Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

G WYDION NEVER ENTERED Caer Dathyl through the main gates.

The northern kingdom of Gwynedd had a wild beauty: a rugged coastline, roughly hewn mountains, forests dripping with moss and lichen, and waterfalls that cascaded down sheer drops. It was a kingdom of bardsong and enchantment, of whispers and legend. And Caer Dathyl was the beating heart of the kingdom.

The city was crafted of human ingenuity and diviner magic. There were markets brimming with everything from oysters to spun wool; bards entertained passersby for a coin or two; and guards in finely crafted armor watched the crowds with benevolent fondness.

But when Gwydion looked at the crowd, he saw the beggars in the shadows, the children with bare feet and ragged hems, and the way one guard’s purse was heavy with a recent bribe.

Those who visited the city would likely never notice. They would only see the grandeur and the wealth. They saw a fortress and a throne that would never fall. They did not see the rot that crept through the foundations, the petty cruelties, the dangers, and the inequality of it all. Gwydion saw all of that—but he also saw the potential of the city. Caer Dathyl was far from perfect, but in the right hands it could have been more .

Gwydion slipped into the city unseen. He had long ago drawn up his own maps of the secret places that one might come and go without being noticed by the city guard. This time, he used a well-worn tree to lift him up and over the high walls.

He walked down the street in a rough-spun cloak, his gaze roaming over the shop fronts. One did not let their guard down in the outskirts of Caer Dathyl, where lives and loyalty were cheaply bought. He ducked into one of the familiar eating houses. The smell of hot griddle stones and cider had sunk into the walls. Candles burned merrily at small tables—which were truly just barrels with some wood nailed into them. A boisterous group of soldiers were eating a midday meal; a drunken old man with a southern accent was mumbling that he was a champion of the Wild Hunt and someone should buy him another drink; two lovers from opposing noble houses were tucked away in a corner, their hoods raised and hands clasped.

Gwydion headed for a table near the back. A young woman sat there. She had short black hair and clothing that would make no sound when she walked. Two empty tankards sat before her, and she was on her third. “You’re late,” she said.

Gwydion slid onto the stool beside her. “I was unavoidably detained, Eilwen.”

Eilwen cast him a sidelong look. With her keen eyes and instinct for survival, Eilwen was a remarkable thief. They had met when she’d tried to pickpocket him… only to find her hand trapped by a vine in his pocket.

Gwydion kept two gardens—the first was of herbs, poisons, and a few rare flowers. He had carved out a place on the castell grounds to grow his plants. He loved that garden for its quiet and its peace; he could spend a few hours with earth beneath his nails and fresh greenery all around.

The second garden consisted of a different kind of plant: thieves, gamblers, beggars, and a handful of children. Gwydion had grown this garden of eyes and intelligence for years. Some he paid in coin and others in food, while a few requested healing herbs. He knew each and every one of them, knew what they desired most dearly, and he used that. From them, he harvested secrets. He knew which guards took bribes, which nobles visited brothels, which gambling houses drugged their patrons to steal coin from their pockets, who tried to avoid taxes, and so much more. He memorized it all, refusing to put such power to paper. He knew too easily how such things could be stolen.

Eilwen reached for a plate of oggies and pushed one toward Gwydion. “Eat something. You look pale.”

“Every time I need a compliment, I should come here,” said Gwydion.

“You want flattery, try the brothel down the road,” she replied. “You come to me for stolen truths.”

He acknowledged that with a nod. Then he picked up an oggie, because he was hungry. Eilwen nodded in approval. They were not friends, but they were allies, and he had come to trust her. If only because he knew her secrets.

Gwydion took a careful bite of the pastry. He had to suck in a few breaths so the hot filling did not scald his mouth—chicken and leeks—but at least the food quieted his unruly stomach.

“What news have you gathered?” he asked.

