Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

G WYDION, SON OF D?N, moved through the forest like a wraith.

He went barefoot, every step softened by the moss that rose up to meet him. These lands may have belonged to his uncle, but the woods answered only to Gwydion. He knelt amid the grasses, brushing his bare fingers against the roots of an oak. “Talk to me, friend,” he murmured.

When the morning sunlight touched their leaves, the trees sang . The song rose and fell, a murmur of appreciation and comfort—unheard by all but him.

The wind rustled through the browning leaves, and there was an answering groan. It might simply have been the creak of wood, shifting as sunlight warmed tree bark. But Gwydion could hear something flitting beneath the trees, rushing in a desperate attempt to escape.

Gwydion rose. He did not run; he did not even quicken his pace. He simply walked barefoot through the wood, and when he pushed the ferns aside, he saw the creature.

The fox was small, with fear-wild eyes and heaving breaths.

“Hello there, little one,” said Gwydion softly. He kept his voice low, the way he did when his nephews woke from nightmares. “You look as though you’ve had better mornings.”

The fox trembled. It was a beautiful creature, with sleek fur and dark eyes. It looked at Gwydion, unsure of which way to run. There came the distant bay of a hound. The fox flinched, its ears low against its head.

Gwydion heaved a sigh. Of course the hounds would catch the scent now .

“My brother would enjoy having your pelt as a trophy,” Gwydion said. “But he ruined my morning, so I’m inclined to return the favor.” He rose to his feet and hummed softly. The roots of the tree parted, becoming a narrow corridor. The fox looked at the new path, unconvinced.

A howl rang out. The fox’s ears flattened in panic, and it bolted.

Gwydion followed. He had never been good with long distances; too much exertion left him winded and exhausted for hours. But he was a swift sprinter.

And in a forest, no one could catch him.

He divined a path through the oaks and alders, over tangled vetch and through late harvest wildflowers. The morning air was sweet in his chest—sun-burnished grasses, the tartness of blackberries, and a last whisper of autumn. As he ran, Gwydion guided the fox. He opened paths through the growth, keeping the creature going in the right direction.

From behind came the thud of hooves, the cries of hunters, and the barking of hounds. The sounds spurred Gwydion on. His brother had been the one to drag him from the castell. It’s not as though you’re doing anything useful , Amaethon had laughed as he pulled Gwydion from a desk full of coded correspondences and scattered notes.

The fox darted through Gwydion’s path, tired but determined. Perhaps it was the creature’s will to live that made him sympathize with it.

He hummed again, and the forest shifted, opening another path. This one led into a thicket of briars so tangled that the gardeners must have given up. Gwydion murmured, and the briars opened—just the slightest bit. The fox hesitated, looking into the depths. Once the fox vanished into those briars, nothing would catch it.

“Go on,” said Gwydion.

The fox glanced at him, its eyes wide. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Gwydion thought he saw gratitude in the creature’s gaze. It flitted into the thicket. Gwydion waited a heartbeat, then he closed the path behind the fox.

He had chosen briars for a reason. He reached to pluck several tufts of fur from the thorns. He turned them over in his fingers and darted in the other direction. He let a few strands fall as he sprinted around a thick oak. The bay of the hunting hounds echoed all around him.

With a whisper, Gwydion called to the tree. The old oak dozed in the morning sunlight, its golden and brown leaves fluttering in the breeze. At Gwydion’s call, the oak slowly lowered one of its branches. There was an unhurried grace to the gesture; this tree had seen centuries—kings and princes, hunts and fights. A lone diviner that smelled of fox and walked barefoot was of little consequence to the oak.

Gwydion took hold of the proffered branch and heaved himself upward. He took care to put weight on his left hand; his right hand bore the old wood-and-leather brace that kept his index and middle fingers from bending too far. Once he was secure, the oak shifted again, lifting him the way an adult might heft a child to their shoulder. Soon, the oak would be sleeping for the winter; now, it would be shelter for yet another hunted creature.

