Page 86 of The Faerie Handmaid

Braithe appeared at that moment, a tray in her hands, and Lancelin said swiftly, softly, “We will talk of this later.”

Morgana was glad Lancelin could not hear her own thought just then. Do not take her from me!

Idhri slept late that morning, not waking until the sun was high above the lake. He stretched and yawned, wishing he could stay right here in bed, listening to the sounds of cows lowing and sheep bleating, and Emma humming to herself in the kitchen. It was the most peaceful he had felt since his memories returned. He plumped his pillow, thinking perhaps he would sleep more, but the scene of Skye casually ending Ainslie’s life unfolded again in his mind, and he sat bolt upright, his heart burning with renewed grief and horror. He wished he could remember his mother as she had been in her life, not in the heartrending moment of her death.

Suddenly, Idhri wanted to pour everything out to Emma. She was so good, and so kind. She would understand. She might even, warmhearted woman that she was, accept the truth about him, maybe even persuade Hugh to do the same. Whatever the outcome, this burden he bore would surely be lighter for the sharing of it. It would never be fully lifted, but it would not be his alone.

Emma had left a fresh tunic and a new pair of leggings—long and sleek, just what he needed—lying at the foot of his bed. Idhri hurried to wash and dress and twist his hair into its long braid. He paused a moment to look into the bit of mirror that hung over his washstand. He could see his faeness now that he knew what to look for. His eyes were not the yellow-flecked brown of Skye’s, but they did tilt up at the corners, just a little. His long jaw and thin blade of a nose were signs, as were the overlong fingers and toes he kept trying to hide.

On the other hand, his eyes were a steady brown. His hair was dark, but not the midnight black of the fae. And his heart, although no one would know it but himself, was completely, painfully human. That was a weakness. It made him vulnerable.

He emerged from his room and went in search of Emma. He was anxious, but one of the great gifts Emma had given him was trust. He counted on her to do and say the right thing, the loving thing. When he found her in the kitchen, and she turned with her customary welcoming smile, he folded her in his arms for a moment before persuading her to postpone making his breakfast, to sit at the table with him and listen.

It took a long time for him to explain what had happened, and all that he had remembered. It was the first time he had spoken aloud of his mother and her murder, and it was difficult. Braithe had taken the account straight from his mind, but now he had to search for adequate words to describe the cold horror of it, the thoughtless cruelty of her murderer. Emma sat with her hands to her mouth and tears in her eyes as he confessed he had almost killed Skye, but that the priestess intervened for the sake of his conscience.

He saved the hardest part for last, even as her sympathetic tears flowed down her plump cheeks. He leaned forward and took her hand in his. “Emma,” he said. “There’s something else I have to tell you. I wish I didn’t, but you need to know. Master Hugh needs to know.”

She lifted the hem of her apron to wipe her eyes. “This is already too much for a young lad to deal with, yah?” she said, sniffling.

“It’s not a good thing,” he said.

She smoothed her apron back down and gave him a damp smile. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think, lad.”

“It is, though,” he said. He released her hand and sat back, deliberately giving her space in case she reacted badly. “I learned in the White City how people—both the fae and the humans—feel about half-bloods. People who are half fae, half human. I had never heard the term before, but it turns out—” He had to swallow to moisten his suddenly dry throat. “It turns out that Skye, the man who murdered my mother, also fathered me. I look like him, I’m sorry to say, and he is fae. That makes me a half-blood.”

Emma’s tears dried, and her face, which had gone pale as she listened to Idhri’s story, flushed its usual pink. “Idhri!” she exclaimed. “I already knew that, silly boy! Of course I did! It’s in your face, in your body, in your eyes!”

His skin prickled with sudden gooseflesh. “You—you knew? Emma, you have never said a word—”

“Nay, nor will I! What difference could it make? You’re half fae. I’m half north country, and your master is from the south. I don’t know another soul from the south, but what does that matter?”

He felt tears of his own begin, tears of joy and gratitude. “Does Master Hugh know?”

“If he doesn’t, I will tell him. I know he doesn’t like the fae, but when he knows you’re half fae, his views will change. I don’t much care for ’em myself, but I expect there are some I would like. All kinds of folk in the world.” She put out her hand to grip his arm and give it an affectionate shake. “We are what we do, my boy, not who our parents were.”

Idhri, his own tears disappearing as if they had never been, pressed his hand over hers. He was almost wordless with relief, but he managed to say, “That sounds like one of Braithe’s stanzas.”

“Braithe! Now, there’s a girl I would like to meet. Tell me more about her.”

The part of his recitation he feared the most had gone by in what seemed a heartbeat’s time. Idhri was suddenly starving for breakfast and thirsty for a cup of the wonderful cider they made in the Camulod kitchens. As Emma rose and began preparing these things for him, he told her all about Braithe, the country girl turned priestess’s handmaid, the girl who had, little by little, acquired significant amounts of magic. “You will love her,” he declared.

Emma grinned over her shoulder. “Already do.”

28

I need to return to the Isle,” Morgana said to Braithe. They were strolling along the courtine after dinner, having left Lancelin sleeping. Loria had promised to come for them should he wake and need anything.

Braithe suppressed a rush of disappointment at leaving Camulod so soon. She said only, “Very well, Priestess. Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tomorrow. But, Braithe,” Morgana said as they paused to gaze to the south and the graceful silhouettes of the mountains against the violet evening sky. “I wish you would stay here to keep an eye on Lancelin. I expect no problems with his wound, but you will know what to do if there are any.”

“Oh!” Braithe said.

“Do you mind very much?”

Braithe tried not to sound too eager about staying on. “No, of course not,” she said, a little too quickly. She felt Morgana’s sharp glance, and she supposed she had failed to hide her enthusiasm. She tried to speak more calmly. “I am happy to watch over Sir Lancelin.”

“My worry is for the Blackbird,” Morgana said. “He is not well, I fear, although he will not say so.”