Page 62 of The Faerie Handmaid

She was beginning to wonder if she should find a place to lie down to wait for dawn when the path took a sharp and unexpected turn. In the dark, she nearly ran into a tree before she realized the change of direction. Only the gentle brush of the tree’s leaves on her face stopped her from colliding with its trunk, and she had the distinct impression it had reached out to warn her. She murmured, “Thank you, brother,” not feeling in the least foolish. It seemed the tree rustled its leaves in response, and on this strange night, that made perfect sense.

She had to grope about in the dark for a moment until she found the path again. She walked gingerly after that, her feet searching for the smoothest places to step, her hands out to detect obstacles. When the path finally, abruptly, broke out of the woods, she stopped in wonder. She had reached the source of the light, and she clasped her hands to her breast as she realized what it was and why it had called to her.

It was a pavilion, built here for some unknown purpose by the priests of old, now protecting a single precious occupant. Slabs of granite made up the floor. Menhirs, like those in the sanctuary of the Lady’s Temple, but smaller, held up the wooden roof. The pavilion glowed with the same faerie lights as those in the streets of the White City, but these were fixed, descending from the roof in graceful arcs to illuminate the bier in the center.

A faint glimmer of magic surrounded the bier, the protection Councillor Emerlyn had promised four years before. No ordinary person could pass through that veil of magic, for good or ill. Emerlyn, or someone, had seen to the construction of a simple but elegant coffin of bogwood, its top carved with flowers and vines, with a simple crown at its head.

Braithe reached the pavilion, stepped up the single stair, and sank to her knees, overcome by fatigue and gratitude and the tender grip of memory. Beyond the glowing veil, inside that beautiful coffin, lay the body of her one and only love. King Arthur Dragoun of Lloegyr.

She curled on her side, facing the bier, pillowing her head on her hands. She was hungry but too weary for that to keep her awake. She sensed Arthur’s spirit surround her, the protective, heroic, selfless energy that had made him so beloved of his people. Comforted, she sighed and fell into a sweet, easy sleep.

The sun was dropping swiftly into the west as Morgana, resisting the enervating fatigue that invariably followed shapeshifting, quickened her pace. She saw several council delegates wending their way home, which meant the day’s gathering had ended. She had tested seven walled houses without results. Fortunately, high summer meant long evenings. She would keep moving as long as there was light enough to see, but she knew whoever had taken Braithe would be returning home from the Royal Council Hall, and that would complicate things.

The red disk of the sun was balancing on the western horizon, just where the tree line met the sky, when she found the house at last.

“That is the one,” she said to Idhri. She hurried up a wide street that branched off from the boulevard. There were no other houses, only a large one perched at the top of a gentle slope. The gate in the wall around it was painted a very dark gray, nearly black, just as the vision from Braithe had shown. The roofline rose above the wall, and beneath it the setting sun flashed on two glazed windows. A third window appeared to be broken, with jagged shards of glass reflecting the light.

“How can you be sure this is it?” Idhri panted, trotting alongside her.

Morgana slowed her steps to let him catch his breath. It was not wise to tire him too much. She might need Idhri’s strength as well as her own. “Deep sight,” she said shortly. “It surprises me sometimes. In this case, I simply know.”

They reached the wall, and Morgana put her hand on it as she bent her head. She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, but she had not taken more than three breaths before she understood. She lifted her head to glare at the closed gate. “She was here,” she said bitterly. “But she is no longer.”

“Oh, no,” Idhri breathed. “How do we—what can we do?”

“We go in.” Morgana put her hand on one of the gate’s iron bars and shook it. It didn’t open. She tried the old cantrip from the guesthouse, and then the new one, but still nothing. She was scanning the wall, searching for some way to get past it, when screams sounded from within the house.

“That’s not Braithe!” Idhri cried.

“It is not.” Morgana turned aside, looking for a place she might climb the wall. She didn’t dare shapeshift again and find herself at the door of the house with nothing on. She was about to ask Idhri to boost her over when she realized he was already at the top, ready to drop down on the other side. “Idhri! How did you—”

“Long legs and rowing muscles.” Another scream, the sort that came from someone in pain, rang out from inside the house. “Shall I bang on the door?”

“Yes! Pound on it, and shout! I will try to find a way in.”

Idhri leaped nimbly to the ground and ran to the door, which was dark gray, like the gate. As Morgana watched through the bars, gripping them as if she could tear the thing open with her bare hands, Idhri lifted his fist, but it never fell.

The door opened, and a tall fae man strode out, muttering a cantrip as he went. Obediently, the gate swung open, too, allowing Morgana to stride in. The man jolted to a halt and stared at Idhri. “What are you doing here?”

Morgana, halfway up the walk, demanded, “Where is my handmaid?”

The fae whirled. When he saw Morgana, his tilted eyes narrowed to slits. Nearly spitting the words, he said, “You’re the priestess!”

“Where is Braithe?”

“What are you talking about?” The man’s brutish features attempted an expression of bewilderment, but it looked utterly false. He appeared to be too angry to dissemble.

“Where is she?” Morgana demanded again, her voice thundering off the garden wall and resounding through the open door of the house.

The screams from within had subsided into sobs, and a human woman, tears streaking her thin cheeks, appeared in the doorway. She wailed, “She ran away. She’s gone!”

Morgana stared at the woman, stunned for a moment into silence. When she breathed, “Gwenvere?” the fae man abruptly laughed. It was the ugliest sound she had ever heard.

Idhri blinked in confusion. How could it be that the priestess recognized the weeping woman? He had no doubt this was the man who had abducted Braithe, though he had not seen his face before, but the woman—who was Gwenvere? Why did the priestess know her?

Morgana had recovered herself. “What is your name, Sero?” she said. “I gather you are the one who sent a changeling to become the king’s bride. Councillor Emerlyn will be fascinated to learn that.”

The fae sneered at the priestess. His features were particularly suited to the disdainful expression. “You know nothing,” he snarled. “Nor does Emerlyn.”