He rode a stolen horse, wore a cloak of moss and silver, and bore a healing cut along his forehead.
It had taken a week to return. A week of resting in an inn, of trying to recover what strength he had left. He had spent much of that time fevered and half dreaming, his fingers curled around the pouch of rings. When he awoke, he felt thinner and weaker—but he was able to travel.
He strode through the castell, ignoring all who called out to him. He did not waver or step aside for anyone. The main hall was brimming with people. Many who had come for the feast would linger in Caer Dathyl for weeks to come.
At his throne sat King Math, in conversation with a youngwoman. Arianrhod sat at one of the tables, the twins on either side of her. When she saw him, her brows drew tight with concern.
Amaethon stepped in front of Gwydion. “Where have you been, dear brother?”
Gwydion did not so much as hesitate. With a murmur, he called to the linen in Amaethon’s shirt. The cloth came alive at once, wrapping itself around the would-be king’s throat. It was far too satisfying—a cruel little bit of magic that Gwydion had never before turned against his brother.
It would cost him.
All his magic would cost him—but Gwydion had ceased to care about the price.
Amaethon fell, and in the same heartbeat, Arianrhod rose.Let that be a foretelling, Gwydion thought to himself.
Conversation died around him, falling into whispers and mutters.
“Get out,” said Gwydion. “All of you.”
No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was Amaethon struggling for breath.
“Get,” said Gwydion, enunciating each syllable, “out.”
He did not raise his voice. He did not have to. He had learned something of power in the last few weeks.
One by one, the nobles and servants slipped from the room. Among them was Arianrhod. She wore an expression of deep concern, and her arms were wrapped around the twins. At her expression, his resolve nearly broke. He had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted to hug her and the twins. To tell her all that had happened. He wanted the comfort of family.
He kept his shoulders straight. When she passed by, he said, “My queen.”
She looked at him sharply.
Finally, the last servant drained from the hall. The doors were closed behind them.
“Nephew,” said Math, with a glance toward Amaethon.
Amaethon was on his knees, choking and grasping at his own shirt. “Oh, right,” said Gwydion. With a hum, he released the hold on his magic.
Amaethon gasped for air and struggled to his feet. When he looked at Gwydion, his anger was mingled with fear.
“Fire cannot be called without breath,” said Gwydion. “Harm another innocent, burn another tree, and you will regret it.”
Amaethon took a step closer. He looked as though he would have liked to kill Gwydion, but Math spoke. “Leave us.”
Amaethon’s gaze darted from Gwydion to Math. Then he spat on the stone floor and strode from the hall.
Math sat in his throne, elbow resting idly against his knee. If he was impressed by Gwydion’s display of magic, he did not show it. “Where have you been?” he said. “You were missed at the festival.”
“I highly doubt that,” said Gwydion. “And you know where I was.”
Math’s eyes glittered. “I could never guess.”
“You told me to do it,” said Gwydion. “But you assumed I would fail or die. That was your mistake. You underestimated me.”
“Did I?” asked Math.
Gwydion reached into his cloak and withdrew a ring. It gleamed in the torchlight. “This is the signet ring of King Arawn. It gives the owner the right to rule Annwvyn for a year and a day.”
