Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

G WYDION FOUND HIS sister on the battlements that night.

The wind tasted of winter. There was a damp bite to the air, and he pulled his hands inside his sleeves, trying to keep his right hand warm. Arianrhod sat with her legs crossed beneath her, the sweep of her gown falling over the edge. The copper caught the last evening sunlight.

Gwydion sat beside her, with his legs dangling over the stone ledge. The world fell away at the tips of his bare feet, the fall from the battlements a sheer drop that landed in cold water. Gwynedd swept out before them: craggy hills, patches of forest, harvested fields, speckles of distant sheep. This high up, it was easy to think of the kingdom as little more than assets to be counted on a map. But the kingdom was worth more than its hills and harvests and livestock.

Cities.

Villages.

People.

A new king would matter little to them, at least until it was time to collect tithes and young people for the armies. But how many of those soldiers would return to their families? How many farms would go hungry to feed Amaethon’s appetites?

“I can hear your thoughts spinning from here,” said Arianrhod, nudging him gently with her shoulder. “Why did you go to speak with Math?”

Gwydion released a breath. “I asked him not to name his heir until spring.”

A frown tugged at Arianrhod’s lips. “Why?”

“To give us time to change his mind.”

Gwydion told her of the sewer, of the twins and the assassins who had attacked them. When he finished, her face was drawn.

“It was Amaethon’s enemies that attacked the twins,” he finished. “They mentioned a brother. Gofannon remains at sea, and they were not speaking about me.”

“We all have enemies.” Arianrhod’s frown was a brittle thing.

“But not all of us set people on fire for the joy of it.” Gwydion gritted his teeth. “Amaethon sows resentment everywhere he goes. He will bring it home with him—he already has.”

Arianrhod said, “Amaethon is not a monster of old.”

“You’re right. A monster of old could be slain. And the one wielding the blade would be called a hero.” Gwydion gave Arianrhod a hard look. “Kings are something far more dangerous.”

“You don’t need to slay him,” said Arianrhod. “Kings come and go. The world changes, and it does not. But what matters is this, little brother.” She reached out and settled a hand on his wrist. “Do not trouble yourself over what Amaethon will do. Choose your own path, carve out a place for yourself. The best power you wield is choice.”

Gwydion cut a sharp look at his sister.

“Spoken as one who has never been powerless,” he said tightly.

Arianrhod’s magic would not kill her. It would drain her, but she knew the cost and the cure. He possessed no such knowledge. He could not recall a time when he hadn’t been weaker, slower to heal, and mindful of the way his body might rebel if he pushed it too far. It was why he had tried so hard to cultivate his garden of spies. Secrets were a far safer weapon for him. He knew which of Amaethon’s soldiers secretly despised him; he knew which of the messengers were spies for other kingdoms; he knew when the blacksmith was soused again; he knew the twins had a secret place to play behind the orchard.

Secrets were his best weapon, but they did not instill the kind of respect that Arianrhod commanded. When she passed, soldiers bowed their heads and servants scurried from her path. Not even Amaethon would raise a hand against her. She would never understand.

Arianrhod shifted in her seat. “You do have choices, even if none of them are what you desire.”

Gwydion swung his legs a little, the cold wind numbing his bare feet. His right hand ached in his lap, the familiar throb behind his knuckles. He would need to apply a poultice. The pain frayed his temper, made him want to lash out.

“Math has begun testing your sons,” he said. “The way he tested us. Those games he made us play to win his favor.”

Arianrhod’s lips paled. She, too, would remember the “games” that they had been given as children: stealing signet rings, bits of paper, whispers. It had all been to win their uncle’s favor after the death of their parents. Gwydion could still recall the thrill of sneaking a stolen ring from Amaethon’s pocket, the triumph when he had bested his brother. The games were a way for King Math to test his niece and nephews… and to gain an advantage over his rivals. Those games had ended rather abruptly—and at the thought, pain flared in Gwydion’s knuckles.

Arianrhod said, “I think it might be time to leave Caer Dathyl.”

“So you’ll run?” he asked, unable to hide the derision in his voice.

“I will take my sons somewhere safe,” said Arianrhod.

“They will never be safe,” retorted Gwydion. “No place in Gwynedd will be safe if Amaethon is king. Which is why you must take the throne.”

She was not perfect, but she cared . Those who grew up surrounded by cruelty either took that cruelty into themselves—or they armored themselves against it. If one’s family was the foundation from which they arose, then the house of D?n was that of a briar patch: tangled thorns and hidden hurts. But from that, Arianrhod had raised her own sons with care and love. If she were given a kingdom, Gwydion had no doubt she would dedicate her life to making it a safe place for her sons—and for everyone else.

And his place at her side would be assured.

Arianrhod gazed at the horizon. “You will never convince Amaethon to give up a throne,” she said. “Contrary to the rumors, you are neither heartless nor ruthless enough to kill him. And I doubt anything you say will sway our uncle.”

“But if there was a way,” he said, “would you take the throne?”

Her lips pressed thin, her gaze gone distant. “To spite our brother, no. At Math’s behest, no. Even if you begged me to, no.” Her mouth softened, and her voice held a quiet warmth. “But for my children, I would. If it meant building a world where they might be safe and happy.” She shook her head. “It will never come to pass.”

“It will,” said Gwydion. “I’m going to make sure of it.”

Arianrhod offered him a tolerant little smile. She plucked one of the copper scales from her dress. Her fingers flowed in a gentle motion over the metal. At once, it changed—the shape twisting, the metal gone molten under her touch. In a matter of heartbeats, Arianrhod held a ring. It was twisted into the beautiful shape of an old tree.

“My dear brother,” she said, sliding the ring into his palm. “Your path is your own. Stay here or do not. Be Gwydion of Caer Dathyl or Gwydion of the Trees. But do not make the mistake of thinking it is easier to change the world than it is to change yourself.”

Gwydion looked down at the ring. It was beautiful and so delicately wrought that it made the dragon signet of D?n look gaudy in comparison. For a moment, he allowed himself to consider the future if he slid that family ring from his finger and set it on the battlements. If he stood and walked from Caer Dathyl, with no intention to return.

He might have walked away. But the problem, he decided, with looking at the world as a gardener was that he did not see maps and countries, armies and cities. He saw what could grow. What might grow.

He saw how the world could change.

Gwydion slipped the copper ring into his pocket.

“Tell me,” he said. “Did you catch the name of Ifor’s huntress?”