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“And what did you tell him? Is it possible? Can it be made by someone other than you?”
“I told him if you came to me, I would carefully appraise you of the numerous steps and delicate measurements involved in its preparation and maybe, just maybe you could be trusted to prepare it yourself while traveling away from Camelot.”
“It’s that complicated then?” I bit my lip nervously wondering if I would wind up poisoning myself. Well, at least then I would be free of Florian.
But my uncle waved a hand. “No, not at all. I can throw the ingredients in a pouch and you can add boiling water. It is the proportion of ingredients and the ingredients themselves that are the key to the medicine’s potency and efficacy. No one else but I can put them together. But anyone can prepare the potion, making a drinkable liquid. I simply did not want Arthur assigning the task to anyone but you. For the very reason you now tell me has already occurred. Someone might meddle with it.”
“I see. That seems wise.”
“I suppose it would have been wiser if I had thought of proposing it long ago,” my uncle said drily. “Preferably before someone poisoned you.” He inspected me keenly. “You look none the worse for wear. Simply dirty and tired.”
“That sums it up very well,” I said, smiling. “I’m fine. Completely fine.”
He laughed. “You’re a Pendragon, so I highly doubt that. But they are all excellent liars, so I will accept it if you say you are.”
“What of the Starweavers? Are they masters of deception?” I asked curiously.
My uncle was a bastard. Born, as they say, on the wrong side of the sheets. So although he was my father Uther’s elder brother, he never had a chance of inheriting the throne. Fortunately, he never seemed to want it.
“My mother’s people?” My uncle shrugged. “She never bragged of it, but it’s not something most people would consider a worthy skill, is it?” Wryly I recognized a non-answer. “No, from her side came my penchant for knowledge, my skill with potion and herbs.”
“And some skill with magic?” A question I had always been too hesitant to ask before now. But surely such potions as Caspar Starweaver brewed could not be made without at least a trace of magic.
He shot me a canny look. “No magic. The ability to overpower magic, if anything.”
“What do you mean?”
He tapped a finger to his nose. “Think carefully, Morgan. The fae had powerful magic. Yet some history texts would have us believe that humans at times succeeded in overpowering them. How would we have done such a thing? Surely there must be ways.”
“I thought... prowess on the battlefield. Skill at arms.”
“Physically outmatch them? I suppose it must have happened from time to time, but no, overall the fae are more than a human’s match physically. But when it came to the craft ofmateria medica–ah, there we humans could excel. With our minds, our wit.”
“We outsmarted them,” I said slowly.
“They were–are–arguably the smartest beings in existence.” He grimaced. “Don’t tell your brother I admitted that. But yes, we did so. ”
“They were or they are?” I said sharply. “Are there still fae? Where did they go? Was my mother one or not? Will I never get a straight answer from you, uncle?”
The elderly apothecary frowned as if he disapproved of my lack of subtlety. “Your father brought your mother back with him after he had been away traveling. Few of us had any idea where he had been. The tale he spun of how they had met was only fit for children’s stories.”
“Tell it to me,” I pleaded.
His frown deepened. “You take this medicine to avoid all of that, Morgan. When you were just a small child and your hair began to change from a pretty reddish brown tothis–” He pointed with disgust to my gray hair. “Your father knew it was in your blood.”
What was in my blood? I longed to say, but knew it would be no use.
I could hardly remember a time when my hair had not been gray. I could hardly remember a time I had not drunk down the loathsome medicine and endured its painful consequences.
His gaze softened. “You think the gray hair is bad, Morgan. But things could be worse. Much worse. The traits being repressed by my potion could be much more extreme. Some of the fae had the features of beasts. Horns, tails, claws. They were not all the beautiful creatures we tell ourselves they were. They could be dark and malicious. Purely evil.”
I thought of the mosaics I had seen in the temple and swallowed hard. I imagined sprouting horns. Would a hood cover those or would they stick out like straight points into the air?
The “horned crone” I imagined them calling me. I supposed my uncle was right and things could get worse.
“Of course, if we had the powers of the fae, an illusion spell would cover all of that. What is often called a glamor. But such things are best left to books.” My uncle shuffled a set of bottles on the table in front of him. “You and your questions about the fae. Arthur and his questions about blood magic. What has come over you children this week?”
He suddenly seemed to remember the kettle and moved over to the hearth, his long purple robe trailing behind him. He made unhappy noises as he lifted the kettle off the hook with a long rod. “Bone dry. The pot will soon be ruined.”
