Page 4 of The Faerie Handmaid

She made a gesture with one hand, and he nodded. “My worry is for King Mordred.”

“Are things not well with him? The supplicants tell us he is liked well enough.” Most of what the inhabitants of the Temple knew about events beyond the Isle of Apples came by word of mouth from the petitioners.

The mage said, “He’s a kind lad, Priestess. People like that.”

“But kindness does not keep the Romans from our borders.” It was not a question. In the anteroom she heard many tales of Roman attacks and the Saxon raids that took advantage of weakened outlying farms or hamlets. All too often the festering wounds in need of her intervention had come at the point of a Saxon sword.

“No. It does not.” The Blackbird picked up his cup and drank deeply, sighing with enjoyment. “The Isle always has the best ale in Lloegyr.”

“That’s the acolytes’ doing. They practice their skills when brewing it.”

“I send them my thanks.” He set down the cup with a trembling hand, and a thrill of fear awoke in Morgana’s belly even before he said, “There is something wrong with King Mordred.”

“Is he ill?”

“No. It’s not physical, nor even in his mind, as far as I can tell. It seems—external.”

“External?”

“Yes. Whatever is wrong is outside him, beyond his control. Things he orders go awry. Requests he makes do not materialize. Sir Lancelin does his best in training the knights and their lackeys, and so do the horsemaster and the swordmasters, but somehow there is always a problem. A flaw, as if the order of things is confounded. It’s as if everyone is walking in a fog. They are confused. They forget. They make bad decisions.”

“And responsibility is laid at the king’s door?”

“Responsibility is always laid at the leader’s door, king or queen, child or adult.” He blew out a long breath that made his drooping mustache ripple. “When Sir Lancelin leads on his own—a war party, for example, answering one of the Roman incursions—things go better. He’s a fine leader, and the men respect him. But when the king is involved, as he must inevitably be, success is elusive.”

“Do you wish me to come to Camulod?” Morgana held herself very still as she waited for the answer. She did not want to go there, not with Lancelin present. They had said their goodbyes, and it was better for them both to leave things as they were. Still, the old warmth rose in her breast. She had worked hard to convince herself those feelings were in the past, faded and forgotten. She set her teeth to breathe the sensation away and tried not to think of how good it would feel to see him again.

Naturally, if the king had need of her in some way, she could not refuse. In honor of her half brother Arthur, if for no other reason, she would always serve the cause of the kingdom of Lloegyr. She would simply have to deal with the temptation of Sir Lancelin as she had once before. She had the unsettling feeling it would not be easier a second time.

The Blackbird’s canny gaze fixed on her, and she knew he understood. She had not broken her Temple vows, but meeting Sir Lancelin of Camulod had taught her how easy it would be to err in such a way.

“No,” he said gently. “I am not asking that of you. I have only come to beg you to help me discover what’s wrong.”

“You scried, I presume?”

He blew another long sigh that rattled alarmingly in his chest. “I have scried over and over again, and come up with nothing. I fear I don’t have the power anymore.”

“Perhaps if we work together?”

“That is my hope. That is what I came to request.”

She leaned forward to lay her hand on his arm. “This request will be an honor to fulfill.”

A light rap sounded on the door to the bedchamber. Morgana called, “Come in, Braithe,” making the Blackbird chuckle.

“You at least are at the height of your power,” he said. She had no need to answer, as Braithe came in with a plate of sliced early apples in her hands.

“Sir, it’s so good to have you here on the Isle,” Braithe said. “These apples are from our own orchard, the first of the year. Do try one.”

“My appetite is unpredictable these days, Braithe, but I will taste one to please you. It’s good to be here with you both, but the circumstance is not a happy one. I fear our war is not yet won.”

Idhri and his master had eaten their supper in the quarters reserved for boatmen. It wasn’t much of a room, with just a small table, two chairs, and four cots with pillows and blankets folded and ready, but it was every bit as comfortable as their cottage outside the walls of Camulod. The servingwoman, called Dafne, had told them the rules of their visit, but Idhri barely listened. His master’s rules were the ones he needed to observe. Master Hugh had told him they were bringing the Black Mage to the Isle of Apples, that they were not allowed to go into the Temple, being men, nor into the dormitory, where the acolytes lived. That they were not allowed to go anywhere, in fact, except to their quarters.

Idhri would have liked to wander around the grounds of the Temple, go down to the lake, perhaps explore the orchard and the woods, but he would never defy Master Hugh’s orders. After they finished their meal, they went together out to the privy set aside for them, where there would be no chance of encountering one of the acolytes. Idhri heard the girls’ voices chattering and laughing from the dormitory, and he quenched the wave of envy that threatened to swamp him. He had no need to envy anyone their friendships, after all. He had Master Hugh and his wife Emma. Hugh was strict, as a master should be. Emma, soft-spoken and indulgent, was kindness itself. Idhri knew he was fortunate in his apprenticeship.

As they walked back to their chamber, they caught sight of the tall priestess and the young woman who was apparently her attendant. Idhri was rather frightened of the priestess, with her silver hair and her yellow eyes that tipped up at the corners, like a cat’s. Her voice was deep for a woman, and she carried herself with the authority of a noblewoman, though she wore a simple black robe.

The young woman walking beside her was a different matter. She was petite and plump, with a long tangle of curling fair hair and deep dimples in her cheeks. He could see the dimples even when she wasn’t smiling. Her robe was plain and brown, tied at the waist with a sort of rope. When she had greeted him, he had been afraid to answer her. His voice embarrassed him of late, breaking from high to low and back again. He hoped she understood. She seemed like the sort who would.