other’s eyes in the direct way made possible only by long association.
Braithe and Morgana could gaze at each other the same way.
Their association was not nearly as long, but they had fought a great battle together to protect Lloegyr and the Temple, and an unbreakable bond had formed between them.
Braithe knew Morgana’s secrets. Morgana knew hers.
They were hardly equals, Morgana a priestess of the Temple, and Braithe merely a country girl from a northern croft, but Braithe felt neither resentment nor envy.
Watching Priestess Morgana assist the Blackbird up the step and into the residence, she felt only pride.
Morgana, tall and lean and prodigiously gifted, was the most worthy of mistresses.
Braithe was pleased and proud to be her handmaid.
When the door of the residence closed behind Morgana and the Blackbird, Braithe looked back to ensure the boatman and his apprentice were being taken care of.
Dafne, always prepared, was leading them to the quarters beyond the dormitory that were reserved for the occasional boatman who stayed the night on the Isle.
Such men were forbidden to interact with the acolytes or to enter the Temple, of course.
Braithe trusted Dafne to recite the rules to them, and she called her thanks.
Dafne smiled, something Braithe had not yet gotten used to.
It was a restrained one, still needing practice, but it was a smile nonetheless.
“Happy to help,” Dafne responded. Braithe was not accustomed to hearing Dafne’s voice, either, which had been silenced for so long.
It was low, and a little rough from lack of practice, but it was good to hear her use it.