14
For the second night in a row, Braithe did not sleep well.
Her thoughts tumbled over and over, worrying about Camulod, about Mordred, about the fears of the Blackbird.
The Romans had been nibbling at the boundaries of Lloegyr for as long as she could recall, biting off pieces the way a dog gnaws meat from a bone.
The Saxons were never far behind, feasting on the Romans’ leftovers and plundering anything the Romans couldn’t be bothered with.
Arthur’s reign had been a triumph of peace and protection for the Lloegyrian people, and he was adored because of it, especially by Mordred.
His younger brother had worshipped him. Mordred had never had any wish to be king, and everyone knew he wanted only to live up to Arthur’s memory.
Sir Lancelin and the Blackbird were at his side, working as hard as he did, but the interference of the fae was ruining everything.
How did it happen that she, a country girl turned Temple maiden, had become the unlikely champion of her people?
Like Mordred, she had never desired a greater role, and certainly not this one.
All she had wanted was to have real magic, and now that it seemed she might, it had not brought the joy she expected.
As she yearned for sleep, Braithe’s restless mind served up an old, enigmatic stanza:
Every gift has a price.
Every hope brings peril.
Life is a dream, and
Dreams end with waking.
Repeating the words of the Lady to herself, over and over, she drifted into uneasy slumber.
The first light of dawn woke her. Umer would come soon. She had to unwind herself from the tangle of her blankets before she could escape her bed. She washed and dressed herself again in the servant’s clothing, wrapping the scarf snugly around her head so that her hair was hidden.
In the kitchen, she found Idhri also up and dressed. He was munching a cake he had saved from the meal the night before, and he handed one to her, neatly wrapped in a napkin. “Almost starved yesterday,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said.
Morgana joined them, but she declined Idhri’s offer of one of the cakes. “You need it more than I,” she said. “Both of you, take care today.”
“We will,” Braithe said, but she frowned at the wave of anxiety emanating from Morgana. “You’re more worried today than you were yesterday.”
“I woke up feeling this way.” Morgana gazed out the window into the pale morning light, her dark brows drawn together. When she turned back, she said, “Be sure you wear your charms.”
For answer, Idhri lifted his, hanging from a slender thong.
Braithe pulled hers from inside her tunic to do the same. “Let us hope today is the end of it.”
Morgana said, “You are beginning to sound like me, brat.”
“You are,” Idhri agreed, still chewing the final cake.
Braithe couldn’t muster a smile, so she simply shrugged, saying, “I could do worse.”
Everything at the Council Hall was exactly as it had been the day before.
Didi spotted her and gave her a half smile and a friendly touch on her elbow.
The servants murmured among themselves while the trays were set out on the long table, and the scents of freshly prepared food rose from them.
Braithe was startled to see a servant’s furtive hand snatch a small stuffed roll off its tray.
Another servant also palmed a roll and popped it into his mouth with a practiced motion.
Braithe suppressed a laugh, then cast a wary glance at the overseers, but the thefts had been too quick for them.
She wished she dared steal a roll for herself. Despite Idhri’s cakes, she was hungry.
The tray of seeds she had carried yesterday was in someone else’s hands by the time Braithe’s turn came.
In fact, the trays were disappearing quickly, and she feared she might not be allowed to claim one.
Hurrying, she leaned across the table, reaching for an assortment of tiny slices of shining white cheese on toast triangles.
“What’s that?”
Braithe hadn’t realized Umer was standing on the other side of the table until his long arm snatched at the thong around her neck. With dismay, she realized she had neglected to tuck it back inside her tunic, and as she bent across the table, it had swung free, in plain sight.
Umer had it in his hand, the thong pulling at her neck, before she could answer him. “Is this a charm? Where did you get it?”
“Sir, my mistress gave me that. A gift. It’s not a charm.”
With an abrupt gesture, he ripped the thong from her neck so roughly the leather burned her skin. She reached for the amulet, but he held it out of her reach. “I’m not a fool,” he snapped. “This is a charm, and you can’t wear it in the chamber. No magic allowed.”
