25 #2
Morgana’s beautiful golden eyes glistened with emotion. She had not wept even when Arthur died, and Braithe had no doubt she would not weep now, but she was clearly moved. “Emerlyn,” she breathed. “You are my mother’s mother?”
“I am.”
“You could have come to me, on the Isle.”
“I could not, Morgana. Aside from the weight of my duties here, it was not your mother’s wish. She wanted to you to live among humans, to understand them as she did.”
“She was the queen of the fae at one time, was she not? Were you queen before her?”
“No, it was another.”
“And since my mother left the White City?”
“We have had no queen since that time.”
Morgana exhaled a long breath through pursed lips. “It is no wonder so many resent me.”
Emerlyn started to reach out with one hand, then withdrew it, perhaps thinking Morgana would not like being touched. “You could be queen if you wished, Morgana. You could stay here in fae country, in the White City, and rule over the council. Perhaps your youth—”
Morgana started, exclaiming, “Oh, no, Emerlyn! I am glad to know who you are. I am gratified that you and I have an affinity for one another, that perhaps we could be friends, or even more, but no! I could never abandon the Temple, or the people my mother loved.”
“I felt sure you would say that.” Emerlyn spoke with an air of resignation, but not, Braithe thought, disappointment.
Morgana leaned forward. “Instead, Emerlyn—Grandmother—”
“We don’t use such terms here.”
“Very well.” Morgana nodded. “Emerlyn, then. I suggest you come to the Isle. You have earned your rest, and you will learn why my mother and I both care for the people of Lloegyr.”
“My dear Morgana,” Emerlyn said. Regret softened her eyes and her lips, making her look younger, as she might have looked long ago. “Like you, I am committed to my duties. I could not bring myself to leave. I fear that the council, probably all of the White City, would collapse into chaos.”
“That may happen regardless.” Braithe saw no regret in Morgana’s expression.
The threat of tears had vanished. “You have said there are fewer and fewer fae. There are many more humans, it appears. Add to their number the half-bloods I’ve seen, and I see little hope for the council.
You may be sacrificing yourself for nothing. ”
“Yes. I have been aware of that for some time. But I will always know I did what I could. My kind—our kind—may be disappearing, but I will not hasten the end.”
Once Emerlyn had left, with a promise to return in the afternoon, Morgana went to her bedchamber.
She brought out her scrying bowl and filled it with water from the ewer on her washstand.
Willing herself to be calm, reminding herself that the council had already blocked the magic of Ursula and Vivyan, as they had with Faolin, she furrowed her brow and concentrated, taking slow, deep breaths.
To her great relief, an image sprang to life almost immediately.
She would not need to return to the reflecting pool at the far edge of the city.
She no longer needed to worry about her diminished ability.
Her magic felt as strong and sure as it had always been.
She saw Camulod, its courtine sparkling in the summer sun. Above it, blue war banners told of a victory in battle. Gratitude flooded Morgana’s breast, and for a moment she simply gazed at the vision of her beloved castle, thankful to have good news at last.
She was about to stir away the image, but it shifted before her finger touched the water. She leaned forward for a closer look, hoping she was mistaken.
She was not, and her heart sank as she took in what she saw as clearly as if she were there in person.
She knew where Lancelin’s bedchamber was in the west tower of Camulod.
Though her vision gave her few details, she knew what the room looked like, remembered everything with her usual accuracy.
Lancelin lay on his bed, covered by a bloody sheet.
The Blackbird sat beside the bed, his staff propped against the wall behind him.
At the end of the bed, his hands clutched to his breast, stood the boy king.
Mordred was watching over his principal knight, who appeared to have been grievously wounded.
Lancelin’s eyes were closed. His hands were folded on his breast, and his dark hair spread across his pillow. Had it not been for the mage and the king watching him so closely, Morgana could have believed this was a death vigil.
She jumped up from her chair, making the water in the bowl shiver and the image dissipate. “Braithe!” she called. “Braithe, Idhri! Pack your things. Braithe, help me pack up my basket. We must go now!”
The boatman, swiftly arranged by Emerlyn after Morgana explained the situation, was a silent, wary-eyed half-blood. He didn’t speak as he loaded their things onto the boat. Emerlyn introduced him merely as the boatmaster, and he nodded silent acknowledgment.
Emerlyn said to Morgana, “He is the only boatman we have, because none come here.”
“Will he know how to navigate to Camulod?”
“Oh, yes. We make fae country difficult to find, but leaving it is simple. Our boatmaster has done it before, although I believe it was quite some time ago.”
Idhri was waiting alongside the boat, ready to untie the line. Braithe said her farewells in a rush, aware of the need to hurry. “Councillor, thank you for your help, and for everything else. I don’t know if I will see you again, but I would be happy to welcome you to the Isle.”
Emerlyn nodded her thanks. “Farewell, Braithe. Be well.”
“And you.” Braithe scanned the dock to make sure they had not forgotten anything.
Idhri put out his hand to steady her as she climbed into the boat.
As she settled herself, she glanced back to see Emerlyn and Morgana gazing at each other.
Neither was speaking, but Morgana put out her hand, and the councillor took it in both of hers to hold for a long moment.
Braithe diverted her mind in order not to hear their thoughts and turned her face out to the lake.
She was worried about Sir Lancelin, but these few days had felt like a lifetime, and she was glad to be leaving the unfriendly confines of fae country.
She had discovered her own power while surrounded by the rampant and rebellious magic of the fae, but it had come with a cost, and she didn’t know if it would last.
She whispered,
The bud is the promise,
The bloom the reward.
The withered flower is the promise kept.
She prayed her magic would not wither soon.
When Morgana stepped into the boat and they set out with their silent boatman, Braithe murmured, “Priestess. What did Emerlyn say to you?”
Morgana’s golden gaze met Braithe’s. “She said I should reconsider my vows.”
“Your vows!”
“I think she would like a great-grandchild.”
Braithe’s mouth opened, but no words came from it, and Morgana chuckled. “I know. It’s unthinkable.”
Braithe blew out a long breath. “By the Lady’s hand, I had not expected that.”
“No. It surprised me as well.”
“I assume she meant you should produce a fully fae grandchild.”
“I have no doubt,” Morgana said. “And that, my dear brat, will never happen.”