Some of Gwydion’s plants required threats or blackmail—but Eilwen’s needs were simple. She had two younger brothers and a sister, and she wished to keep them out of the mines. Stealing had been Eilwen’s way to keep them fed until Gwydion had discovered her. Now those same siblings were being trained as servants. It would be a safer life for them… and when they did work for noble houses, they would report all they saw to Gwydion.

Eilwen was bound to Gwydion as tightly as a person could be: His gold kept her family fed and housed, and the unspoken threat of arrest was never far from reach. Eilwen was a thief and a spy, and she would betray him if a better patron came along.

But even so, Gwydion liked her.

“Amaethon returned before you did,” Eilwen said, wrapping her fingers around a tankard. “There was an incident in the courtyard.”

Gwydion grimaced. He should have realized that Amaethon would find another outlet for his temper. “What happened?”

Eilwen shrugged. “He set a small fire.”

“Not the horses,” said Gwydion, alarmed. Even Amaethon would not go so far.

“No,” agreed Eilwen. “There was an ambassador who said Amaethon was looking ragged after his hunt.”

Gwydion waited for the rest of the tale. And then the horrible implication struck him. “He set an ambassador on fire ?”

“Oh, of course not,” said Eilwen. A moment of quiet. “He set the ambassador’s daughter on fire.”

Gwydion covered his eyes with his left hand. “Fallen kings. Is she all right?”

“She’s fine,” said Eilwen. “Her gown was burned right off her back without scorching a hair on her head. The fire was intended to frighten and shame. I’m no expert in magic. But it reminded me of when my siblings would put a snail down my shirt when they were frustrated about something else.” She gave Gwydion a keen-eyed look. “Brothers, right?”

Gwydion did not agree nor disagree. He came here to buy information, not to give it away. “Anything else?”

“You remember that shipment of black powder that went missing?”

“Of course.” Gwydion tasted his own drink. The cider was terrible, but at least there was no trace of poison. “I thought you knew nothing about that.”

Eilwen’s mouth went tight in irritation. “We didn’t pull that job. Wish we had—would’ve made a tidy profit. No, some other crew did, and they’re planning on dropping small jars of the powder in some of the bonfires of Nos Calan Gaeaf. Not enough to blow anything up,” she added, seeing Gwydion’s alarm. “But when those fires are lit, there’ll be enough fizzle and flare to distract some fat-pursed lordlings.”

“And then someone takes their valuables in the chaos,” said Gwydion.

Eilwen tapped her nose, winking at him. “The princeling understands.”

“I’m not a prince,” he murmured.

Princes inherited thrones. Princes ruled lands. Gwydion was the youngest nephew of a king. He was neither heir nor spare—not with three older brothers and a sister. He was an afterthought, at best.

“You want us to stop them?” asked Eilwen. “Or leave the powder, then rob the crew afterward?”

Gwydion considered. “Find the jars, have the powder delivered to one of my safe houses. I’m sure I’ll find a use for it.”

Eilwen gave him a little salute with her oggie. “All right.”

“My thanks.” Gwydion set down his cup and half-eaten food and made to rise.

“One last thing,” said Eilwen, and he went still. This was her way—to leave the most important bit of knowledge to the last moment.

“Yes?” said Gwydion.

Eilwen let out a breath. “Your nephews have snuck out of the castell again.”

Gwydion left the eating house through a side door. Pulling his hood over his brow, he hastened down the street. He navigated the city with easy practice, darting between shops and homes. He knew where every fern had roots, where ivy could be used as a ladder, and where moss found a home in rotted wood.

There was a beggar at the intersection of two streets. He was one of Eilwen’s watchers, observing the flow of travelers through the city.

Gwydion tossed two coins into his bowl. “Two boys,” he said quietly. “Eight years of age. Which way did they go?”

The beggar jerked his head northward. “Heard ’em talking about some game, mayhap ten minutes ago.”

A sickening chill went through Gwydion. His right hand clenched, and pain flashed through his cold-stiffened knuckles.

