Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

G WYDION brOUGHT THE twins to the great hall.

A small crowd of nobles had filled the room, and Gwydion slipped in among them. Arianrhod leaned idly along the wall, and Gwydion sidled up beside her, angling so that the twins stood between them. She glanced down at the twins, then ruffled Dylan’s hair fondly and straightened Lleu’s shirt. Luckily the twins did not seem terribly frightened after the attack. Children were remarkably resilient.

“Why do you smell like that?” asked Arianrhod softly. She reached out to brush a fleck of dried sewer muck from Gwydion’s sleeve.

“I’ll tell you once the twins are in bed,” Gwydion replied. The great hall was a wonder of stone—magic was used to smooth out the floor, arch the high ceiling, and add decorative carvings to the doorways. Tapestries of old battles hung along the walls. The throne had been hewn from an old yew tree. It was whispered that the yew tree had once belonged to Annwvyn and a brave woodcutter had crossed the border to bring it as a gift to his king. Whether or not the tales were true, the throne was beautiful, the wood polished to softness and carved in elegant lines.

King Math sat upon the throne, his gaze on the man before him. Despite being well into his seventh decade, he was unbowed by age. His hair was the color of sun-worn slate, and his face had the aged authority of an old sheepdog.

King Math was a diviner of flesh—a rare talent. In his younger days, Math transformed his enemies into animals and let them live out their shortened lives as beasts. Gwydion remembered an incident when he was five and had snuck into his uncle’s study. Math had threatened to turn Gwydion into a deer and let the royal hounds have him. It had taken years for Gwydion to return to that study.

Math idled in the throne, his gaze on the nobleman standing before him. Gwydion recognized the man as Barwn Ifor. He was a noble of little importance that oversaw some back country village on the edge of Gwynedd. His face was ruddy, and his voice was hoarse from sleeplessness or grief.

“—demand restitution,” he was saying. “If King Arawn will not stop his folk from killing humans—”

“I am to understand,” King Math said, “that your son went into Annwvyn of his own accord? No one forced him beyond those borders, and in doing so, he forfeited his life.”

Barwn Ifor flushed hotly, and one of his hands balled into a fist. According to Gwydion’s spies, Ifor’s son had gone missing, and Ifor had pleaded with Math to send scouts to find him. But when the trail led toward Annwvyn, Math had called off the search.

Gwydion knew why—because to send soldiers into those woods would be tantamount to a declaration of war. A barwn’s son wasn’t worth the risk.

“You are supposed to protect our lands from those—those monsters,” said Ifor, his voice shaking with badly repressed fury. “I see little reason for my lands to support your throne if you will sit idle while the otherfolk slaughter humans.”

Abruptly, King Math rose. The hall fell silent.

“Your lands,” said Math quietly, “belong to you at my pleasure. Your family has long stood in support of Gwynedd’s throne, and if that should ever waver, then you will have far more to grieve than the loss of one son.”

Fury flooded Ifor’s reddened face. He took half a step, and every guard in the hall tensed. Arianrhod slipped her hand free of Dylan’s, her fingers at the ready. If Ifor made a move, she would slam him into the ground with a gesture. Gwydion watched, waiting to see how this would play out.

“Strong words,” snarled Ifor, “for one with no heir.”

Someone near Gwydion inhaled sharply.

Math did not answer Ifor’s anger with his own; rather, his expression drained of warmth. He looked upon Ifor the way a butcher might gaze upon meat, deciding the best way to slice it into pieces.

“The matter of my heir has been decided,” said Math. His voice was quiet but no less powerful. “And while I have not shared that knowledge with you ”—his mouth twisted at the corner on the last word—“it will be announced at the festival.” He leaned closer to Ifor. “And I suggest you do not take this up with my heir. He has less patience than I.”

Gwydion tried to swallow, but his throat suddenly felt too dry.

The matter of inheritance had long been one that weighed upon Gwynedd. Math had no children of his own, but he did have four nephews and a niece.

Arianrhod stiffened. Her fingers went still, and her arm fell back to her side. “So he’s decided, then.”

Gwydion could not answer. He was not sure he could speak.

“What is it, Mam?” said Lleu, looking up at her.

She shushed him.

Math gestured for the guards to escort the barwn from his hall.

“Fool,” Gwydion said quietly.

Arianrhod watched Ifor, her gaze a little sad. “I pity him. Losing a child like that… I understand going to such lengths. He even hired a huntress when his soldiers gave up the hunt.” She looked at Gwydion. “One willing to venture into Annwvyn.”

