Page 28 of The Faerie Handmaid

Idhri’s breath caught in his chest, but Braithe—little Braithe, who barely reached his shoulder—held firm against their insults, and he did his best to emulate her. He squared his shoulders and stood as tall as he could. When Dama Vivyan rose and approached the dais, Idhri fisted his hands to keep them from shaking.

She pointed at him as she spoke. “It is because of this half-blood that Skye must be penalized, and I remind you all it is not Skye’s first offense.”

“Have you set the penalty?” someone called.

“Not yet. Skye promised to deal with the half-blood, and if he does…”

Braithe interrupted in the strongest voice Idhri had heard from her. “Idhri remains with us!” she exclaimed. “And when we have identified the culprits interfering with King Mordred, he returns to Lloegyr.”

Morgana murmured, “Very good, brat.”

Vivyan snapped, “We do not take orders from humans.”

Morgana snapped back. “Take them from me, then, Dama Vivyan. The fae have done enough damage in Lloegyr.” Her voice vibrated with anger. “It stops now.”

The tumult surged again as the delegates began shouting, first at Morgana, then at each other. Morgana gestured to Braithe, and the two of them stepped down from the dais. Braithe glanced back to make sure Idhri was following, and the three of them marched out of the chamber, leaving the delegates to their argument.

Morgana turned back to slam the double doors closed with unnecessary force. She led the way down the corridor, striding swiftly out into the hot afternoon. She stalked through the colorless streets with her neck stiff and her jaw set. No one spoke until they were safely inside the guesthouse, the door locked with the new cantrip.

Someone had left a tray of food and drink on the table. There were greens this time, with oil to dip them in, and the ubiquitous bowls of berries alongside a loaf of bread still warm from the ovens. Braithe and Morgana sank wearily into their seats, but Idhri stood behind his chair, his hands on the back of it. For once he had no interest in food. He cleared his throat, a small sound, but it made both Morgana and Braithe look up at him. He said, with only the slightest cracking of his unreliable voice, “Thank you, Braithe—” He gave her a slight bow, although he had never made such a gesture before. “And thank you, Priestess.”

“For what, Idhri?” Braithe asked gently.

“For protecting me. For treating me like—like I belong.”

“You do, of course,” Morgana said firmly.

Braithe added, “Indeed you do. You belong at Camulod with your adoptive family.”

“But if I’m truly a half-blood…”

Morgana put down the cup she had picked up and turned her yellow cat eyes to him. “I might have been one myself, Idhri,” she said. “For a time I thought so. But even if you are, you are only half fae. You must remember that. The other half is, without doubt, Lloegyrian.”

“I wish I could remember.”

Braithe said, “You remember Emma, and Master Hugh. That must be enough for now.” She pushed a little plate of bread toward him. “Sit. Eat. You’ll feel better.”

From somewhere inside Idhri’s heart, despite the misery of the day, a tiny bubble of happiness rose, inspired by her kindness. The tightness in his chest eased at last, and he gave in to the urge to tease Braithe, just a little. “You always say that.”

She laughed and admitted it was so. He blushed, embarrassed but pleased she had taken his joke in good part. He pulled out his chair and sat down. Suddenly, he was ravenous.

10

Morgana spent most of the afternoon in her bedchamber, creating a charm of protection for Idhri. Despite feeling the pressure of time passing, she couldn’t hurry the process. She had to be methodical, concentrating fully on each step, especially the final one. She forced herself to think of Idhri, and not Mordred, as she worked.

When it was finished and hung safely around Idhri’s neck, she returned to her bedroom. She took the cup of divining stones from her basket and cast them on the table. She bent over them for a long time, then scooped them up, shook the cup, and cast them again. She did it a third time, though the effort felt hollow, going through the motions of divination with no expectation of any result.

She had never felt as impotent as she did in the White City, and it shocked her. From the earliest days of her study on the Isle, her magic had been as accessible as plucking a sprig of thyme from its bed. She had scried when she was tiny, before she even knew what scrying was. Now the angry magic of this place had weakened her, as if she were ill, or as if she had never had a real gift in the first place.

She knew, of course, that the fae here were capable of wielding their magic with devastating power. She supposed, had she grown up here, she would be used to this different sort of magic, this heavy, dangerous force that had sent the changeling queen to Camulod.

She had not, however, been reared here. It had been the deliberate choice of the Lady, her mother, that she should grow up among humans, and so she had done. This helpless moment was the first time she had regretted her mother’s decision. With a disgusted click of her tongue, she gave up the struggle for the moment, pushing the cup and the stones to one side.

She left everything where it was on the table and went to pace the little house, feeling confined and frustrated. She longed for the herb garden on the Isle, for the sound of the lake, for the company of the woodland creatures who inspired her. She supposed she could visit one of the city parks, but aside from rigidly tended shrubs and precisely planted flower beds, there seemed to be nothing of nature in them. She had heard no birds, seen no butterflies or bees. She had not seen so much as a dog or a cat as they passed through the streets. It was as if, in creating the perfect city, everything natural had been eradicated.

Braithe had gone into Morgana’s bedchamber to rearrange the supplies and store them back in the basket. When she emerged Morgana was standing by one of the windows, shading her eyes against the lowering sun. “Are you all right, Priestess?”

Morgana turned to her sweet-faced handmaid. “I am well, Braithe. But this situation is more difficult than I anticipated, and I am not as strong as I thought I was. It is humbling.”