Without bothering to thank the man, he hastened up the street. It led to a row of houses owned by visiting nobles. They would come in the summertime to pay their respects to the throne, boast of new heirs, and buy fine things before returning to their cantrefs.

Two men stood near one of the empty houses. They wore the garb of gardeners and servants, but something in the way they held themselves made Gwydion’s footsteps slow. Their skin was too soft, their hair lush and fingers unmarred by calluses. Spies, then.

Which meant two things: First, he was in the right place. And second, he had no time to lose.

Gwydion heard the twins before he saw them. There was a whisper of familiar voices, then a hushing sound. The noises came not from the houses but from below .

A sewer grate had been pried free of the street. The underground passages were wide enough to traverse with ease. Thieves, spies, and those that wished to go unseen found them useful. Unease flared in Gwydion’s stomach. He would have preferred the twins had climbed a tree. He had never been fond of dark, small spaces.

With a muttered curse, Gwydion knelt. He carefully settled his feet on the rungs of an iron ladder. Instantly, it was as though someone had stuffed his ears with cloth. The quiet song of the trees, grasses, moss, even the lichen—all were plunged into silence.

Iron drove back magic. Diviners like himself had to be careful of jewelry and armor, choosing pieces without traces of iron. It was why Gwydion’s hand brace was leather and wood, why all his family’s signet rings were silver and gold, and why Amaethon never challenged Arianrhod. Only she was trusted to craft his armor.

Magic was rare among humanity. Commoners called such people other-touched while the nobles referred to them as diviners . Those divining magic could call to some part of the world, and that element would answer in kind. Diviners discovered young were often taken from their families and given to a noble patron—someone with the resources to find a tutor and keep the diviner safe until they were of an age to use their magic. In exchange for that education and protection, diviners would often work for those patrons willingly. And those that were unwilling… well . Divining was a valuable tool. Too valuable to be let go.

But power was not without cost. Every divining drained the diviner. Fire diviners used the heat from their bodies to kindle flame; stone and metal diviners sapped the metal from their bodies; wind diviners could suffocate themselves if they were not careful; and water diviners could die of dehydration. But some costs were higher than others. When Amaethon overused his magic, all he needed was a warm hearth and heated blankets. Arianrhod’s meals were heavy with liver, eggs, and meats.

Gwydion did not know what his own divining cost. He was the only living diviner of trees and plants. When he drew on his magic for too long, he grew tired and pale, and dealt with headaches. Wounds and broken bones were slow to recover fully, if they recovered. One of the healers had pondered that perhaps his magic drew away Gwydion’s ability to properly consume his food. Another was certain that sunlight was all that Gwydion needed. One wanted to bury him in freshly tilled earth up to his chin. After years of being an object of study, Gwydion had stopped going to the healers. They gave him no answers, only frustrations. He crafted his own brace for a hand that had never healed from the hard slam of a door; he planned his own meals; and he spent his power with care. Every divining was a choice with the knowledge that the price would be paid at a later time. And he never knew how steep the cost would be. But even if he never reached for his magic, he could always hear plants. They sang and whispered, murmured in tongues so old that even the tylwyth teg had no language to answer.

Surrounded by the iron of the city sewers, Gwydion’s world of magic fell silent.

The twins’ voices echoed hollowly from the stone and metal walls. Gwydion rounded a corner, and there they were—two boys studying a piece of parchment.

“I think we took a wrong turn,” said Lleu. He held a lantern high, and the light wavered in his unsteady hand. He was smaller than his brother, with finer features and a curl to his golden hair.

“We need to go up one more grate,” said Dylan. His hair was a dark blond, and his stubborn chin gave him a roguish look. “Then we’ll go up into the courtyard.”

Gwydion cleared his throat.

The twins’ reaction was perhaps a little overblown. Dylan swept Lleu behind him with one arm, and with his other, he thrust a hand at the ankle-deep water. A laughably weak wave lapped at Gwydion’s boots. He snorted and stepped into the circle of lantern light.

“Uncle,” said Dylan, relief evident in the word. “It’s just you.”

