Page 102 of The Faerie Handmaid

“Welcome to the Isle of Apples, Councillor Emerlyn,” Priestess Niamh said. She inclined her head to the fae visitor. “And to the Lady’s Temple.” Her hands were tucked into her wide sleeves, and her sigil was prominent against her black robe. Her gray hair was caught back with a simple piece of twine, and her sandals were workworn and plain. It seemed to Braithe the elder priestess had deliberately chosen to appear as humble as she could.

Emerlyn, elegant in a silver-gray robe, with her graying hair streaming down her back, hesitated. She glanced at Morgana and Braithe, and Braithe saw her nostrils flare as if she expected to detect some curious scent. After waiting a moment too long for real courtesy, she inclined her head in return.

Braithe felt the tension as if it were a thundercloud looming overhead, threatening a downpour. Morgana felt it, too, but Braithe understood that her reasons were different. She tried not to listen to Morgana’s thoughts, but the priestess’s desire to keep her faeness to herself was impossible not to sense.

Councillor Emerlyn was a different matter. Braithe had no compunction about listening to her thoughts. The councillor was curious but also conflicted about showing respect to the elder priestess. Emerlyn had spent her lifetime thinking of humans as somehow less than fae, and in her position as Royal Councillor, it felt unnatural to her to bow to Priestess Niamh as if they were equals.

Still, Braithe felt Emerlyn’s suspicion that the elder priestess might actually be her equal, with magic of her own and commensurate abilities. The idea shook the councillor’s convictions. Braithe heard her think, I am too old to change. Morgana should not ask it of me.

But Morgana, her granddaughter, was asking it of her. She could not escape the challenge.

Priestess Niamh was not young, either, but she was a practical sort. She preferred the demands of plants to those of the women and girls she had to lead, but now that Councillor Emerlyn was here, she was clearly prepared to meet whatever issues arose. “Please come to the priestesses’ residence, Councillor. We will have a cup of cider, or ale if you prefer, and discuss the farewell ceremony.”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Emerlyn said stiffly. Niamh gestured toward the path, and Emerlyn stepped forward so the two of them could go up through the garden side by side.

Morgana and Braithe exchanged a glance as they followed. Emerlyn’s servants, the same half-bloods they had met in the White City, came after, carrying a beautiful bogwood coffin between them. Its lid was carved with flowers of many kinds, contriving somehow to make them look as if they were alive, as if you could pluck a flower from the design. Braithe wondered if it was old or if one of the fae had deigned to carve a new one.

It seemed a shame to let such a beautiful creation sink beneath the surface of Ilyn, but Morgana had been clear about her intent. The Blackbird would join the Lady beneath the lake, and together they would rest from their labors. It was undoubtedly a greater comfort to Morgana than the funeral pyre.

Braithe wished she didn’t have to return to Camulod quite so soon. Morgana’s grief was disguised by busyness: preparing the ceremony, managing the interaction between Emerlyn and Niamh, staving off the curiosity of the acolytes and priestesses. Soon, though, all of this would pass, and Morgana would be left alone. She had never been close to anyone in the Temple except for Braithe, and of course the Blackbird. It would be a hard time for her.

Braithe resolved to ask Priestess Niamh to suggest Morgana visit Camulod for a time. She hoped the castle was not so full of memories that it would intensify Morgana’s sorrow.

Ignoring the wind

Does not ease its blowing.

34

Councillor Emerlyn stood beside one of the stone pillars in the Temple to observe the Black Mage’s farewell ritual. Morgana was uncomfortably aware of her presence and of her judgment. The gathering in the residence, with Emerlyn and Niamh sitting opposite each other in the dining room, had not been convivial. Emerlyn spoke little. She took in everything—the residence, the dining room, even the refreshments laid out by Dafne—with an icy dark gaze. Had Morgana not felt responsible for bringing Emerlyn to the Isle, watching her elder priestess bristle with resentment at the unspoken criticism might have made her chuckle. The two were as different as chalk and cheese, and it was a relief when the brief discussion of the coming ceremony concluded and they could excuse themselves.

It startled Morgana, once the ceremony had started, to realize how much she cared about Emerlyn’s reaction to the Temple, to the chanting of the acolytes, to the collected power of the Nine in their high-backed chairs, to the muted swirl of magic in the air, so different from the rushing torrents of it in the White City.

Morgana preferred the gentle strength of the magic on the Isle. Most of it was her own, of course, and Emerlyn was probably aware of that. But there were others with magic, Olfreth with her talent for patterns, Niamh, who scried quite well, and who worked what might very well be called magic with the garden and the orchard. Other priestesses had their own talents with salves and potions, even charms. Morgana had learned to appreciate and depend upon them all, and she had absolute faith that not one of them would use their magic to hurt anyone. Emerlyn could not say the same for the denizens of her city.

Braithe stood at Morgana’s shoulder as she led the simple ceremony. The carved lid of the coffin was closed now, but Morgana was painfully aware of the Blackbird sleeping the long sleep within it. At moments when her grief brought twinges to her heart, she felt Braithe’s light hand on her back, which greatly eased her misery.

The acolyte mistress led her charges in a dozen or so stanzas. The choices seemed random to Morgana, but the high-pitched chanting of the acolytes was sweet and clear and charming. The stanza she liked best was the last, and she had no need to ask Braithe to interpret it for her.

The ship that slips beyond the horizon

Is still in the world.

As the procession followed the coffin out of the Temple and down the slope toward the lake, Morgana found Emerlyn at her elbow. She didn’t speak, but Morgana was pleased she had joined her. The gesture felt like one of approval. Emerlyn’s servants loaded the coffin onto the boat they had arrived in, and Morgana and Emerlyn climbed in after them. Braithe stood on the shore with the acolytes, and the Nine made a dark semicircle behind them, watching and waiting in silence.

The boat pierced the circle of mist, and the oarsmen watched Morgana for a sign they had reached the place she wanted. She held her sigil in her hand, and when the boat was completely swallowed by the fog, birdsong and animal noises muffled and far away, she nodded. “Here,” she said. Her voice was also nearly lost, dampened by the mist.

Emerlyn’s servants lowered the coffin into the water with barely a splash. It sank slowly and steadily, the bottom dipping down into the water, then the sides, until finally the elegantly carved lid submerged, fading bit by bit beneath the surface. No rising bubbles marked the coffin’s passing. There was only the slightest disturbance of the water, faint, transparent ripples that fanned out and dissipated into the lake.

Morgana murmured, “Farewell, dearest sir.” No one heard her except the Blackbird.

Braithe watched from the garden bench as Morgana and Emerlyn said their farewell.

They stood facing each other, not touching, but looking into one another’s eyes. Morgana kept her hands tucked in her sleeves. Emerlyn’s were folded together in front of her lean waist. Her loose hair glinted with streaks of silver in the afternoon sun. Morgana’s, which Braithe had insisted on braiding, was a silver crown upon her head, with three artful strands trailing over her shoulder.

When the oarsmen and the servants were ready, Emerlyn spoke to Morgana one more time, then made her way stiffly down the dock to the boat. Morgana stayed where she was, her hand lifted, as the boat carried her grandmother away. When it disappeared into the mist, she dropped her hand and turned to climb up the slope to Braithe.

“What did she say?” Braithe asked.