33
Idhri and Master Hugh scoured the floor of the cottage, then covered it with freshly pounded dirt.
Emma pronounced it perfectly clean, with no trace of blood remaining.
The king had sent a delegation to remove Faolin’s body, and Idhri assumed it had been burned without ceremony.
The cottage was theirs again, and Emma prepared a fine supper to celebrate: roasted hare with turnips and carrots, summer greens, and a fine pudding with the bramble berries that were just coming ripe.
The three of them sat at the table with the cottage door standing open to the evening breeze.
“Almost fall,” Emma declared as she cut into the pudding. “When the bramble berries come on, summer is almost over.”
“We need to build up the wood pile,” Hugh said.
Idhri had already taken a huge bite of pudding, but he held up a finger for them to wait until he had swallowed. “I’ll cut the wood,” he said. “You can carry on with the boat repairs.”
Emma smiled approvingly. “Good lad,” she said, and Hugh nodded agreement.
The issue of his fae blood had evaporated as if it were no more than a morning mist, and Idhri felt a wave of gratitude. He was about to finish his first serving of pudding, already eyeing another, when he heard his name called from the yard.
“It’s Priestess Braithe!” Emma said. She rose, pushing her chair back, straightening her long apron. “Ask her if she would like some supper, Idhri. Or some pudding.”
Idhri got up and hurried to the door. He saw Braithe standing beside one of the upturned boat hulls, looking up at the cottage. She lifted a hand when she saw him, and he trotted down to meet her, wiping bramble berry juice from his mouth as he went.
“Idhri, I am sorry to interrupt your supper.”
“Not at all! Emma would like you to come in.” Idhri gestured back to the cottage, where Emma now stood in the doorway, shading her eyes against the setting sun.
“I wish I could, but I need to go to the Isle as soon as possible. Something is wrong. I am needed.”
Idhri saw that her eyes were dark with worry and her cheeks pale beneath her scattered freckles. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “How do you know?”
She touched her chest with her fingers. “I feel it,” she said, and he heard the tension in her voice. “I cannot explain, but—can you help me? Would you take me in your boat?” She glanced around her at the boats under repair. “Do you have a boat just now?”
“Of course,” he said hastily. “It’s moored at the dock.” He glanced back at the cottage, where Emma stood hopefully in the doorway. “Let me ask my master, Braithe. Come with me.”
“No, Idhri. I had best wait here. Please hurry.”
He was on the point of turning back to the cottage, but he paused. “It might be too late today. The evenings are drawing in.”
“I know, but I hoped—if we could leave right away—”
“I’ll be right back.” He spun and loped up through the yard to the cottage.
It took only a moment to explain to Emma and Hugh what little he knew. Emma clicked her tongue and said something about waiting until morning, but Hugh said, “Nay, Emma. This is Priestess Braithe, who brought our lad back to us. If she says she needs to go, we go.”
“Let me put together some food—”
Idhri said, “There’s no time. We don’t want to be rowing through that mist in the dark.”
His master said, “The boy’s right. Come, Idhri. We’ll go directly.”
They were on their way out when Idhri glanced back at Emma, who stood uncertainly beside the table where the remains of her lovely dinner were scattered. “I don’t want you to worry,” Idhri said. “But I have to do this.”
She managed a small smile. “I suppose you do.”
He grinned back. “I’m Braithe’s champion,” he said.
“Aye, I see that,” she said. “Well done, lad. See you come back safe. And soon!”
“Promise,” he said, then dashed through the yard to give Braithe the news.
When they reached the dock of the Isle, the moonless evening had grown so dark that only silhouettes of the trees and the Temple were visible against the blanket of stars.
Braithe left Hugh and Idhri to moor the boat and make their way to the boatman’s quarters while she hurried up through the garden, skirting the Temple to go straight to the residence and Priestess Morgana’s chamber.
She didn’t find her there, which gave her a little quiver of unease, but Dafne spotted her in the corridor. She raised the candle in her hand to encircle Braithe in its yellow light. “Braithe,” she said. “We did not expect you.”
“There was no time to send word.”
“I will see to your chamber.”
“If you wish, but I can do it myself. Where is Priestess Morgana?”
