Chapter 29
All four guards stationed outside the tent go rigid, their hands moving to their sword hilts in unison as they stare into the forest. A long moment passes where it feels like no one breathes, like the air itself is listening.
The guards’ attention remains locked on the trees. Mine is locked on them.
Come on. Take the bait.
Another whistle sounds, followed by a thunk that echoes through the night.
I bite the insides of my cheeks, silently cursing Gwenydd.
It sounds too much like exactly what it is: an arrow striking a tree.
If the Rhyfelwr believe an enemy force is attacking, at least one of them will run for the adjoining camp where the king’s soldiers wait.
Brioc and I can sneak past a handful of the Order. We can’t hide from an entire army.
One of the guards steps away from the others.
He wears his silver hair cropped close to his head, and a matching tattoo swirls across the back of his neck and around his Order talisman.
I know him as Maelor. Intelligent, skilled with a sword, and…
kind. Well, kinder than most Rhyfelwyr have ever been to me, though that isn’t saying much.
“You two stay here,” he orders, pointing at the guards I don’t recognize. “Owen and I will check the woods.”
He and Owen disappear into the trees while the other two remain posted outside the tent, their eyes more alert than they were the moment before.
Around the campfire, the others keep laughing, eating and drinking, like nothing at all has happened.
Either they’ve missed the commotion entirely, or they don’t care.
Beside me, Brioc inclines his head toward the tent. I wince and shake my head.
He leans closer, murmuring softly. “We go around the back. I can take one if you get the other.”
This wasn’t the plan. Gwenydd’s diversion was meant to draw all four away, though we should have guessed they’d never leave the harp fully unguarded.
Brioc is already moving, edging around the side of the nearest tent and out of sight.
I can see the path he intends to take, and if we stay silent enough, it might work.
Muttering a curse under my breath, I follow.
Slowly, we creep closer and round the adjacent tent.
The backs of the Rhyfelwyr come into view, along with the talismans embedded in their necks.
Black veins snake out from their centers.
Their Swynwragedd have worked spellcraft on them recently, likely enhancing their senses to aid the watch. One wrong move, and they’ll hear us.
I try to signal Brioc a warning, but he’s already closing the distance with the hilt of his sheathed sword turned in their direction. My teeth clench hard. The nearest guard shifts his weight, and I freeze, pulse hammering so hard I’m certain the Order magic in his veins can hear it.
But Brioc is still moving. I tighten my grip on my dagger and force myself to keep pace.
We reach them only a heartbeat later. Brioc strikes first and slams the hilt into the back of one guard’s head.
I brace myself and hit the other. The impact jars all the way up my arm, and the grunt that spills out of him is far too loud.
Both crumple instantly. Brioc hooks his hands beneath one man’s arms and drags him out of sight. Still silently cursing him, I do the same with mine.
The scrape of their bodies against the dirt sounds deafening to my ears, but when we risk a glance around the tent, no one’s looking our way.
We duck inside.
A soft glow spills across the silk walls.
A perfumed scent swirls through the air—half Order magic, half something else.
On a raised wooden platform in the center of the room stands a gilded harp.
Its strings are luminous, like they’re spun from gold.
A soft gasp spills from my lips. Something about it catches hold of me, tugging me closer, like its soul has called to mine.
The air around it seems to hum, vibrating against my skin like the echo of distant music. I can almost hear something familiar beneath it…Taliesin’s song?
Brioc blocks my path with his arm. “Careful.”
I frown at him. “We need to move it. And fast, before those guards wake up.”
“I know.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “But I don’t think we should touch it with our bare hands.”
I nod. “All right. That’s probably wise.”
Magic requires touch in most cases. For a Swynwraig to funnel strength and precision into their Rhyfelwr, they must make contact with the Rhyfelwr’s talisman.
To summon nearby talismans, one must touch their own.
And it goes beyond Order magic, too. The only exception I’ve ever heard of is Taliesin, and his magic is so unique in so many ways that I doubt it’s relevant here.
This harp is practically humming with magic. If it reacts to us at all, it will happen the moment we lay hands on it.
I rip off a strip from my tunic and wrap it around my hands.
Brioc does the same. And then together, we approach the harp.
Its hum vibrates through the air, burrowing into my bones.
My eyes water; my lungs tighten. Immense power thrums inside this instrument, far greater than anything I’ve ever encountered.
No wonder the Order was so desperate to get their hands on it.
The thought unsettles me. This is not the kind of thing that should ever fall into the wrong hands. Can I trust Rhian with it? Or Gwenydd? They swear their intentions are good, but how can I be sure? I’ve been lied to my entire life without realizing it. Clearly, I’m not a great judge of character.
“You ready?” Brioc asks as we reach the harp.
“No, not really,” I admit. “Getting inside was the easy part. Getting out alive, carrying this thing, is another matter.”
As if to punctuate my words, cool steel whispers across the back of my neck.
“Don’t move.”
I stiffen, every drop of blood in my body plunging into my stomach.
“Raise your hands,” the familiar voice commands. Maelor…but how? He should be out in the woods right now, distracted by Taliesin’s ice.
Dread lances through me. What’s happened to him?
A thousand images crash through my mind all at once. Taliesin trapped beneath an iron net. A roar of pain ripping from his chest. Lifeless silver eyes staring up at the starless sky.
“I said raise your hands.” The blade at my neck presses harder.
