When the morning sunlight touched their leaves, the treessang. The song rose and fell, a murmur of appreciation and comfort—unheard by all but him.
The wind rustled through the browning leaves, and there was an answering groan. It might simply have been the creak of wood, shifting as sunlight warmed tree bark. But Gwydion could hear something flitting beneath the trees, rushing in a desperate attempt to escape.
Gwydion rose. He did not run; he did not even quicken his pace. He simply walked barefoot through the wood, and when he pushed the ferns aside, he saw the creature.
The fox was small, with fear-wild eyes and heaving breaths.
“Hello there, little one,” said Gwydion softly. He kept his voice low, the way he did when his nephews woke from nightmares. “You look as though you’ve had better mornings.”
The fox trembled. It was a beautiful creature, with sleek fur and dark eyes. It looked at Gwydion, unsure of which way to run. There came the distant bay of a hound. The fox flinched, its ears low against its head.
Gwydion heaved a sigh. Of course the hounds would catch the scentnow.
“My brother would enjoy having your pelt as a trophy,” Gwydion said. “But he ruined my morning, so I’m inclined to return the favor.” He rose to his feet and hummed softly. The roots of the tree parted, becoming a narrow corridor. The fox looked at the new path, unconvinced.
A howl rang out. The fox’s ears flattened in panic, and it bolted.
Gwydion followed. He had never been good with long distances; too much exertion left him winded and exhausted for hours. But he was a swift sprinter.
And in a forest, no one could catch him.
He divined a path through the oaks and alders, over tangled vetch and through late harvest wildflowers. The morning air was sweet in his chest—sun-burnished grasses, the tartness of blackberries, and a last whisper of autumn. As he ran, Gwydion guided the fox. He opened paths through the growth, keeping the creature going in the right direction.
From behind came the thud of hooves, the cries of hunters, and the barking of hounds. The sounds spurred Gwydion on. His brother had been the one to drag him from the castell.It’s not as though you’re doing anything useful, Amaethon had laughed as he pulled Gwydion from a desk full of coded correspondences and scattered notes.
The fox darted through Gwydion’s path, tired but determined. Perhaps it was the creature’s will to live that made him sympathize with it.
He hummed again, and the forest shifted, opening another path. This one led into a thicket of briars so tangled that the gardeners must have given up. Gwydion murmured, and the briars opened—just the slightest bit. The fox hesitated, looking into the depths. Once the fox vanished into those briars, nothing would catch it.
“Go on,” said Gwydion.
The fox glanced at him, its eyes wide. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Gwydion thought he saw gratitude in the creature’s gaze. It flitted into the thicket. Gwydion waited a heartbeat, then he closed the path behind the fox.
He had chosen briars for a reason. He reached to pluck several tufts of fur from the thorns. He turned them over in his fingers and darted in the other direction. He let a few strands fall as he sprinted around a thick oak. The bay of the hunting hounds echoed all around him.
With a whisper, Gwydion called to the tree. The old oak dozed in the morning sunlight, its golden and brown leaves fluttering in the breeze. At Gwydion’s call, the oak slowly lowered one of its branches. There was an unhurried grace to the gesture; this tree had seen centuries—kings and princes, hunts and fights. A lone divinerthat smelled of fox and walked barefoot was of little consequence to the oak.
Gwydion took hold of the proffered branch and heaved himself upward. He took care to put weight on his left hand; his right hand bore the old wood-and-leather brace that kept his index and middle fingers from bending too far. Once he was secure, the oak shifted again, lifting him the way an adult might heft a child to their shoulder. Soon, the oak would be sleeping for the winter; now, it would be shelter for yet another hunted creature.
When the tree went still, Gwydion was shrouded by leaves and morning mist. He waited.
He did not have to wait long.
Three horses cantered along a well-worn path. Their hounds hastened after them, barking and nipping at one another as they chased the scent of prey. One of the hounds, a long-eared creature with a sagging face, sniffed diligently around the roots of the old oak. The other hounds seemed to catch on, and then all of them were circling the tree and barking—at first in eagerness, then in confusion. These creatures had been bred to hunt and give chase, but they could not find their prey.
The hunters drew their horses to a halt. The first, a golden-haired noble with freckles along his pale cheekbones, gazed at the tree. “Has the fox taken refuge among the roots? An old den, perhaps?”
“I don’t see one.” The second noble had dark skin and hair bound into intricate braids. She frowned. “Did the hounds pick up a second trail?”
The last hunter slid from his horse. Amaethon, son of Dôn, had burnished red-gold hair, fair skin, and all the warmth of a hawkwatching for mice. Only he knew to look upward. “Brother,” he said the word like a curse.
Gwydion grinned down at him. “I wondered when you would arrive.”
“I should have known you would take the place of the fox,” said Amaethon. “Rather fitting, considering your temperament. And I admit, skinning you does have a certain appeal.” There came a low chuckle from the other hunters.
“But would I end up a rug before your hearthfire, or would you wear me like a cloak?” asked Gwydion, raising his brows. “I could live with the former. A little rest, a little warmth.”
This brought forth a louder bout of laughter. A victory in Gwydion’s favor.