Braithe wanted to protest, but she didn’t dare. Instead, she hung her head and pretended subservience, though it galled her. “My mistress will ask about it,” she said in an undertone.
“I’ll give it back to you when your work is finished.” But his thought leaped into Braithe’s mind as clearly as it had the day before, as if he had spoken in her ear: Damned fae nonsense is going straight into the refuse heap.
Braithe was rattled, but she told herself she would be safe in the chamber. No magic there. Luckily for her, her gift still worked inside. She would be listening.
She looked over her shoulder to find Idhri, but he was already at the sinks, his back to her. He hadn’t seen Umer tear off her charm, nor did she have time to tell him. Setting her jaw, Braithe lifted her tray in slightly unsteady hands and joined the line of servants to enter the chamber.
Councillor Emerlyn was on the dais today, scowling down at the delegates, her arms folded and her mouth set.
She had apparently already given up trying to direct the morning’s argument.
The chamber was clamorous with raised voices, and then, as the servants began distributing refreshments, the clink of bowls and cups.
The din grated on Braithe’s nerves. She drew a shuddery breath and concentrated on one of her favorite stanzas to collect herself:
Troubles arise,
And fears abound,
But the song of Mother Earth
Never ends.
As with most stanzas, contemplation was required to derive a meaning, but that didn’t matter in this moment. She silently recited the stanza to focus herself as she approached the back row of delegates and held out her tray.
Her gift struck immediately. She kept her head down, but she looked up from beneath her brows to see a fae woman, not much older than herself, and she felt her grief as if it were her own sorrow.
The woman was despondent over something, a loss, perhaps, or a betrayal.
She waved Braithe off, and Braithe backed away to move on to the next delegate.
He was a man past middle age, with graying hair and an absent air.
He took one of her bits of toast and cheese and sat back in his chair to eat it, paying no attention either to her or to the hubbub around him.
She sensed from him a deep, pervasive ennui and the dispiriting feeling that he wished he were elsewhere but had nowhere else to be.
She moved on along the back row, picking up fragments of the delegates’ emotions and moods as she went.
It gave her the opportunity to note the difference between sensing emotions and hearing thoughts.
She felt the wish of one woman that the kitchens would provide more fruit.
She sensed the obsession of another with an ongoing argument about empty houses.
The subject seemed trivial to Braithe, but the tumult of the woman’s feelings was intense.
There were three rows, and when she was halfway along the second, with her tray still nearly full, the signal came to file out of the chamber. This time she heard it, a faint chime that barely pierced the noise of the ongoing chatter.
Braithe joined the line to file out through the doors.
She had learned little except that her gift worked well when she managed to ignore the chaos and focus on one person at a time.
Absorbing the emotions of so many was the most difficult part.
It was exhausting. Like Morgana, she would need time in the woods to recover.
She took note of the place in the second row where she had stopped, and hoped no one changed seats before the next refreshments were served.
There were four rounds of refreshments every day.
Braithe had learned that the day before.
On this day, her second round was very like her first. She had just managed to reach the first row with her tray—berries this time, in tiny pottery cups—when the chime sounded.
For the third round, she hurried to the head of the line to make certain she could start in the front row, where the oldest of the fae delegates had the best seats, closest to the dais and, probably not by accident, to the double doors that led out of the chamber.
This time Braithe’s tray held enameled cups of fragrant tea. She carried it carefully, because the cups were full. Every delegate she approached took one. She concentrated, moving as slowly as she dared, cautious of the cups spilling.
The first woman she served emanated an enervating weariness. Braithe sneaked a glance at her. She was very old, far older even than Emerlyn, and all she desired was to go home. Braithe didn’t understand why she couldn’t simply leave, but the explanation didn’t come.
The second delegate she served was furious with someone, her anger barely contained.
Braithe felt her ire as a heat in her own body, as if she had stepped too close to a blaze.
As the delegate took a teacup, Braithe sensed a resentment that felt ancient, timeworn, as if she had been nursing it for a long, long time.
On an impulse, Braithe looked into the fae woman’s face and caught a little breath. She tried to hide it and move on to the next, but too late. The woman had seen her glance. She hissed, “Mind your business, girl!”