4 #3
Once Morgana had gone, murmuring the cantrip to lock the door behind her, Braithe busied herself unpacking their few possessions, setting out the priestess’s tinctures and salves and divining tools on the worktable in her bedchamber.
These slight chores distracted her from agonizing over how afraid Idhri must be.
Indeed, she was frightened herself. The misdeeds of the fae had been an undisputed canon of her upbringing, and Vivyan’s behavior had done nothing to dispel her fear. In this moment it was all for Idhri.
She supposed it must be true that he was a half-blood, since both Vivyan and Emerlyn seemed to believe it.
It was a disturbing thought, but she reminded herself that he was just a boy, and if he was half fae, he was also half human.
At least he had not been brought up here, indoctrinated by the casual cruelty of fae like Vivyan.
She touched Priestess Morgana’s protective charm in search of reassurance as she paced the guesthouse, familiarizing herself with every corner. The privy was as pristine as all the other rooms, as if it had never been used.
The place puzzled her. Why should such a fine house sit empty in the midst of the White City? Emerlyn said there were fewer of the fae than there had been. What had happened to reduce their numbers? It was a strange thing, with such riches everywhere she looked.
She decided she would ready the house as best she could for their occupation, though she hoped their stay would be brief.
She found bedding for the cot Vivyan had pointed out to Idhri.
She made it up with a felt blanket and laid a pillow at its head.
She did the same for the priestess’s bed, which was a fine one, with a goosedown quilt and feather pillow.
Her own was simpler, with a plain linen-covered pillow and lamb’s-wool blanket, but it would serve her well.
In the kitchen she looked into every cupboard and scanned every shelf, but in the end, she had to accept that there was neither food nor drink in the house, nor were there any utensils with which to prepare a meal.
There was the kettle on the hob, and cups near the kitchen sink, but nothing else.
Priestess Morgana would not think of it, but it was Braithe’s duty to see that the priestess ate and drank regularly.
She felt hungry herself, despite the anxiety that fluttered in her chest.
It seemed a long time to wait, but probably was not, when she heard the front door swish open to admit Dama Vivyan and Idhri. Behind them, with perfect timing, came Priestess Morgana and Councillor Emerlyn.
Weak with relief, Braithe stumbled forward to take Idhri’s arm. It was thin but well-muscled beneath her hand. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
Vivyan’s voice was as sharp as a knife edge. “The half-blood is fine.”
Braithe’s temper sharpened, too. “His name is Idhri. Use it.”
Priestess Morgana began, “Braithe…” but the councillor put up a hand.
“Morgana’s handmaid is correct,” Emerlyn said. “Someone gave the boy a name. No reason not to call him by it.”
Tension swirled around the four of them. Braithe’s growing gift perceived Vivyan’s hot resentment as well as Idhri’s misery, in addition to the councillor’s frustration at this sudden crisis. The pressure of it all made Braithe want to rub her temples.
Instead, she took Idhri’s hand and led him toward his little room, with the cot ready and such things as he had brought with him arranged on the tiny table. “Never mind,” she murmured. “We’re all testy with waiting. And worrying about you.”
He gave her a weak smile. “Thank you, Priestess.”
She smiled back. “I’m not a priestess, you know.”
He flushed. “I know.”
“I’m only the handmaid,” she reminded him. “Not that different from yourself. You were to call me Braithe, remember?”
From the hall, they heard the women talking in angry voices, and they shared a glance of understanding. “Thank you, Braithe,” Idhri said. His voice settled into its low register, and he flushed again.
She squeezed his arm. “You’re quite welcome. Now rest a bit, and when I learn where to find food, we’ll have a bit of supper. Unless they mean to starve us.”
She had meant it as a joke, but Idhri’s stricken expression made her add, “I feel sure they won’t.” He was a boy, after all, and still growing. The hour was late, and he must be ravenous.
The argument in the hall continued, the deep fae voices rising and falling in their dispute.
Braithe turned toward them, bracing herself with a slow breath.
The waves of vitriol that came from the hallway buffeted her as if she were walking into a windstorm.
Priestess Morgana would be disciplined with her own feelings, but Dama Vivyan spilled fury in every direction.
As Braithe drew closer, she saw that Councillor Emerlyn’s face was drawn, and she sensed a great cloud of weariness surrounding her. Braithe stopped inside the kitchen doorway to listen.
“Skye will have to pay the penalty for leaving it too long,” Dama Vivyan was saying. “A clear violation of the Rule. He should have seen to it when it happened.”
“He will say he didn’t know,” Emerlyn said. Her voice was low and tired now, as if she had no more energy for argument.
“Of course he knew. He just didn’t have the nerve.”
Priestess Morgana broke in. “What is the Rule, Councillor? I have not heard.”
Emerlyn said, “It is an antiquated edict of the Royal Council. It says—”
Vivyan interrupted her. “It declares half-bloods to be an abomination.”
Emerlyn said, “We no longer believe that. We are not monsters.”
“He should have dealt with the boy the moment he drew breath.”
“What do you mean, dealt with?” Morgana demanded. Braithe knew her well, and she heard the outrage simmering in her voice.
“Dama Vivyan to you,” Vivyan retorted.
“And I am Priestess Morgana,” Morgana said. “Explain yourself, Dama.”
In a voice so strident it grated on Braithe’s ear, Vivyan said, “He should have exposed the babe. Or stopped his breath the moment he drew one.”
“Or brought him to us,” Emerlyn broke in.
“Another servant?” Vivyan said sourly. “There are already more of them than there are of us, and not enough for them to do.”
Morgana said bluntly, “You enslave half-bloods?”
Braithe stifled a gasp.
The idea of slavery was something Arthur had resisted with all his might.
One reason he had fought so hard to keep the Romans from invading was because they enslaved people.
Too often they abducted girls, and sometimes boys, before a war party from Camulod could intervene, and as far as Braithe knew, those children were never seen again.
Arthur—her Arthur, as she thought of him, her much beloved king—had grieved over every one.
Emerlyn said, “I would not use that word.”
“If the half-bloods you call servants are not free to leave fae country,” Morgana said, “then it is the correct word. A euphemism does nothing to alter the fact.”
“The Royal Council debates this endlessly,” Emerlyn said, speaking on a weary sigh. “Everyone has their opinion.”
“Skye is an example of why we need the Rule, and why we need to enforce it. Who knows how many half-bloods are walking around outside of fae country?”
“What difference does it make?” Morgana asked.
“Difference? It makes a huge difference. They’re half-bloods. They’re not fae, they’re not humans—they’re degenerates! It’s shameful,” Vivyan pronounced, with the air of having said the same thing countless times.
Braithe was about to denounce this speech when she heard a moan behind her and turned to see Idhri, his eyes made nearly black by the sudden swelling of his pupils. His face had gone pale, and he said, his voice in its highest register, “Am I to be a slave, Braithe?”
She had no idea how to answer.