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“You have chosen not to reside at the temple, Morgan,” Merlin continued, her eyes flickering over me with unmistakable criticism. I lifted my chin stubbornly. For now, choosing where I lived was the one thing still within my control. “And so when you do come to us, you will have a great deal to learn. In many ways, you are less knowledgeable than the youngest of our acolytes.”
It stung to hear her say so, though I knew it was no more than the truth.
“One day, the responsibility for the fire of the Three will be yours. As well as oversight of all of the sacred duties and devotions we practice,” she continued.
“I hope you live for a very long time then,” I muttered, a little rebelliously, still holding my full tumbler.
I caught the hint of a smile on Merlin’s face.
“If the Three allow it, I will be grateful,” she said serenely. “But if they do not, you will do well in my stead.”
She studied me. This was the part I hated.
With a tsking sound, she stepped towards me and pushed down the hood of my cloak. “Such beautiful hair. Unusual in color, yes, but why hide it?”
“It’s a hideous color and I like to blend in,” I muttered.
“You are a princess of royal blood and the future high priestess of all of Pendrath,” Merlin marveled. “But you like to ‘blend in.’”
I gritted my teeth, thinking of the hunt in the forest the night before and of the starving people of my city. “Is it really so much better to think ourselves superior to the people we are supposed to be serving?”
Merlin looked amused. “Of course not. And if your true motive was simply kindheartedness then I would say it was admirable. I know you empathize with the people. I hope you never cease to do so. The temple serves the people, Morgan. But I know what you really mean when you say you wish to ‘blend in.’” Her gaze was penetrating. “You mean you long to become invisible in their eyes. Or perhaps to even disappear altogether.”
I stared back at her but said nothing. She had come all too close to the truth.
“Have you shown any indication of...?” Merlin’s voice was gentle, even hesitant.
I raised my head. “Magic? No. As I’ve told you countless times before. Nothing. My mother had none and neither do I. I don’t know why you insist on asking each time.” I heard the petulant tone of my voice and cringed. But her repeated questioning drove me mad.
“So strange,” she murmured, looking at me and shaking her head. “So very strange.”
This was what I dreaded most about our visits. Every time she was sure to ask and every time I would give the same answer. Each time I felt as if I were disappointing her in some way I didn’t understand. No, I had no magic. No special power. No skills. And neither, from what I could recall, had my mother before me.
The high priestess was by tradition supposed to carry magic within her. That was the contradictory crux of our complicated history with the fae.
Magic, human historians would claim, was always ours by right.
And yet, it was only when human bloodlines mingled with those of the ancient fae that magic entered our domain, our rites, our children.
Merlin was supposed to possess this magic. But I had always suspected whatever she had was very limited.
When I was a child, before Merlin, there was another high priestess. Aruna. She had demonstrated more skill, channeling power to illuminate the sky with thunder and lightning on feast days or to force rain down over farmer’s fields when there were droughts. Such things were impressive indeed. I had never seen Merlin come close to performing any similar feats.
Now, she turned from me, murmuring to herself and lifted the silver tumbler to her lips, tossing back the contents.
“Drink, Morgan,” she commanded without turning around.
I clenched my jaw but did as she asked. The eleusia poured down my throat like liquid fire, stronger than anything I had ever drunk in the Great Hall or even the tavern with Lancelet. I coughed as it burned and stung.
“Hush now,” Merlin murmured from where she stood near the silver bowl and flask. It was not a rebuke, just a gentle reminder. We were in the presence of the goddesses. At times like these, I wished I were a true believer like she and Galahad.
I smothered a sigh and watched her begin to chant.
As before, I had no idea of the words she was saying. They were a jumble in my ears.
I felt nothing special as she said them either. No closer to the goddesses. No special connection to the sacred.
No, I stood on the plane of the absolute mundane as I always had.
