Gwydion knew why—because to send soldiers into those woods would be tantamount to a declaration of war. A barwn’s son wasn’t worth the risk.
“You are supposed to protect our lands from those—those monsters,” said Ifor, his voice shaking with badly repressed fury. “I see little reason for my lands to support your throne if you will sit idle while the otherfolk slaughter humans.”
Abruptly, King Math rose. The hall fell silent.
“Your lands,” said Math quietly, “belong to you at my pleasure. Your family has long stood in support of Gwynedd’s throne, and if that should ever waver, then you will have far more to grieve than the loss of one son.”
Fury flooded Ifor’s reddened face. He took half a step, and every guard in the hall tensed. Arianrhod slipped her hand free of Dylan’s, her fingers at the ready. If Ifor made a move, she would slam him into the ground with a gesture. Gwydion watched, waiting to see how this would play out.
“Strong words,” snarled Ifor, “for one with no heir.”
Someone near Gwydion inhaled sharply.
Math did not answer Ifor’s anger with his own; rather, his expression drained of warmth. He looked upon Ifor the way a butcher might gaze upon meat, deciding the best way to slice it into pieces.
“The matter of my heir has been decided,” said Math. His voice was quiet but no less powerful. “And while I have not shared that knowledge withyou”—his mouth twisted at the corner on the lastword—“it will be announced at the festival.” He leaned closer to Ifor. “And I suggest you do not take this up with my heir. He has less patience than I.”
Gwydion tried to swallow, but his throat suddenly felt too dry.
The matter of inheritance had long been one that weighed upon Gwynedd. Math had no children of his own, but he did have four nephews and a niece.
Arianrhod stiffened. Her fingers went still, and her arm fell back to her side. “So he’s decided, then.”
Gwydion could not answer. He was not sure he could speak.
“What is it, Mam?” said Lleu, looking up at her.
She shushed him.
Math gestured for the guards to escort the barwn from his hall.
“Fool,” Gwydion said quietly.
Arianrhod watched Ifor, her gaze a little sad. “I pity him. Losing a child like that… I understand going to such lengths. He even hired a huntress when his soldiers gave up the hunt.” She looked at Gwydion. “One willing to venture into Annwvyn.”
Gwydion’s brows drew tight. “Truly?”
“She has hunted there before,” replied Arianrhod. “One of my maids said she slew a llamhigyn y dwr that had taken to drowning children.”
Gwydion snorted. “It’s more likely she dragged an overlarge toad from some farmer’s well.”
Arianrhod gave a delicate shrug. “Well, truth or not, she returned the lad’s signet ring. If she were a thief, she might have held her tongue and kept the silver.”
“True enough.” Gwydion looked at Math. The old king wasretreating toward his study, extracting himself from his advisers. “Are you disappointed?”
“That the barwn’s son is dead? I think I shall recover.”
Gwydion gave her a sharp look. “You know what I mean.”
Arianrhod glanced away. Her attention seemed to settle on the yew-tree throne.
“It was never mine,” she murmured, as though speaking to herself. “It was never going to be mine.”
“It should be,” said Gwydion.
Arianrhod shook her head. “I thought he might have chosen Gofannon.”
“That would require Gofannon to set foot on land,” replied Gwydion. “We both know how unlikely that would be. Our brother would miss his boats far too much to settle on a throne.” His mirth drained away. “You would be a better ruler than Amaethon.”
