21
Braithe woke with the early-morning sun on her face and a hollow feeling in her stomach.
She couldn’t recall when she had last eaten anything, or what it had been.
The granite floor of the pavilion wasn’t meant for sleeping, but she had been so tired, and so relieved to be someplace she felt safe, that she had managed.
She got to her feet and stretched out the stiff places from her trek of the day before and the night spent on a hard floor.
The faerie lights hanging from the roof had gone dark.
The sunrise shimmered on the veil of magical protection around the bier.
Braithe looked back the way she had come.
She saw nothing but rolling lines of brush and trees in the full leaf of high summer.
Her stomach grumbled with hunger, causing her a moment’s panic.
She set her teeth and shook it off. She was a cottar’s daughter, and an herbalist, thanks to Morgana.
She was accustomed to foraging. With such lush foliage there must be water somewhere.
There might be berries, like the ones she had eaten at the guesthouse.
Surely there would be one of the many edible plants she had learned to identify.
She would worry about what came next after she had solved the immediate challenge of her empty stomach.
An hour later she returned to the pavilion, her thirst slaked and the edge taken off her hunger.
She had felt as if Arthur were guiding her, directing her eyes and her hands to just where the knotberries grew.
She had found coneflowers to munch on, and dandelions and fiddleheads, things she had often harvested on the Isle.
She sat on the edge of the pavilion, letting the rising sun warm her face as she pondered what to do next.
She didn’t want to retrace her steps to the White City and run the risk of Faolin’s ire, but she couldn’t stay here forever.
She had not come upon another path that might lead her on to a different destination.
Morgana would be frantically searching for her, and Gwen…
She had to do something about Gwen. Faolin would no doubt be expending his fury on her, and Braithe couldn’t bear to think about how terrible that must be.
She wondered if it was possible that her image of Faolin’s house had reached Morgana. She could try the same thing again. She could attempt to send her an image of the pavilion, with its magicked bier and precious burden. It was better than doing nothing.
A wave of doubt assailed her before she could begin, drowning her confidence.
She was no longer in the city, where streams and waves of magic eddied in every lane and flowed along the boulevards.
That magic, dark and chaotic though it was, had strengthened her meager gift.
Here there was nothing except the shield around the bier and the faerie lights that shone in the darkness. She was on her own.
She put her head in her hands, trying to think. When something brushed her ankle, she startled and looked up.
At her feet, with shining dark eyes fixed on her, was a red squirrel.
Her plume of a tail, with a froth of white hair gleaming beneath the red, curled up over her back, and her little ears twitched as she gazed at Braithe.
She had touched her with one tiny, soft paw.
Braithe held very still, fearing she might frighten the little creature away, but the squirrel showed no signs of scampering off.
Rather, she seemed to be asking for her attention.
When the message came into Braithe’s mind, it was as if the squirrel had spoken aloud. It didn’t matter that the message was wordless, that she couldn’t speak even if she tried. Braithe heard it.
Braithe had watched Morgana commune many times with the creatures of the woods and the air, even of the water.
It had been a marvel and a mystery. It had never occurred to her to envy it, because it made no sense to waste energy being jealous of anything to do with such a magical being as Priestess Morgana, but now—in this astonishing moment—she understood.
The bright-eyed squirrel was telling her to do it, to send Morgana the image of the pavilion. Morgana would recognize it and would learn from Emerlyn how to get here.
Braithe said softly, “Thank you, little sister.” The squirrel’s pretty tail flicked gaily, making Braithe smile down at her.
They both jumped when a querulous voice called out. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
At the sound of the voice, the squirrel scurried away, tail flying, and disappeared into the woods. Braithe twisted around to see who had spoken.
A very old fae woman, the oldest Braithe had seen in fae country, was hobbling toward her.
She leaned on a bogwood staff with one hand and held up the overlong skirts of her white robe with the other.
As with the Blackbird’s robe, it seemed hers had outgrown her as she became more and more stooped.
The thin strands of her hair hanging below her collarbone were white, but yellowed, like an old swatch of linen.
