Gwydion considered. “Find the jars, have the powder delivered to one of my safe houses. I’m sure I’ll find a use for it.”
Eilwen gave him a little salute with her oggie. “All right.”
“My thanks.” Gwydion set down his cup and half-eaten food and made to rise.
“One last thing,” said Eilwen, and he went still. This was her way—to leave the most important bit of knowledge to the last moment.
“Yes?” said Gwydion.
Eilwen let out a breath. “Your nephews have snuck out of the castell again.”
Gwydion left the eating house through a side door. Pulling his hood over his brow, he hastened down the street. He navigated the city with easy practice, darting between shops and homes. He knew where every fern had roots, where ivy could be used as a ladder, and where moss found a home in rotted wood.
There was a beggar at the intersection of two streets. He was one of Eilwen’s watchers, observing the flow of travelers through the city.
Gwydion tossed two coins into his bowl. “Two boys,” he said quietly. “Eight years of age. Which way did they go?”
The beggar jerked his head northward. “Heard ’em talking about some game, mayhap ten minutes ago.”
A sickening chill went through Gwydion. His right hand clenched, and pain flashed through his cold-stiffened knuckles.
Without bothering to thank the man, he hastened up the street. It led to a row of houses owned by visiting nobles. They would come in the summertime to pay their respects to the throne, boast of new heirs, and buy fine things before returning to their cantrefs.
Two men stood near one of the empty houses. They wore the garb of gardeners and servants, but something in the way they held themselves made Gwydion’s footsteps slow. Their skin was too soft, their hair lush and fingers unmarred by calluses. Spies, then.
Which meant two things: First, he was in the right place. And second, he had no time to lose.
Gwydion heard the twins before he saw them. There was a whisper of familiar voices, then a hushing sound. The noises came not from the houses but frombelow.
A sewer grate had been pried free of the street. The underground passages were wide enough to traverse with ease. Thieves, spies, and those that wished to go unseen found them useful. Unease flared in Gwydion’s stomach. He would have preferred the twins had climbed a tree. He had never been fond of dark, small spaces.
With a muttered curse, Gwydion knelt. He carefully settled his feet on the rungs of an iron ladder. Instantly, it was as thoughsomeone had stuffed his ears with cloth. The quiet song of the trees, grasses, moss, even the lichen—all were plunged into silence.
Iron drove back magic. Diviners like himself had to be careful of jewelry and armor, choosing pieces without traces of iron. It was why Gwydion’s hand brace was leather and wood, why all his family’s signet rings were silver and gold, and why Amaethon never challenged Arianrhod. Only she was trusted to craft his armor.
Magic was rare among humanity. Commoners called such peopleother-touchedwhile the nobles referred to them asdiviners. Those divining magic could call to some part of the world, and that element would answer in kind. Diviners discovered young were often taken from their families and given to a noble patron—someone with the resources to find a tutor and keep the diviner safe until they were of an age to use their magic. In exchange for that education and protection, diviners would often work for those patrons willingly. And those that were unwilling…well. Divining was a valuable tool. Too valuable to be let go.
But power was not without cost. Every divining drained the diviner. Fire diviners used the heat from their bodies to kindle flame; stone and metal diviners sapped the metal from their bodies; wind diviners could suffocate themselves if they were not careful; and water diviners could die of dehydration. But some costs were higher than others. When Amaethon overused his magic, all he needed was a warm hearth and heated blankets. Arianrhod’s meals were heavy with liver, eggs, and meats.
Gwydion did not know what his own divining cost. He was the only living diviner of trees and plants. When he drew on his magic fortoo long, he grew tired and pale, and dealt with headaches. Wounds and broken bones were slow to recover fully,ifthey recovered. One of the healers had pondered that perhaps his magic drew away Gwydion’s ability to properly consume his food. Another was certain that sunlight was all that Gwydion needed. One wanted to bury him in freshly tilled earth up to his chin. After years of being an object of study, Gwydion had stopped going to the healers. They gave him no answers, only frustrations. He crafted his own brace for a hand that had never healed from the hard slam of a door; he planned his own meals; and he spent his power with care. Every divining was a choice with the knowledge that the price would be paid at a later time. And he never knew how steep the cost would be. But even if he never reached for his magic, he could alwayshearplants. They sang and whispered, murmured in tongues so old that even the tylwyth teg had no language to answer.
Surrounded by the iron of the city sewers, Gwydion’s world of magic fell silent.
The twins’ voices echoed hollowly from the stone and metal walls. Gwydion rounded a corner, and there they were—two boys studying a piece of parchment.
“I think we took a wrong turn,” said Lleu. He held a lantern high, and the light wavered in his unsteady hand. He was smaller than his brother, with finer features and a curl to his golden hair.
“We need to go up one more grate,” said Dylan. His hair was a dark blond, and his stubborn chin gave him a roguish look. “Then we’ll go up into the courtyard.”
Gwydion cleared his throat.
The twins’ reaction was perhaps a little overblown. Dylan swept Lleu behind him with one arm, and with his other, he thrust a hand at the ankle-deep water. A laughably weak wave lapped at Gwydion’s boots. He snorted and stepped into the circle of lantern light.
“Uncle,” said Dylan, relief evident in the word. “It’s just you.”
“It is,” agreed Gwydion. “Luckily for you. Using your magic in a place like this?”
Dylan’s brow furrowed. “It should have—I mean—” He gestured at the water, and it stirred sluggishly. Sweat broke out across Dylan’s brow.
