32
Morgana had not been sleeping well since returning to the Temple.
She considered making a tincture for herself, something she never did, but decided it was better to let her sleeplessness run its course.
After one particularly restless night, when she had twisted and turned under her blanket until the small hours, she finally fell into a thick, deep slumber that brought a disturbing dream.
She saw the Blackbird on a boat by himself.
He wasn’t rowing, only sitting very still, gazing into the distance while the boat bobbed under its own power toward the ring of mist around the Isle.
She stood on the shore, calling to him, but he either didn’t hear her or chose not to respond.
The boat was ridiculously small, barely big enough to hold him, and as she watched, it slipped into the fog, and both the boat and the mage disappeared.
She startled awake, feeling headachy and slow, and lay staring at the silver and rose dawn rising beyond her window.
The early-morning calls of robins and doves were the only sounds.
No one would be up yet except perhaps the cook.
Quietly, Morgana rose from her bed and began to dress.
She hoped a solitary walk would help her shake off the heaviness caused by too little sleep.
The dream had put her in a bereft sort of mood, and she hoped to shed that as well.
The cool early-morning air was a refreshing break from the last heat of summer that had been baking the Isle.
Morgana strolled down through the herb garden to her favorite spot, where she liked to sit on a boulder and listen to the idle lap of the waves against the shore.
The rock was damp with dew, but she didn’t mind.
She settled on it and gazed out at the water shimmering like old pewter in the growing light.
It was too early for dragonflies. They preferred the warmth of midday, so when one appeared, she knew it had something to tell her. She whispered, “Good morning, little brother.”
The dragonfly hovered in front of her, a delicate blue thread against the pale backdrop of mist. He was so close she could have touched him. “Is there something I need to know?” she asked softly.
The dragonfly trembled, holding his position. Morgana sighed, listening. Reluctantly, she said, “Thank you, little brother. I wish you had better news.”
For answer, the fragile creature dipped before her, as if in agreement, before he flew off toward the garden.
Morgana, heavy-hearted, rose from her boulder and shook out her damp robe.
She understood her dream now. As she climbed the slope to the Temple and made her way to the Blackbird’s little chamber at the back of the residence, she wished she had the comfort of Braithe’s company in this hard moment.
She found the Blackbird lying on his bed, his long white hair spread across his pillow and falling across his breast to mingle with his beard. He was still dressed in his robe. His hat and his staff lay on the floor, and his cloak hung empty and still from its peg.
Morgana knew he was gone, but even so, she did what healers do.
She felt for the beat of his heart in his wrist and in his throat.
She lifted his eyelids, but there was no response to the light.
The spark of life was gone. She put her hand on his chest, but there was no movement, and his flesh was cold.
Morgana pulled a chair close to the bed and sat.
She held one of the old mage’s wrinkled hands in hers, the chill of his fingers exaggerated by the warmth of her own.
She bowed her head as she said her farewells.
She had not wept in a very long time. Indeed, she couldn’t have said when she last shed tears.
Even when Arthur died, although she wanted to weep, she had not.
But now, acknowledging the loss of her mentor, her teacher, the closest thing to a father she had ever had, Morgana cried, silently, achingly, the pent-up tears slipping over her cheeks to drip from her chin and stain the breast of her robe.
Dafne found her there. She opened the door to the chamber, took in the situation at a glance, and went to inform the elder priestess.
Niamh arrived in due course, and the other priestesses, too, one at a time, coming to pay their respects.
They bowed their heads over the Blackbird’s body and slipped away without disturbing Morgana’s mourning.
Everyone knew what the Blackbird meant to her.
Even Priestess Iffa did not remonstrate with her for sitting beside him until the time came to make arrangements.
At last, well into the afternoon, Morgana rose.
She stretched her stiff muscles and splashed water from the Blackbird’s own basin over her face.
Her tears had dried long before, but they left her face feeling sticky and rough.
In her unerring way, she had relived her memories through the hours she sat beside the bed, recalling the years she and the Blackbird had spent together, the moments of learning they had shared, the challenges they had met.
She finally achieved acceptance that their time together had come to an end.
Gently, she pulled his blanket up to his chin and smoothed the coarse hair away from his wrinkled cheeks.
