26 #2
When Loria had gone, Morgana poured a cup of ale for the Blackbird and one for herself.
She drank hers straight down and poured another.
There were two bowls of soup, thick with garden vegetables, a fresh loaf, and a dish of sweet butter from the dairy.
Everything smelled wonderfully of Camulod, of its expertly nurtured gardens, of its lovingly prepared food, and she was suddenly ravenous.
As she picked up her spoon, the Blackbird said, “I want to hear everything that happened in the White City, but first, tell me, Priestess. Why do you say your handmaid has magic of her own?”
Morgana swallowed a spoonful of soup and dipped up another.
“In the White City, she employed a surprising amount of magic, more than I have seen from her before.
She fears it was borrowed from that place, which is swimming in magic, as no doubt you know.
She worries her magic will fade now, but I suspect it was simply waiting to be awakened.
She swallowed, then spooned up more soup.
The cooks at Camulod were the best in the world, she thought, although the acolytes worked wonders with simple food on the Isle.
It made her reflect on how food and drink are affected by whoever makes them, and by being consumed in beloved company.
It reminded her of the stanza Braithe had so recently quoted:
The honey is sweet
The making of it sweeter still.
The Blackbird cut her a slice of bread and pushed the butter toward her. She saw with alarm the tremor of his hand and set down her spoon. “Sir, are you well?”
“Well enough,” he said, but without conviction.
“What is it?” She leaned forward to peer under the brim of his awful hat and look into his eyes.
His eyelids drooped so much, she marveled he could see from beneath them.
His hair and beard, as ragged and unkempt as ever, were now completely white, with no trace of the dark streaks they had once had.
But it was the tremor that worried her. “I will make you a restorative potion.”
“You probably should.” He picked up his own spoon and dipped it with some difficulty into his bowl. “These past months have been challenging. King Mordred has struggled in the face of an invisible enemy, and both Sir Lancelin and I have been hard put to help him hold a steady course.”
“Terrible that Lancelin should suffer such an injury, even in the moment of triumph.”
“Lancelin fights like a madman, without care for his safety.”
“He told me once he was born for war,” Morgana said. She recalled the night he had said it as they sat together atop the courtine, enjoying the sweet night air. The memory made her stomach quiver, and she dropped her gaze, not wanting the mage to detect her reaction.
The Blackbird seemed not to notice. “Sir Lancelin is as fierce in battle as he is in his loyalty. It would be a great blow to the king to lose him.”
“His wound is a bad one, but Braithe and I will do everything in our power.”
“I know you will.”
“There will be a great scar.”
“He will care nothing for that.”
“He will not be able to fight for some time.”
“I believe we are safe at the moment,” the Blackbird said, and the undercurrent of fatigue in his voice alarmed her anew.
He had shared these times of peril equally with King Mordred and Lancelin.
It had been awful for all three, but the Blackbird was much older than either of the other two.
She would never know how old, she supposed.
He himself swore he couldn’t remember, and she had given up asking.
Whatever the number of his years, he had seen enough of kingship and intrigue and war to fill several lifetimes.
When she had eaten enough, she picked up her cup and leaned back in her chair. “Now, sir, I will tell you all about our sojourn in the White City, and then you, like the king, must rest.”
“I will need more than rest, Morgana,” the Blackbird said, his rusty voice very low. It was faintly tinged with sadness, but she also heard acceptance in it, perhaps even relief. He looked up at her from beneath his hat brim. “Do you know, Priestess, I believe this was my last battle.”
Idhri declined the invitation to sup with Morgana and the Blackbird. He was happy to have soup and bread in the kitchen with the maids and the cooks, and then, if he was not needed, he meant to go in search of Emma and Hugh.
He liked being in the company of the staff, with a pot of soup on the table and a loaf on a board that was passed from hand to hand.
They asked him questions about the White City, but no one looked at him strangely or acted as if he were anything other than one of them.
Loria in particular fussed over him in maternal fashion and told him several anecdotes of Braithe’s time serving the queen.
One of the cooks told him he was far too thin and brought him an extra carrot pudding when they had finished the soup.
After offering to help clean away the supper things and being refused, Idhri excused himself and climbed the stairs to the door that led outside, where he would be able to go through the keep to the farmer’s gate.
That gatekeeper knew him well from his trips with Emma to bring produce to the castle.
He teased Idhri a bit about growing so tall and needing a bit of feeding, and then he opened the gate for him. “Coming back tonight, yah?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Idhri admitted. “I just want to see Emma, and then—it could be I am needed here.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” the older man said easily. “You go and see your mam. She’ll be pleased to lay eyes on you again!”