Page 64 of The Faerie Handmaid

At the sound of the voice, the squirrel scurried away, tail flying, and disappeared into the woods. Braithe twisted around to see who had spoken.

A very old fae woman, the oldest Braithe had seen in fae country, was hobbling toward her. She leaned on a bogwood staff with one hand and held up the overlong skirts of her white robe with the other. As with the Blackbird’s robe, it seemed hers had outgrown her as she became more and more stooped. The thin strands of her hair hanging below her collarbone were white, but yellowed, like an old swatch of linen. The lines in her cheeks were deep and shadowed, and her chin sagged so much that it seemed to point toward her breast. She had come from the other side of the pavilion, Braithe assumed, although where she had been before that she had no idea. The woman repeated, in a thin, high voice, “Who are you?”

Braithe got to her feet. “I am called Braithe, grandmother,” she said.

“What?” The old woman peered at her. “What did you say?”

“I said, I am Braithe. I—”

“No, no, I heard that! The other thing.”

“Oh!” Braithe’s cheeks warmed. “Oh, I called you grandmother, but I didn’t mean—”

At that, the woman cackled. “Grandmother! Grandmother! That’s good, oh, that’s good. Me, grandmother!”

Braithe linked her hands before her, trying to be polite. Having slept rough, with no chance to brush her hair or clean her face, she was sure she looked disreputable. She said, enunciating carefully, “I suppose I should call you Dama?”

“Oh, no. Oh, no. Not anymore. Not anymore.” The woman came close enough to look into her face. She nodded several times and said, “Pretty girl,” as if that were explanation enough.

“Thank you. I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

The old woman made a vague gesture with her staff. “Oh, I’m always here. Always here.”

“But—I didn’t see you last night.”

The woman leaned close to Braithe, and Braithe saw that her eyes were clouded and dull. She doubted she could see very well. “I was sleeping,” the woman said. “In my bed.”

“And where is your bed, madam?”

“Madam, madam.” The woman wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips. “I like grandmother better. No one says that in fae country. Grandmother!”

“Very well,” Braithe said. “Grandmother. Where do you sleep, grandmother, if you’re here all the time?”

“Come on. Come on. I’ll show you.” The old woman set off around the pavilion, saying over her shoulder, “I’m the Keeper. Should have said.”

“The Keeper?” Braithe asked, following.

“I keep the sacred tomb. Protect it.”

Braithe couldn’t imagine this frail woman protecting anything. She was startled to see that a gentle slope fell away on the opposite side of the pavilion from where she had slept. At its foot sat a low-roofed little building, so small it could barely be called a house. It was built of unpainted wood, with one tiny unglazed window and a slender, crooked chimney rising from one corner.

She gazed at it, and then at the old woman. “Grandmother, do you live here all alone?”

“Alone? No. No.” The woman grinned at her, and Braithe saw with a pang that most of her upper teeth were missing. “I live with my goats.” She gestured again with the staff, and Braithe saw three black goats gathered in the open doorway, eyeing her with cheerful interest. As she watched, a fourth emerged from inside the little house. “They keep me company. I keep the tomb. King Arthur’s tomb.” She squinted at Braithe and said, suddenly solemn, “The true king, you know.”

Unexpected tears pricked at Braithe’s eyes, and she raised her clasped hands to her chin. She turned to the pavilion, where the bogwood coffin lay bathed in morning sunshine. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, the true king.”

“You know of him.”

“I do.”

“You came to see him, then.”

Braithe shot the old woman a startled glance. “What?”

“You came to see him. See him. Do you not want to see him, the true king?”

“I—I don’t understand.”