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Braithe started toward the back of the residence, where she had her own small chamber near Morgana’s.
She would go along to the kitchen for a solitary supper.
She could chat with the Blackbird later.
It would be a pleasant way to pass the evening, and perhaps it would ease the disquiet she had been suffering all day.
“I dare to hope,” Morgana said, “that your visit is a social one.” She poured a bit more ale into the Blackbird’s cup and pushed it closer to his hand. He was having his delayed evening meal, soup and bread and a few greens.
The Blackbird tilted his head and gazed at her from beneath his thick gray eyebrows.
He had aged greatly in the past four years, Morgana thought.
Truthfully, it hadn’t seemed he could age much more and still fulfill his commitment to the boy king, but apparently he was managing.
In any case, despite his years, his black eyes glowed with hard-won wisdom.
He said, “Not like you to practice self-deception, Priestess. I believe you are aware I do not make social calls.”
She sighed. It had been an exceedingly long day in the anteroom.
It was rare, these days, that supplicants were content to see another priestess.
It was always the fabled Morgana they wanted, and that meant her workload never eased.
She leaned back in her chair and forced herself to relax her hands in her lap and to bestow a fond gaze upon her mentor.
“Yes, sir. I am aware. Things can change, though, can they not?”
He combed crumbs from his long beard with his fingers. His beard had gone white and was in dire need of trimming. “Things can indeed change,” he said. “That has not.”
“Do you require more soup? Perhaps some cheese?”
“No, I thank you.”
“Very well. Perhaps you can enlighten me, then. Not that I am not always glad to see you.”
He shook the last crumb from his beard. “I have come to ask for your help.”
“I could have guessed.”
“You probably did.”
She made a gesture with one hand, and he nodded. “My worry is for King Mordred.”
“Are things not well with him? The supplicants tell us he is liked well enough.” Most of what the inhabitants of the Temple knew about events beyond the Isle of Apples came by word of mouth from the petitioners.
The mage said, “He’s a kind lad, Priestess. People like that.”
“But kindness does not keep the Romans from our borders.” It was not a question.
In the anteroom she heard many tales of Roman attacks and the Saxon raids that took advantage of weakened outlying farms or hamlets.
All too often the festering wounds in need of her intervention had come at the point of a Saxon sword.
“No. It does not.” The Blackbird picked up his cup and drank deeply, sighing with enjoyment. “The Isle always has the best ale in Lloegyr.”
“That’s the acolytes’ doing. They practice their skills when brewing it.”
“I send them my thanks.” He set down the cup with a trembling hand, and a thrill of fear awoke in Morgana’s belly even before he said, “There is something wrong with King Mordred.”
“Is he ill?”
“No. It’s not physical, nor even in his mind, as far as I can tell. It seems—external.”
“External?”
“Yes. Whatever is wrong is outside him, beyond his control. Things he orders go awry. Requests he makes do not materialize. Sir Lancelin does his best in training the knights and their lackeys, and so do the horsemaster and the swordmasters, but somehow there is always a problem. A flaw, as if the order of things is confounded. It’s as if everyone is walking in a fog.
They are confused. They forget. They make bad decisions. ”
“And responsibility is laid at the king’s door?”
“Responsibility is always laid at the leader’s door, king or queen, child or adult.
” He blew out a long breath that made his drooping mustache ripple.
“When Sir Lancelin leads on his own—a war party, for example, answering one of the Roman incursions—things go better. He’s a fine leader, and the men respect him.
But when the king is involved, as he must inevitably be, success is elusive. ”
“Do you wish me to come to Camulod?” Morgana held herself very still as she waited for the answer.
She did not want to go there, not with Lancelin present.
They had said their goodbyes, and it was better for them both to leave things as they were.
Still, the old warmth rose in her breast. She had worked hard to convince herself those feelings were in the past, faded and forgotten.
She set her teeth to breathe the sensation away and tried not to think of how good it would feel to see him again.
Naturally, if the king had need of her in some way, she could not refuse.
In honor of her half brother Arthur, if for no other reason, she would always serve the cause of the kingdom of Lloegyr.
She would simply have to deal with the temptation of Sir Lancelin as she had once before.
She had the unsettling feeling it would not be easier a second time.
The Blackbird’s canny gaze fixed on her, and she knew he understood. She had not broken her Temple vows, but meeting Sir Lancelin of Camulod had taught her how easy it would be to err in such a way.
“No,” he said gently. “I am not asking that of you. I have only come to beg you to help me discover what’s wrong.”
“You scried, I presume?”
He blew another long sigh that rattled alarmingly in his chest. “I have scried over and over again, and come up with nothing. I fear I don’t have the power anymore.”
“Perhaps if we work together?”
“That is my hope. That is what I came to request.”
She leaned forward to lay her hand on his arm. “This request will be an honor to fulfill.”