12
Idhri had eaten well of the hens’ eggs and fruit, but as he watched Braithe’s face, the meal roiled in his stomach. She turned so pale that her freckles stood out like stars in the sky and her eyes darkened to a midnight blue. He had noticed that happening when she was upset.
He wanted to protest that she was too young.
Too small. Too… too human. Part of him felt he was letting her down if he did not speak.
He felt frozen, unsure of his status in this alien land, unsure even how he fit into their little group.
He sat stiffly, his jaw tight, his shoulders aching with tension.
He wanted to be Braithe’s champion. His heart told him he needed to be that, but he could predict that someone would say he was only a boy, too young, too weak, with a damaged mind and no power.
He watched Braithe take a long breath and straighten in her chair. Her voice was steady when she said, “What do you wish me to do, Priestess?” but Idhri knew she was afraid.
It was something they shared, this awareness of other people’s emotions.
The word came to his mind—empathy—but he didn’t know where he had heard it.
Emma might have said it once, or maybe it was one of those fragments of information that occasionally slipped out from behind the curtain in his mind.
He understood, as he listened to Morgana explain to Braithe what was needed, that her empathy was the tool Braithe was meant to use.
“The problem I have wrestled with,” Morgana was saying, as Emerlyn rested her chin on her fist to listen, “is that the ones who sent the changeling to Camulod are aware of my role in her death. I have no doubt they are the same ones who continue to plague the king with their magicks.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Emerlyn said.
“I think it does,” Morgana answered. “They hate Lloegyr, that is clear, and now, as I am the daughter of the Lady who banished the fae, I have become the symbol of Lloegyr, and of Camulod. I would not have thought it possible before I came here and found my ability weakened, but—” She looked away, and Idhri saw by the tightening of her mouth, the uneasy set of her shoulders, that she was also upset.
She went on. “Admitting it shames me, but I fear if they try to block me, they will succeed. The changeling almost accomplished that, and I have to assume they gifted her their power.”
“But Braithe has not your standing in the city,” Emerlyn said. “Forgive me, Braithe, but you are so clearly human.”
Braithe gave the councillor a chilly smile, an expression Idhri hardly recognized on her cheerful face.
“I will forgive you for stating the truth,” she said, and Morgana made a slight sound of approval.
Braithe went on, her voice as cold as her smile.
“As you say, I have no standing. I am more or less invisible, and that makes me the perfect person for this undertaking.”
Morgana said, “That, and your unique gift.”
Braithe nodded acknowledgment. “I will need clothes.”
“Of course.”
“Clothes?” Emerlyn said, blinking.
Idhri could hold himself in no longer. “Servant’s clothes!” Every eye turned to him. It was the first time he had spoken since they arrived back at the house. He ignored the older women, speaking only to Braithe. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re going to pose as a servant, a human servant!”
She gave him a tremulous smile, but it was Morgana who answered. “Very good, Idhri. I commend your quick grasp of the situation.”
“I want to go with her,” he said, surprising even himself at the strength of his wish. “She shouldn’t be alone, and there’s no one else.”
“But you are a half-blood,” Emerlyn said bluntly.
“These categories—” Morgana began, but Idhri interrupted.
“I saw a half-blood in the fields, an overseer. I can do this.”
Braithe said, “Idhri, I appreciate your offer, and your courage, but I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Morgana pressed her palms together as she considered. “I think it is, Braithe. Your charms will protect both of you.”
“Not in the council chamber,” Emerlyn said. “No magic, remember? There are blocks that neutralize all magicks. It’s necessary, lest the delegates destroy each other.”
“Aren’t servants allowed in the chamber?” Braithe asked.
Emerlyn said, “A practical question, Braithe. The answer is yes. Servants take in refreshments several times a day.”
“I can do that,” she said.
“I can, too,” Idhri said. He saw the flicker of Braithe’s eyelids as she lowered them, and he knew she understood what it cost him to make this commitment. He thought of Skye and how far he was willing to go, and his stomach felt as if it were dropping to his toes.
He ignored the sensation. He could never let Braithe—kind, sensitive Braithe—go into this battle on her own. He would never forgive himself.
Braithe and Morgana worked hard on Braithe’s disguise.
They knew it was important, since she had been in the chamber once before.
