30 #2
She touched her stomach with her palm, thinking to find relief at last from the nagging thrill of premonition that had plagued her since her return to Camulod.
To her alarm it was still there, quivering beneath her breastbone.
She tried to breathe it away, but it persisted with a stubbornness that frightened her.
She still could not guess at what it meant.
Morgana spent her first days back on the Isle alternating between seeing supplicants in the anteroom and fussing over the Blackbird.
His weakness made her uneasy. She brought him tinctures to increase his appetite and to help him sleep.
She persuaded Dafne to replace his bedding with the softest sheets and blankets and the plumpest pillows the Temple had to offer.
She went to him at the end of every day, coaxing him out for a gentle walk in the gardens or a visit to the lakeshore, where they sat and listened to the awakening of the night birds and the splash of fish leaping for their evening feed.
They didn’t talk. Morgana had given up trying to engage the Blackbird in conversation, even of the most quotidian nature. He wasn’t rude about it, and she wasn’t offended by his silence. He had never been voluble. Now it appeared he had nothing left to say.
There were things she wished she could ask him, but since they had returned to the Isle, she understood that her questions would not be welcome. Her mentor’s thoughts had turned inward. He had no inclination to share them.
It could be, on the other hand, that his thoughts had turned forward. He could be contemplating his future, but she had no part in that. She would be left behind. She often touched her sigil and prayed for the courage to face that moment.
After a day spent in the anteroom, a day when she missed Braithe’s assistance very much, she emerged from the dimness into the light of the sanctuary and found the elder priestess waiting for her.
Niamh stood before the stone that cradled the sword of power, her head bowed in contemplation, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her robe.
She looked up when she heard Morgana’s step. “Ah. Free at last.”
“Yes,” Morgana said as she crossed the sanctuary. “Do you seek inspiration from the stone?”
Niamh considered the question. “No. It’s rather that I’m seeking memories. It helps me to recall the day when the true king drew the sword with the assistance of a young acolyte and the Black Mage.”
“It seems long ago now.”
“Indeed.” Niamh pulled herself up a little, wriggling her tired shoulders. “We must speak, Morgana.”
Morgana had to quell a spurt of alarm. “Is all well, Priestess?”
“Well enough. Come, let us go into the residence and drink a cup of cider together.”
To Morgana’s surprise, Niamh led her into her own bedchamber.
It was larger than any of the others, appropriately, but its austerity matched Morgana’s own.
The only notable difference was a row of little clay pots in the window, each nurturing a seedling or a cutting of some kind.
Niamh caught Morgana’s curious glance at them.
“Herbs, mostly,” she said, with a wave of her perpetually dirt-stained hand.
“Some of them are hard to grow, and I worry we won’t have enough when we want them. ”
Morgana crossed to the windowsill to inspect them. “I do not recognize these.”
“You might when they’re bigger,” Niamh said. “It’s a bit of a passion with me, to try to grow unusual plants—despite their reluctance!” She gave a dry chuckle. “Now, Dafne will be here in a moment with some cider, and a bit of bread and cheese. Please sit.”
Morgana took a seat at the small table that was set near the window, evidently so the elder priestess could look out over the Temple grounds to the garden, where her true interests lay.
Niamh sat across from her and followed her gaze.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I look out over all this and I feel ready to pass the mantle of responsibility to someone else.”
“I understand,” Morgana said, and she meant it.
She hoped never to be elder priestess, but she was the mainstay of the Temple’s service to the petitioners who came from all over Lloegyr.
Every time she returned from an absence she was reminded that it was herself they came to see.
The other priestesses, little by little, had grown accustomed to the preference.
She hoped they had gotten over their resentment.
Perhaps they even understood how burdensome such a reputation could be.
“Your time in the White City was difficult, I think?” Niamh began.
“It certainly was not easy, neither for me nor for my handmaid.”
“I have never been there.”
“I would prefer never to return.”
“Ah. That bad, then.”
“The city is beautiful, but it is…” Morgana waved her hand, searching for the right words. “Lifeless. Colorless. Everything is perfect, and that is the problem.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. There is nothing left for the fae to do, and so they—some of them, the worst of them—alleviate their boredom by hurting humans. The ones I met who were like that profess to hate the people of Lloegyr, and in some twisted way, they blame us for the diminishment of their kind. It is my view that they are declining out of sheer boredom!”
Niamh pushed back the untidy strands of gray hair falling over her forehead and made a wry face. “Boredom sounds appealing to me just now.”
Morgana’s lips curved. “I understand that, too.”
Dafne appeared carrying a tray with a pitcher of cider, a half loaf of bread, and a small wheel of cheese. She set it between them, saying in her hoarse voice, “Anything else, Priestesses?”
“No, thank you,” Niamh said. “We will be late for dinner, though. Perhaps you could tell the kitchen.”
When Dafne had gone, the elder priestess poured a cup of cider for Morgana and set it before her. “In the end, I gather your mission was a success.”
“In the end, it was.”
“And now we need to talk about the Blackbird.” Niamh’s expression was grave, and Morgana’s stomach contracted. “You were wise to bring him here.”
“He has always wanted to retire on the Isle.”
Niamh lowered her gaze to her cup. “I think you know, Morgana, that this is about more than retirement.”
The omission of Morgana’s title gave an unusual sense of intimacy to their conversation. Morgana took a sip of cider to moisten her dry mouth, and she touched her sigil yet again, trying to prepare herself. “I do, Priestess,” she said. “I wish I did not.”
“There is a stanza that speaks to this moment. Do you remember?”
The sun rises,
and the flower rises to meet it.
They dance together,
but when the light dies, the dance is finished.
“Braithe would have thoughts about that,” Morgana said.
Niamh said, “We need to speak about your handmaid, too.”