“The priestess is with the Blackbird.”
“In the inner room?”
“No, in his bedchamber.”
“Thank you, Dafne.” Braithe turned quickly in that direction, eager to relieve the anxiety that had plagued her all day.
“Braithe, wait.” Dafne came closer, the candle still held high. “The news is not good. It’s not for me to tell you, but—it would be a shock, I fear.”
Braithe froze, and her hand went to her breast. “A shock?” And then, because she could wait no longer, she said, “Is Priestess Morgana—”
“She’s fine,” Dafne said. “It’s the mage.”
“Oh. Oh.” Braithe dropped her hand and let her chin sink toward her chest. “I should have guessed.” She had been worried for Morgana, when it was the Blackbird she should have thought of. “Is he gone?”
“Yes. The priestess found him this morning.”
“I will go to her now, Dafne.”
“Do you need food or drink?”
“Nothing. Thank you.” More slowly now, Braithe moved along the corridor toward the back of the residence, where the Blackbird’s little chamber had always been kept ready for him.
Everything around her was silent. No night birds chittered. No fox barked from the woods. All the Temple would grieve this loss, and Morgana more intensely than anyone. She had been right to come. Morgana should not bear this alone.
She reached the chamber and paused outside the closed door to collect herself before knocking. She was glad to hear how steady Morgana’s voice was when she called, “Come in.”
Braithe opened the door to find the priestess sitting in an uncomfortable chair at the head of the Blackbird’s bed. The only light in the chamber was the starlight falling through a single window. Morgana’s silver hair glowed in the dimness.
Morgana looked up, and when she saw Braithe, she gave a low cry.
“I am so glad to see you,” she exclaimed, getting to her feet.
She hesitated, but Braithe did not. She stepped forward, her arms out, and folded Morgana in an embrace.
Morgana was stiff at first but soon softened in her arms. She whispered, “The Lady must have sent you to me, brat.”
“That must be it,” Braithe said. “I knew I needed to come.”
They pulled apart, and Morgana touched Braithe’s cheek with her fingers before the two of them turned to gaze down at the Blackbird’s still form. Morgana said, “He knew. He had stopped speaking. Stopped eating.”
“We will all miss him,” Braithe said. “But you most of all.”
“I miss you both,” Morgana said bleakly.
Braithe looked up at her. “But I am here, Priestess.”
“For now,” Morgana said.
Braithe didn’t answer, but she was not surprised that Morgana already knew of the king’s command. He had framed it as a request, but Braithe and Lancelin both understood that was mere courtesy.
Morgana said, “Emerlyn is coming in the morning.”
“Councillor Emerlyn?” Braithe blinked. “Did she not refuse your invitation before?”
“She says she has been considering it after all.”
“When did you speak with her?”
Morgana looked away. “Today. In her private chambers in the Council Hall.”
“Priestess Morgana,” Braithe said sternly. “How did you come to be in the White City?”
Morgana turned back to her, and her face was like that of a child caught in some mischief. “As a goshawk,” she said. “That is how. And,” she added, her lips curving, “it was glorious.”
Despite Braithe’s assurance that she needed nothing, Dafne returned to the Blackbird’s chamber with a pitcher of ale and two cups, along with thick slices of bread and a little dish of fresh butter.
She glanced respectfully at the Blackbird lying so silently on his bed, then set her tray down on the table.
Eyeing the two hard chairs, she said, “Priestess Morgana, you need cushions if you are to keep vigil.”
Morgana said, “Thank you, Dafne. I believe they would be helpful.”
Braithe said, “I will fetch them. Dafne, go to your bed. It will be a long day tomorrow.”
“For us all,” Dafne said.
“Yes,” Morgana responded. “For us all.”
When Dafne had gone, Morgana said, “It will be good to have you here to greet Emerlyn, Braithe. “Everyone will be curious and perhaps not perfectly courteous.”
“Has there ever been a fae visitor?” Braithe asked.
Morgana gave a tiny sniff at the irony of the question. “Not that they were aware of. I have asked the councillor not to mention my parentage.”
“Nor your connection to her.”
“That particularly.” Morgana poured out ale for them and found the bread and butter tempting.
