22
The trek back into the White City was almost as stressful for Braithe as the journey out had been.
Idhri had stumbled down from the pavilion and fainted dead away on the grass.
Morgana and Braithe ran to him, but for a terrifyingly long time they couldn’t rouse him.
When they finally did, he could barely stand.
He leaned into their supporting hands as if his muscles had dissolved.
He couldn’t speak at first, and when he did it was in disjointed fragments that made no sense.
After a time, when it appeared he would not quickly recover, Morgana murmured, “Braithe. Use your gift. Find out what has made Idhri ill.”
Braithe’s confidence in her gift was still shaky, and she feared it might fail her, but it did not.
Indeed, in this intense moment, it served her better than it ever had.
She put an arm around Idhri’s slender waist, bent her head, and listened to his thoughts.
After a time, she looked up at Morgana with tears streaming down her cheeks and her throat aching with a sorrow that was not hers.
Morgana said, “He has remembered.”
Braithe nodded, still holding Idhri tightly. “He has,” she choked, “and it is terrible.”
“I expected it would be something awful. He will need time.”
Idhri, between them, drew a shuddering breath, like a weepy child just coming around. “Sorry,” he whispered.
“Nonsense,” Braithe said. “In time we will sort out all the things you remember. There will be good in your memories as well as the evil that befell.”
“My mother…” he moaned, then sobbed as if his heart would break, his face buried in Braithe’s shoulder.
“I know,” Braithe murmured, over and over.
“I know, dear heart. I heard. It’s ghastly.
” She patted his back and smoothed his hair.
“To add to everything, my dear Idhri, we have a long journey to make. Could you concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, just for now? When we have arrived, when you have rested, we will talk it all through. I will share this burden with you, I promise.”
With an effort everyone could see, he swallowed his tears and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He straightened his shoulders, then rubbed his face fiercely, as if he could scrub it all away.
The Keeper had stood silently by, watching. As Braithe released Idhri, the old fae woman spoke to him. “I did say you might not thank me.”
He sniffled, but his voice was steady. “Better I should remember, grandmother.”
She nodded. “I hope so, lad. Hope so.”
Morgana said, “We must go now, grandmother.”
She answered, “You have work to do, I think.”
“We do.”
Braithe added, “Thank you for your help.”
The Keeper nodded. Braithe took a final look at the bent figure with her two little goats, the shimmer of the pavilion’s protection behind her. The Keeper lifted a hand in farewell. Braithe did the same.
As she and Morgana and Idhri began the long walk back to the city, Braithe said, “Priestess, Idhri will need a lavender tincture. A bit of poppy would not go amiss, either.”
“I have those things in the guesthouse. Help yourself.”
Braithe heard the touch of humor in Morgana’s voice. She herself couldn’t smile, not with poor Idhri’s memories so fresh in her mind, but she appreciated the respect Morgana had implied, and her confidence that Braithe would know what to do for Idhri.
The way was far easier to navigate in the daylight than it had been in the dark, though Idhri’s weakness slowed their steps.
It seemed a long while before the path, with its ruts and stones, widened into the lane.
The afternoon sun was burning their heads before they reached the boulevard at the outskirts of the city and could stop at a fountain to drink.
Braithe made herself eat a little of the food Emerlyn had sent.
She knew they still had a long way to go, and she had eaten nothing but a few wild herbs since the day before.
Idhri only shook his head when the food was offered.
Morgana ate nothing, and for once, Braithe had no energy to admonish her.
She did persuade Idhri to drink from the fountain, but he shuddered as he tasted the water. “What is it?” she asked.
“It’s warm,” he said, in a flat, lifeless voice.
“It’s still good, Idhri.”
He shook his head. “Blood. It’s warm like blood.”
It made no sense, of course. Braithe just put her arm around him again. The contact was the only comfort she had to offer.
They went on as soon as they had rested a bit, wending their way to the guesthouse. Morgana and Braithe spoke only when necessary. Idhri didn’t speak at all.
They found Emerlyn waiting for them. There was apparently no council gathering today.
Braithe, ravenous now, having eaten almost nothing since the morning before, was glad to see food trays waiting on the table.
She ate cheese and bread and greens. Idhri still couldn’t eat, but she coaxed him to drink two cups of sweet cider.
Emerlyn and Morgana disappeared into Morgana’s chamber for a time, and when they emerged, Morgana also ate, although more sparingly than Braithe would have liked.
