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The question surprised me. “She was the queen of Pendrath. Until she wasn’t.”
He raised his eyebrows, clearly expecting more.
“Aren’t you going to get some rest?” I asked grouchily. I pushed a strand of hair from my eyes, still fascinated by the way it glimmered silver in the firelight, then sighed. “Fine. With every year that passes, I realize I don’t actually know. I don’t know much about my mother or about who she was at all.”
I looked at him over the flames. His skin was pale and clammy but at least he was no longer sitting so hunched over. A thick black wave of hair tumbled over one of his eyes, hitting just below one of his razor-sharp cheekbones.
“What do you mean?”
I struggled for words. “I mean it’s as if her life only began from the time she arrived in Camelot with my father. I was five years old when she died. She was fae, but I don’t even know what that means or how it was even possible. Where did she come from? Where did my father find her? Was she really full fae?” Or part–like the lute player I had seen yesterday. “I wish she had told me more about who she was before she died.”
“She probably wasn’t expecting to die so soon,” Draven said quietly. “And to leave you so soon.”
“She died because she was...” I broke off. I had nearly said she died because she was fae. But now I wondered if that was even true. Had my father killed her because he was simply drunk? Because he was angry at her for being fae? Or just because he wanted another woman? “She was fae and she died so easily.”
Draven frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
I studied the fire. “I was there. When she died.”
Suddenly, I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell someone what I had never dared to say before. “My father killed her. He had been drinking. He hit her, over and over again. Then he hit her so hard that her head hit the stone wall. And she died.”
I met his eyes across the fire, feeling unexpectedly furious. “She just... died.”
“And you expected her not to?” His green eyes met mine, piercing and intense as always, but also gentle. “Why?”
“If she was fae,” I burst out. “Then shouldn’t she have been able to stop him? To use... I don’t know, some sort of magic? Some kind of power? Shouldn’t she have at least been able to protect herself from a simple, frail, mortal man?”
“Maybe she couldn’t.” Draven hesitated. “Did she know you were there? Watching?”
Reluctantly I nodded. “I was underneath the bed.”
“Well, then. Perhaps she didn’t wish to retaliate. To hurt your father in front of you.”
“So it was better for me to see him hurt her?” I demanded, feeling suddenly unreasonably angry at everything and everyone, Draven included.
“Or perhaps she possessed no such powers, Morgan. Perhaps as you say, she was merely part-fae.” His eyes darted to the markings on my arms. He seemed about to say more, but shook his head.
“What?”
He met my eyes steadily. “What if she was like you? Suppressing who she was?”
I stared. “What? That’s not possible.” But I thought of the medicine. My uncle had claimed my mother had taken it. Why? To hide features she didn’t want anyone else to see? I touched my hair again, abruptly filled with unease. I thought of telling Draven that my mother had taken the medicine, then wondered if he would look at me differently if he knew. If he thought there was something terrible enough for two generations of my family to try to keep hidden. Would he want me to start drinking the potion again?
Draven quirked a dark brow. “No? Yet look at you. Taking that so-called medicine because you were a child and were told to do so. Or perhaps because you wished to please someone.”
I thought of my father, but stayed silent.
“Perhaps your mother wished to please her husband. Maybe she hoped doing so would bring peace to your family.”
“But it didn’t,” I said numbly.
Draven lifted a hand and pointed to my arms. “Could those markings be from her?”
I looked down at myself, staring at the runes.
“Someone made those, Morgan.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “They didn’t just grow on you. Someone placed them there.”
I stared at him stupidly. “Who? Why?”