When the tree went still, Gwydion was shrouded by leaves and morning mist. He waited.

He did not have to wait long.

Three horses cantered along a well-worn path. Their hounds hastened after them, barking and nipping at one another as they chased the scent of prey. One of the hounds, a long-eared creature with a sagging face, sniffed diligently around the roots of the old oak. The other hounds seemed to catch on, and then all of them were circling the tree and barking—at first in eagerness, then in confusion. These creatures had been bred to hunt and give chase, but they could not find their prey.

The hunters drew their horses to a halt. The first, a golden-haired noble with freckles along his pale cheekbones, gazed at the tree. “Has the fox taken refuge among the roots? An old den, perhaps?”

“I don’t see one.” The second noble had dark skin and hair bound into intricate braids. She frowned. “Did the hounds pick up a second trail?”

The last hunter slid from his horse. Amaethon, son of D?n, had burnished red-gold hair, fair skin, and all the warmth of a hawk watching for mice. Only he knew to look upward. “Brother,” he said the word like a curse.

Gwydion grinned down at him. “I wondered when you would arrive.”

“I should have known you would take the place of the fox,” said Amaethon. “Rather fitting, considering your temperament. And I admit, skinning you does have a certain appeal.” There came a low chuckle from the other hunters.

“But would I end up a rug before your hearthfire, or would you wear me like a cloak?” asked Gwydion, raising his brows. “I could live with the former. A little rest, a little warmth.”

This brought forth a louder bout of laughter. A victory in Gwydion’s favor.

“Come down, Gwydion,” said Amaethon, voice like simmering coals.

Gwydion did not go down. The last time he’d come down when Amaethon sounded like that, Gwydion had been nine and Amaethon sixteen. Gwydion had hidden in a hay loft, having stolen his older brother’s clothing after finding him and a girl rolling around in the stables. Gwydion still bore a scar in the shape of a man’s hand on his upper arm where Amaethon had gripped him.

“I rather enjoy the view from here,” said Gwydion lightly.

Amaethon snapped his fingers—and it was as though he had used firesteel. Flame bloomed in his hand.

The other two hunters fell into a quiet hush, their expressions torn between apprehension and wonder. Magic had that effect.

“Come down, brother,” said Amaethon. “Or I’ll do away with your hiding place.”

It was not a bluff. When Amaethon’s divining manifested itself, the king’s commander had taken the young boy to apprentice. Amaethon had been trained with steel and maps, battles and blood. And when his skill with flame proved to be deadly, the royal blacksmith crafted him a sword that could be stained with pitch and set alight. It wasn’t a practical sword, but the fear it instilled was a weapon all its own.

At the sight of the fire, unease flared in Gwydion’s stomach. He could feel the oak tree, the strength and the life beneath his fingertips. This had been a jest, a simple trick, and the tree should not burn for it. All around them, the song of the forest went silent.

Amaethon reached out, ready to set the oak alight—

And then his arm was jerked back, as though by some invisible force, cracking the back of his hand into his nose. There was a sickening crunch, and Amaethon dropped to his knees, both hands flying to his face. The fire dropped from his fingers and caught in a few fallen leaves. Amaethon looked more startled than pained, his gaze darting around him. But there was no one close enough to hurt him.

“What did you—” he began to say, fury in every word. But before he could react, a fourth figure stepped from the trees.

She wore a dress of copper—not dyed threads but copper . The metal flowed down her neck and shoulders like snake scales. A scar was etched through her right brow and her dark hair was threaded with silver.

“Hello, brother,” she said, stepping on the fire. The flames guttered beneath her heel.

Amaethon glowered at her. He pulled his hand from his bleeding nose, glaring at his rings as though they had committed a deep betrayal. As fire answered to Amaethon, metal answered to his sister.

“Arianrhod,” Amaethon gritted out from behind his broken nose.

