Page 3 of The Faerie Handmaid

Now, at the closing of this long day, Braithe felt oddly restless, despite her fatigue. Something had been nagging at her for hours, and it had drawn her here, to the shore of the lake.

The gentle push and pull of Ilyn’s waves usually soothed her. She always savored the faint smell of fish and the chatter of night birds waking to the long summer twilight. On this evening, though, calm eluded her. She felt an insistent tug just beneath her breastbone, and it wouldn’t let her rest. She paced the short beach, peering out into the mist, then up at the cool stars flickering to life. A dove cooed, then another. A nightjar gave its chuckling cry, and from the woods beyond the garden, a fox barked. Braithe hugged herself, wondering what was wrong.

It had been four years since the death of King Arthur and the beginning of the reign of the boy king, Mordred. Sometimes, to Braithe, it seemed like yesterday that she and Priestess Morgana had borne Arthur’s body to fae country for safekeeping. Other times, she felt as if it had all taken place in the distant past, in another life, when she had been a different person. Younger. More tender. Softer.

She was no longer so soft. She had seen too much, and it had toughened her in the way a lighthearted lamb grows into a wary ewe.

She didn’t know if she would need to be tough in this moment. She stood at the water’s edge, her sandaled toes lapped by Ilyn’s gentle tongue as she gazed out over the lake. The answer was there, somewhere past the mist’s glowing folds. Something was coming. Someone was coming, she suddenly realized, and in that moment, the tug beneath her breastbone became a fist of alarm.

By the time the boat appeared out of the fog, its prow carving smoothly through the darkening water, Braithe was not surprised. With her deepening intuition, she had sensed his presence before she saw him. But why this wave of anxiety? She had no reason to fear the old mage.

She hurried along the beach to the dock, and as soon as the boatman climbed out to tie up to the ancient bollard, Braithe reached down to give the Blackbird her hand. “Sir. It has been far too long since you’ve come to us.”

He peered at her from beneath his hat, which was so battered she marveled that its threads still held together. “Braithe,” he croaked. “Well met.”

As she helped him step up onto the dock, she saw there was a third person in the boat. The Blackbird pointed to him. “This is Idhri, boatman’s apprentice,” he said. “Idhri, Braithe of the Lady’s Temple.”

Braithe lifted her hand to the newcomer. “Welcome to the Isle.”

Idhri was lanky, with the thinness of adolescence. He had black hair that he wore in a thick braid falling over one shoulder. He raised a hand in greeting but ducked his head without speaking.

Braithe felt his discomfort. Whether it was simple shyness or awe at being on the shore of the Isle of Apples, she couldn’t guess. He wore a tunic far too big for him and leggings that were too short. He moved with a slight clumsiness, as if he had not yet grown into his body. He reminded her of a foal she had seen once in the keep at Camulod, its thin legs too long for its torso, its eyes wide with wonder at the world. She had wanted to stroke it, but it had shied away from her hand and hidden behind its big-bellied mother.

Braithe offered the Blackbird her arm to lean on as they made a slow progress along the dock and onto the beach. No one on the Isle knew just how old the mage was. Braithe suspected he didn’t, either. She was glad of her own strength and sure steps as she supported him up the slope and through the garden. The boatman trailed after them, with young Idhri just behind, his arms full of traveling bags.

All of them matched their steps to the Blackbird’s as they skirted the sanctuary of the Temple, where the massive pillars and flagstone floor were shadowed by the gathering dusk. They passed on to the low-roofed building that was the residence of the Nine Priestesses. A chamber was always kept ready there for the Blackbird.

They were almost at the residence door when Priestess Morgana appeared. Starlight gleamed on her thick silver braid, and though her face was drawn with fatigue after the long day, her golden eyes shone with pleasure at seeing her mentor once again.

She came forward, her arm outstretched, and the Blackbird reached up to take her long-fingered hand with his own spotted one. Braithe released him into Morgana’s care and stood back to watch them greet each other. They didn’t embrace, but they looked into each other’s eyes in the direct way made possible only by long association.

Braithe and Morgana could gaze at each other the same way. Their association was not nearly as long, but they had fought a great battle together to protect Lloegyr and the Temple, and an unbreakable bond had formed between them. Braithe knew Morgana’s secrets. Morgana knew hers. They were hardly equals, Morgana a priestess of the Temple, and Braithe merely a country girl from a northern croft, but Braithe felt neither resentment nor envy. Watching Priestess Morgana assist the Blackbird up the step and into the residence, she felt only pride. Morgana, tall and lean and prodigiously gifted, was the most worthy of mistresses. Braithe was pleased and proud to be her handmaid.

When the door of the residence closed behind Morgana and the Blackbird, Braithe looked back to ensure the boatman and his apprentice were being taken care of. Dafne, always prepared, was leading them to the quarters beyond the dormitory that were reserved for the occasional boatman who stayed the night on the Isle. Such men were forbidden to interact with the acolytes or to enter the Temple, of course. Braithe trusted Dafne to recite the rules to them, and she called her thanks.

Dafne smiled, something Braithe had not yet gotten used to. It was a restrained one, still needing practice, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Happy to help,” Dafne responded. Braithe was not accustomed to hearing Dafne’s voice, either, which had been silenced for so long. It was low, and a little rough from lack of practice, but it was good to hear her use it.

Braithe started toward the back of the residence, where she had her own small chamber near Morgana’s. She would go along to the kitchen for a solitary supper. She could chat with the Blackbird later. It would be a pleasant way to pass the evening, and perhaps it would ease the disquiet she had been suffering all day.

“I dare to hope,” Morgana said, “that your visit is a social one.” She poured a bit more ale into the Blackbird’s cup and pushed it closer to his hand. He was having his delayed evening meal, soup and bread and a few greens.

The Blackbird tilted his head and gazed at her from beneath his thick gray eyebrows. He had aged greatly in the past four years, Morgana thought. Truthfully, it hadn’t seemed he could age much more and still fulfill his commitment to the boy king, but apparently he was managing. In any case, despite his years, his black eyes glowed with hard-won wisdom. He said, “Not like you to practice self-deception, Priestess. I believe you are aware I do not make social calls.”

She sighed. It had been an exceedingly long day in the anteroom. It was rare, these days, that supplicants were content to see another priestess. It was always the fabled Morgana they wanted, and that meant her workload never eased. She leaned back in her chair and forced herself to relax her hands in her lap and to bestow a fond gaze upon her mentor. “Yes, sir. I am aware. Things can change, though, can they not?”

He combed crumbs from his long beard with his fingers. His beard had gone white and was in dire need of trimming. “Things can indeed change,” he said. “That has not.”

“Do you require more soup? Perhaps some cheese?”

“No, I thank you.”

“Very well. Perhaps you can enlighten me, then. Not that I am not always glad to see you.”

He shook the last crumb from his beard. “I have come to ask for your help.”

“I could have guessed.”

“You probably did.”