21 #2
Braithe dropped her hands and placed them on the surface of the bier so she could lean over the little window.
It was her turn to be reluctant, fearful of what she might see, of what might have become of Arthur’s body.
Four years had passed since she and Morgana had relinquished him to the fae for safekeeping.
She had closed her eyes without intending to.
Now, with a determined breath, she opened them.
The glass was in the Roman style, thick, faintly green, with pockmarks left by the beach sand that composed it.
Beneath the glass, Braithe could make out Arthur’s face, his fine nose and jaw, his high forehead, his fair hair spread across a small embroidered pillow.
His eyes were closed, as they had been when she saw him last. He looked as if he were in a sound sleep, undisturbed by dreams, untroubled by any curious gaze.
If his subjects knew he was here, Braithe had no doubt, the stream of visitors would never cease. Even the Keeper could not drive them away. Worse, if the Romans found out, they would destroy the pavilion, the bier, the coffin itself, to prevent the Lloegyrians from worshipping their martyred king.
“Come down now!” the Keeper cried. “I can’t keep it open much longer.”
Braithe touched the glass with one finger and murmured, “I will tell no one of this, my lord. Farewell once more. May your rest bring you peace.” She turned away, though it wrenched her heart not to have more time to contemplate the face she had loved so well.
She stepped down first from the bier and then from the pavilion itself.
No sooner had her foot touched the ground than the glowing shield sprang up again, glistening in the morning sun.
The Keeper drew a gasping breath, as if keeping it down had been an effort.
Braithe turned to watch the veil envelop the coffin, locking Arthur away from her a second time.
The last time. This moment had been a final gift, but she would never seek it out again.
She turned to the Keeper. Two of the black goats had wandered up the hill.
They were chewing something, wispy beards bobbing as their jaws worked.
They took up places on either side of the Keeper and regarded Braithe without alarm.
They were, Braithe thought, the most peaceful creatures she had ever encountered. They must make good company.
She said, “Thank you for letting me see the true king, grandmother. It was an honor. I wonder if you could help me with one more thing.”
Idhri woke to Priestess Morgana calling his name.
He sat up, disoriented at first, then realizing the sun was up.
The slant of pale yellow light through the unglazed kitchen window told him it was still early.
He hurried to pull on his leggings and tunic and went out into the kitchen carrying his sandals in his hand.
He found the priestess and Councillor Emerlyn both seated at the table. The priestess said abruptly, “Oh, good, Idhri. You have dressed. We must leave now.”
Gwen appeared in the hallway beyond, her hair disordered, her eyes wide with confusion. “We’re leaving?”
Priestess Morgana’s tone softened as she turned to speak. “No, Gwenvere. Not you. You will rest here. There will be food soon. Just wait for us.”
“Don’t open the door,” Emerlyn ordered. “Once the servants have brought the trays, the door will be locked. Keep it that way.”
“I couldn’t—the cantrip—” Gwen faltered. She gave a weak shake of her head.
“Of course. I forgot. Well, in any case,” Emerlyn said, “Faolin doesn’t have it. You will be safe.”
A moment later, Idhri and Morgana and Emerlyn were on their way, leaving Gwen behind. She stood in the hallway watching them go, hugging her thin body as if she couldn’t get warm despite the rising heat of the day.
Idhri judged that midsummer had passed, but the warm weather would not ease for some weeks yet.
He had missed the midsummer festival at Camulod, which was too bad.
He had attended the past two years with Emma, and it had been great fun, with music and dancing and wonderful food from the castle kitchens.
He hoped Emma wasn’t too worried about him.
At the same time he feared that when she learned he was a half-blood, she wouldn’t want him to come back.
That would break his heart. She had been as kind to him as if he were her own.
He tried to visualize a day when he would sit at the table in their cottage and regale them with stories of his time in fae country.
As he hurried after Morgana and the councillor, he held the image in his mind.
He wanted more than anything—well, except saving Braithe—to make it real.
They walked so quickly to the reflecting pool that Emerlyn was out of breath and shaky by the time they reached it. Idhri could see that Morgana had tried to moderate her pace, but she was tense and impatient. Idhri stayed close to the councillor, ready to catch her should she stumble.
