Page 84 of The Faerie Handmaid

The familiarity of the bedroom warmed his heart. He had a new appreciation for the pretty curtains, sewn specially for him by Emma, and the sturdy furniture, all made by Hugh. It hadn’t been such a long time since he slept here, but it seemed as if he had been away forever. A lifetime. He supposed in a way he had lived a lifetime since seeing it—the lifetime he had been unable to remember—and he saw it now with new eyes.

When he last slept in this bed, he had been tormented by the fault in his mind that had hidden his memories away. Now, though he looked forward to the pleasure of lying on his own pillow, looking out at the stars as he was used to doing, he suffered a different sort of torment.

Braithe had said it would take time to adjust to the worst of his memories. She said, in her sweet way, “Now, Idhri, you will always grieve your mother. What happened was tragic. But you will also always think of her with love, and in time, your pain will ease.” He hoped she was right.

He lay down, doing his best to hold Braithe’s words in the forefront of his mind, rather than reliving his mother’s death for the hundredth time. It helped to know Emma was close by, that Hugh would be with them soon, that everything would be out in the open, for good or ill.

Emma would be glad his memory had returned. She would tut over his mother’s hard life and cruel death and do her best to ease his sorrow.

He wished he had no need to tell her he was a half-blood. He wondered if it was possible to keep such a secret.

27

Morning broke over Camulod with a hint of cooler breezes and the fragrance of ripening grain. Braithe loved being here, where everyone from the grandest lady to the humblest kitchen maid seemed to prefer smiling to scowling, laughing to complaining. She recalled how deeply Arthur had loved it, how devoted he had been to its people, and she mourned for him anew. Or perhaps it was more accurate to admit that she mourned for him still, and always.

Sir Lancelin had slept most of the night, with Braithe drowsing in the chair beside his bed. Neither of them stirred until the first dawn light fell through the open curtain, and the sweet air carried away the lingering scent of sickness. Lancelin turned his head on his pillow and said, still half asleep, “Priestess?”

“No, sir,” Braithe said, coming to stand beside him. “It is I, Braithe. The handmaid.”

“Oh, yes,” he said drowsily. “Sorry. Not awake yet.”

“You slept well.” She touched his forehead and found it cool and dry, a good sign. “I will just glance at the priestess’s handiwork, and then I will fetch her for you.”

He made no demur. She pulled back the quilt to examine his wound. Beneath the lingering sheen of the yarrow and goldenseal paste, the redness had already faded to a surly sort of pink. She said, “I will just put another layer of paste over this, if you will allow me.”

I would rather Morgana did it.

Without realizing he had not spoken aloud, Braithe answered, “If that is your wish, my lord, I will tell her.”

Not until Lancelin gave her a startled look, with a hiss of indrawn breath, did she realize what had happened. She took a quick backward step, dropping the quilt, pressing a hand to her lips. “Oh, sir, I am sorry! I am still half-asleep myself, and I—I did not mean to—”

Wincing, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. “Braithe, is that what they taught you in the White City? To hear the thoughts of others?”

“No, it was not—it’s hard to explain. I was not taught, but… I found I could do it while I was there, where there is so much magic it runs in the streets like water. I thought, when I left the White City, that it would probably stop.”

He tilted his head, his dark eyes shining with interest. “You can do it at will?”

“It seems so. But, sir, I did not listen to your thoughts intentionally!” She pushed at her hair, knowing her face had reddened and wishing she could stop it. “When we were dealing with the fae, it was useful.”

“I would say so.” He leaned back, bracing himself against the headboard. “Please don’t tell the priestess what I—what I thought.”

“I promise. Again, I am sorry.”

“No need,” he said. “But you have given me something to consider. Anyone in my position would find it advantageous to know what other people are thinking.”

“The gift may yet fade,” she said.

“When will you know?”

She could only spread her hands and shake her head. In a muddle of feelings, chagrin mixed with hope, embarrassment with excitement, she bowed and fled his bedchamber.

Morgana blinked her eyes open into the pale sunrise that meant autumn was not far off. Soon the first fragrance of woodsmoke would float across Camulod, and the reapers would gather in the fields to stock the haymows and fill the millers’ bins. On the Isle, the apples would be ready to be picked, the acolytes chattering and calling to each other as they climbed ladders with their baskets.

Morgana swung her bare feet to the floor and stretched her long arms overhead. Braithe had not come to wake her, and she hoped that meant Lancelin had spent an easy night. She stood, shrugged out of her nightdress, and went to the washbasin. She would go to him and let Braithe have her rest.

She dressed in her black robe and gave her hair a quick brush, twisting it into a long rope to hang over her shoulder. As she was stepping out into the corridor, she saw Braithe coming toward her. “Brat?” she said, suddenly concerned. “Is Sir Lancelin—”

“He slept well, and his wound looks good,” Braithe said. “He wants to see you.”