Page 65 of The Faerie Handmaid

“You don’t want to see him? If you don’t want to see him, why are you here?”

Braithe sputtered, “I—no, I would like to see him, I just didn’t know—”

“Come. Come.” The old woman turned back to the pavilion and stepped up inside, leaning heavily on her staff. Braithe followed, mystified.

When they reached the glowing veil surrounding the bier, the Keeper raised her staff in one hand. She stood straighter, pulling her shoulders back, lifting her head as far as her gnarled neck would allow. When she spoke, her voice was deeper and stronger.

For a true heart, the way is clear

For a good heart, the door is open

Gaze upon the true king

Only if your heart is pure.

The glow around the bier faded slowly, even reluctantly. Braithe gazed at it, awestruck. When it disappeared completely, the Keeper gave a triumphant click of her tongue and poked Braithe with her staff. “Go! Go! It only stays open a short while.”

Braithe, in a daze, stepped up to the bier.

She had not realized, until she was on the same level as the coffin, that there was a pane of glass set into the bogwood lid, just beneath the carved crown. She caught her breath and found she was holding her clasped hands to her mouth.

“Hurry! Hurry!” the old woman called from behind her.

Braithe dropped her hands and placed them on the surface of the bier so she could lean over the little window. It was her turn to be reluctant, fearful of what she might see, of what might have become of Arthur’s body. Four years had passed since she and Morgana had relinquished him to the fae for safekeeping. She had closed her eyes without intending to. Now, with a determined breath, she opened them.

The glass was in the Roman style, thick, faintly green, with pockmarks left by the beach sand that composed it. Beneath the glass, Braithe could make out Arthur’s face, his fine nose and jaw, his high forehead, his fair hair spread across a small embroidered pillow. His eyes were closed, as they had been when she saw him last. He looked as if he were in a sound sleep, undisturbed by dreams, untroubled by any curious gaze.

If his subjects knew he was here, Braithe had no doubt, the stream of visitors would never cease. Even the Keeper could not drive them away. Worse, if the Romans found out, they would destroy the pavilion, the bier, the coffin itself, to prevent the Lloegyrians from worshipping their martyred king.

“Come down now!” the Keeper cried. “I can’t keep it open much longer.”

Braithe touched the glass with one finger and murmured, “I will tell no one of this, my lord. Farewell once more. May your rest bring you peace.” She turned away, though it wrenched her heart not to have more time to contemplate the face she had loved so well. She stepped down first from the bier and then from the pavilion itself. No sooner had her foot touched the ground than the glowing shield sprang up again, glistening in the morning sun. The Keeper drew a gasping breath, as if keeping it down had been an effort. Braithe turned to watch the veil envelop the coffin, locking Arthur away from her a second time.

The last time. This moment had been a final gift, but she would never seek it out again.

She turned to the Keeper. Two of the black goats had wandered up the hill. They were chewing something, wispy beards bobbing as their jaws worked. They took up places on either side of the Keeper and regarded Braithe without alarm. They were, Braithe thought, the most peaceful creatures she had ever encountered. They must make good company.

She said, “Thank you for letting me see the true king, grandmother. It was an honor. I wonder if you could help me with one more thing.”

Idhri woke to Priestess Morgana calling his name. He sat up, disoriented at first, then realizing the sun was up. The slant of pale yellow light through the unglazed kitchen window told him it was still early. He hurried to pull on his leggings and tunic and went out into the kitchen carrying his sandals in his hand.

He found the priestess and Councillor Emerlyn both seated at the table. The priestess said abruptly, “Oh, good, Idhri. You have dressed. We must leave now.”

Gwen appeared in the hallway beyond, her hair disordered, her eyes wide with confusion. “We’re leaving?”

Priestess Morgana’s tone softened as she turned to speak. “No, Gwenvere. Not you. You will rest here. There will be food soon. Just wait for us.”

“Don’t open the door,” Emerlyn ordered. “Once the servants have brought the trays, the door will be locked. Keep it that way.”

“I couldn’t—the cantrip—” Gwen faltered. She gave a weak shake of her head.

“Of course. I forgot. Well, in any case,” Emerlyn said, “Faolin doesn’t have it. You will be safe.”

A moment later, Idhri and Morgana and Emerlyn were on their way, leaving Gwen behind. She stood in the hallway watching them go, hugging her thin body as if she couldn’t get warm despite the rising heat of the day.

Idhri judged that midsummer had passed, but the warm weather would not ease for some weeks yet. He had missed the midsummer festival at Camulod, which was too bad. He had attended the past two years with Emma, and it had been great fun, with music and dancing and wonderful food from the castle kitchens.

He hoped Emma wasn’t too worried about him. At the same time he feared that when she learned he was a half-blood, she wouldn’t want him to come back. That would break his heart. She had been as kind to him as if he were her own. He tried to visualize a day when he would sit at the table in their cottage and regale them with stories of his time in fae country. As he hurried after Morgana and the councillor, he held the image in his mind. He wanted more than anything—well, except saving Braithe—to make it real.