“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, whichmade 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, gentleamusement 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.
