Page 10 of The Faerie Handmaid

She made herself smile at him, as if this were any ordinary boat trip.

He managed a tremulous smile in return, then turned abruptly forward again to stare into the thick mist.

The fetish Priestess Morgana had attached to the forward hull of the boat hung just above the water line. It looked a bit like a purse, but Braithe knew it held no coins. The mage had fashioned it out of a fold of silk and filled it with the mysterious little objects he used to create his magic. She hadn’t seen him do it. Indeed, she had never seen him do that kind of work. She didn’t think even Morgana had been allowed to watch, despite their long association. Braithe had once worn one of the Blackbird’s charms, though, and she knew how powerful they could be.

This one would guide them to fae country. They had not been invited, nor would they be welcome. In the usual way, that would mean they couldn’t find the way there, but the Blackbird’s power was such that it overrode the glamour hiding the White City from ordinary humans.

Braithe startled when she felt Morgana’s hand on her shoulder. She turned. Morgana didn’t smile—she rarely did—but there was a look of understanding in her golden eyes. “We will face it together, brat,” she murmured.

Braithe found herself saying, in a steady voice, “Of course we will, Priestess.”

At that moment the boat broke out of the mist, and ahead of them, sooner than Braithe would have thought possible, the pale stone buildings of the White City rose into the slanting rays of the late-afternoon sun. Four fae women were coming down a pebbled path that led from the city’s edge to the gravel beach. The path was smooth and unnaturally even, as if it had been raked. The fae wore robes in varying shades of gray, and they wore their black hair loose. They were not young. Each one had streaks of gray in her hair. No one smiled.

Braithe felt one more tremor of anxiety in her breast, but she touched her charm and breathed it away. She and the priestess were in the Lady’s care now.

The boat bobbed neatly up to the dock, and Idhri climbed out, pulling the coil of rope with him. Braithe was on her feet before he had finished tying the knots. She stood as tall as she was able, her back straight, her chin up. If she wasn’t truly brave, she could act as if she were, no matter how her heart fluttered or her stomach churned. She would make the Blackbird proud.

She would make Arthur proud.

Morgana took her time rising from her seat, stepping out of the boat, overseeing the bags being unloaded by the boatman’s apprentice. She waited until everything was done, and Braithe and the boatmen were already on the shore, before she walked at a deliberate pace to the end of the dock, her hands in her wide sleeves, her expression purposely remote.

They were waiting for her, as she had intended. There was a delegation of four, just as there had been when she and Braithe brought Arthur’s body to the White City. They were tall and lean, very like herself, except her robe was black, and theirs were differing shades of gray. They did not plait their hair as she did, but let it hang long and unfettered.

As before, the oldest of the group stepped forward and spoke in a low, slightly rasping voice that seemed oddly familiar. Morgana thought her own might sound just like it one day. She recognized the councillor, the representative of the fae queen.

The councillor said, “You have returned.”

Morgana replied, “As you see.”

One of the other fae clicked her tongue and said sharply, “You should bow to the councillor!”

But the leader said smoothly, “No, Vivyan, a bow would not be appropriate. This is Morgana, one of the Nine Priestesses of the Isle of Apples, and her parentage—if what she claims is true—means her rank surpasses my own.”

“You still doubt me?” Morgana asked.

The councillor responded with a faint touch of humor. “I have seen no proof you are the Lady’s daughter.”

“It is not I but the Blackbird who says it. There is no authority greater in the world.”

The fae called Vivyan, a woman with a sharp chin and a long, slightly crooked nose, snapped, “Perhaps in the human world! Councillor Emerlyn is the authority in fae country, representing the queen herself.”

At the mention of the queen, Emerlyn’s lips twisted in an odd expression that distracted Morgana for a moment before she turned her attention back to Vivyan. She spoke in a level tone. “I assure you I have not challenged the councillor’s authority.”

Vivyan drew breath to say something further, but when Emerlyn put up a hand and gave a nearly imperceptible flick of her fingers, the other fae woman fell into a surly silence.

Emerlyn said, “Priestess Morgana. I believe that is the correct address?”

“It is, Councillor.”

“And your questioner here is Dama Vivyan, one of the delegates of the Royal Council.”

Morgana nodded acknowledgment. Emerlyn gestured to Braithe. “And this little one?”

“This is my handmaid, Braithe of the Temple. She assists me in everything I do.”

“And the half-blood?” Emerlyn nodded toward where the boy, Idhri, stood on the dock, awaiting instruction from his master.

Braithe drew a shocked breath. Master Hugh was busy checking the boat for things left behind and didn’t hear, but Idhri gaped at the councillor. His voice was high and tense when he asked, “What is that?”