10
Morgana spent most of the afternoon in her bedchamber, creating a charm of protection for Idhri.
Despite feeling the pressure of time passing, she couldn’t hurry the process.
She had to be methodical, concentrating fully on each step, especially the final one.
She forced herself to think of Idhri, and not Mordred, as she worked.
When it was finished and hung safely around Idhri’s neck, she returned to her bedroom.
She took the cup of divining stones from her basket and cast them on the table.
She bent over them for a long time, then scooped them up, shook the cup, and cast them again.
She did it a third time, though the effort felt hollow, going through the motions of divination with no expectation of any result.
She had never felt as impotent as she did in the White City, and it shocked her.
From the earliest days of her study on the Isle, her magic had been as accessible as plucking a sprig of thyme from its bed.
She had scried when she was tiny, before she even knew what scrying was.
Now the angry magic of this place had weakened her, as if she were ill, or as if she had never had a real gift in the first place.
She knew, of course, that the fae here were capable of wielding their magic with devastating power. She supposed, had she grown up here, she would be used to this different sort of magic, this heavy, dangerous force that had sent the changeling queen to Camulod.
She had not, however, been reared here. It had been the deliberate choice of the Lady, her mother, that she should grow up among humans, and so she had done.
This helpless moment was the first time she had regretted her mother’s decision.
With a disgusted click of her tongue, she gave up the struggle for the moment, pushing the cup and the stones to one side.
She left everything where it was on the table and went to pace the little house, feeling confined and frustrated.
She longed for the herb garden on the Isle, for the sound of the lake, for the company of the woodland creatures who inspired her.
She supposed she could visit one of the city parks, but aside from rigidly tended shrubs and precisely planted flower beds, there seemed to be nothing of nature in them.
She had heard no birds, seen no butterflies or bees.
She had not seen so much as a dog or a cat as they passed through the streets.
It was as if, in creating the perfect city, everything natural had been eradicated.
Braithe had gone into Morgana’s bedchamber to rearrange the supplies and store them back in the basket. When she emerged Morgana was standing by one of the windows, shading her eyes against the lowering sun. “Are you all right, Priestess?”
Morgana turned to her sweet-faced handmaid. “I am well, Braithe. But this situation is more difficult than I anticipated, and I am not as strong as I thought I was. It is humbling.”
“May I ask what you expected?”
“Hmm.” Morgana turned back to the window. The sun was sinking beyond the city now, but the buildings still glowed sunset colors, as if the monotonous stone walls had absorbed its red and gold rays and were clinging desperately to the touches of color. “You will accuse me of hubris, I fear.”
It was Braithe’s turn to click her tongue. “You know quite well I would never do that.”
Morgana exhaled a long breath. Her handmaid’s good cheer and easy manner were always comforting.
Morgana was aware that her own life expectancy, that of one of the fae, would far outpace Braithe’s, but the idea of a world without Braithe filled her with dread.
She tried to banish it from her mind, but in her weakest moments she found it was always lurking there, threatening future grief.
She took another breath in an effort to discipline her wandering thoughts.
“I believed,” she said, “that my deep sight would prevail, once I was here, but it has told me nothing. This city—the spotless streets, the bland parks, the emptiness, the chaotic magic swirling everywhere—it seems designed to block me.” She realized she had folded her arms tightly around her middle, and she made herself release them.
“I confess, brat, it has shaken my confidence.”
“It doesn’t help that they don’t want us here.”
“They resent me with such bitterness!”
“Not all of them, surely.”
“Perhaps not—but that debate over my parentage seems out of proportion. I fail to understand why it matters to them, since I have no interest in their lives.” She spread her fingers in a gesture of the purest frustration.
“Perhaps we should go outside the city,” Braithe suggested. “There must be woods beyond it, or meadows.”
Morgana muttered, more to herself than to Braithe, “I would love to see it from the air.”
“No shapeshifting,” Braithe reminded her.
That brought a chuckle from Morgana, despite everything. “You still hold me to my pledge, after all this time?”
“I do. We cannot afford for you to be exhausted and ill, as you are after shapeshifting. We have a mission to fulfill.”
“You make a good point. But tell me—what will you pledge in return, brat?”
