Page 2 of The Faerie Handmaid

“Why?”

“Because of the Black Mage.”

“The Blackbird! He is hardly representative—”

The queen interrupted her. “He has always meant to be the bridge between humans and fae. No blame falls to him that too many of our kind disregard his efforts.”

“There was a time, my lady, when our people were vibrant and energetic. I have always believed with good leadership—”

“Our culture is beyond saving. It has decayed into indolence and ennui. This is a clock that cannot be turned back. You should accept that.”

“I can’t.” Emerlyn took a step forward and stretched out her hand, a hand that shook with suppressed emotion. “Please, my lady…”

The queen spoke more gently. “You have no need to call me that, Emerlyn.”

“I must. I have respect for your position even if you no longer do.”

The queen dropped her gaze for a moment and drew a long, soft sigh. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am called to a higher duty than sitting in long, rancorous, pointless meetings with the Royal Council. The Blackbird will be here soon. I am going away with him.”

“The Blackbird!” Emerlyn exclaimed. “He bears responsibility for this?”

“No. The responsibility lies only on my shoulders.”

“But what’s going to happen?”

“You will learn that in time. We both will.”

“My lady…”

The queen raised her eyes. Her voice dropped to its lowest pitch. “It is done. Please see that Iris has a place to be, work if she wants it, respite if she does not. I will no longer be here.”

“But where will you be?”

“That, too, we will discover one day.” She lifted her head, listening. “Ah. The Blackbird has arrived.” She walked to the door and opened it.

“But, my lady,” Emerlyn protested. “What shall I tell the council?”

The queen turned her head to speak over her shoulder. “Why tell them anything?” she said bitterly. “They will not care. Goodbye, Emerlyn. Goodbye, Iris. Wish me well.”

She went through the door and closed it, leaving them staring helplessly after her.

BOOK ONE

BRAITHE OF THE TEMPLE

1

The sun sank at a leisurely pace beyond the far shore of Ilyn, setting the ring of mist around the island alight. Before she disappeared beneath the lake, the Lady had set the mist to protect the Isle of Apples. Its silvery folds shifted as if it were a living thing, often frightening anyone making their way through it for the first time. Braithe, handmaid of Priestess Morgana, paused on the beach below the herb garden to appreciate the fragile beauty of the cloud of fog and to breathe in the perfume of the summer evening. She should have been at dinner with the acolytes, chatting and laughing as they left the labors of the day behind, but she had no taste for company this night.

There had been a long line of supplicants in the Temple anteroom that day. The boats that had carried them here to the Isle had just departed to ferry them back across the lake. As always, Braithe’s heart still resonated with their needs and griefs. It was her nature to feel the emotions of others, particularly in their moments of stress. As she grew older and worked longer at Morgana’s side, that empathy had grown deeper, her intuition sharper, and both occasionally left pain in their wake.

The requests of the petitioners today had not been unusual, but Braithe still needed time to let the sensations they engendered in her breast subside.

The worst had been a woman whose son had been wounded by a Roman spear. After weeks, the wound had grown worse rather than better. She was the simplest of country women, and she had to describe it for them as best she could, since men were not allowed in the Temple. Braithe felt her mix of revulsion and fear and heartbreak, and knew the wound must be in terrible shape. She also knew Morgana would recommend a paste of yarrow and honey. When Morgana asked for it, Braithe had the jar ready in her hand, winning one of the priestess’s rare smiles.

The best of the day had been a young woman, very plain and thin, who begged for a love philter, saying she was caring for her younger sisters after their parents had died, but she needed a husband’s help on the farm. When asked if she had a man in mind, she admitted she did, but that he was so shy he could not bring himself to propose to her. Without parents to arrange the match, she had all but given up. It had been a joy to watch Morgana magick a little jar of potion for her, and to see the relief and hope on the girl’s face. Braithe gave her instructions with a light heart, confident Morgana’s magic would solve the problem.

There had been others, though fortunately not so dramatic: a salve for a persistent rash, a syrup for an infant’s cough. The one that took the most time and kept other petitioners waiting on the uncomfortable benches of the anteroom was a potion for a woman desperate to conceive lest her husband put her aside. It would be effective, Braithe had no doubt, but the creation of it left Morgana weary, with supplicants still waiting, and Braithe felt the priestess’s weariness added to her own.