The corridor was cool and thankfully empty. Once he was out of sight, Gwydion sagged against the wall. It was done. He had accomplished one small victory—Amaethon would not be announced as the heir until spring.
Gwydion opened his left fist.
A second spy figurine sat there. He had taken it when Math wasn’t looking, slipped it up his sleeve. The commander figure was securely in his pocket, where it could never be picked.
Gwydion never left anything to chance.
A champion of Gwynedd will be crowned the victor of the Wild Hunt before I name Arianrhod my heir.
It was an impossible challenge. Gwydion would never be a warrior or a hunter. He could whisper a flower to life, sing fruit to ripeness, or walk through a forest unnoticed. He was a diviner and a trickster. If he could slip into the Hunt, if he could find a way to gain entrance…
Be the victor of the Wild Hunt.
CHAPTER 7
GWYDION 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, littlebrother.” 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.
