37
The first thing Braithe did, waking in the early hours, was to look into the Blackbird’s scrying bowl.
Without surprise, she saw Skye floating somewhere on the lake, face down in the water, his body pushed this way and that by Ilyn’s modest currents.
His hair had come loose from its tie and floated around his head like the tentacles of some ancient sea creature.
There was no sign of life. Her feeling had been correct. The last threat to Idhri was gone.
She moved back to her bed and sat on the edge of it, remembering what had happened the day before, recalling what she could of the great magic Morgana claimed had been all her doing, remembering how strange she had felt afterward, weak and weary and not entirely clear in her mind.
Now the dawn had found her feeling like herself.
Except she didn’t feel like herself. She doubted she would ever feel like herself again.
Or perhaps she would feel like a new self.
She was no longer a naive country girl. She would no longer be a handmaid.
The only way she could become her old self again would be to walk away from the changes her magic had wrought in her, and that would be an affront to the Lady.
After a time, she rose and went to the washbasin, where Loria had thoughtfully provided soap and towels. She washed her face and hands and scrubbed her body. When she felt clean again and had put on a fresh chemise, she sat down at the dressing table to brush her hair before the oval mirror.
She picked up the brush, but she didn’t use it.
Instead, she stared in wonder at her reflection.
Her fair hair was the same, her curls now falling to her shoulders.
Her eyes had not changed. They were the blue of Ilyn in summer, a blue that could darken or brighten depending on her mood.
Her freckles still scattered over her nose and cheeks like constellations in the night sky.
But her dimples…
Her dimples were gone.
Morgana came into Braithe’s bedchamber carrying a long black piece of fabric in one hand and a sigil on a thong dangling from the other. She stopped just inside the door, gazing at her former handmaid with wonder. “Braithe,” she said. “Your—your face—”
Braithe was in profile to her, smoothing her bedcovers and setting her pillow neatly at the head of the bed.
She didn’t feel comfortable expecting Loria to do those things for her.
She turned, her hands linked before her, allowing Morgana to see her whole face.
“I know,” she said. “I am reminded of the morning you woke to find yourself so changed.”
Morgana touched the long silver plait that hung over her shoulder to her waist. “I am, too,” she said. “At least your hair has not transformed.”
“No. Not my hair. Still a hopeless tangle.”
“Smile for me.” Braithe, a little ruefully, did. Morgana sighed, her own lips curving with nostalgia. “Ah. I will miss those dimples, but you have become a beautiful woman, Braithe of Camulod. No longer a girl.”
“I feel as if my own skin no longer fits me.”
“The Lady must have great plans for you,” Morgana said. “You longed for magic, and she has endowed you with more than you ever expected.” She held out the swath of linen she carried. “And I have brought you a robe to befit your new status.”
Braithe took the black robe from her. She shook it out and held it up to herself. It was one of Morgana’s own but perfectly hemmed to fit her much shorter legs. She looked up at Morgana and smiled again. “Are you a seamstress now?”
Morgana’s lips twitched. “I am not, nor will I ever be. Loria, on the other hand, is an accomplished needlewoman. You will need other robes, certainly a woolen one for winter, but this is a start. She has promised to see to the others.”
“I wonder what the king and Sir Lancelin will think when they see me.”
“They will become accustomed,” Morgana answered. “As I already have.” She held out the sigil on its long thong. “This is for you as well.”
Braithe stared at the sigil without touching it. “Morgana—I cannot wear that. I am not a priestess, despite what they call me here.”
“In what way are you not a priestess?” Morgana said, still holding the sigil within Braithe’s reach. “What makes a priestess?”
“Well—the convocation, for one thing.”
“And the Blackbird. But he is no longer with us.”
“Priestess Niamh will not like it.”
“She is not here. I am.” Morgana came closer, and although Braithe had not yet put on the black robe, she hung the sigil around her neck. “And the Blackbird was with you yesterday.”
“He was,” Braithe breathed, looking down at the sigil of the Lady now resting against her white chemise. “And the Lady was, too.”
“I have no doubt.”
Braithe pressed her hand against the sigil and looked up into Morgana’s face. “What happens now?”
“Now,” Morgana said, her eyes bright with affection and pride. “You go to work.”
King Mordred and Sir Lancelin greeted Braithe’s new appearance with raised eyebrows and awkward silence.
