Page 60 of The Faerie Handmaid

Fear tightened Idhri’s chest, freezing his lungs so he could hardly catch a breath. He wanted to be brave, to face down the fae man and protect the priestess. He felt anything but brave, but he would prefer a stabbing to another failure. Braithe’s abduction was bad enough without allowing Skye to harm Priestess Morgana.

He forced one good lungful of air into his chest and stepped in front of the priestess. He glared into Skye’s dead-looking eyes and braced himself, feet wide apart, trembling hands fisted and ready. He suspected he looked silly, childish even, but that didn’t matter. Skye might stab him, but he would fight. He would do as much damage as he could before the blade found him. He set his jaw and readied himself for the attack.

It didn’t come.

In its place he saw Skye’s eyes stretch wide and his face turn ashen. His knife clattered to the flagstones as if his hand had gone numb. Idhri’s every sense was heightened by fear, and the noise of the falling knife seemed as loud as a stone wall collapsing. Skye stumbled backward, reflexively gripping his bad shoulder with the opposite hand. His lips pulled back in a grimace that was not fury but panic. He was no longer looking at Idhri. He was staring past him.

Confused, Idhri whirled to look for Morgana.

She was no longer there. Her clothes were piled beside the fountain—black robe, white chemise, a pair of sandals—but where she had been standing was the biggest wolf Idhri had ever seen. Its head came to his waist. Its jaws dripped saliva as it growled, deep in its throat. Its lips pulled back to show teeth that were long, thick, and sharp. As Idhri stared, dry-mouthed, the wolf crouched, ready to spring. Not at Idhri. At Skye.

Skye choked a cry of terror, and Idhri spun back just in time to see the fae man sprinting away, heading for the shadows of the nearest building. Idhri fully expected the wolf to bound after him, or perhaps to turn on Idhri instead, but neither happened.

He felt the touch of a cold nose against his arm and gasped. It was the wolf, a glorious beast of yellow eyes and dark fur tipped with silver, now sitting on its haunches. Its red tongue lolled as it grinned up at Idhri. Its ears cocked forward in a jaunty way, like a huge, friendly dog.

It was too much. Idhri’s legs gave way, and he found himself on his knees on the flagstones, felled by a rush of shock and relief. He kept his eyes on the wolf, but his fear drained away as it gazed peacefully back at him, its magnificent head cocked to one side.

When the transformation began, Idhri’s head swam with disbelief as he tried to comprehend what was happening. It was a good thing he was already on the ground, because he would surely have collapsed as he watched the unthinkable unfold.

The wolf disappeared, bit by bit. First the paws became hands and feet, followed swiftly by the head, with Morgana’s long silver hair, and then the body, narrow shoulders broadening into her white ones, muscular torso resolving into her long, slender form.

Her naked form. Her skin was smooth and perfect, her flanks and thighs lean and muscled. Her breasts were high and small, like a girl’s. Idhri gasped with embarrassment, and he forced himself to his feet so he could collect her robe and shift. He averted his eyes as he held them out to her. She chuckled, deep in her throat, a sound that would forever remind him of the wolf’s growl as it—as she—frightened Skye away.

He turned aside to let Morgana dress herself, and it was then that he spotted the knife lying on the flagstones.

He bent to pick it up and turned back to the priestess when he thought he had allowed enough time for her to cover herself. He held out the knife on his palm. It was surprisingly heavy, and longer than he had thought, with a grip carved of bogwood. Only a faerie, he thought, could have possessed such a thing.

Priestess Morgana was fitting her feet into her sandals and adjusting her sigil on its thong around her neck. “Do you want to keep it?” she asked, with a nod toward the knife.

“Only to take to Master Hugh,” Idhri said. “I don’t like it. It has a cruel history.”

“You sense that.”

“The grip tells a terrible tale. I can feel it.” He met her eyes. “Priestess. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. Shapeshifting? Is that real? I feel as if I must have imagined it, but the wolf—and Skye—”

“Shapeshifting is real, as you have seen. It is also dangerous, and I wish we would not have to tell Braithe I did it. She will be angry with me. I have broken my promise about shapeshifting, but I saw no other way.”

“Why does she not want you to do it? It seems—” He made a gesture with his free hand. “Surely there is nothing more stunning in the world.” His fear had been replaced by a monumental sense of wonder that such a thing could actually have happened, and that he had been a witness to it. He knew he was babbling now, but he couldn’t help it. “The magic it must take—I mean, Priestess, that beautiful wolf—”

“It takes a great deal of magic, Idhri.” She shook out the drape of her robe. “To my surprise, it was a little easier here in the White City, with so much magic in the air. Other forms of magic have been harder. In any case, Braithe objects because it wearies me so, sometimes to the point of illness.”

“And now—are you too tired to go on?”

“No, we have to find her. I know you agree.” She bent to the fountain for a long drink, then straightened and started off down the boulevard.

Idhri tucked Skye’s knife into the pocket of his leggings, careful to turn the point away from his skin, and followed. As he hurried after Priestess Morgana, he thought he would need rest, too. The succession of marvels was exhausting.

It didn’t help that he could feel the black curtain in his mind beginning to draw back again. He needed to focus on it, to open himself to what the curtain was hiding. He hoped it wouldn’t fall back into place before he had the chance.

Braithe stood outside Faolin’s workroom for a long time, thinking. The light through the window had changed, slanting to the east as the sun sank toward its westerly home. Braithe’s tension rose as the light diminished. She thought of the many times she had demonstrated her magic, such as it was. Her moments of intuition, which had never failed her; her scrying, at least when she had Morgana’s lead to follow; her occasional dreams, which Morgana assured her always meant something; a time when an unseen hand powered the boat she was trying to row; and, of late, hearing thoughts.

Gwen hovered behind her, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her brow creased with worry. “What if it kills you?” she fretted. “He would blame me!”

“It wouldn’t be your fault, Gwen.”

“That would make no difference to him.”

“I have no intention of dying,” Braithe said, “so try to calm yourself.”