35
It was a curious feeling for Braithe to be bringing Morgana to Camulod, as if she were the hostess and the priestess her visitor.
She marveled at how swiftly things could change.
She had to resist pointing things out as they climbed up the hill from the dock, how the gardens flourished, how gay the red pennants of peacetime were, snapping cheerfully above the courtine.
She nodded to the workers they encountered as they walked through the keep and called several by name, which made Morgana turn to gaze at her, either surprised or impressed, Braithe didn’t know.
She did not trespass on Morgana’s thoughts to find out as they moved on toward the western tower.
Bran met them with his usual formal greetings. “Your chambers are ready for you, Priestesses.”
Braithe’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, but Morgana said only, “Thank you, Bran. It is good to see you again.”
“We’re glad to have you back,” he said. “Both of you.” He bowed and led them inside and up the stairs. Braithe was about to go up another level, to her old room, but Bran said, “Excuse me, Priestess Braithe? The king asked me to assign a different chamber to you. It’s on this level.”
“Oh!” Braithe said.
“He thought it would be more convenient. I hope you don’t mind, but Loria and I moved your things.”
“Thank you, Bran. That was kind of you.”
Morgana went into her old bedchamber, while Bran opened the door of another and ushered Braithe inside.
It was spacious and airy, very like Morgana’s, and Braithe stared at it in amazement.
Before Bran left her to accustom herself to her new surroundings, he said, “King Mordred and Sir Lancelin have both left messages for you. They wanted me to tell you they look forward to seeing you at dinner and speaking of some tasks that await you all.”
Braithe thanked him again and walked slowly into her new quarters.
She took in the large bed with its embroidered cushions, the worktable already outfitted with a mortar and pestle and an assortment of jars and vials.
The large window, with a view of the east tower and the hills beyond, admitted abundant light.
Her extra robe and chemise hung on pegs behind the bed.
Her hairbrushes lay ready in front of an oval mirror with a worked-copper frame.
She stood in the center of the chamber, turning this way and that, wondering if it could possibly feel like home.
Strangely, the size of it, so much bigger than any space that had been hers before, made her feel smaller than ever, as if she were an impostor.
A pretender. She pressed her hands over her heart and closed her eyes, trying to feel her way into the chamber, to find how to make it fit.
When Morgana knocked gently on the open door, Braithe opened her eyes with a start. Morgana surveyed the room, nodding approval. “This is very nice, brat.”
Braithe said, “I know, but…”
“But what?” Morgana’s tone was gentle, as if she understood.
Though she knew it sounded childish, Braithe said, “I quite liked my old bedchamber.”
Morgana said, “And you will come to like this one, too. It is appropriate, Braithe. You are not a handmaid anymore.”
“What am I, then?”
“You are Braithe of Camulod. You have come into your power.” She smiled and held out a burlap-wrapped parcel she had been carrying. “I hope this will be the next of your many accomplishments.”
Braithe took the parcel in her hands and loosened the burlap. As the fabric slid to the floor, she exclaimed, “Oh, Priestess Morgana! But this is the Blackbird’s scrying bowl!” She remembered it perfectly, the wide, shallow bowl with its pottery base and blue lacquer interior.
“He would be so pleased for you to have it, Braithe. It will be your own now, but perhaps some of his magic will linger.”
“I will need it. I only seem able to scry when I am with you.”
“No need to worry. I have confidence you will find that scrying in your own scrying bowl, especially one that once belonged to our mage, will get easier.”
Braithe carried the bowl to the worktable and set it down. She traced the rim with her fingers. “I hope I will be worthy of it, Priestess.”
“Morgana.”
Braithe raised her eyes to Morgana’s face. “I am not sure I can call you that.”
“You will, brat. In time.”
“It is all overwhelming.”
“Braithe. You are forgetting.”
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.
Braithe hadn’t realized tears were brimming in her eyes until they spilled over, and she gave a tiny sob. “I will miss being your handmaid,” she said, her voice catching in her throat.
“And I will miss having you,” Morgana said calmly. “But change is the one thing in our lives we can depend upon.”
After Morgana left her alone, Braithe wandered her new chamber, stroking the silky pillows, running her hands over the smooth oak of the worktable.