She had come to the king’s council room to sit at Lancelin’s left hand for the audiences of the day, and she felt their startled gazes as she walked to her designated place.
Bran was in the room, arranging chairs, and it was he who finally spoke to her.
“Priestess Braithe!” he exclaimed. “How fine you look in your new robe.”
She smoothed its black folds with her hand and smiled at him, grateful he had not mentioned the alteration to her face. It was possible he had not noticed, but he was a man who noticed details. She suspected he was being polite. She said, “Thank you, Bran.”
It seemed neither Lancelin nor Mordred could think of what to say, although Lancelin rose to greet her and didn’t sit again until she had settled in her own chair.
Bran said, “There are three of your subjects waiting to see you, my lord.” Mordred nodded, averting his eyes in an attempt not to stare at Braithe.
Lancelin finally spoke. “Bran, could you ask them to wait a few minutes?” When Bran had bowed and withdrawn, Lancelin turned to Braithe. “You do look impressive, Braithe.”
She inclined her head to him, but when she lifted it, she saw that he was staring at her with a bemused expression. She said lightly, “I am aware my face has changed, sir.”
Mordred looked as confused as she had ever seen him. “What happened?” he asked, with a slightly plaintive tone that made him sound like the boy he still was. “How could your—I mean—” He flushed and blurted, “What happened to your dimples?”
“They seem to have disappeared, my lord.”
“But how?”
She was searching for a way to explain, but Lancelin intervened. “It was because of what happened yesterday, was it not?”
Relieved, she nodded. “Yes.”
“And the change—will it last?”
“Sir, Priestess Morgana experienced just such a change, as I believe you know, and it has lasted for years. I doubt this change will be any different.”
The king looked from one to the other, his brows drawn together. “Explain!” he commanded, not in the voice of a boy but in the voice of a frustrated king.
Braithe said, “Of course, my lord. I will have to begin at the beginning.” He leaned back in his chair and made a gesture with one hand to tell her to start.
The three subjects awaiting their audience with the king had to wait a long time as Braithe told her tale.
She had to explain Idhri’s background, the details of their travails in the White City, the unexpected development of her magic, and the conflicts among the fae and between humans and fae.
She made the story of the events of the day before, the death of Skye and the saving of Idhri, as brief as she could.
When she reached the end of her account, the king sat still for a time, thinking, his elbow braced on the arm of his chair, his chin propped on his fist.
When he straightened, he said, “I have worried, Braithe, about how I would manage without the help of someone like Priestess Morgana. I have always been aware of how invaluable she was to my brother. I have Sir Lancelin, for which I am grateful, but I longed for someone who could take the unique place Priestess Morgana held. Now it seems you will be that person.”
“I am no Morgana,” Braithe said, “but I will serve you to the best of my ability, my lord.”
Lancelin said, “It’s true that there is no one like Priestess Morgana. But there is no one like you, either, Priestess Braithe.”
Mordred smiled. “Well said, Lancelin. Well said. Our kingdom is in good hands. And now, shall we begin?”
Morgana knocked at Braithe’s bedchamber early one morning a few days later. Braithe was already up and dressed, and she opened the door promptly. “Morgana! Do you need me?”
Morgana chuckled. “Is that your first thought, brat? No, I need nothing. I have learned to do my own hair once again, although not your beautiful plaits.”
“I will do them for you now if you like.”
“Thank you, no. This single braid is fine. I came to tell you it is time for me to go home.”
“Ah.” Braithe’s heart lurched, though she had known this moment must come eventually. “It seems you have only just arrived, Morgana.”
“I feel the tug of the Isle. I need to rejoin my sister priestesses, to shoulder my share of the work in the Temple.”
Reluctantly, Braithe made herself ask, “Are you going today?”
“I am,” Morgana said. “Master Hugh and Idhri are waiting for me in their new boat.”
“I wish you did not need to leave. I wish everything could be as it was for a little longer.”
“This parting will not get easier, my sweet friend.”
Braithe felt the quick swell of tears behind her eyes. That, at least, had not changed. She sniffled them back as best she could and took Morgana’s hand. “I will walk down to the dock with you. Carry your things.”
“I can carry my own things,” Morgana said, but with humor.
“And when you reach the Isle,” Braithe said, “you will have to do just that. For now, you can allow me to do it.”
“Very well. Everything is ready in my bedchamber.”