I obey, lifting them slowly beside my head. As I do, my mind races. What can I do? If it’s only Maelor and Owen, I might reach one of their throats while Brioc fights the other. We’d have to move fast, and he’d have to know at once what I have in mind.
But even as the thought forms, my chest tightens. I know Maelor. Using my power against him feels wrong.
“Good. Now turn around, Angharad,” he says.
Slowly, I pivot, my arms still raised. As his piercing gaze sweeps across me, I look past him, expecting to find Taliesin and Gwenydd bound in chains. Or worse. But the tent is empty save for several warriors from the campfire, and Owen, who is methodically patting Brioc down.
I examine their leathers for blood, but there’s no sign of a fight on any of them. What happened to Taliesin? Is he safe?
Maelor frowns. “Where’s your bow?”
“A bow? We don’t have—” Brioc starts.
“Where you’ll never find it,” I cut in, my heart pounding. If Maelor doesn’t realize there’s more of us, maybe they missed Gwenydd and Taliesin somehow. Maybe he’s okay.
Maybe there’s still a way out of this.
Maelor scowls like he doesn’t believe me, slowly shaking his head.
“Angharad. What a disappointment to see you here…with a rebel. When the High Swynwragedd told us you’d left, I couldn’t believe it.
I was certain you’d return and beg for penitence.
After everything the Order’s done for you, how could you walk away? ”
I rear back. “What are you talking about? I didn’t walk away. They sent me on an assignment.”
“An assignment without Osian?” He shakes his head. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I’m telling the truth. I signed a document,” I insist, heat rising in my face.
How could they? The Order has told everyone I deserted. They’ve painted me as a traitor rather than tell the truth about my assignment. Realization twists like a snake in my gut.
Taliesin was right all along.
If I’d returned to Caer Draen when I said I would, they would have taken me prisoner, assignment completed or not.
Even with a revenant in hand, even after fulfilling their demands.
The moment I killed that rebel in the borderlands—the moment I resurrected Osian—it was over for me.
They were never going to let me walk free after that.
They would have kept me caged until they had another use for me.
A terrible ache widens inside my chest. All those smiles. All those gifts. They were nothing but pretty lies meant to keep me obedient while they slowly tightened the leash around my throat.
“Hmm.” Maelor arches a skeptical brow. “Then what are you doing with this rebel, Angharad?”
I clench my hands. “I won’t answer any more questions.”
“Have it your way.” He turns to the warriors behind him. “Chain her.”
Owen gestures toward Brioc. “What about him?”
A pause. “Him, too. We might be able to extract some useful information about the rebels’ base.”
Three Rhyfelwyr advance on me, chain in already in hand, while the others surround Brioc.
I wet my lips, my eyes darting around the tent.
If I ran, how far would I make it before someone buried a sword in my back?
My stomach twists. Not far. They’ll all have fresh spellwork on them.
With that unnatural strength in their limbs, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
The warriors reach me. One roughly grabs my arms and wrenches them behind my back. Iron bites into my skin as manacles snap around my wrists. Fear and anger burn through my chest. Chained, once again.
Maelor’s fingers dig into my shoulder as he pushes me forward, steering me out of the tent.
Brioc stumbles beside me, his face red with fury.
The moment we step outside, my gaze snaps to the forest where we left Taliesin and Gwenydd.
I search desperately for any sign of a chattering pine marten scurrying past, or frost creeping across the ground like death searching for its next victim.
But all is still, quiet, and as warm as it ever is this far north—which is to say the trees blunt the worst of the wind, though my still breath frosts before me as we’re escorted toward a smaller tent nearby. Canvas has been stretched around a tree that splits the structure down the middle.
The interior is empty other than a few lanterns, and a moment later I understand why.
The Rhyfelwyr shove us down beside the trunk and fasten our chains around it, trapping us in place. Bark digs into my spine. There’s barely enough slack to breathe.
Maelor folds his arms. He refuses to meet my eyes, like he can’t bear the sight of me.
“You’re to stay here until we decide what to do with you,” he says.
“Let me speak with Seren—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand. “The High Swynwraig has returned to Caer Draen. We’ve sent a letter, but it’s up to me what happens until we hear back. For now, you’ll stay here.”
Maelor backs away toward the entrance, his face unreadable in the lantern glow. Then he turns and ducks through the tent flap, the others following close behind him. Their footsteps thud against the ground outside before gradually fading into the noise of the camp.
Silence falls heavy inside the tent.
Brioc shifts against the tree trunk and tests the chains around his wrists.
“Well,” he mutters, “that could have gone better.”
Despite everything, a breath of strained laughter bursts free, but it dies quickly. My thoughts keep circling back to the forest beyond the camp, to Taliesin and Gwenydd. Maelor came back alone. If Taliesin escaped, he’ll come for us. If he didn’t…
I force the thought away before it drags me somewhere darker.
A cold gust rattles the canvas overhead. At first, I barely notice it. This far north, there’s always at least a chill in the air. But then frost begins creeping toward us in thin white lines.
Brioc goes still beside me.
The temperature drops so sharply my breath catches in my throat. Ice spiders up the tree trunk behind us, spreading over the bark in crackling layers. Outside, confused voices ring through the camp.
“What’s happening?”
“The fires—”
A shout cuts through the noise, followed by the unmistakable ring of steel being drawn. My heart lurches. Brioc twists toward me, his eyes wide as a scream echoes through the night.
Then, all at once, the orange glow outside the tent goes out.