With her hand still on his head, she whispered, “Thank you, sir. Thank you for everything.”
The priestesses met in their inner room to decide how to mark the passing of such an influential person as the Black Mage.
They sat in their carved bogwood chairs, as solemn as they were when electing a new member of the Nine.
Several put forth suggestions, but none of their ideas seemed dramatic enough, meaningful enough, to be a proper farewell to this man they had all known for so long.
The elder priestess said at last, “Priestess Morgana, did the Blackbird ever mention what he would like as his final ceremony?”
Morgana, who had said nothing until this moment, shook her head. “He did not. He spoke several times of being aware of how long he had lived, and how weary he was, but that was all.”
“You were the closest to him,” Priestess Olfreth said. “What do you think we should do?”
Morgana took her time in responding. She chose her words with care, being in no mood for argument. “The Blackbird was an unsentimental man on the surface, but his inner soul was one of passionate commitment. To the Lady. To Lloegyr.”
“And to the Temple?” Olfreth asked.
“Yes. And to the Temple. But,” Morgana added, “he was devoted to the true king. To Arthur, and after Arthur, to the boy king, because King Mordred is doing all he can to carry on Arthur’s legacy.”
Olfreth said, “Where will we have his funeral pyre?”
“I think,” Morgana said, “that he would like to lie beneath the lake. To join the Lady in her underwater rest.”
A shocked silence followed her statement. Niamh, always the practical one, finally blurted, “But how would we do that? I mean, he would… that is, his body would…”
“It would not be hard,” Morgana said. “A bogwood coffin, well weighted and sealed.”
“But who can carve bogwood in these times?” Olfreth asked. “Only the fae, and there are none here.”
“I will send to the White City,” Morgana said. “The councillor will provide it.”
Niamh frowned. “Why would she do that?”
“I must ask you to take my word for it,” Morgana said. She saw no purpose in revealing her connection to Emerlyn, nor in telling her sister priestesses of her own true nature. Some things, she had decided long ago, were better kept secret.
“But how will you get word to her?” Niamh asked, still scowling.
Morgana knew the elder priestess liked order and predictability, and this deviation from custom disturbed her. She said, “I will manage, Priestess Niamh. We will have what we need by tomorrow morning.”
She rose then, forestalling the questions her sister priestesses wanted to ask. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness in regard to the Blackbird’s wishes. He was faithful to you all, and you have proved yourselves worthy. He would be proud.” And then, as an afterthought, she murmured, “I am, too.”
Feeling their eyes on her, their questions and objections left unspoken, she inclined her head, then left them. She needed solitude to do what she intended, and time, which was necessarily short. The endeavor would be far more difficult without Braithe’s assistance.
Morgana prepared as swiftly as she could, making sure she had eaten enough to give her strength, taking a basket of provisions with her so she could eat again when she returned.
It wasn’t a great distance, and with luck, her errand would not take long, but there were the usual complications of fatigue, exposure, and worst of all, nakedness.
Carrying her basket, she strode out through the Temple and into the woods, bypassing the gardens and making certain no one had followed her, neither priestess nor acolyte.
There was a little dell she knew of, where the roots of three holm oaks intertwined aboveground to create a cradle.
It was full of moss and studded with mushrooms, but her basket and her clothes would be safe there.
She stripped off her robe and folded it, then added her chemise and her sandals.
Her sigil she laid carefully inside one of her sandals, its cord wrapped around the whole.
She was glad now of the heat of the afternoon.
She stood, naked, in the shade of the holm oaks, and began the process without delay.
Her toes became talons. Her feet and legs turned yellow and hard.
Her outstretched arms grew feathers, becoming broad wings in a dark brown color.
She felt the transformation of her body, the long, rounded tail, the hooked beak and the eyes, which she knew would be red.
When she rose from the dell, wings propelling her up into the clear blue sky, no one in the world would have known that this elegant, powerful goshawk was actually Priestess Morgana, one of the Nine of the Lady’s Temple.
She circled the dell once, getting her bearings, then tilted her wings and set off for the White City.
For the moment, her mind was a bird’s mind, her eyes farseeing and sharp.
