13
The overseer did indeed arrive very early, long before anyone brought breakfast to the guesthouse.
The lights that flickered through the city at night had not yet faded.
Ribbons of pink and gold striped the eastern sky and reflected on the city walls.
The overseer opened the door with the new cantrip and came in without warning, startling Braithe, who had just managed to wrap her shorn hair in a dun scarf.
The overseer was a half-blood. Three days ago Braithe would not have known this, but now she recognized the signs.
He was tall and bony, dark of hair and eye, sharp of jaw, but it was not just his appearance.
In this place, this rigidly layered society, he carried himself with an arrogance no mere human would dare exhibit.
Except herself, Braithe thought. She would count herself an exception.
Holding that assurance around her as if it were a cloak, she stood in the little hallway and stared at him. “Come in?” she said wryly.
He showed no evidence of a sense of humor. “You’re the new servant, I gather. Let’s go.”
“There are two of us.”
“Then where’s the other one?” he demanded. “I’m due at the Council Hall.”
Braithe swallowed the bubble of irritation that rose in her throat. As Morgana’s handmaid, she was unused to being spoken to so rudely. She dropped her head to hide her response, deciding it would be better for the moment to feign subservience. “He’s in his room. I’ll fetch him.”
“Be quick about it.”
“What do I call you?”
“You don’t need to call me anything. Just do as I—” He broke off.
Morgana had appeared in the doorway to her chamber, forbidding in her black robe, with her silver hair falling smoothly over her shoulder to her waist. In her deepest voice, she said, “You may not think my servant needs to call you by name, but I do.”
Clearly startled by her presence, he made a quick, awkward bow. His aspect changed, shoulders slumping, chin dropping. In a respectful voice, dramatically different from the one he had used with Braithe, he said, “Dama.”
“You may call me Priestess.”
“Thank you. Priestess, yes. I’m Umer, one of the overseers of the chamber servants.”
“Umer. Very well.”
When Idhri emerged into the hall, he seemed to have taken on an entirely new persona.
He had unbraided his plait to let it hang in a tail, the fashion the other half-bloods seemed to follow.
His tunic fit well enough, though the too-short leggings showed his bony ankles.
Braithe hated the clothes, both on Idhri and on herself.
They were badly sewn and rough to the skin, but it should be unlikely for the delegates to recognize either one of them.
Umer paused at the sight of Idhri, looking him up and down, pinching his lips together as if he were considering refusing to take him. He turned back to Morgana after a moment, inclining his head. “Priestess. Does the councillor know one of the servants is a half-blood?”
Morgana said icily, “Of course. Are you questioning our decision?”
“No, no,” he said hastily. “No, I just didn’t want to make—that is—”
Morgana arched one dark eyebrow in her most terrifying expression. “I thought you were in a hurry, Umer.”
“Uh, yes, Priestess. Yes.” He bowed again. “The councillor thanks you for the loan of your servants.”
“See you bring them back in timely fashion. I need them tonight.”
“Yes, Priestess.”
Braithe threw Morgana a look, and Morgana’s lips twitched.
Idhri, stumbling in his ill-fitting sandals, followed Umer out the door, and Braithe came behind.
As the door closed behind them, she silently begged the Lady for success in their mission.
And for their safety. That seemed necessary in this angry place.
She shivered in the early-morning air, but not from the cold.
Her mother’s stories about the fae had run endlessly through her dreams all through the night.
It didn’t help that she felt Idhri’s fear to add to her own.
She also sensed Umer’s resentment at having to guide them, and his anger at being ordered about by an unfamiliar fae, priestess or not.
Her mam’s tales had not run to half-bloods, but she placed no trust in this one just the same.
It was disconcerting, trying to manage the constant flow of emotions from others on top of her own.
She wondered, as they passed one of the monochromatic parks, if she was going to be this sensitive for the rest of her life.
Was this what it was to live with the magic she had longed for?
Perhaps it wasn’t the great thing she had always thought it would be.
