“Let me speak with Seren—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand. “The High Swynwraig has returned to Caer Draen. We’ve sent a letter, but it’s up to me what happens until we hear back. For now, you’ll stay here.”
Maelor backs away toward the entrance, his face unreadable in the lantern glow. Then he turns and ducks through the tent flap, the others following close behind him. Their footsteps thud against the ground outside before gradually fading into the noise of the camp.
Silence falls heavy inside the tent.
Brioc shifts against the tree trunk and tests the chains around his wrists.
“Well,” he mutters, “that could have gone better.”
Despite everything, a breath of strained laughter bursts free, but it dies quickly. My thoughts keep circling back to the forest beyond the camp, to Taliesin and Gwenydd. Maelor came back alone. If Taliesin escaped, he’ll come for us. If he didn’t…
I force the thought away before it drags me somewhere darker.
A cold gust rattles the canvas overhead. At first, I barely notice it. This far north, there’s always at least a chill in the air. But then frost begins creeping toward us in thin white lines.
Brioc goes still beside me.
The temperature drops so sharply my breath catches in my throat. Ice spiders up the tree trunk behind us, spreading over the bark in crackling layers. Outside, confused voices ring through the camp.
“What’s happening?”
“The fires—”
A shout cuts through the noise, followed by the unmistakable ring of steel being drawn. My heart lurches. Brioc twists toward me, his eyes wide as a scream echoes through the night.
Then, all at once, the orange glow outside the tent goes out.
30
“He came for us,” I breathe, my heart lifting in a way I never expected it would for Taliesin Wynn. But I’ve never been so glad to see frost in my life—or hear tortured screams fill the cold night.
“Yeah, and if he ain’t careful, he’s going to drag us to an icy grave along with everyone else out there,” Brioc mutters. “Or maybe he’ll just go straight for the harp. He wants it as much as we do.”
“He won’t.” The thought comes immediately, without any hesitation. And I realize somewhere between Taliesin chaining me on the rolling hills to now, I’ve come to trust him with my life. If it came down to me or the harp…I think…no, Iknowhe’d choose to save me.
Ice spreads across the ground, inching closer. Beyond the tent, steel rings against steel. Angry shouts explode even closer.
And then pain erupts at the back of my neck. It rips through me with such force I cry out and lurch against the chains. The pain shoots into my skull, sharp and biting, like a thousand knives scraping at my mind.
“Angharad?” Brioc’s worried voice sounds distant, like he’s trapped behind a ward, or in another world entirely.
And I can’t answer him. All I can do is hiss between my teeth, eyes squeezed shut, desperate to hold on to enough breath not to tumble into darkness. My hands strain uselessly against the chains, but I can barely feel them.
The pain splits between my brows. It digs into my bones now, like it’s becoming part of me.
“Angharad, what’s wrong!” Brioc’s voice is louder now, but I can’t reach it. I can’t find him in this well of agony, where poisonous waters have risen and filled my mouth and lungs until there’s nothing left of me but it.
“Taliesin!” Brioc shouts. “In here! She needs you!”
At the sound of his name, something in me loosens. The pain is still there, rolling over me in vicious waves, but I canthink. I can breathe. I suck in a lungful of air and force my eyes open. The world is nothing but a blurred mess before me—lanternlights bobbing and spinning like wraiths.
Another scream tears through the camp.
Then, suddenly—just as suddenly as it came upon me—the pain vanishes.
I sag against the chains, spent. “Fuck.”
