Page 16 of The Faerie Handmaid

“Another servant?” Vivyan said sourly. “There are already more of them than there are of us, and not enough for them to do.”

Morgana said bluntly, “You enslave half-bloods?”

Braithe stifled a gasp.

The idea of slavery was something Arthur had resisted with all his might. One reason he had fought so hard to keep the Romans from invading was because they enslaved people. Too often they abducted girls, and sometimes boys, before a war party from Camulod could intervene, and as far as Braithe knew, those children were never seen again. Arthur—her Arthur, as she thought of him, her much beloved king—had grieved over every one.

Emerlyn said, “I would not use that word.”

“If the half-bloods you call servants are not free to leave fae country,” Morgana said, “then it is the correct word. A euphemism does nothing to alter the fact.”

“The Royal Council debates this endlessly,” Emerlyn said, speaking on a weary sigh. “Everyone has their opinion.”

“Skye is an example of why we need the Rule, and why we need to enforce it. Who knows how many half-bloods are walking around outside of fae country?”

“What difference does it make?” Morgana asked.

“Difference? It makes a huge difference. They’re half-bloods. They’re not fae, they’re not humans—they’re degenerates! It’s shameful,” Vivyan pronounced, with the air of having said the same thing countless times.

Braithe was about to denounce this speech when she heard a moan behind her and turned to see Idhri, his eyes made nearly black by the sudden swelling of his pupils. His face had gone pale, and he said, his voice in its highest register, “Am I to be a slave, Braithe?”

She had no idea how to answer.

5

Before she left them for the night, Emerlyn offered Morgana the cantrip to start the fire laid ready in the kitchen. Morgana said coolly, “I thank you, Councillor, but I have no need of that,” and snapped her fingers. The fire sprang up immediately, as if it had been waiting for her command.

Emerlyn’s gray eyebrows lifted, but she made no comment. Morgana folded her arms, content for the moment with having shown the older woman her power. She felt in her bones that more demonstrations would be necessary. It was unfortunate Dama Vivyan had not witnessed this simple one. She clearly had no idea of what Morgana could do.

Emerlyn said, “I propose that you call on me in the morning, at the Royal Council Hall. You will need to explain to the delegates why you’re here and what you ask of us.”

“Very well,” Morgana said. “And now, we have noticed there is no food in this house, nor really anything to prepare a meal.”

“There’s a kettle,” Braithe put in. “And we can pump water. There’s not much else.”

Morgana said, “So, Councillor, will you feed us tonight, or do we beg in the streets?”

Emerlyn unbent enough to emit a snort of laughter. “Your meal is on its way, Priestess. I see no benefit in starving you.”

“Where is it coming from?” Braithe asked.

Emerlyn gave her a narrow smile. “Our food is prepared in our central kitchen, then delivered to us. I believe it’s all rather like your Temple, or the castle of Camulod. We find it efficient.”

Braithe blinked. “But those places are small compared to the White City. Is it possible no one cooks in their homes?”

Emerlyn’s head tilted with interest. “That is a practical question, Braithe. Some do, of course, if they do not have the—uh—the privilege of sharing with the rest of the citizens.”

Braithe persisted, and Morgana had to hide a smile. It was like her handmaid to want to understand everything. “It’s a punishment, then? To have to manage your own food?”

“It is a sacrifice for wrongdoing.”

Braithe scowled, and Emerlyn gave a small chuckle. “I am sorry if you don’t approve.”

Morgana couldn’t help the amused curl of her own lips, despite the seriousness of the situation. She hoped the councillor would not be her enemy in whatever this event turned out to be.

There was something about Emerlyn that reminded her of herself. It was the sense of isolation around her, the air of resignation, the impression of having borne the mantle of responsibility for too long. For how many years had Emerlyn held her post? To judge by her manner, the graying of her hair, and the lines graven in her face, it must be very many.

And where was the queen Emerlyn represented? Her name had not been mentioned.