“Younger brothers,” she said, with a sidelong look at the visiting nobles. “They never stop squabbling, do they?”

That brought forth the loudest laugh, but Gwydion heard an undercurrent of relief beneath the mirth. They were glad to return to the thrust and parry of a verbal spar, rather than the threat of a wildfire.

“Come along,” said Arianrhod. “My uncle sent word that his baker has spun together some new delight, and he wishes to share it with you.” She inclined her head toward Amaethon. “You, as well.”

“Of course,” Amaethon said, recovering his temper. His moods burned away as swiftly as his divined flame, and he looked as amiable as any young man on a fox hunt. He led the hunters away, their voices and the hounds’ barking fading into the quiet sounds of the forest.

Arianrhod crossed her arms. The copper scales of her dress glittered in the morning sunlight. “Come down, Gwydion.”

This time, he did.

“Before you say a word,” said Gwydion, his bare feet softly hitting the earth, “I would like to remind you that I just gave you the best gift you will receive this autumn.”

Arianrhod’s mouth was set in a disapproving line. “Did you?”

Gwydion grinned. “No one else at the festival next week will have the joy of breaking Amaethon’s nose.”

Her frown fractured into a begrudging smile, one that she hid behind her hand. She had a smith’s hands—flecked with burn scars and calluses.

“Admit it,” said Gwydion. “You’ve wanted to do that for years.”

“He’ll snore worse than ever now,” said Arianrhod.

“When he finally gets his wish to invade Dyfed, they’ll hear him coming.”

Arianrhod made a sound that was half exhale, half laugh. “I’m sure he’ll tell everyone that it was broken in a valiant battle with an afanc. And not that his older sister made him punch himself.”

“You could use the rumor to your advantage,” said Gwydion. “Story has a power all its own. A few whispers, and all will know you as the powerful diviner that drove the would-be prince to his knees.”

He was only half joking. While Amaethon was practicing with swords and spears, Gwydion had been learning how to listen at keyholes and spread rumors. Magic aside, his voice had always been his best weapon.

The kingdom of Gwynedd had no spymaster—and it did not need one.

It had a trickster instead.

“The rumors,” said Arianrhod with a prim little grimace, “already say that I am a wicked diviner who lives in a magicked fortress and plots King Math’s demise. And that my twins were born on the floor of the great hall. I’ve had enough of your stories.” She sighed, tilting her head back. “Did you truly have to taunt Amaethon? What if I hadn’t come along? All you had to do was sit on a horse and watch him chase a fox. And now, I’ll have to explain to Uncle why I felt it necessary to maim his heir.”

“He’s not the heir,” said Gwydion at once.

Arianrhod gave him a tolerant look. “Not yet.” She blew out a breath. “Why did you sabotage the hunt?”

Gwydion shrugged. “The fox was sentenced to death for the crime of being defenseless. I thought it rather unfair.”

It was a light answer but with a ring of truth. What Gwydion did not say, would never say, was that when he saw that fox, he’d felt a prickle of empathy. He knew what it meant to be easy prey.

If Gwydion had been born to any other family, he would have been beloved. With his divining, he could have charmed crops, sung fields to life, whispered harvests into glorious yield.

But the family of D?n was a family of magic.

Arianrhod and her twin brother, Gofannon, had power over metal. Amaethon had his fire. Only Gilfaethwy had been born without magic, and he had been exiled to a distant friary after his… indiscretions.

The other children of D?n carved themselves a place in the kingdom of Gwynedd: Arianrhod created elaborate works of armor; Gofannon commanded boats and worked with shipwrights; Amaethon was groomed for war.

When one’s siblings divined metal and fire, being able to grow a fern was not a feat to boast of. But Gwydion knew that power was more than magic or weapons. Power was simply another word for advantage . If he could not best his enemies in battle, he would do so from the shadows. His voice and sleight of hand were his weapons.

And if everyone overlooked him, they would never see him coming.