5 #2
Idhri didn’t know how old he was. That secret was hidden with everything else behind the black curtain.
He was old enough, though, to have an idea how things were between men and women.
He had to suppose it was no different for these fae, though they seemed so alien.
He thought of the dogs in Master Hugh’s house, all of them looking alike because they had the same mother, the same father.
It was how breeding worked. He knew that, but his mind skittered away from understanding how that applied to him.
They called him half-blood. Half fae. He had struggled all evening not to think about it. Worked hard not to believe it. He wished now he could take the realization and hide it behind that black curtain with the rest of his lost memories. This one he didn’t need.
He sank into a chair and stared at the dying coals that were all that was left of the fire.
There were so many things he didn’t know and didn’t understand.
The only thing that was very, very clear in his mind was that he did not want to be a slave in the White City.
If it came to that, he would walk straight down to the lake.
Master Hugh had said all boatmen should know how to swim, and he had begun to teach Idhri, but he was by no means a strong swimmer yet.
He could easily swim so far out he would never make it back.
“It may not be true,” Braithe said, sitting beside Idhri and watching the last ember in the fireplace burn itself out.
He didn’t look at her. “I hope not,” he said.
“Do you know your mother or your father?”
At that he blew a long sigh, too sad for one so young. “No. I may have known them at one time, but now I remember nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing.”
“How did you come to be with Master Hugh, then? Did your parents not apprentice you to him?”
“Master Hugh found me in the woods along the lake,” Idhri said, as if it were something to be ashamed of. “I don’t know how I got there. I can’t remember anything before that day.”
“Oh!” Braithe exclaimed. “What a hard thing to bear!” She couldn’t imagine how painful it would be not to remember her mam, though it had been years since she had seen her.
Her father had died when she was tiny, but she had heard tales of him, descriptions, fond memories.
Sometimes her mam told silly jokes and said they came from her father.
Idhri, it seemed, had none of that. His misery enveloped her like an invisible fog.
The poor lad was surrounded by a cloud of it, making Braithe feel as if she couldn’t breathe.
Her gift of sensing others’ feelings had intensified with the magic filling the air of the White City, gusting through the streets, pooling in corners, even swirling through the guesthouse as if it had a life of its own.
They sat on in silence for a bit, as the last ember winked out and the fireplace turned cold.
Beyond the windows, the mysterious lights of the White City floated along the streets.
Braithe began to yearn for her bed, but she didn’t want to leave Idhri alone.
She needed to brush out Morgana’s hair, too, and see that the priestess had everything she needed for the night.
She had just drawn breath to say these things when Idhri blurted, “I saw a fae man today. He looks exactly like me, only older, and sort of—distorted.”
“Oh,” Braithe said, her heart sinking. “Is that where Dama Vivyan made you go? To meet him?” The pieces began to fall into place. Vivyan had mentioned a Rule, and although she had not explained, Braithe felt certain that whatever the Rule was, it would affect Idhri.
Idhri nodded. “He wasn’t happy to see me.”
“I don’t imagine you were happy to see him, either.”
“I had no choice.” Idhri spoke in such a soft voice she had to lean forward to hear him. “Braithe, do you think that fae man could be—might be—”
Braithe understood that Idhri couldn’t bring himself to speak the word.
She didn’t care to, either. She put her hand on his wiry arm and was glad he allowed the touch, though his skin twitched in surprise.
She said, “Idhri, I don’t think anything yet.
And you shouldn’t, either.” She patted his arm before she lifted her hand.
“Come now, we will sleep, and think of these things in the morning. Everything looks better in the morning light.”
“Does it?” he asked sadly.
Braithe thought, but did not say, I hope so.
Priestess Morgana rose early, and Braithe, hearing her step in the hallway, hurried to dress.
She found the priestess seated at the table in the kitchen, dressed in her black robe.
A tray had been delivered, and Braithe felt a little guilty that she had not been up to set out the breakfast things.
Morgana was pouring a cup of some sort of rose-scented tea. She glanced up when Braithe entered.
“This looks good, brat.” She indicated the teapot and the basket of sliced bread and cheese. A small bowl of berries rested next to it. “Come, sit.”
Braithe said, “I hope you slept well, Priestess.”
Morgana gave her a wry look. “Probably as well as you did. This place is not restful.”
“The magic is too much.”
