Arianrhod shifted in her seat. “You do have choices, even if none of them are what you desire.”
Gwydion swung his legs a little, the cold wind numbing his bare feet. His right hand ached in his lap, the familiar throb behind his knuckles. He would need to apply a poultice. The pain frayed his temper, made him want to lash out.
“Math has begun testing your sons,” he said. “The way he tested us. Those games he made us play to win his favor.”
Arianrhod’s lips paled. She, too, would remember the “games” that they had been given as children: stealing signet rings, bits of paper, whispers. It had all been to win their uncle’s favor after the death of their parents. Gwydion could still recall the thrill of sneaking a stolen ring from Amaethon’s pocket, the triumph when he had bested his brother. The games were a way for King Math to test his niece and nephews… and to gain an advantage over his rivals. Those games had ended rather abruptly—and at the thought, pain flared in Gwydion’s knuckles.
Arianrhod said, “I think it might be time to leave Caer Dathyl.”
“So you’ll run?” he asked, unable to hide the derision in his voice.
“I will take my sons somewhere safe,” said Arianrhod.
“They will never be safe,” retorted Gwydion. “No place in Gwynedd will be safe if Amaethon is king. Which is why you must take the throne.”
She was not perfect, but shecared. Those who grew up surrounded by cruelty either took that cruelty into themselves—or they armored themselves against it. If one’s family was the foundation from which they arose, then the house of Dôn was that of a briar patch: tangled thorns and hidden hurts. But from that, Arianrhod had raised her own sons with care and love. If she were given a kingdom, Gwydion had no doubt she would dedicate her life to making it a safe place for her sons—and for everyone else.
And his place at her side would be assured.
Arianrhod gazed at the horizon. “You will never convince Amaethon to give up a throne,” she said. “Contrary to the rumors, you are neither heartless nor ruthless enough to kill him. And I doubt anything you say will sway our uncle.”
“But if there was a way,” he said, “would you take the throne?”
Her lips pressed thin, her gaze gone distant. “To spite our brother, no. At Math’s behest, no. Even if you begged me to, no.” Her mouth softened, and her voice held a quiet warmth. “But for my children, I would. If it meant building a world where they might be safe and happy.” She shook her head. “It will never come to pass.”
“It will,” said Gwydion. “I’m going to make sure of it.”
Arianrhod offered him a tolerant little smile. She plucked one of the copper scales from her dress. Her fingers flowed in a gentle motion over the metal. At once, it changed—the shape twisting, the metal gone molten under her touch. In a matter of heartbeats, Arianrhod held a ring. It was twisted into the beautiful shape of an old tree.
“My dear brother,” she said, sliding the ring into his palm. “Your path is your own. Stay here or do not. Be Gwydion of Caer Dathyl or Gwydion of the Trees. But do not make the mistake of thinking it is easier to change the world than it is to change yourself.”
Gwydion looked down at the ring. It was beautiful and so delicately wrought that it made the dragon signet of Dôn look gaudy in comparison. For a moment, he allowed himself to consider the future if he slid that family ring from his finger and set it on the battlements. If he stood and walked from Caer Dathyl, with no intention to return.
He might have walked away. But the problem, he decided, withlooking at the world as a gardener was that he did not see maps and countries, armies and cities. He saw what could grow. What might grow.
He saw how the worldcouldchange.
Gwydion slipped the copper ring into his pocket.
“Tell me,” he said. “Did you catch the name of Ifor’s huntress?”
CHAPTER 8
BRANWEN WOKE WITH gritty eyes and a cat’s tail hitting her in the face.
“Palug,” she whispered, swatting him away. Palug sat beside her, his tail waving indolently. “Stop it, I’m awake.”
Palug rose and stretched, his claws gently flexing into the wood of the door. His meaning could not be plainer.
“All right.” Branwen heaved herself up with far less grace than her cat. Around the door latch she had bound a rope in a snare that only a hunter—or a weaver—could have untangled. It soothed her worries that her mam would slip out in the night. Quietly, she heaved the door open, and Palug darted outside. A waft of cold air touched Branwen’s cheek. The morning smelled of frost and the straw that Rhain had scattered across the mud puddles forming in the front yard.
She dressed beside the embers of the hearthfire, then slippedoutside. Dawn crept over the mountains, illuminating mist and fog. Branwen inhaled deeply, tugging her gloves into place. Palug came out of the bushes, tail held high. Branwen leaned down, and he jumped atop her shoulder, turned his face into her warm neck, and purred.
She loved this hour best. The world was caught between waking and sleeping, the pale violet sky flecked with stars. Mam would be safely tucked away in bed; she always slept better in the early morning.
Taking a deep breath, she set off toward Rhain’s farm. Something had been stealing from his fields—a few apples here, a patch of barley there. Branwen could not be sure if the thefts were magical in nature, but she set snares at the easternmost edge of his land and checked them every morning. Along each rope she slid a bit of iron—not enough to kill, but enough that it would entrap a lesser creature. It was a common deterrent, a way of letting the folk know that this land was claimed and defended.
Branwen knew more of the folk than most humans. Mortal ironfetches came into Argoed for supplies that could not be found within Annwvyn—herbs, clothing, tools. Two years ago, Branwen had befriended one ironfetch called Fane.