Her sorrow over the Blackbird was eased by the wind beneath her powerful wings and the late-summer sunshine on her gleaming back.
If she had so wished, she could have flown straight beyond the mountains to the sea, leaving all responsibilities and duties behind. The bird’s mind was tempted.
Morgana’s was not. The discipline she had practiced all her life, guided and instructed by the Blackbird, prevailed.
In a short time, the gleaming buildings of the White City rose before her.
She circled once, twice, three times, until she was certain she had identified the Royal Council Hall.
Swiftly, she descended into the inner courtyard, where the private door led into Emerlyn’s chamber.
She landed lightly and began to shift back into her own body.
She could only hope no one would spy her nakedness before she found something she could use to cover herself.
The council was in session. The noise of their arguments reached Emerlyn’s chamber, making Morgana shake her head as she searched for something to put on.
She went straight to Emerlyn’s private wardrobe, where she knew an assortment of gray robes hung. She was taller than the councillor, but she found one that almost reached her ankles. She didn’t bother with a chemise, and she remained barefoot. She had no intention of being in the White City long.
After a time the noise from the council chamber subsided, and the voices of the delegates faded away as they left the hall.
Moments later Emerlyn appeared in the doorway to her chamber, a tired, slender figure with her gray hair hanging loose.
She gazed at Morgana without emotion. “You’re wearing my robe. ”
“I was naked.”
“I had an idea you were coming,” Emerlyn said. “It’s good to know I was correct. What form did you take?”
“Goshawk. There was no time for a boat.”
“Your handmaid will not be pleased.” Emerlyn came inside and closed the door behind her. “Are you very tired?”
“Yes, but I can rest later.” Morgana had been sitting at a small table, but she rose and faced the woman who was, in fact, her grandmother.
“Emerlyn, I am sorry to tell you that the Black Mage has died. I need a bogwood coffin delivered to the Isle of Apples, and unfortunately, I need it immediately.”
Emerlyn put a hand to her breast. “Oh. Morgana, I am sorry to hear that. He is—he was—invaluable to you, I know. And to your mother.”
“He had grown so weary, it is a wonder he stayed with us as long as he did.”
“Will you bury him on the Isle, then? Is that what the Temple wants?”
“The priestesses thought of that, but no. We are going to lay him to rest beneath the lake, where he can rejoin my mother.”
Emerlyn’s lips parted, but for a long moment she didn’t speak. Finally, releasing a held breath with a sigh, she said, “You surprise me, but—but I think he would like that.”
“Will you help me?”
“Of course. Shall I order a boat to take you home with the coffin?”
“No, thank you. There would be questions.”
“Your sister priestesses don’t know that you shapeshift.”
“They do not, nor do they know I am fae. It seems best that way.”
Emerlyn made a small, sad sound in her throat. “Do they hate us so much?”
“They fear you,” Morgana said. “Which is almost the same thing.”
“So I would not be welcome at your farewell to my old friend.”
It was Morgana’s turn to be surprised. She had to think for a moment, to contemplate what the reaction in the Temple might be to the Royal Councillor of the White City appearing on the Isle.
She gazed at her grandmother, wondering if there was guile in those dark eyes, where the gold flecks came and went as her magic surged and receded.
“Would you like to be there?” she asked. “Among humans?”
Emerlyn gave her a smile full of regret. “I would,” she said softly, as if ever so slightly embarrassed. “I have thought often of what you said. I should take this opportunity to understand the people who brought you up.”
“I will tell my elder priestess you are bringing the coffin we requested.”
“Expect me in the morning, Morgana.” Emerlyn gestured at the too-short robe and smiled again, with more humor this time. “Just leave it in the courtyard. I’ll collect it when you’ve gone.”
“Thank you.”
“Be safe.”
It was a simple phrase, even a common one, but it felt maternal to Morgana, and she was glad of it. She wished she could think of a way to express that, but nothing came to her mind. In the end she said only, “Until tomorrow, Emerlyn.”
“Yes. Until tomorrow.” Emerlyn added, under her breath, “My dear.”
Morgana, on her way out the door, nearly tripped in surprise. She looked back over her shoulder, but Emerlyn had turned away.