The lines in her cheeks were deep and shadowed, and her chin sagged so much that it seemed to point toward her breast. She had come from the other side of the pavilion, Braithe assumed, although where she had been before that she had no idea.
The woman repeated, in a thin, high voice, “Who are you?”
Braithe got to her feet. “I am called Braithe, grandmother,” she said.
“What?” The old woman peered at her. “What did you say?”
“I said, I am Braithe. I—”
“No, no, I heard that! The other thing.”
“Oh!” Braithe’s cheeks warmed. “Oh, I called you grandmother, but I didn’t mean—”
At that, the woman cackled. “Grandmother! Grandmother! That’s good, oh, that’s good. Me, grandmother!”
Braithe linked her hands before her, trying to be polite. Having slept rough, with no chance to brush her hair or clean her face, she was sure she looked disreputable. She said, enunciating carefully, “I suppose I should call you Dama?”
“Oh, no. Oh, no. Not anymore. Not anymore.” The woman came close enough to look into her face. She nodded several times and said, “Pretty girl,” as if that were explanation enough.
“Thank you. I didn’t know anyone else was here.”
The old woman made a vague gesture with her staff. “Oh, I’m always here. Always here.”
“But—I didn’t see you last night.”
The woman leaned close to Braithe, and Braithe saw that her eyes were clouded and dull. She doubted she could see very well. “I was sleeping,” the woman said. “In my bed.”
“And where is your bed, madam?”
“Madam, madam.” The woman wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips. “I like grandmother better. No one says that in fae country. Grandmother!”
“Very well,” Braithe said. “Grandmother. Where do you sleep, grandmother, if you’re here all the time?”
“Come on. Come on. I’ll show you.” The old woman set off around the pavilion, saying over her shoulder, “I’m the Keeper. Should have said.”
“The Keeper?” Braithe asked, following.
“I keep the sacred tomb. Protect it.”
Braithe couldn’t imagine this frail woman protecting anything.
She was startled to see that a gentle slope fell away on the opposite side of the pavilion from where she had slept.
At its foot sat a low-roofed little building, so small it could barely be called a house.
It was built of unpainted wood, with one tiny unglazed window and a slender, crooked chimney rising from one corner.
She gazed at it, and then at the old woman. “Grandmother, do you live here all alone?”
“Alone? No. No.” The woman grinned at her, and Braithe saw with a pang that most of her upper teeth were missing.
“I live with my goats.” She gestured again with the staff, and Braithe saw three black goats gathered in the open doorway, eyeing her with cheerful interest. As she watched, a fourth emerged from inside the little house.
“They keep me company. I keep the tomb. King Arthur’s tomb.
” She squinted at Braithe and said, suddenly solemn, “The true king, you know.”
Unexpected tears pricked at Braithe’s eyes, and she raised her clasped hands to her chin. She turned to the pavilion, where the bogwood coffin lay bathed in morning sunshine. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, the true king.”
“You know of him.”
“I do.”
“You came to see him, then.”
Braithe shot the old woman a startled glance. “What?”
“You came to see him. See him. Do you not want to see him, the true king?”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“You don’t want to see him? If you don’t want to see him, why are you here?”
Braithe sputtered, “I—no, I would like to see him, I just didn’t know—”
“Come. Come.” The old woman turned back to the pavilion and stepped up inside, leaning heavily on her staff. Braithe followed, mystified.
When they reached the glowing veil surrounding the bier, the Keeper raised her staff in one hand. She stood straighter, pulling her shoulders back, lifting her head as far as her gnarled neck would allow. When she spoke, her voice was deeper and stronger.
For a true heart, the way is clear
For a good heart, the door is open
Gaze upon the true king
Only if your heart is pure.
The glow around the bier faded slowly, even reluctantly. Braithe gazed at it, awestruck. When it disappeared completely, the Keeper gave a triumphant click of her tongue and poked Braithe with her staff. “Go! Go! It only stays open a short while.”
Braithe, in a daze, stepped up to the bier.
She had not realized, until she was on the same level as the coffin, that there was a pane of glass set into the bogwood lid, just beneath the carved crown. She caught her breath and found she was holding her clasped hands to her mouth.
“Hurry! Hurry!” the old woman called from behind her.