courage?’ Gwydion drew another symbol in the air, and the king bellowed and threw his sword away as the metal glowed red-hot. ‘Fool. I have been using my time much more productively.’
‘Gwydion,’ began Wulfric, ‘you must—’
‘No. I don’t want to hear the word “must” from you. I don’t want to hear any more words from you.’ Another symbol: the king dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
Edith backed into the corner of the room, her eyes wide.
‘Gwydion, what have you done to yourself?’
Gwydion didn’t answer, but moved forwards until he was only separated from Edith by a hairsbreadth. He tilted her chin upwards.
‘So beautiful. How was I to know that such a face could conceal such a heart? A heart just as black as the one now sealed in a jar next to your father’s throne.’
‘Are you—’ Gwydion saw Edith’s throat convulse as she swallowed hard, ‘are you going to kill me?’
‘I cannot. But I swear, that as you have snatched away everything I love, everything I hoped for, so I will take away what you love most.’ Gwydion drew out the small dagger he carried at his waist and slashed down across the palm of his hand. He pressed his hand to Edith’s chest, smearing the blood across her skin. ‘You will not know the form of your punishment, you will not know the day or the hour, but eventually my retribution will find you, Edith. And then you will suffer, just as I am suffering now. You will taste the bitterness of despair.’
He ran to a smaller door that let out into the courtyard behind the hall. There were horses stabled there, as he remembered. The guards and stable hands presented no difficulties, and soon he was outside the walls of the keep.
Gwydion rode without direction or thought for hours, without resting or trying to find food, hoping that bodily exhaustion would counteract the agony of his mind. When he finally realised that he needed some sort of plan, his initial instinct was to head south, to one of the coastal villages. From there he could make his way across the sea to the Kingdom of the Franks, or maybe to the Celtic tribal lands farther west. But as he rode away from the downs, the folds of the hills forced him east. A little before sunset he came to the marshes that formed the eastern border of the kingdom: a flat, treacherous landscape, carved by criss-crossing streams and dotted with stagnant swamps. On the edge of the marshes he dismounted. If he went any further this way, it would be easier to travel on foot.
Gwydion tied his horse to a tree and sat on the ground, trying to force himself to make a decision. The whole plan of his life, for as long as he’d had a plan, had been built around the idea that Edith loved him, and that she would be his if only he could find a way to show he was more than just the son of a servant. And with Edith would come status, wealth, power. Now his plans had proved no more than a fantasy, what was he to do with himself? He could still turn south and try to reach to the coast. Or he could go on into the marshes, and return to the only possible home that now remained to him: the hidden hall of his master, Ranulf, an old and powerful wizard who had taught him his magic. Gwydion had left with Ranulf’s predictions of failure ringing in his ears, and without permission. It was possible Ranulf would try to kill him on sight.
The last shreds of Gwydion’s pride pushed him to turn away and head for the sea. But the oath he had sworn to take vengeance on Edith – to fulfil that oath, he needed to complete his training.
He let the horse go free, and stumbled forwards into the marshes.
Gwydion reached the house just before dusk. It was a long, low building, built on stilts hammered into the boggy ground; Ranulf had placed a charm upon the wood to stop it rotting. Gwydion hesitated as he approached the door, but not for long; he had not eaten or drunk for nearly two days, and thirst drove him forwards. The door opened at his touch. He fell upon his knees.
‘Well, boy?’ Ranulf was standing in front of him, wheezing, even wider and more misshapen than Gwydion remembered. ‘So you have returned to me, like the filthy dog you are?’
Gwydion risked looking up; if Ranulf had decided to kill him, he would not be bothering with questions. But there might be punishment. And that Gwydion would have to endure, if he wanted to learn the darkest of Ranulf’s arts. He braced himself, expecting pain.
But to his surprise, Ranulf laughed.
‘That princess of yours did indeed treat you like a dog, did she not? A fitting punishment for a disobedient apprentice. You look like you have suffered enough; for now, at least. Come.’
Ranulf led Gwydion into the house, set some wine and bread on the table and waved him to a chair.
‘So, boy, it is eight months since you left me, so full of your own plans and abilities. What do you have to say for yourself?’
Gwydion looked down at his hands. ‘You were right, Master. You were right about everything.’
‘Tell us then. Tell us what happened.’
Gwydion cleared his throat, and began describing the weeks he had spent searching for the Sorceress in the great northern forest. Eventually he had found her, living in an ancient stone tower surrounded by a huge hedge of black holly trees: black bark, black berries, dark green leaves with thick, sharp, spines. He’d also found the bodies of some of the men who had already tried to break through the hedge. The branches had blunted their swords, and the spines scratched them and plunged them into a poisoned sleep, a perpetual night from which they never awoke. Inside the hedge, the tower was guarded by three enormous ravens, with beaks sharp enough to pierce chainmail and rend flesh. Gwydion had spent another two months practising the runes that would allow him to bend the holly trees and the ravens to his will, before he attempted the tower.
‘I caused the hedge to open before me, and the ravens to become docile. After that, the Sorceress presented no difficulty: she was old and weak and had no other defence in place. Her magic was mostly that of potions and curses. She was attempting to work blood magic, to link the power of the shadow realm to a human body and thus create a dark servant, but she had not the skill.’
Ranulf grunted. ‘The magic and entities of that realm are evil and full of cunning. To summon such a one, and keep it housed within another’s form, that requires more than blood magic. Great mastery and great sacrifice are needed. How did you kill her?’
‘I cut out her heart, since I needed evidence of my deed. Then I searched for the princess. Edith was very…’ Gwydion faltered for a moment. ‘Very ill. We had to journey slowly on our return to Helmswick.’
‘Hmm. Go on.’
‘I don’t wish to—’
‘I told you to continue.’ Ranulf lifted a hand, threatening.
‘The king promised Edith’s hand in marriage to whomever rescued her. But he is a cheat and a liar. And so is she. During our childhood, before I left to come here – she made me think she loved me. But it was all mockery. She is to marry another.’
Ranulf laughed, the same unpleasant cackle Gwydion remembered.
‘What did I tell you, boy? Women are all the same: false and cunning. Their—’ a fit of coughing shook him, forcing him to break off. Gwydion refilled Ranulf’s ale mug and pushed it towards him. ‘Their love is like a shallow pond, liable to dry up if they are not constantly showered with compliments and gifts.’ He spat a gobbet of blood on to the floor. ‘All love is but love of self, a woman’s love doubly so. You should be thankful this Edith has found another fool to make miserable.’
Gwydion sat in silence. He didn’t feel thankful.
Ranulf watched him for a while.
‘And what would you now, boy?’
‘I wish to complete my training. If you are willing, Master.’
‘For what purpose? And do not tell me it is for love of me, or for the love of learning.’ He sat back in his chair, waiting.