9
Braithe marveled at how sterile the streets of the White City were.
They passed two parks, the only places where shrubs and trees grew, but both were empty of people.
The streets and plazas they walked through were spotlessly clean and in perfect repair but deserted.
“Where is everyone?” she muttered under her breath.
Idhri whispered, “Are all the buildings vacant?”
“It seems so.” She might have said more, but they had arrived at the great edifice of the Royal Council Hall, clearly identified by the black-and-silver banners flying from its eaves.
It was as impressive in its way as the castle of Camulod, but Camulod was colorful, surrounded by a sparkling courtine, and topped with bright pennants proclaiming the presence of the king.
The home of the Royal Council was austere, its walls a forbidding white, its grounds paved and monochromatic.
In the courtyard two brown-garbed servants were polishing a set of stone steps. The servants cast them quick glances, then averted their eyes. They were short and slight, clearly human, and either terribly shy or habitually fearful.
Idhri, walking beside Braithe, cast her an anxious glance. She tried to smile reassuringly, but she felt as out of her depth as if she, who could not swim a stroke, had stumbled into the deepest part of the lake. The White City seemed as cold and alien as the moon, despite the summer heat.
Rivulets of magic ran everywhere through the city, but when the great doors of the Council Hall opened, Braithe nearly lost her footing under the waves of it sweeping out.
She steadied herself before Morgana, looking back to see that they were close behind, could see how strongly affected she was.
She rubbed her elbows with her hands, wishing her bones would not throb so.
The broad corridor they passed through was icy in its perfection.
Braithe thought of the moss-hung walls of the Lady’s Temple, of the rough stone menhirs that held up its roof, of its flagstone floor and simple decorations.
She had often wished the priestesses would brighten the anteroom, clear away the moss and make the space more inviting.
This building, indeed the entire city, was the precise opposite of the Temple.
It had been refined to the point of monotony. It was stultifying.
A cacophony of voices rolled down the broad hallway toward them, past a half-dozen single doors, all closed.
When they reached the double doors at the end of the corridor, the voices grew louder, as if there were a great battle being waged within.
Emerlyn stopped and turned to Idhri. “It would be better if you remained outside the chamber.”
Idhri turned so pale Braithe braced herself to catch him. “I—” he stammered. “I would rather—”
Braithe was about to insist that he stay by her side, but Emerlyn relented immediately. “I felt certain you would say so,” she said. “But I must warn you, they will stare, and there may be comments. As you can hear, they are a noisy bunch.”
Idhri whispered, “Is Skye there?”
“No. Skye is not a delegate.”
“What does he do, then?” Morgana asked, in a deceptively casual manner.
Emerlyn’s face sagged into a look of utter weariness. “Skye has some sort of connection to one of the older delegates. I suppose he does menial tasks for him, things Faolin doesn’t want to do for himself. Otherwise, Skye does what most fae do, which is nothing. There is nothing for them to do.”
“No work? No studies?”
“As you have seen, the work on the city has been completed. Over time, all labor has devolved onto the servants—maintenance, food preparation, farming. Some of the fae used to grow flowers, or paint pictures, or make sculptures…” She pursed her lips.
“They lost interest. Some of our youth still try, but there are vanishingly few of them, and the older ones don’t offer much encouragement, nor do they set an example.
” She made a small gesture of resignation.
“The challenge the fae face, which spills over onto all of us, is boredom.”
A spurt of anger drove Braithe to exclaim, “They harass humans because they’re bored? You should have a Rule against that!”
Emerlyn glanced at her. “We should, and we do. The penalties are meant to enforce it.” She turned toward the double doors, smoothing her gray robe with her wrinkled hands. Over her shoulder, she added, “You need to know, Braithe, that no magic is allowed inside the council chamber.”
“I don’t have any—” Braithe began.
“Oh, you do,” Emerlyn said. “I sense it is in its infancy, but you definitely have magic. Take care you restrain it when you’re in the chamber. The blocking of it is not pleasurable.”
Past Emerlyn’s shoulder Morgana winked at Braithe.
Braithe widened her eyes but made no further comment.