Idhri was pale and quiet. Braithe persuaded him to go into his room and lie on his cot. She followed him, and once he was lying down, she pulled a blanket over him. “I’ll bring you a tincture to help you rest.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She squeezed his hand before she slipped out, drawing the curtain closed behind her.
At the kitchen table, Morgana toyed with a half-drunk cup of cider.
Emerlyn sat across from her, hands folded in her lap.
Braithe found the lavender tincture in Morgana’s chamber, added a bit of poppy, then administered some of the mixture to Idhri.
When he seemed somewhat calmer, breathing more deeply, she drew his curtain again and went to sit with the others.
Emerlyn said, “Braithe, you should know that Faolin has been ejected from the council, and his house has been confiscated.”
“Is that his only punishment?” Braithe asked.
“No. It is the first step.”
Braithe and Morgana both watched Emerlyn, waiting, pressuring her with their silence. She had avoided telling them the truth about the penalty for violating the Rule, skirting it as if it were something shameful. Braithe had the distinct impression she would prefer not to tell them.
At last the councillor breathed a long, resigned sigh. “He loses everything. His house, his possessions, his place on the council. And the ultimate penalty—he loses his magic.”
“His magic!” Morgana exclaimed. “Can the council do that?”
“They can, and they will.”
Braithe said, “How is it accomplished?”
“It’s the one time the delegates work together, including myself. The totality of our magic is much greater than that of one offender. It’s a distasteful task, but occasionally it must be undertaken. We will bind him from the practice of magic.”
“I thought the penalty must be death,” Braithe said.
Emerlyn turned to her, and Braithe realized for the first time that the councillor’s eyes showed golden sparks, bright against the dark brown, although nothing to compare with Morgana’s.
Emerlyn’s voice was low and intense as she answered.
“To the fae, this punishment is worse than death. Our magic is the thing that sets us apart. That puts us above other beings in this world.”
Morgana’s voice vibrated with disappointment and disapproval. “You believe you are above all other beings?”
Emerlyn’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t you feel that way, Morgana?” The expression on her face was without guile. Her question was sincere.
Braithe sensed how appalled Morgana was, though she controlled herself.
“I do not, Emerlyn,” Morgana said. “Nor should you. I know dozens of humans who are more honorable, more hardworking, more worthy, than the likes of Faolin or Skye. I am only acquainted with one half-blood, but that one is a sweet, courageous boy. His value is infinitely higher than that of his careless sire.”
“But think how it would feel to lose your magic.” Emerlyn leaned forward to convey the depth of her feeling on the matter.
“Imagine yourself without your abilities to create potions and remedies, to do the little things that make life easier—lift a spoon without touching it, tweak a candlewick into flame, use your deep sight at will. Scry!”
Morgana answered with a deliberation that Braithe knew hid her disgust. “What I cannot imagine, Emerlyn, is an entire people so convinced of their importance that they despise anyone who is different.”
“But you are one of us,” Emerlyn said, looking and sounding genuinely bewildered.
“I am not. My Lady mother saw to that, and I am increasingly grateful to her for it.”
Braithe held her breath, expecting Emerlyn to be offended, but she didn’t appear to be. “Truly, Morgana, I thought you would understand. The delegates—in fact, all of the fae—are fiercely protective of our kind, possibly because there are fewer and fewer of us each year.”
“But if your kind is useless? If it does nothing to help others, to ease suffering in the world, to protect those who are weaker?”
“Do you think our kind is useless?”
“Perhaps that word is too strong, but certainly your kind can be unspeakably cruel.”
Braithe felt compelled to add, “Faolin stole Gwen’s life. He tortured her for years, and he meant to do the same to me. And now he continues to interfere in Lloegyr’s defense.”
“That is at an end,” Emerlyn said. “There is a ritual, but it will be performed without delay. It is,” she added grimly, “the only time the council moves with speed.”
“Has he given up the names of the others?” Morgana asked. Her eyes were a brilliant, furious gold. “We are under the pressure of time. There is a fresh crisis at our eastern border.”
Braithe drew a little breath. “Oh! Priestess, I know one of the others.”
Morgana and Emerlyn turned to her in surprise. “Do you?”
“I identified her on the same day Faolin magicked me.”
“Is there a chance you know her name?”
“I heard it clearly. Ursula.”