As she and Idhri followed Umer’s narrow frame through the quiet streets, Braithe tried to quell her anxiety by reviewing the plan for the day.
She would pretend to be a servant, hiding her natural tendency to independence.
She would move among the delegates and get as close to them as she dared.
She would do her best to sense their feelings and sort out which of them were harming King Mordred.
It all seemed simple enough, a straightforward exercise of her gift.
The next steps would be up to Morgana and Emerlyn.
She tried not to think of the ways this effort could go wrong. She could do this. She would do it, for Morgana, for Lloegyr, for Camulod and its besieged young king.
She would do it to honor the memory of her beloved Arthur. He must have been afraid many times, but he went into battle regardless. She could do no less.
Braithe and Idhri followed Umer as they joined the little army of brown-garbed servants filing in through a back door to the room behind the Royal Council Chamber.
The servants were mostly women, with a few older men.
Their tunics were faded from washing and their sandals well worn.
They wore no decoration, no ribbons or brooches, not even sashes or belts.
All of them kept their heads down. Every set of shoulders seemed perpetually bowed, as if they were forbidden—or afraid—to stand up straight.
As Braithe stepped among them, she felt as if she walked into a miasma of resignation, so dull and dark and hopeless it was almost visible.
The servants didn’t look at her, or at each other, but shuffled along in a way that reminded her of a flock of sheep being herded into a pen.
There was a distinct feeling that what they did here was meaningless, that their lives would resume only once they left the Council Hall.
There was no pride, no satisfaction. It was as if, as they entered this big room where the morning sun had not yet penetrated, their individuality evaporated.
A dozen half-bloods were stationed around the room like guards.
With no fae present, they stood with their arms folded and chins jutting, gazing with disdain at the humans in their serving clothes.
Their tunics were of finer cloth, better made, in shades of deep brown.
Their clothes and their height set them apart.
Clearly the half-bloods, oppressed by the fae, took satisfaction in having others to look down on in turn.
It was easy for Braithe to mingle with the servants as she looked around, getting her bearings. It was harder for Idhri. He was taller than any of them. He stayed close beside her, often pressing his hand to his chest, where his charm of protection hung beneath his tunic.
The room was very much like the refectory for the Temple acolytes, although it was bigger, the ceiling higher.
A long table was set with a variety of small bowls and plates.
There were very few chairs, and those seemed to be intended for the overseers.
Evidently no one thought the human servants needed a place to rest. A row of stone sinks stood against the outer wall, and above them were several unglazed windows, too high and too small for anyone to climb through. Braithe supposed that was deliberate.
She startled when she felt Umer at her shoulder.
He pointed to the food and drink laid out on the table.
“Get a tray,” he said. He had never bothered to ask her name.
“Follow the others and do what they do.” She nodded, avoiding his eyes lest he see the fire of rebellion kindling in her own.
She joined the line of silent servants as they filed in orderly fashion on both sides of the table.
She picked up a tray of tiny bowls holding some sort of toasted seed.
They smelled wonderful, rich and salty, and she wondered if she dared eat some.
Her mouth watered, thinking of it. She had no idea when she would be given anything to eat. Idhri must be hungry, too.
Idhri was behind her in the line, but Umer pulled him aside. “You’re not going in the chamber,” he said. “They won’t want to see you.”
Braithe nearly dropped her tray when she heard Umer think, And I don’t, either.
The words rang in her head as clearly as if a bell had been struck.
Involuntarily, she glanced back at him, wondering if he had actually spoken them aloud, but she could see that he had not.
She had heard his thought. The shock of it made her hands tremble.
She renewed her grip on her tray, staring at the bowls on it, her heart thudding.
This was not simple intuition. She had already sensed Umer’s distaste for her.
She had felt the difference between his opinion of Idhri, a half-blood like himself, and his opinion of the human servants now sidling past the table.
She had sensed the mixed fear and respect he had for the fae.
But this… This was different. This was hearing the words in Umer’s brain, transmitted directly to her own.