Emerlyn pushed the double doors open, and as they swung wide, the hubbub within surged to a deafening level.
The four of them, in a ragged line, stepped in to face the turbulent, fractious Royal Council of the White City.
The councillor had been right, just as Idhri feared.
As the delegates caught sight of them, the racket in the chamber subsided, and every eye turned their way.
Idhri wished he could disappear behind Braithe, but of course he was too tall.
He felt gawky and awkward, and as if everyone was staring at him.
They followed Emerlyn to a raised dais where a fae woman, younger than Emerlyn, was seated at a broad desk, attempting to moderate the discussion.
Her face brightened with relief when she saw the councillor, and she hastened to surrender her seat.
Morgana and Emerlyn stepped up onto the dais while Braithe took Idhri’s arm to guide him to the back.
The delegates could still see him, though.
He felt their gazes as if they were prodding fingers.
He hung his head, but not before he took in the forty or so fae sitting in curving rows.
Many were female, but there were a few men.
All wore robes in various shades of gray, so that the whole assembly made him think of the ashes of a cooking fire.
Their sudden silence oppressed him with a sense that they were, indeed, a banked fire that could erupt into a conflagration at any moment.
Emerlyn stood with her hands on her hips, looking out over the gathered delegates. “Priestess Morgana has accused some of us of interfering with Lloegyr’s king.”
Morgana added, her deep voice resounding from the chamber’s walls, “Again.” Murmurs of protest met this, and a few angry hisses, but Morgana put up a commanding hand.
Grumbles still sounded from the farthest row, but most were quiet.
“We assume,” she said, “that not all of you are guilty of this deed. We suspect three offenders, the same ones who sent the changeling queen to betray King Arthur Dragoun.”
Every delegate fell silent. Idhri saw how they glared at Priestess Morgana. Some even showed their teeth, a demonstration he had only seen on dogs or the occasional frightened fox. It looked oddly feral on the fae faces.
Morgana appeared untouchable, standing tall in her black robe, with her spill of silver hair down her back and her head held high, eyes full of golden fire. The delegates’ antagonism seemed not to affect her at all.
One of the delegates, younger, with no gray in her long black hair, rose. Emerlyn said, “Berylla, do you wish to speak?”
“I do, Councillor. It seems fair that the priestess Morgana should provide proof that the woman you claim was a changeling was sent from fae country.”
Morgana inclined her head. “I agree, Dama Berylla. Our proof is my own account of events, and that of an eyewitness to all of them.”
Berylla answered in a sharp tone. “An eyewitness? Someone huddling in Camulod, afraid to visit the White City?”
“No.” Idhri startled at hearing Braithe’s voice. Instinctively, he reached for her hand to stop her from stepping up onto the dais, but he was too late.
She strode to the front of the dais, in full view of the angry fae. She looked terribly small by comparison with Morgana and Emerlyn, but her back was arrow straight and her chin lifted. “I am the eyewitness,” she said.
Berylla barked a dismissive laugh. “You, little human? You bear witness against the fae? Taking a big chance for one of your size.”
Idhri braced himself, ready to jump to Braithe’s defense, but there was no need. Braithe leveled a cold stare at the fae woman for a few seconds, then recited in a steady voice:
Is the bull wiser than the dog?
Is the horse more clever than the fox?
Only a fool puts trust in appearance.
Idhri detected the slight emphasis she placed on the final line. He saw Morgana’s startled glance at her handmaid and the slight, amused curve of the priestess’s lips. Berylla bristled, and Idhri thought her cheeks reddened. “Do you call me a fool, human?”
“My name is Braithe of the Temple, and it was one of your own kind, not I, who wrote that stanza. Interpret it as you will.”
Several delegates hissed their disapproval of Braithe’s temerity. Emerlyn breathed a sigh that seemed to come from her toes.
Priestess Morgana said, “It is possible the ones we seek are not in this body, but it is unlikely.” She paused to scan the assembly, and Idhri saw several of the delegates stir uneasily in their chairs.
She went on, “We know they are somewhere in the White City, because our scrying has told us so. We will not leave until we find them.”
A man in the back of the chamber called, “Send the human home! She’s not safe here.”
