“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 Dôn. 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 andpicked 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?”