“Random rivers of it flowing everywhere,” Morgana said. “And it feels undisciplined, as if it settles wherever it wants. Your bones must be paining you.”
“Are yours aching?”
Morgana tasted her tea, frowning. She set the cup down as she mused, “No, my bones do not ache, but this particular magic is different, intense and sort of—unruly. It makes me feel out of sorts.” With restless fingers, she twirled her cup in its place.
“I place no trust in it, brat. It feels intrusive, as if something is prodding at me, insisting I move. As if stillness offends it.” She added, under her breath, “As if it wants me to leave.”
Braithe poured a cup of tea for herself.
The taste was delicate and strong at the same time, sparkling in her mouth, then stinging on her tongue with an undertone of goldenseal, always a strong taste.
She eyed the basket of bread and cheese with misgiving.
It looked delicious, but she was suddenly afraid of it.
Morgana saw her hesitation. “Do you think these fae are trying to magick us, brat?”
Braithe shot her a glance, but the priestess was not teasing. She looked grim, and Braithe sensed her dread of what the day might hold. Braithe said, “Surely not,” though she was not at all certain. She took up a piece of bread, wrapped it around a slice of cheese, and bit into it.
“You are assuming the role of taster,” Morgana said, and now her golden eyes gleamed with amusement.
“I am,” Braithe said.
“Am I the queen now, that I might be poisoned?”
Braithe answered solemnly. “Perhaps you are, Priestess.”
“I most sincerely hope not.” Morgana took some bread and cheese on her plate, although she didn’t start on it. She picked up her cup again, cradling it in her hands. “In any case,” she said, “thank you for sampling the food in my place.”
“Yes. And as I have survived so far, I think you should also eat something.”
“I will.” Morgana helped herself to a spoonful of berries. “I feel such a need to hurry, though,” she said, when she had swallowed them. “I dreamed last night of—”
“Of the king,” Braithe said, before Morgana could finish her sentence. “I did, too.”
Morgana’s dark brows lifted high. “Did you indeed? Did you pick it up from me?”
Braithe thought that over before she said, “I don’t believe so. It was Mordred, pacing in his chamber at Camulod. I felt his anxiety over something looming, perhaps another battle.”
Morgana pushed away her untouched plate. “I had the exact same dream.” She got to her feet. “I had best be on my way. There is really no time to lose.”
Braithe rose, too. “I’ll braid your hair.”
“I think not today. I will wear it loose, the way the councillor does. It will help to remind the delegates that I, too, am fae.”
“You’re going to the council chamber.” They had already decided Morgana would go alone, but now Braithe was wishing she had not agreed. Morgana paused in the doorway. “What troubles you, brat?”
“I wish I could be in two places,” Braithe said. “You may need me.”
“I always need you,” Morgana said, her tone light but her meaning clear. “But today, I will manage on my own.”
Braithe lifted her gaze to meet Morgana’s and said, “You will take care.”
There was good reason for her concern. The changeling queen Gwenvere had very nearly killed Morgana, and Gwenvere had come from fae country.
They had not proven that the delegates of the Royal Council had been responsible, but it was what they suspected.
“At least let me brush your hair, Priestess.”
Morgana put a hand to her head. “Does it need it?”
Firmly, Braithe said, “It does. It’s tangled. I want you to look your best.”
Morgana said, “I have no vanity, brat.”
“It’s not vanity to wish to make a good impression.”
“Very well, but let us hurry.”
Braithe followed her into her bedroom and hastily brushed her hair until its smooth strands shone silver-bright in the early sun. She laid down the brush with reluctance and stood back. “Good hunting, Priestess.”
Morgana’s lips quirked at that. She rose, shook out her robe, and strode out of the bedroom and across the short hall to the door. She murmured the cantrip, and the door opened. When she had gone through, Braithe heard her repeat the silly words:
One and two and three and four
Now and then and not before
Passage through needs nothing more.
The door secured itself with a neat snicking of the latch. Braithe watched it, tempted to try the cantrip for herself. Perhaps with all the magic flowing here…
But Idhri had emerged from his cubbyhole of a bedroom. “Are we locked in?”
“Yes,” Braithe answered. “Locked in, safe and sound.” It was true, so why did she still sense peril?
Again, she didn’t speak the thought that came to her. I hope we’re not trapped.