The drab brown tunic and leggings would be effective, making her blend in with the other servants, but Morgana worried that her hair, the abundant mop of fair curls, made her stand out.
Braithe said, “We will cut it.”
“No! Your beautiful hair!”
This made Braithe smile, remembering a time when she had said the same to Morgana and had plaited her long hair instead to hide it under a cap.
“I wouldn’t mind, Priestess,” she said. “My hair has always been unruly. I can hardly get a brush through it as it is. And it will grow back when all this is over.”
“But who will cut it? I have no skill in such matters.”
“I can do it myself. I only need scissors.”
“I have my herb scissors,” Morgana said doubtfully.
“Those will be fine. Is there a mirror anywhere?”
It turned out there was a mirror in Morgana’s bedchamber, hanging above the washbasin. She lifted it down and set it up in the kitchen beside the sink. She gave Braithe the scissors, but she didn’t look happy about it. “We could just cover your head,” she said.
“We will do that anyway,” Braithe said. “But as it is, the way my curls spring out every which way, no scarf will hide it for long.”
She drew a chair up in front of the mirror and sat down. She took the scissors in her hand, drew a breath, and hesitated.
It was harder to begin than she had expected.
She wondered if that was because it was awkward, with the small herb scissors, or if, despite her protestations, she was reluctant.
It had been years since anyone had cut her hair.
The acolytes always let their hair grow long, hoping to look like the priestesses.
When Braithe took out her clips and ribbons, her hair hung in an undisciplined mass past her shoulder blades.
She gritted her teeth, fitted her fingers into the grip of the scissors, and began to hack at whatever she could reach. She was struggling with the back when she saw Idhri behind her in the mirror. He held out his long-fingered hand. “I watched Emma cut Hugh’s hair. I think I know how it’s done.”
His look of concern was so sweet Braithe had to smile despite everything. She handed over the scissors, saying, “Thank you. Just do the best you can. It won’t matter.”
He nodded solemnly and accepted the scissors as if they were a weapon of war and he was preparing for battle.
He picked up a thick strand of hair and combed through the curls with his fingers, separating the strands into pieces until he had one slender enough for the small scissors to work.
When he snipped, the lock of hair fell neatly to the floor.
Braithe said, “Well done!” She glanced to her right for Morgana’s approval, but the priestess and the councillor had disappeared. That made her chuckle, which helped to diminish her anxiety. “Idhri, I think we frightened them off.”
He whispered, with a grin, “Such a risky business!”
She sighed with delight at the change in him. He had been so shy and fearful. Observing his growth in such a short time was worth the loss of her hair.
When Idhri put down the scissors, he stepped back and lifted his hand in a little flourish. Braithe leaned forward to look into the mirror. “Oh! Idhri, I think it’s quite nice.”
He had taken a long time about it, snipping here and there, then cutting a bit more, shaping her curls around her face. The final result was surprisingly flattering to her plump cheeks and made her eyes bigger and brighter. She hardly recognized herself.
Morgana, coming back into the kitchen, said, “Braithe! You look like a different person!”
“Idhri worked magic,” Braithe said. “No one will know me.”
Even stern Emerlyn gave Idhri a nod of approval before she said, “I must be on my way to the council. I wish you luck tomorrow, Braithe.” And then, turning to Idhri, she said, “And you as well, lad. I will do my best to protect you.”
She was gone a moment later, and both Braithe and Idhri turned to Morgana with a single question. “Protect us from what?”
It was too late to do anything that day.
Morgana paced and worried, fretting over another day gone without an answer.
She fought a nagging premonition, despite having told Braithe more than once never to ignore her intuition.
She wondered if she should call the entire thing off after all, though Braithe had already sacrificed her hair for the cause, but the boy king’s reign was in peril, and his people were suffering.
Her compulsion to protect Lloegyr was more intense than her premonition.
At its heart, their plan was a simple one, but Emerlyn had made clear she didn’t trust the delegates to deal fairly with Braithe, and she knew they would have opinions about Idhri’s proper place.
“It does me no good to point out to them how our population has shrunk,” she had said as they spoke in Morgana’s chamber. “There are fewer of the fae now than ever in my lifetime, and many parts of the city sit empty.”
“Are there no children to sustain your numbers?”
“Vanishingly few,” Emerlyn said.