Chapter 41

CHAPTER 41

W HEN GWYDION RETURNED to Caer Dathyl, he did so through the main gates.

He rode a stolen horse, wore a cloak of moss and silver, and bore a healing cut along his forehead.

It had taken a week to return. A week of resting in an inn, of trying to recover what strength he had left. He had spent much of that time fevered and half dreaming, his fingers curled around the pouch of rings. When he awoke, he felt thinner and weaker—but he was able to travel.

He strode through the castell, ignoring all who called out to him. He did not waver or step aside for anyone. The main hall was brimming with people. Many who had come for the feast would linger in Caer Dathyl for weeks to come.

At his throne sat King Math, in conversation with a young woman. Arianrhod sat at one of the tables, the twins on either side of her. When she saw him, her brows drew tight with concern.

Amaethon stepped in front of Gwydion. “Where have you been, dear brother?”

Gwydion did not so much as hesitate. With a murmur, he called to the linen in Amaethon’s shirt. The cloth came alive at once, wrapping itself around the would-be king’s throat. It was far too satisfying—a cruel little bit of magic that Gwydion had never before turned against his brother.

It would cost him.

All his magic would cost him—but Gwydion had ceased to care about the price.

Amaethon fell, and in the same heartbeat, Arianrhod rose. Let that be a foretelling , Gwydion thought to himself.

Conversation died around him, falling into whispers and mutters.

“Get out,” said Gwydion. “All of you.”

No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was Amaethon struggling for breath.

“Get,” said Gwydion, enunciating each syllable, “out.”

He did not raise his voice. He did not have to. He had learned something of power in the last few weeks.

One by one, the nobles and servants slipped from the room. Among them was Arianrhod. She wore an expression of deep concern, and her arms were wrapped around the twins. At her expression, his resolve nearly broke. He had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted to hug her and the twins. To tell her all that had happened. He wanted the comfort of family.

He kept his shoulders straight. When she passed by, he said, “My queen.”

She looked at him sharply.

Finally, the last servant drained from the hall. The doors were closed behind them.

“Nephew,” said Math, with a glance toward Amaethon.

Amaethon was on his knees, choking and grasping at his own shirt. “Oh, right,” said Gwydion. With a hum, he released the hold on his magic.

Amaethon gasped for air and struggled to his feet. When he looked at Gwydion, his anger was mingled with fear.

“Fire cannot be called without breath,” said Gwydion. “Harm another innocent, burn another tree, and you will regret it.”

Amaethon took a step closer. He looked as though he would have liked to kill Gwydion, but Math spoke. “Leave us.”

Amaethon’s gaze darted from Gwydion to Math. Then he spat on the stone floor and strode from the hall.

Math sat in his throne, elbow resting idly against his knee. If he was impressed by Gwydion’s display of magic, he did not show it. “Where have you been?” he said. “You were missed at the festival.”

“I highly doubt that,” said Gwydion. “And you know where I was.”

Math’s eyes glittered. “I could never guess.”

“You told me to do it,” said Gwydion. “But you assumed I would fail or die. That was your mistake. You underestimated me.”

“Did I?” asked Math.

Gwydion reached into his cloak and withdrew a ring. It gleamed in the torchlight. “This is the signet ring of King Arawn. It gives the owner the right to rule Annwvyn for a year and a day.”

“And you’ve delivered it to me?” Math leaned forward, drawn like a plant to sunlight, but Gwydion closed his fingers over the ring.

“No,” said Gwydion. “I am giving it to Arianrhod.”

“Is that so?” Math said. There was a low edge to his voice, civility receding like a tide. “Then why did you come here?”

“To ask you to name Arianrhod as your heir,” said Gwydion. “Politely.”

Math smiled coldly. “Strangling your brother and making demands? This is polite?”

“Quite,” replied Gwydion. “You have no idea what I gave up to bring this to Gwynedd. The bodies I left in my wake. Far better men than you died so that I could make my sister the queen that our kingdom needs. So you will name Arianrhod your heir. Tonight. This very night.”

Math looked nonplussed. “Is there anything else?” he drawled.

“You have not divined in years,” said Gwydion. “But you shall do so now. There is a midwife with memory sickness. You will use your magic to help her.”

Math tilted his head, an indolent smile on his mouth. “And if I refuse?”

Before the Wild Hunt, Gwydion would have felt a flare of anger. But this Gwydion only felt detached. He gazed at this hall and saw every crack, every flaw—including the man who sat upon that throne.

That wooden throne.

A diviner should have known better.

That throne was old and dormant. But it had once belonged to an old yew tree, and even now Gwydion could hear its quiet song.

“I never realized why you did not heal my mother,” he said, almost casually. “You could have saved her from that illness, but you did not. I thought perhaps you did not wish to spend your magic in such a way. But it was because you feared her. D?n’s power was far greater than your own.”

Math’s lips peeled back in disgust. “Flowers? Trees? I fail to see why those things are so frightening.”

His throne creaked .

Math looked down in surprise. The throne began to sprout. Small tendrils of greenery arose, winding around Math’s arms and legs before he could draw a breath. The throne’s legs became roots, cracking the stone beneath them. Leaves unfurled from the back, and when the throne stopped moving, it looked like some terrible, deformed tree.

Math made a low, furious noise. He was pinned to the tree throne, his eyes wide with mingled fury and fear.

Gwydion took a step forward.

“Do you know how many plants grow in your castell?” He took another step. “In your city?” Another step. “In your kingdom?” He halted before the broken throne. “Far more than your soldiers or servants. And at my command, they will be my armies. They will be my servants. The roots of the land will answer only to me.” He put a finger beneath his uncle’s chin, forcing Math to meet his gaze. “As will you.”

Math’s eyes blazed with resentment. “Who are you to speak to your king like this?”

Gwydion laughed bitterly. “I am Gwydion, son of D?n, trickster of Gwynedd, slayer of Prince Pryderi of Dyfed, victor of the Wild Hunt, and the one who drove King Arawn from mortal lands.

“In a week, my name will be upon the lips of all those in Gwynedd. In a month, every kingdom will know me. In a year, all those who utter my name will do so in a whisper. And in a thousand years, when all enchantment has drained from this world and all is iron and mortal, children will ask where the magic went. And you know what they will say? It was no warrior, no prince, no king.” Gwydion flicked a signet ring into the air and caught it between two fingers. “It was a trickster.”