“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.
Thatwoodenthrone.
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. Dôn’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 thronecreaked.
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 Dôn, 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.”
CHAPTER 42
WHEN BRANWEN RETURNED from the Wild Hunt, her mam greeted her at the front gate.
It took her days to walk home. Headaches plagued Branwen. Palug had to meow at her when she accidentally stumbled from the road. Palug ran ahead, scratching at the door until Mam emerged and rushed to greet Branwen.
Glaw’s niece, the young woman Branwen had hired, was cooking by the fire. When she saw the state of Branwen’s bruises, she rushed to help her. At first, Branwen wanted to protest. But her arrow wound needed tending, and her head continued to throb.
She spent nearly two weeks recovering—sleeping in her bed, drinking warm broths, and allowing herself time to mourn. As far as her mother knew, Branwen had been on a hunting trip with a noble from Gwynedd. Something had gone awry, and Branwen had been injured.
She did not like to lie. But certain truths were too painful to utter aloud.
Time went on, and Branwen went on with it.
