3 #2
Now, in Master Hugh’s boat, Braithe’s nerves tormented her.
She had wrapped her arms so tightly around herself that her fingers tingled.
She made herself release them. She shook out her hands until the circulation returned, then put one palm over her breast to feel the little charm of protection Priestess Morgana had given her.
She reminded herself that Morgana’s charms never failed.
She told herself Morgana would never let the fae harm her handmaid.
Surely, she assured herself, even in the White City, there were no fae as powerful as Morgana.
But that thought brought a new worry. It would be up to her, Braithe, to protect Priestess Morgana, and her only power was loyalty.
Well, that and this new, odd awareness of other people’s feelings, which was sometimes more of a hindrance than a help.
What if Morgana came to harm, and it was her fault?
Braithe’s heart thudded beneath the charm as the mist surrounded the boat.
The shore disappeared behind them, and the summer sunlight cooled, filtered through silvery fog.
The boatman’s lad—Idhri, his name was—crouched in the prow, pole at the ready, but as visibility dwindled to almost nothing, he cast an anxious look back at his master.
His dark eyes, the wide, vulnerable eyes of a boy, met Braithe’s, and she felt his apprehension about their journey.
It was always an uncomfortable sensation, feeling someone else’s emotions.
It was a bit like putting on another person’s clothes, clothes that didn’t fit, that squeezed or pulled in strange places.
It was a random thing, coming when she didn’t want it, not appearing when she did.
She wished she could turn it off completely.
She could hardly blame the lad for his fears, though, and she had probably made his nervousness worse. It couldn’t have helped for him to see her huddling on her seat like a terrified mouse.
She made herself smile at him, as if this were any ordinary boat trip.
He managed a tremulous smile in return, then turned abruptly forward again to stare into the thick mist.
The fetish Priestess Morgana had attached to the forward hull of the boat hung just above the water line.
It looked a bit like a purse, but Braithe knew it held no coins.
The mage had fashioned it out of a fold of silk and filled it with the mysterious little objects he used to create his magic.
She hadn’t seen him do it. Indeed, she had never seen him do that kind of work.
She didn’t think even Morgana had been allowed to watch, despite their long association.
Braithe had once worn one of the Blackbird’s charms, though, and she knew how powerful they could be.
This one would guide them to fae country. They had not been invited, nor would they be welcome. In the usual way, that would mean they couldn’t find the way there, but the Blackbird’s power was such that it overrode the glamour hiding the White City from ordinary humans.
Braithe startled when she felt Morgana’s hand on her shoulder. She turned. Morgana didn’t smile—she rarely did—but there was a look of understanding in her golden eyes. “We will face it together, brat,” she murmured.
Braithe found herself saying, in a steady voice, “Of course we will, Priestess.”
At that moment the boat broke out of the mist, and ahead of them, sooner than Braithe would have thought possible, the pale stone buildings of the White City rose into the slanting rays of the late-afternoon sun.
Four fae women were coming down a pebbled path that led from the city’s edge to the gravel beach.
The path was smooth and unnaturally even, as if it had been raked.
The fae wore robes in varying shades of gray, and they wore their black hair loose.
They were not young. Each one had streaks of gray in her hair. No one smiled.
Braithe felt one more tremor of anxiety in her breast, but she touched her charm and breathed it away. She and the priestess were in the Lady’s care now.
The boat bobbed neatly up to the dock, and Idhri climbed out, pulling the coil of rope with him.
Braithe was on her feet before he had finished tying the knots.
She stood as tall as she was able, her back straight, her chin up.
If she wasn’t truly brave, she could act as if she were, no matter how her heart fluttered or her stomach churned. She would make the Blackbird proud.
She would make Arthur proud.
Morgana took her time rising from her seat, stepping out of the boat, overseeing the bags being unloaded by the boatman’s apprentice.
She waited until everything was done, and Braithe and the boatmen were already on the shore, before she walked at a deliberate pace to the end of the dock, her hands in her wide sleeves, her expression purposely remote.
They were waiting for her, as she had intended.
There was a delegation of four, just as there had been when she and Braithe brought Arthur’s body to the White City.
They were tall and lean, very like herself, except her robe was black, and theirs were differing shades of gray.
They did not plait their hair as she did, but let it hang long and unfettered.