She had eaten after resuming her own shape but was hungry again.
She was not particularly tired, though. Perhaps, she thought, it was the brevity of her flight.
Or perhaps, with practice, shapeshifting would not exhaust her as it once had.
She said aloud, “Everything is changing, brat.”
Braithe dimpled, and quoted:
The skylark flies far from her nest
And finds it changed when she returns.
The nestlings think it is she who has changed.
The pieces no longer fit together.
“I suppose I am the skylark and you the nestling.”
Braithe sobered, and her dimples disappeared. “At one time, I would have said that was true, Priestess.” She paused. “But I am no longer a nestling. I have found my own wings.”
Morgana nodded, though the pain of imminent loss ached in her throat. “Of course. Of course you have. And that is just as it should be.”
“Welcome to the Isle of Apples, Councillor Emerlyn,” Priestess Niamh said.
She inclined her head to the fae visitor.
“And to the Lady’s Temple.” Her hands were tucked into her wide sleeves, and her sigil was prominent against her black robe.
Her gray hair was caught back with a simple piece of twine, and her sandals were workworn and plain.
It seemed to Braithe the elder priestess had deliberately chosen to appear as humble as she could.
Emerlyn, elegant in a silver-gray robe, with her graying hair streaming down her back, hesitated.
She glanced at Morgana and Braithe, and Braithe saw her nostrils flare as if she expected to detect some curious scent.
After waiting a moment too long for real courtesy, she inclined her head in return.
Braithe felt the tension as if it were a thundercloud looming overhead, threatening a downpour.
Morgana felt it, too, but Braithe understood that her reasons were different.
She tried not to listen to Morgana’s thoughts, but the priestess’s desire to keep her faeness to herself was impossible not to sense.
Councillor Emerlyn was a different matter.
Braithe had no compunction about listening to her thoughts.
The councillor was curious but also conflicted about showing respect to the elder priestess.
Emerlyn had spent her lifetime thinking of humans as somehow less than fae, and in her position as Royal Councillor, it felt unnatural to her to bow to Priestess Niamh as if they were equals.
Still, Braithe felt Emerlyn’s suspicion that the elder priestess might actually be her equal, with magic of her own and commensurate abilities. The idea shook the councillor’s convictions. Braithe heard her think, I am too old to change. Morgana should not ask it of me.
But Morgana, her granddaughter, was asking it of her. She could not escape the challenge.
Priestess Niamh was not young, either, but she was a practical sort.
She preferred the demands of plants to those of the women and girls she had to lead, but now that Councillor Emerlyn was here, she was clearly prepared to meet whatever issues arose.
“Please come to the priestesses’ residence, Councillor.
We will have a cup of cider, or ale if you prefer, and discuss the farewell ceremony. ”
“I thank you for your hospitality,” Emerlyn said stiffly. Niamh gestured toward the path, and Emerlyn stepped forward so the two of them could go up through the garden side by side.
Morgana and Braithe exchanged a glance as they followed.
Emerlyn’s servants, the same half-bloods they had met in the White City, came after, carrying a beautiful bogwood coffin between them.
Its lid was carved with flowers of many kinds, contriving somehow to make them look as if they were alive, as if you could pluck a flower from the design.
Braithe wondered if it was old or if one of the fae had deigned to carve a new one.
It seemed a shame to let such a beautiful creation sink beneath the surface of Ilyn, but Morgana had been clear about her intent.
The Blackbird would join the Lady beneath the lake, and together they would rest from their labors.
It was undoubtedly a greater comfort to Morgana than the funeral pyre.
Braithe wished she didn’t have to return to Camulod quite so soon.
Morgana’s grief was disguised by busyness: preparing the ceremony, managing the interaction between Emerlyn and Niamh, staving off the curiosity of the acolytes and priestesses.
Soon, though, all of this would pass, and Morgana would be left alone.
She had never been close to anyone in the Temple except for Braithe, and of course the Blackbird. It would be a hard time for her.
Braithe resolved to ask Priestess Niamh to suggest Morgana visit Camulod for a time. She hoped the castle was not so full of memories that it would intensify Morgana’s sorrow.
Ignoring the wind
Does not ease its blowing.