She rearranged the jars and vials and mortar in small and quite unnecessary ways, trying to make it all feel like hers.
She stood in the window for a time, breathing the scents of the first autumn fires, admiring the sparkle of the courtine beneath the green horizon of the hills.
Braithe of Camulod. She tried saying it aloud—“Braithe of Camulod”—but it didn’t seem to be her own name.
Her own title, though the king and Morgana had already spoken it.
If her mam could see her now! The thought brought a smile to her face, but it did not erase the sense that she did not deserve any of this: the beautiful bedchamber, the position with the king, the Blackbird’s own precious scrying bowl.
At last, as the afternoon wore down and the prospect of an official dinner with the king and Sir Lancelin loomed, she took up the pitcher from the washstand and poured water into the blue lacquer basin.
She touched the water with her finger, and as she watched the ripples disperse, she whispered, “I will try, sir. In your memory, I will try.”
The light was beginning to soften as evening approached. It glowed on the smooth water, making the lacquer glisten. Braithe wasn’t surprised, bending over it, that she saw nothing. She had never in her life scried by herself, and she had no reason to think now was the moment she would begin.
In unconscious imitation of Morgana, she drew a slow breath through her nostrils, then pursed her lips as she released it.
Her eyelids drooped, and her vision grew softer, blurring the edges of the bowl, even the outlines of the table beneath.
She took another breath, and as she exhaled, she saw it.
She saw it clearly. There could be no doubt.
It was Idhri. He was in the familiar boat. She saw his dark braid of hair hanging down his back, his lanky form with the oars in his hands, his long legs braced against the hull as he pulled the oars with oddly disjointed motions.
Standing over him, with some sort of curved blade in his hands, was Skye.
Braithe cried out in horror, and the image vanished.
How did Skye come to be here, and why? This was supposed to be finished!
The Royal Council of the fae had dealt with him, stripped him of his magic, banished him from the White City!
The fear she had felt for Idhri before returned twofold now, because he was out on the lake with a murderer, and she knew that the fae man was capable of any cruelty.
Alarm shot through her veins until she thought her heart would burst. Idhri had fought for her. He was her youthful champion, everything fine and good and hopeful in the world. She would do anything to save him.
She fled from her chamber and pounded on Morgana’s door.
Master Hugh had sent Idhri down to the dock to check that the boat was ready for the next day.
Idhri was glad to escape the irritating smell of pitch he had been spreading.
The sun was dipping toward the western horizon as he walked down to the lake, tasting the fresh air that always smelled so pleasantly of fish, noting the first turning leaves glimmering gold among the summer green of the holm oaks and wych elms.
Feeling cheerful and at peace with the world, Idhri passed the other boats tied up to the row of bollards and crouched beside Master Hugh’s.
Everything looked in order, but he stepped in just the same so he could look beneath the bench seats and check for unexpected cracks in the pitch.
He adjusted a coil of rope so it looked tidier and moved the oars in their locks to be certain they didn’t need grease, but there was little else to do.
He nodded to himself, patted the boat’s hull in a possessive manner, and turned to climb out.
A shadow fell over his face. He started, and looked up.
Skye stood on the dock above him, wearing the feral grin that showed his yellow teeth. “Well, well,” he said. “This is convenient.”
Idhri’s hand groped at his belt, but his knife wasn’t there. Emma didn’t like him carrying it, because she worried he would cut himself. Skye, however, held a scythe. It looked well-used, but it wasn’t rusty, and Idhri had no doubt it wasn’t dull, either.
Skye followed his gaze to the scythe. “I borrowed this from some farmer cutting hay. Borrowed his lunch, too. I was half-starved.”
He looked it. Skye had always been thin, but now he was cadaverous. The lines in his lean face carved deeper than ever into his sallow cheeks. His eyes were hollow. Even the bones in his hand, where it held the scythe, seemed more prominent, the flesh shrinking away from them.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Idhri said.
“I have to be somewhere!” Skye growled. “I have no intention of becoming a Roman slave!”
“But you’re forbidden to have anything to do with—”
“Don’t.” Skye made an abrupt gesture with the scythe, and Idhri couldn’t help pulling back, out of its reach. “I know all that, but I’m about to set it right. I want to go home, and you’re going to help me.”