Others took up the cry, but Morgana’s voice cut through the tumult.
“Do you not have a Rule that protects humans from the fae?”
Emerlyn put up a hand, and the shouting subsided. “We do have such a Rule,” Emerlyn said, speaking more to the delegates than to Morgana. “We have difficulty enforcing it, as I think everyone in this chamber will agree.”
“The people of Lloegyr are under constant attack by the Romans and the Saxons,” Morgana said.
“They lose their farms and their homes. They are injured or killed, and to what point? They have harmed no one.” Someone began to speak, but the priestess forestalled him.
“Someone is magicking King Mordred, interfering with his efforts to protect his people. We have come to find out who that is and stop them. Surely the council will approve of that.”
“You need the human to do that?” someone asked.
Braithe said, “I will go home when we have what we need.”
Morgana nodded approval of that, but here and there hisses arose from the chamber. Someone called out, “What about the half-blood?”
Idhri’s breath caught in his chest, but Braithe—little Braithe, who barely reached his shoulder—held firm against their insults, and he did his best to emulate her.
He squared his shoulders and stood as tall as he could.
When Dama Vivyan rose and approached the dais, Idhri fisted his hands to keep them from shaking.
She pointed at him as she spoke. “It is because of this half-blood that Skye must be penalized, and I remind you all it is not Skye’s first offense.”
“Have you set the penalty?” someone called.
“Not yet. Skye promised to deal with the half-blood, and if he does…”
Braithe interrupted in the strongest voice Idhri had heard from her. “Idhri remains with us!” she exclaimed. “And when we have identified the culprits interfering with King Mordred, he returns to Lloegyr.”
Morgana murmured, “Very good, brat.”
Vivyan snapped, “We do not take orders from humans.”
Morgana snapped back. “Take them from me, then, Dama Vivyan. The fae have done enough damage in Lloegyr.” Her voice vibrated with anger. “It stops now.”
The tumult surged again as the delegates began shouting, first at Morgana, then at each other.
Morgana gestured to Braithe, and the two of them stepped down from the dais.
Braithe glanced back to make sure Idhri was following, and the three of them marched out of the chamber, leaving the delegates to their argument.
Morgana turned back to slam the double doors closed with unnecessary force.
She led the way down the corridor, striding swiftly out into the hot afternoon.
She stalked through the colorless streets with her neck stiff and her jaw set.
No one spoke until they were safely inside the guesthouse, the door locked with the new cantrip.
Someone had left a tray of food and drink on the table.
There were greens this time, with oil to dip them in, and the ubiquitous bowls of berries alongside a loaf of bread still warm from the ovens.
Braithe and Morgana sank wearily into their seats, but Idhri stood behind his chair, his hands on the back of it.
For once he had no interest in food. He cleared his throat, a small sound, but it made both Morgana and Braithe look up at him.
He said, with only the slightest cracking of his unreliable voice, “Thank you, Braithe—” He gave her a slight bow, although he had never made such a gesture before. “And thank you, Priestess.”
“For what, Idhri?” Braithe asked gently.
“For protecting me. For treating me like—like I belong.”
“You do, of course,” Morgana said firmly.
Braithe added, “Indeed you do. You belong at Camulod with your adoptive family.”
“But if I’m truly a half-blood…”
Morgana put down the cup she had picked up and turned her yellow cat eyes to him. “I might have been one myself, Idhri,” she said. “For a time I thought so. But even if you are, you are only half fae. You must remember that. The other half is, without doubt, Lloegyrian.”
“I wish I could remember.”
Braithe said, “You remember Emma, and Master Hugh. That must be enough for now.” She pushed a little plate of bread toward him. “Sit. Eat. You’ll feel better.”
From somewhere inside Idhri’s heart, despite the misery of the day, a tiny bubble of happiness rose, inspired by her kindness. The tightness in his chest eased at last, and he gave in to the urge to tease Braithe, just a little. “You always say that.”
She laughed and admitted it was so. He blushed, embarrassed but pleased she had taken his joke in good part. He pulled out his chair and sat down. Suddenly, he was ravenous.