“Come down, Gwydion,” said Amaethon, voice like simmering coals.
Gwydion did not go down. The last time he’d come down when Amaethon sounded like that, Gwydion had been nine and Amaethon sixteen. Gwydion had hidden in a hay loft, having stolen his older brother’s clothing after finding him and a girl rolling around in the stables. Gwydion still bore a scar in the shape of a man’s hand on his upper arm where Amaethon had gripped him.
“I rather enjoy the view from here,” said Gwydion lightly.
Amaethon snapped his fingers—and it was as though he had used firesteel. Flame bloomed in his hand.
The other two hunters fell into a quiet hush, their expressions torn between apprehension and wonder. Magic had that effect.
“Come down, brother,” said Amaethon. “Or I’ll do away with your hiding place.”
It was not a bluff. When Amaethon’s divining manifested itself, the king’s commander had taken the young boy to apprentice. Amaethon had been trained with steel and maps, battles and blood. And when his skill with flame proved to be deadly, the royal blacksmith crafted him a sword that could be stained with pitch and set alight. It wasn’t a practical sword, but the fear it instilled was a weapon all its own.
At the sight of the fire, unease flared in Gwydion’s stomach. He could feel the oak tree, the strength and the life beneath his fingertips. This had been a jest, a simple trick, and the tree should not burn for it. All around them, the song of the forest went silent.
Amaethon reached out, ready to set the oak alight—
And then his arm was jerked back, as though by some invisible force, cracking the back of his hand into his nose. There was a sickening crunch, and Amaethon dropped to his knees, both hands flying to his face. The fire dropped from his fingers and caught in a few fallen leaves. Amaethon looked more startled than pained, his gaze darting around him. But there was no one close enough to hurt him.
“What did you—” he began to say, fury in every word. But before he could react, a fourth figure stepped from the trees.
She wore a dress of copper—not dyed threads butcopper. The metal flowed down her neck and shoulders like snake scales. A scar was etched through her right brow and her dark hair was threaded with silver.
“Hello, brother,” she said, stepping on the fire. The flames guttered beneath her heel.
Amaethon glowered at her. He pulled his hand from his bleeding nose, glaring at his rings as though they had committed a deepbetrayal. As fire answered to Amaethon, metal answered to his sister.
“Arianrhod,” Amaethon gritted out from behind his broken nose.
“Younger brothers,” she said, with a sidelong look at the visiting nobles. “They never stop squabbling, do they?”
That brought forth the loudest laugh, but Gwydion heard an undercurrent of relief beneath the mirth. They were glad to return to the thrust and parry of a verbal spar, rather than the threat of a wildfire.
“Come along,” said Arianrhod. “My uncle sent word that his baker has spun together some new delight, and he wishes to share it with you.” She inclined her head toward Amaethon. “You, as well.”
“Of course,” Amaethon said, recovering his temper. His moods burned away as swiftly as his divined flame, and he looked as amiable as any young man on a fox hunt. He led the hunters away, their voices and the hounds’ barking fading into the quiet sounds of the forest.
Arianrhod crossed her arms. The copper scales of her dress glittered in the morning sunlight. “Come down, Gwydion.”
This time, he did.
“Before you say a word,” said Gwydion, his bare feet softly hitting the earth, “I would like to remind you that I just gave you the best gift you will receive this autumn.”
Arianrhod’s mouth was set in a disapproving line. “Did you?”
Gwydion grinned. “No one else at the festival next week will have the joy of breaking Amaethon’s nose.”
Her frown fractured into a begrudging smile, one that she hidbehind her hand. She had a smith’s hands—flecked with burn scars and calluses.
“Admit it,” said Gwydion. “You’ve wanted to do that for years.”
“He’ll snore worse than ever now,” said Arianrhod.
“When he finally gets his wish to invade Dyfed, they’ll hear him coming.”
Arianrhod made a sound that was half exhale, half laugh. “I’m sure he’ll tell everyone that it was broken in a valiant battle with an afanc. And not that his older sister made him punch himself.”
“You could use the rumor to your advantage,” said Gwydion. “Story has a power all its own. A few whispers, and all will know you as the powerful diviner that drove the would-be prince to his knees.”