“It is,” agreed Gwydion. “Luckily for you. Using your magic in a place like this?”

Dylan’s brow furrowed. “It should have—I mean—” He gestured at the water, and it stirred sluggishly. Sweat broke out across Dylan’s brow.

“Don’t strain yourself,” said Gwydion. He reached for the water flask he kept on his belt and handed it to the boy. “There’s a reason the kings of Gwynedd built the sewers to be large enough to be traversed by humans and folk.”

It was Lleu who figured it out first. He reached out to touch one of the walls. “Iron?” he said.

Gwydion nodded. “Any diviners or tylwyth teg who dared try to enter the city through its sewers would be rendered powerless. As you are right now.” He gave Dylan a sharp look.

As befitted the family of D?n, Dylan was a diviner. A water diviner, and as far as Gwydion knew, the last of his kind. There had been four others in the isles, but three were slain by a murderous spymaster. The fourth had—rather ironically—drowned. King Math had gone to great lengths to keep Dylan’s powers a secret. Those in rival kingdoms might simply assassinate the lad rather than let Gwynedd keep him. They would see him as a threat. But when Gwydion looked at Dylan, he saw only the young boy that liked horses, boats, and sweets. He was boisterous and friendly. Gwydion wished he could protect him a little longer, but those days were swiftly coming to an end.

“We were being careful,” said Lleu. “We brought rope and a lantern.”

Lleu was quiet and small, a rabbit in a family of wolves. His lack of magic marked him as unusual within their family, and Gwydion worried for the boy. Lleu was kind and sharp-witted, but neither kindness nor intelligence would protect him.

“Does your mother know you’re out of the castell?” said Gwydion, crossing his arms. Arianrhod would be less than pleased when she discovered them sneaking out again.

The twins shifted uneasily.

“I didn’t think so,” said Gwydion. “Now why are you in the sewers?”

The twins glanced at each other. There was a silent exchange, and then Dylan held out the scrap of paper. “Great-Uncle sent us a message, a game. He said we’re supposed to bring back a letter from the house of the barwn from Rhufoniog. If we did, Great-Uncle said we could sit by his side at the festival. I heard one of my friends talking about how he could go anywhere by using the sewers, and I thought with my magic…” He scowled. “I didn’t know they were made of iron.”

Gwydion swallowed. The twins were eight—young enough to be enchanted by horse races, puppies, and tales of monsters at bedtime. But they were swiftly growing, and the realization that they were old enough to take part in King Math’s games… that chilled him.

This was how it began. With small risks and wagers, challenges and rewards. It was like wading into a river—the clearness of the water disguised the dangerous depths. It was all too easy to drown.

“So you snuck out of the castell?” said Gwydion sharply. “What if you got lost?”

“That’s why we brought the rope,” said Lleu earnestly.

Gwydion pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Uncle,” said Dylan, “why are you angry?”

Because this was not the childhood he wanted for them. Because they should not have had to fight for their great-uncle’s favor. Because he did not want them to grow up as he did.

He forced his hand down, making an effort to smooth his face into neutral lines.

“I’m not angry,” Gwydion said. “Just tired. This game is for young children. You’re not children, are you?”

Dylan and Lleu shook their heads.

That was the trick. To make the games less appealing, less forbidden.

If only someone had done that for Gwydion, perhaps things would have been different. His right hand throbbed beneath its brace. The familiar ache was little more than background noise, but surrounded by cold iron and chill waters, he could not ignore the discomfort. “Come,” he said. “We should—”

It was Lleu’s sharp intake of breath that warned him.

Gwydion flung himself to one side, catching the twins with his arm and spinning so that they were behind him. Something sharp and metal hit the sewer wall where he’d been standing mere heartbeats before. The arrow glittered in the wavering light of Lleu’s lantern.

Two men stood twenty paces up the sewer. The spies from the street. One had an arrow nocked. The other man held a sword. Not spies, then , Gwydion thought. Killers.