The glassy surface of the pool coruscated with the light of the sun. It dazzled Idhri’s eyes, but if it bothered Priestess Morgana, she gave no sign. She bent forward, her lips pursed, her brow furrowed, and gazed into it.
She had felt Braithe’s call early that morning, she said, and it was stronger this time, whether because the enemy’s efforts to interfere with her own magic were growing weaker or because Braithe’s magic was strengthening.
Idhri heard the councillor say it could be both, and the priestess had nodded without slowing her hurrying steps.
Now the priestess and the councillor stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing into the shining water.
Idhri thought of the times when he and Master Hugh rowed together, and the boat moved twice as fast as it would if only one of them had taken up the oars.
He watched Morgana blow a slow breath through her pursed lips, and the councillor did exactly the same.
“Ah,” the councillor said. “She has found her way to the old temple.”
“That pavilion? Is that the temple?”
“It is. Outside the city, to the east.”
“And is it…”
The councillor nodded. “Yes. The tomb of the true king. I kept my promise.”
“Who is that woman with her?”
“That’s the Keeper. She is the oldest living fae. She no longer wanted to be part of the council or even to live in the White City. Her magic has grown weak, but it’s strong enough to maintain the protection around the bier.”
“Is it far?”
“Perhaps four hours’ walk for you and Idhri. For me, much longer. Too long, I think.”
“But you can direct me.”
“I can. And you should take this.” The councillor pressed a bag into the priestess’s hands.
She glanced inside and handed it to Idhri. “Thank you for the food, Emerlyn. Braithe will be hungry.”
Idhri thought, So am I, but he kept the thought to himself. Feeding Braithe was more important. Still, he was glad to feel the weight of the bag. There might be enough. He bowed his thanks to the councillor, and he and Priestess Morgana were on their way.
Morgana had woken that morning with Braithe’s call fairly ringing in her ears, and as she hurried to rise, the image of a place grew in her mind, although she had no idea what it was.
What she had not mentioned, either to Idhri or to Emerlyn, was that the Blackbird had also called out to her.
He had always been an adept, so that even with the distracting currents of magic in the White City, his message was clear.
There were no details, but there was urgency.
She caught a brief glimpse in the reflecting pool of a battle, a village on fire, bodies on the ground.
The boy king’s efforts to defend his lands were still being thwarted, and they had only identified one of the saboteurs.
There were two more conspirators to find, and they must do it soon.
Faolin would not be capable of working such distant magic now, with his crimes exposed.
He had incurred the wrath of the councillor, and he would be expending his energy defending himself.
Now his accomplices must be stopped as well.
Once she had Braithe safe again, they would deal with what remained of their mission.
Still, as she and Idhri hastened along the road, and then along the path through the woods, the images of burning buildings and corpses scattered on the ground haunted her.
Morgana did her best to put the vision of the destroyed village out of her mind for the time being, but it was not a simple thing to do.
When they emerged from the forest into the clearing where the old temple stood, her relief washed everything away for the moment.
She saw two women standing beside the pavilion.
One was an ancient fae with yellowing white hair, flanked by two small black goats.
The other was Braithe, still in her servant’s garb, her cropped hair shining in the sun.
The glow of the magic surrounding Arthur’s bier framed her with a halo of shimmering light, and even from a distance, her eyes flashed as blue as the summer sky above.
Morgana, casting aside her customary reserve, ran to fold her little handmaid into an embrace.
As the priestess and Braithe spoke in quiet, intense tones together, Idhri stepped into the pavilion, amazed by the ancient pillars, the granite floor, the power of the magic encircling the bier.
He understood this was the tomb of the great King Arthur.
The king had been gone two years by the time Idhri came to Camulod, but tales of his courage and honor and kindness abounded among the working folk.
Idhri stood admiring the coffin’s sculpted surface, the delicate vines and flowers winding up to a simple crown at the head. He wished he could have known him.
He took care not to touch the curtain of magic, but he stood close to it. Its energy prickled pleasantly on his skin.