Page 83 of The Faerie Handmaid

“Well enough,” he said, but without conviction.

“What is it?” She leaned forward to peer under the brim of his awful hat and look into his eyes. His eyelids drooped so much, she marveled he could see from beneath them. His hair and beard, as ragged and unkempt as ever, were now completely white, with no trace of the dark streaks they had once had. But it was the tremor that worried her. “I will make you a restorative potion.”

“You probably should.” He picked up his own spoon and dipped it with some difficulty into his bowl. “These past months have been challenging. King Mordred has struggled in the face of an invisible enemy, and both Sir Lancelin and I have been hard put to help him hold a steady course.”

“Terrible that Lancelin should suffer such an injury, even in the moment of triumph.”

“Lancelin fights like a madman, without care for his safety.”

“He told me once he was born for war,” Morgana said. She recalled the night he had said it as they sat together atop the courtine, enjoying the sweet night air. The memory made her stomach quiver, and she dropped her gaze, not wanting the mage to detect her reaction.

The Blackbird seemed not to notice. “Sir Lancelin is as fierce in battle as he is in his loyalty. It would be a great blow to the king to lose him.”

“His wound is a bad one, but Braithe and I will do everything in our power.”

“I know you will.”

“There will be a great scar.”

“He will care nothing for that.”

“He will not be able to fight for some time.”

“I believe we are safe at the moment,” the Blackbird said, and the undercurrent of fatigue in his voice alarmed her anew. He had shared these times of peril equally with King Mordred and Lancelin. It had been awful for all three, but the Blackbird was much older than either of the other two. She would never know how old, she supposed. He himself swore he couldn’t remember, and she had given up asking. Whatever the number of his years, he had seen enough of kingship and intrigue and war to fill several lifetimes.

When she had eaten enough, she picked up her cup and leaned back in her chair. “Now, sir, I will tell you all about our sojourn in the White City, and then you, like the king, must rest.”

“I will need more than rest, Morgana,” the Blackbird said, his rusty voice very low. It was faintly tinged with sadness, but she also heard acceptance in it, perhaps even relief. He looked up at her from beneath his hat brim. “Do you know, Priestess, I believe this was my last battle.”

Idhri declined the invitation to sup with Morgana and the Blackbird. He was happy to have soup and bread in the kitchen with the maids and the cooks, and then, if he was not needed, he meant to go in search of Emma and Hugh.

He liked being in the company of the staff, with a pot of soup on the table and a loaf on a board that was passed from hand to hand. They asked him questions about the White City, but no one looked at him strangely or acted as if he were anything other than one of them. Loria in particular fussed over him in maternal fashion and told him several anecdotes of Braithe’s time serving the queen. One of the cooks told him he was far too thin and brought him an extra carrot pudding when they had finished the soup.

After offering to help clean away the supper things and being refused, Idhri excused himself and climbed the stairs to the door that led outside, where he would be able to go through the keep to the farmer’s gate. That gatekeeper knew him well from his trips with Emma to bring produce to the castle. He teased Idhri a bit about growing so tall and needing a bit of feeding, and then he opened the gate for him. “Coming back tonight, yah?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Idhri admitted. “I just want to see Emma, and then—it could be I am needed here.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” the older man said easily. “You go and see your mam. She’ll be pleased to lay eyes on you again!”

Idhri thanked him and set out through the gardens, past the wide main gate and below the east tower, where the knights’ lackeys and the horsemen slept. He heard the familiar sounds of horses whickering through the deepening gloom and nightjars beginning to chuckle to each other. From the cottages outside the courtine came the homely sounds of families bedding down, children calling out, the occasional dog barking the alarm as Idhri passed.

Hugh and Emma’s cottage was near the lake, just where the clearing ended and the woods began. Emma’s garden was in full spate, vegetables and flowers brilliant even in the darkness. The two small unglazed windows at the front of the whitewashed cottage glowed yellow with candlelight beneath the thatched roof. He slowed for a few steps to appreciate the sight, but soon eagerness overtook him, and he ran to the door and knocked.

It flew open, and Emma stepped out to gather him in her generous embrace. “They said you was come!” she cried. “They said, but I couldn’t hardly believe it. I’ve been so worried.”

Idhri hugged her back so tightly she began to laugh. The dogs came running, jumping up against Idhri’s legs and demanding to be stroked. “You rascal,” Emma said. “I gave Hugh such a tongue lash for leaving you there in fae country. Anything might have happened! Those fae, you can’t trust them, can you? Did they hurt you at all? Come in, come in, sit yourself down. Are you hungry?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She never did. She chattered on, and Idhri, grinning so widely his face hurt, sat at the table while she brought him biscuits and cider, then sat down across from him. “Hugh is off with the boat,” she told him. “But he’ll be back tomorrow, or maybe the day after. You will stay, though? Your room is just as you left it, though I did give it a bit of a dust and freshened your pillow, just in case.”

Idhri’s appetite had been sated in the castle kitchen, but he couldn’t say no to Emma’s biscuits. He sat, hardly speaking a word, while she told him everything that had happened during his absence: the war party coming back victorious, Sir Lancelin with a terrible wound, how fearful everyone had been for the young king.

“But the priestesses are here now,” she said, sitting back in her chair with an air of finality. “Sir Lancelin will get well, and you’re home, and no more troubles.”

Idhri brushed biscuit crumbs from his tunic. He had told her nothing of his time in the White City. He certainly hadn’t recounted the recovery of his memories, or the shocking news about his father.

He supposed this was the time to spill everything, but he was reluctant, and he bargained with himself. He could get it over with now, blurt out everything, or he could wait until Hugh was home. Perhaps it would be better to tell them both together, and if the news upset Emma, Hugh would be here to calm her. He knew his master’s feeling about the fae. If Hugh decided having a half-blood in the house was not something he could countenance, then he could be the one to order Idhri out, and spare Emma the burden.

His weaker self won, and he said nothing. On Emma’s urging, once the biscuits were gone and the cider drunk, he hugged her again and retired to his room. One of the dogs stayed close at his heels, curling up on the rug beside the bed the moment they stepped inside.