Dylan raised one hand and thrust it forward, calling upon his magic. The water tried to answer. A weak little wave flickered up the sides of the sewer, then faltered. Dylan made a soft, pained noise. It was a valiant effort to defend them, but the assassins had chosen this ambush well.

Panic flared hot in Gwydion’s stomach. “Who sent you?” he said tightly. When he survived this, he needed to know where to aim his retribution.

He had every intention of surviving this.

The first man stepped forward. He carried his sword with an easy grace, and he flicked the blade so that he cut a line in the water. “Your brother has so many enemies,” said the man, “you likely wouldn’t even know her name.”

“I enjoy making new friends.” Gwydion’s hands remained at his sides. Visibly, he was no threat. But his fingers twitched toward a pouch on his belt.

“Then die disappointed,” said the man, and stepped forward, raising his blade.

Dylan was young and inexperienced with his magic. He couldn’t overcome the heavy press of the iron sewers. But Gwydion had spent his whole life at a disadvantage: youngest, smallest, with a power that most people disregarded. With a snarl of contempt, he reached deep within himself to that place where his magic dwelled.

Other diviners summoned their power with a gesture—a flick of the wrist, a clench of the fingers. With his dominant hand encased in a wood-and-leather brace and his left keeping the twins behind him, the spies did not expect Gwydion to attack. But Gwydion’s power did not lurk in the spaces between his fingers, in the muscle and sinew of his palms. The magic of growing things, of trees and plants and flowers, was found in song.

Gwydion opened his mouth and shouted, releasing a wild burst of magic.

It hurt . It was like trying to scream through a gag, through the press of an attacker’s fingers. The iron dragged at his every breath.

The archer’s bow had once been the branch of a maple tree. When Gwydion’s magic echoed through the sewer, the bow bucked beneath the archer’s hands. He jerked in surprise, releasing the arrow too soon. With another cry, Gwydion tried to push the arrow aside, to use his magic to deflect it. It only half worked; the arrow wobbled in midair, spinning so that it skittered into the shallow water.

The bowstring snapped, slicing a line across the archer’s face. He screamed in pain and surprise.

The swordsman twisted, startled by the sound of his ally’s cry. Gwydion seized him by the wrist. He did not try to wrest the sword away from him, but rather he stepped into the man’s space and pressed his advantage.

Gwydion drove his knee into the man’s gut. The swordsman cried out, the breath leaving him in a rush. Keeping one hand on the man, Gwydion reached into the purse at his belt and pulled out a dried blackberry. He hummed, calling forth his magic a second time. The iron made it an agony—a crack of lightning down his throat, into his chest. He would pay a high price for this magic, but he would protect his nephews no matter the cost.

The blackberry sprouted beneath his fingers, small green tendrils growing and twisting. They locked around the swordsman’s hands and arms, thorns driving into flesh and leaves gently rustling. The man made a choked, agonized sound. He dropped to his knees, eyes rolling like that of a pained animal.

Gwydion took a step back. The archer was no threat—he had been slashed open from chin to ear by his own bowstring. And the swordsman would need time to break free of those thorns.

“Lleu, Dylan,” said Gwydion. His voice was ragged. Using magic in the presence of so much iron had drained him dangerously. “We’re leaving now.”

The twins clustered around him, clinging to his cloak like small birds trying to hide beneath their mother’s wings. Gwydion would send word to Eilwen, let her know there were two noble assassins to be captured.

“What was that?” asked Dylan, once they had rounded a corner. “Who—”

“Servants of our enemies,” said Gwydion tightly. “Perhaps from Dyfed. Perhaps elsewhere.”

Dylan looked baffled. “But—but the city is safe.”

Gwydion should have warned them, told them that there would always be people that wished them ill. He had wanted them to keep their innocence a little longer. But they were the grandchildren of D?n and great-nephews of King Math. Their family had countless enemies.

They would never be safe.

Not unless Gwydion made sure of it.