Braithe answered with uncharacteristic gravity. “I will stand between you and these fae.”
Morgana sobered. “I wish you did not feel the need for that.”
“But I do.” Braithe turned her own gaze to the window. The colors were fading now from the stone walls. “I have seen no sign of joy among them,” she said. “Their only pleasure seems to be in conflict, with each other, with humans, with Lloegyr.”
“There must be joy somewhere here. Where are the children?”
“Have you seen any?”
“I have not. One young woman at the Council Hall, but she was hardly a child.”
“This is a dead city. Or at the very least a dying one.”
Morgana moved closer to the window to watch the dancing lights appear in the dusk.
They floated on currents of magic, glinting off the glazed windows of the empty buildings.
The colorless walls had gathered the breathless heat of the day and spilled it into the streets.
It enervated Morgana, as if the persistent warmth robbed her of her breath.
She said, “I think you must be right, Braithe, but I do not know how to feel about that.”
“I know how I feel,” Braithe said. “I feel angry, and I feel offended. All of this power—this beauty—” She gestured toward the city beyond the window. “Wasted.”
Morgana nodded slowly. “Wasted. Yes. What these creatures could do with their power… the people they could help…”
“It’s no wonder your mother gave up on them.”
“She chose Lloegyr instead.”
“In her wisdom.”
“Yes, exactly, brat. In her wisdom. I wish I had known her.”
Braithe was sitting on the edge of her bed, pondering how to help Morgana, when she heard the door to the house open. She shot to her feet and hurried into the hallway. Idhri was already there.
The servant carrying the tray of food for their evening meal was clearly human, but behind her came a man Braithe wasn’t sure about.
He was tall and dark, with spidery limbs and sharp features.
He carried a bundle of firewood in a canvas sling.
Braithe sensed Morgana coming to her bedchamber doorway, but she forestalled her, hurrying to meet the newcomers.
She asked the human servant, “When no one’s here, how do you open the door?”
The woman, gray-haired and thin, with the rounded shoulders of someone perpetually effacing herself, gestured with her chin to the tall man behind her. “It’s him, yah?” she muttered. “Me, I can’t speak the cantrips.”
Idhri stepped aside to allow the servingwoman into the kitchen, but he moved back again to stand at Braithe’s shoulder. She felt his nervousness, but she also felt the courage underneath, like firm stones beneath a quivering brook.
“What are you called?” she asked the tall man.
For a moment she thought he would refuse to speak to her. He radiated resentment, and Braithe wondered why. He finally answered, in a sullen voice, “Adamo. I’m Adamo.”
“Hello, Adamo. I’m called Braithe. Tell me, how is it that you’re able to speak the cantrip to open the door?”
He gave her a look of such loathing that she took a step back before she realized she was going to do it.
His eyes were a curious mix of brown and yellow, a bit like Morgana’s eyes had been when she was young, and realization struck Braithe all at once.
This Adamo was a half-blood. A servant with enough magic to speak a cantrip, but still—a servant.
And he was glaring at her, a human, with naked hatred.
She said brusquely, “Never mind,” and turned away from his malevolent gaze to follow the woman into the kitchen.
Idhri stood where he was, his legs braced wide apart, his arms folded across his narrow chest. As Braithe helped the woman unload her tray, she heard Adamo say to Idhri, “Someone protecting you?”
Idhri said, “The other way around. I protect Braithe. She’s a maiden of the Temple.”
Adamo growled, “No idea what that is, and I don’t want to know.”
“You have no need to know,” Idhri said firmly, and Braithe cast him a surprised glance. This was not the frightened lad of yesterday, or even this morning. He was not as tall as Adamo, but he stood straight and still, Morgana’s charm glinting on his chest.
Adamo said in a low voice, “Better watch your step, boy.”
Braithe was about to intervene, but Morgana appeared in the hallway. “Adamo, is it?” she said, her deep voice resonating with warning. “Put the firewood down, and if you have finished your duties here, you can go.”
Adamo stiffened at the sight of Morgana, clearly fae, with her golden eyes and impressive height. “Have to speak the cantrip,” he muttered.
“I will do that,” she said. “You are not needed. Go.”