Gwydion’s brows drew tight. “Truly?”

“She has hunted there before,” replied Arianrhod. “One of my maids said she slew a llamhigyn y dwr that had taken to drowning children.”

Gwydion snorted. “It’s more likely she dragged an overlarge toad from some farmer’s well.”

Arianrhod gave a delicate shrug. “Well, truth or not, she returned the lad’s signet ring. If she were a thief, she might have held her tongue and kept the silver.”

“True enough.” Gwydion looked at Math. The old king was retreating toward his study, extracting himself from his advisers. “Are you disappointed?”

“That the barwn’s son is dead? I think I shall recover.”

Gwydion gave her a sharp look. “You know what I mean.”

Arianrhod glanced away. Her attention seemed to settle on the yew-tree throne.

“It was never mine,” she murmured, as though speaking to herself. “It was never going to be mine.”

“It should be,” said Gwydion.

Arianrhod shook her head. “I thought he might have chosen Gofannon.”

“That would require Gofannon to set foot on land,” replied Gwydion. “We both know how unlikely that would be. Our brother would miss his boats far too much to settle on a throne.” His mirth drained away. “You would be a better ruler than Amaethon.”

“Do not let our uncle hear you say that. Or Amaethon for that matter.” Arianrhod lifted her head, and her polite mask covered her disappointment. “What will be, will be. I’ve not the time nor the will to rage against unfairness. I’ve my own household to run, and the twins need a bath.”

“I should say all three of them do.” A new voice entered the conversation, and Gwydion looked up. Amaethon approached, a buoyant smile on his mouth. Of course he would be pleased with Math’s little revelation.

“Brother,” Amaethon said, his gaze falling on the muddied Dylan and Lleu. “I see you’ve finally found a use at court: minding children.” He wrinkled his nose. “You smell of manure.”

Gwydion kept a tight hold on his expression. “And you of ashes.”

A smile touched Amaethon’s thin mouth. “A demonstration,” he said, snapping his fingers. A small flame appeared between them. “One of the visiting nobles from Gwent wished to see the power of the house of D?n. So I burned all the clothes from his daughter.”

Gwydion made no attempt to hide his disgust. “A wonderful way to forge new alliances.”

Amaethon waved his hand, extinguishing the fire. “Power attracts power. Math knows that.” His gaze fell on Dylan. “He should learn that.”

Arianrhod let out a small chuckle. “I would enjoy seeing him dump water on your next show of power, dear brother.”

“Ask him to summon water to bathe Gwydion instead,” said Amaethon, his gaze flicking over Gwydion’s stained trousers. “Then he won’t offend our guests.”

With one last cold smile, he strode past them.

Gwydion exhaled.

“I don’t think you smell bad, Uncle Gwydion,” said Lleu with utmost sincerity.

“I appreciate that,” said Gwydion.

“You smell more interesting than Uncle Amaethon,” agreed Dylan.

“Thank you, Dylan.”

“You could do with clean clothes,” said Arianrhod.

“I think I’ve had my fill of everyone commenting on how I smell today,” said Gwydion. He stepped away from Arianrhod. “I’ll speak with you later.” A headache throbbed behind his eyes. After his show of magic in the sewer, he knew it would be a few days before he recovered.

He would deal with the headache later. For now, he had more important matters.

King Math was walking toward one of the side doors, and Gwydion’s heartbeat quickened. He darted through the crowd. He made it just as the door was closing, and he seized the handle before the lock could click into place. He heaved it open and followed his uncle into the corridor.

Math glanced over his shoulder. “Nephew,” he said mildly. “Did you wish to speak with me?”

“I did.” Gwydion bowed low. “If you would favor me with a conversation, Uncle.”

The deference seemed to please the king. A faint smile touched Math’s mouth. “Of course.”

The king’s study brimmed with maps. Math ran his withered fingers over one as he walked, caressing the parchment the way others did a treasured hound.

“Nephew,” he said. “Share a drink?”

Gwydion bowed again, holding the position for two heartbeats. “I thank you for the offer. But I can only stay for a short while.”

King Math poured a generous amount of wine into a goblet, then sank into a chair. “What did you want to speak about?”

Gwydion drew in a breath. “What you said to Barwn Ifor, was that true?”

“That his son was an ill-tempered creature with more recklessness than sense?” replied King Math. “Every word.”

