“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.
Ithurt. 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 swordsmancried 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 keeptheir innocence a little longer. But they were the grandchildren of Dôn and great-nephews of King Math. Their family had countless enemies.
They would never be safe.
Not unless Gwydion made sure of it.
CHAPTER 6
GWYDION 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 hadbeen 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 Iforhad pleaded with Math to send scouts to find him. But when the trail led toward Annwvyn, Math had called off the search.
