“Don’t strain yourself,” said Gwydion. He reached for the water flask he kept on his belt and handed it to the boy. “There’s a reason the kings of Gwynedd built the sewers to be large enough to be traversed by humans and folk.”
It was Lleu who figured it out first. He reached out to touch one of the walls. “Iron?” he said.
Gwydion nodded. “Any diviners or tylwyth teg who dared try to enter the city through its sewers would be rendered powerless. As you are right now.” He gave Dylan a sharp look.
As befitted the family of Dôn, Dylan was a diviner. A water diviner, and as far as Gwydion knew, the last of his kind. There had been four others in the isles, but three were slain by a murderous spymaster. The fourth had—rather ironically—drowned. King Math had gone to great lengths to keep Dylan’s powers a secret. Those in rival kingdoms might simply assassinate the lad rather than let Gwynedd keep him. They would see him as a threat. But when Gwydion looked at Dylan, he saw only the young boy that liked horses,boats, and sweets. He was boisterous and friendly. Gwydion wished he could protect him a little longer, but those days were swiftly coming to an end.
“We were being careful,” said Lleu. “We brought rope and a lantern.”
Lleu was quiet and small, a rabbit in a family of wolves. His lack of magic marked him as unusual within their family, and Gwydion worried for the boy. Lleu was kind and sharp-witted, but neither kindness nor intelligence would protect him.
“Does your mother know you’re out of the castell?” said Gwydion, crossing his arms. Arianrhod would be less than pleased when she discovered them sneaking out again.
The twins shifted uneasily.
“I didn’t think so,” said Gwydion. “Now why are you in the sewers?”
The twins glanced at each other. There was a silent exchange, and then Dylan held out the scrap of paper. “Great-Uncle sent us a message, a game. He said we’re supposed to bring back a letter from the house of the barwn from Rhufoniog. If we did, Great-Uncle said we could sit by his side at the festival. I heard one of my friends talking about how he could go anywhere by using the sewers, and I thought with my magic…” He scowled. “I didn’t know they were made of iron.”
Gwydion swallowed. The twins were eight—young enough to be enchanted by horse races, puppies, and tales of monsters at bedtime. But they were swiftly growing, and the realization that they were old enough to take part in King Math’s games… that chilled him.
This was how it began. With small risks and wagers, challenges and rewards. It was like wading into a river—the clearness of the water disguised the dangerous depths. It was all too easy to drown.
“So you snuck out of the castell?” said Gwydion sharply. “What if you got lost?”
“That’s why we brought the rope,” said Lleu earnestly.
Gwydion pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Uncle,” said Dylan, “why are you angry?”
Because this was not the childhood he wanted for them. Because they should not have had to fight for their great-uncle’s favor. Because he did not want them to grow up as he did.
He forced his hand down, making an effort to smooth his face into neutral lines.
“I’m not angry,” Gwydion said. “Just tired. This game is for young children. You’re not children, are you?”
Dylan and Lleu shook their heads.
That was the trick. To make the games less appealing, less forbidden.
If only someone had done that for Gwydion, perhaps things would have been different. His right hand throbbed beneath its brace. The familiar ache was little more than background noise, but surrounded by cold iron and chill waters, he could not ignore the discomfort. “Come,” he said. “We should—”
It was Lleu’s sharp intake of breath that warned him.
Gwydion flung himself to one side, catching the twins with his arm and spinning so that they were behind him. Something sharp and metal hit the sewer wall where he’d been standing mereheartbeats before. The arrow glittered in the wavering light of Lleu’s lantern.
Two men stood twenty paces up the sewer. The spies from the street. One had an arrow nocked. The other man held a sword.Not spies, then, Gwydion thought.Killers.
Dylan raised one hand and thrust it forward, calling upon his magic. The water tried to answer. A weak little wave flickered up the sides of the sewer, then faltered. Dylan made a soft, pained noise. It was a valiant effort to defend them, but the assassins had chosen this ambush well.
Panic flared hot in Gwydion’s stomach. “Who sent you?” he said tightly. When he survived this, he needed to know where to aim his retribution.
He had every intention of surviving this.
The first man stepped forward. He carried his sword with an easy grace, and he flicked the blade so that he cut a line in the water. “Your brother has so many enemies,” said the man, “you likely wouldn’t even know her name.”
“I enjoy making new friends.” Gwydion’s hands remained at his sides. Visibly, he was no threat. But his fingers twitched toward a pouch on his belt.