Gwydion smiled—more to acknowledge the jest rather than from true amusement. “Not that. About… about you having chosen your heir.” To keep his hands from shaking, he reached out and picked up one of the figurines that rested upon the map, turning it over between his fingers.

Math gave him a chiding stare. “Are you here to confirm your own suspicions or accuse me of lying to one of the nobles?”

“The former,” said Gwydion.

Math’s mouth quirked. Boldness was a quality he favored, which was why Gwydion kept his tone polite but unflinching.

“I planned on making the announcement at the festival,” said Math.

Gwydion nodded. His mind raced even as he opened his mouth. “So there is time, then.”

Math took a sip of his wine. “Time for what?”

To alter the course of a kingdom.

Gwydion knew his brother. He knew the kind of enemies he made. Amaethon was like a wildfire. Fire unchecked would rush beyond its boundaries, scorching all in its path.

Amaethon would be a monster.

And the entire kingdom would suffer for it.

Gwydion thought of the small gray fox. Of the panicked rise and fall of its breaths. Should Amaethon become the ruler of Gwynedd, that fox would not be the last creature to flee for its life.

“I believe his skills are better suited to the battlefield than a throne,” said Gwydion. “He has little patience for diplomacy.”

“The same could be said of many rulers.” Math frowned at the wine and gave it a swirl. “Are you suggesting yourself as a suitable replacement?”

There was no mockery to the words, no contempt at all, which made them almost harder to hear. Mockery would have been simpler. “Of course not,” replied Gwydion. “I have little interest in ruling.”

“That, nephew, is perhaps the first truthful thing you’ve said,” remarked Math. He set down his wine, stepped around the table, and faced Gwydion. “But you do have an interest in who wears the crown. And you think it should be Arianrhod, not Amaethon.”

“All of Gwynedd has an interest.” It was one of those statements that sounded like an answer but gave away nothing. “Tell me, Uncle. What would it take to change your mind?”

“About my heir?” asked Math. He leaned against the table, idly running his fingers across the map. He traced the line between Gwynedd and Annwvyn, his thumb resting on Caer Dathyl. “A champion of Gwynedd will be crowned the victor of the Wild Hunt before I name Arianrhod my heir.”

Gwydion inhaled sharply. His uncle might as well have said that Arianrhod would wear the crown when all the seas dried up.

“A wager, then,” said Gwydion.

Math tilted his head. “A wager?”

Gwydion reached out to the map and picked up two small figures: one of a commander and one of a spy. Math frowned, but Gwydion could tell his uncle’s interest was caught. Gwydion tossed the pieces from hand to hand, then closed his fists around them and placed those fists on the tabletop.

“If you pick the hand with the commander,” said Gwydion, “then you announce Amaethon as your heir next week. If you pick the hand with the spy, you wait until spring.”

Math raised his eyebrows. But rather than irritation, gentle amusement warmed his expression. “You always did have a fondness for tricks.”

“How can I trick you here?” Gwydion held up his hands. “You saw me pick up the pieces. I did not drop them.” This was a truly desperate move, a play for time.

Math’s mouth quirked. “All right, then.” His gaze fell to Gwydion’s fists. He seemed to ponder for a moment, then pointed at Gwydion’s right hand. “There.”

Gwydion flipped over his hand and opened his fingers.

The spy figurine sat in his palm.

Math let out a chuckle. “Ah. Bested by my own nephew.”

“A winter is not so long to wait,” said Gwydion. “And perhaps your views on the matter will change in that time.”

“I rather doubt that.” Math drained the goblet, then set it down. “But you are welcome to try.”

Gwydion bowed again. He slipped from the study before Math could revoke his end of their bargain.

The corridor was cool and thankfully empty. Once he was out of sight, Gwydion sagged against the wall. It was done. He had accomplished one small victory—Amaethon would not be announced as the heir until spring.

Gwydion opened his left fist.

A second spy figurine sat there. He had taken it when Math wasn’t looking, slipped it up his sleeve. The commander figure was securely in his pocket, where it could never be picked.

Gwydion never left anything to chance.

A champion of Gwynedd will be crowned the victor of the Wild Hunt before I name Arianrhod my heir.

It was an impossible challenge. Gwydion would never be a warrior or a hunter. He could whisper a flower to life, sing fruit to ripeness, or walk through a forest unnoticed. He was a diviner and a trickster. If he could slip into the Hunt, if he could find a way to gain entrance…

Be the victor of the Wild Hunt.