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“I suppose I could say the same.”
She nodded. “There is much to discuss. Much to inform you of. Just as I am sure you will have much to tell us of your travels.” She looked around the table. “Morgan has been a guest of the fae, you see. Not the fae of Valtain, but of another land entirely. She has returned to us from across the Kastra Ocean. From Myntra.”
The table erupted.
“The fae!” That was Sir Ector. He did not sound particularly pleased. “Damn that guard. I knew him for a liar.”
“Myntra! How fascinating.” That was Tyre. He was looking at me with an academic tilt of his head that reminded me painfully of Rychel.
Where was she now? That clever, curious girl. How I hoped that wherever she was, she was safe.
“The fae of Myntra,” my uncle murmured. I looked at him long and hard then. But his face was inscrutable.
Was this it? Was this when I told them?
But what good would doing so serve?
So I kept my own counsel and said nothing.
“You look very different, Lady Morgan.”
The table subsided back into silence. The words had been spoken by Dame Halyna. She was looking at me curiously now.
“Yes, I suppose I do,” I acknowledged.
I stood up, stretching out my arms from beneath the sleeveless tunic I wore. “You mean this, I suppose.”
I let them take a good look at the golden tinge of my skin and the tapestry of symbols that gleamed like silver paint along my arms. I touched my hair.
“Or I suppose you might mean this.” My hair, which had been what one could only describe as an elderly shade of gray when I’d left Camelot, had metamorphosed into a pearly silver. Perhaps not a shade everyone would find pretty, but it had grown on me.
I hesitated. Did I tell them that I no longer believed I was Uther Pendragon’s trueborn daughter? Did I tell this room full of mortals that I was not half-fae but fully fae?
I bit my lip, and as I did, my uncle caught my eye. He rose to his feet, clearing his throat and swaying slightly.
“I believe I can explain Morgan’s transformation.” He met my eyes. “And a lovely one it is, may I say.”
“A killing compliment,” I said with deceptive gentleness. “One I would have been only too happy to receive before I left Camelot.”
His face fell, haggard and old. “I understand, my dear. Believe me, I do.”
To my surprise, Guinevere, seated beside him, touched his arm. “Perhaps sitting down would be easier,” she suggested. Her voice was soft and melodic, like the ringing of chimes.
My uncle nodded almost absent-mindedly and sat back down.
“What do you mean, Caspar?” Merlin’s voice was crisp and cool. “What do you have to do with any of this?”
My uncle sighed. “Perhaps some of you were already aware of the medicinal tonic that Morgan was prescribed as a young girl. From an early age, her father had me craft and concoct a potion that would discourage latent tendencies Uther had no wish to have displayed.”
“Her fae attributes. Yes, I recall the potion,” Sir Ector noted. Beside him, I saw Galahad nod. His eyes were thoughtful as he looked at me.
“For more than a decade, my niece drank this concoction. It subdued her fae features. When my nephew had Morgan leave on his questionable assignment, he instructed me to strengthen the tonic to a lethal level of toxicity that would render his sister weak, leading to illness, and eventually death.”
The room became very still.
“This I did,” my uncle said softly, “to my great shame, but also with hope in my heart.”
“Hope that I would die along the way, you mean. I’m sorry to have disappointed you.” To my mortification, I felt the prickings of tears. I lifted my chin so Javer wouldn’t see. As a girl, I had believed my uncle to be a fount of wisdom. I had trusted him. Now, looking at him across the table, I felt betrayed all over again. I had not made my peace with his great deception.
