My head jerks up, and I know instinctively I’ve got to get out. I’ve got to leave.

No, you don’t, the voice says. Fight them. You can kill them.

I don’t want to kill anyone.

But you can.

I dash for door, tempted to burn the house to the ground with the bodies within it.

There’s no time.

The prince’s horse snorts at me the moment I step outside.

For a moment, I stand on the hillside, staring in utter disbelief at the village burning below. At the king’s men, fighting not against the raiders, but beside them.

King Afon betrayed us.

Where is Tad? Where are the men we sent to fight for the king?

I banish the thoughts. Mam is dead, Tad is gone, and my brother is missing. He’s my priority. My mind screams at me to flee, to get away, but I won’t until I find Terrant.

The horse grunts behind me, and I turn to it, seeing a fortuitous opportunity. I grasp the mane and haul myself onto its back just as a man jumps out at me from the shadows. The horse whinnies and rears up, and I scream, because my emotions are in my throat, seeping out of me.

“Amrys!” the man says, and I recognize his voice.

“Brenin,” I half gasp, half sob. His light, wavy hair is gray with ash and his face is covered in soot, and blood weeps over his left brow from a gash on his forehead. But his light eyes are clear, his jaw tight.

To think, tonight he would have claimed me as his wife.

“Quickly,” he says, glancing over his shoulder and holding a hand up.

The soldiers are racing toward us on their horses. I grasp his arm and haul him onto the horse, and then I take off for the back of the house, winding through the trees to lose our pursuers before skirting south and making for the river, pushing the horse past the barren rocks and crumbly bushes toward the tree line.

Brenin’s arm tucks around my waist, pulling me against him. “Are you injured, Amrys?” he says, his voice loud in my ear.

“No.” I shake my head and picture the carnage I left behind me. A shudder ripples through me.

How can I explain what happened?

Brenin can never know.

The horse tries to flee toward the trees, but I turn his head, directing him down the hill.

“Stop,” Brenin says. “Where are you going? Amrys, stop.”

“The river,” I say, not stopping. The tears blow sideways across my face, driven by the wind. “I have to get to Terrant. I have to save him.”

“Don’t go back. Stop here.”

“No.” I grind my teeth, my jaw clenching. “I’m not leaving him.”

“Amrys, stop,” Brenin says again.

My stomach clenches at the way he says my name. With care. With sympathy. With concern.

I pull the horse up short, and Brenin slides from it.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. My teeth chatter, and not from cold.

“This is where we part, Amrys,” he says. “You need to leave here. Ride for Beaufort. Go, quickly, before they find your trail.”

I shake my head. His words don’t make sense to me. “Didn’t you hear me? I have to get to Terrant!”

“Terrant is dead,” Brenin says, and my head snaps toward him.

“What?” I breathe. For a moment the screams and yells of battle disappear behind a ringing in my ears. My chest tightens like I’m enclosed in a cage as my younger brother’s face flashes behind my eyes. “No. I’ll find him.”

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Brenin takes one of my hands, holding it loosely in his. “I saw it, Amrys. The raiders reached the river first. I watched them slaughter the children.”

I shrink from his grasp, but his grip tightens, and he shakes me.

“Listen. Listen! I went to your house to find you. To tell you to run while you can. The soldiers will take everything and burn what’s left.”

“I can’t,” I say, a sob escaping. “I can’t leave here. I have nothing.”

“You have life!” He shakes me harder. “Look how the goddess smiles on you, giving you a horse! Take it and live, Amrys!”

I shake my head, sobbing so hard I can’t breathe, I can’t see. “Come with me.” I clutch at his hand. “Come with me, Brenin.”

“They have taken my sisters,” he says, his voice low. “I will not leave them to their hands.”

He will not. Any more than I would leave, if I thought Terrant were alive somewhere.

But the soldiers will kill Brenin also.

Weapons clang nearby. The old men, the ones left behind because they are unfit for battle, fight desperately besides the younger men, those who haven’t proven themselves in battle yet. Trying to save their wives and daughters, mothers and sisters. Brenin glances at them, his jaw twitching, and I know he wants to join them. A line of women and children scurry through the underbrush, hoping to get across the river before the soldiers hunt them down.

“King Afon set us up,” I whisper, understanding falling over me like mist on a fall morning. “He summoned our men, contracted the use of our horses, and then sent his soldiers to slaughter us.”

“They’re looking for something,” Brenin says, his voice hushed but urgent. “Something they believe we’re hiding in the village.”

Heir of the magic-bearer.

Prince Madoc’s words ring through my ears.

“They’re looking for someone,” I murmur.

Brenin turns back to me, though I’m not sure if he heard my words. He pulls on my arms and stands on his toes so we are nearly the same height, and he kisses my mouth. I taste the acrid flavor of blood and salt before he releases me. “Go north, along the river, find a village. Don’t go south. Stay clear of the great king.”

Wthyr. I’ve heard my father speak of him with a hiss in his words, hatred in his voice.

“I’ll go to Buellt,” I say. “I’ll plead with the king to send a garrison to Caerfyrddin and redeem the village.”

Brenin squeezes my arm. “You can try.”

“I will succeed,” I vow. I glance back at the smoke rising behind us. “King Afon shall not have this land.”

“Even if you don’t succeed, when the time is right, come back to me, Amrys.”

“Brenin—Brenin—” I clutch at him as he pulls away, panicking. He is my last link to home. “How will I find you?”

“I’ll go to my father’s people. Take this.” Brenin pulls a dagger from his belt and puts it in my hand. He puts an arm around me and pulls me close, then whispers in my ear, “Tell no one who you are.” He releases me. “Now go.” He smacks the horse’s rump, and the beast takes off with a grunt, leaving me no choice but to hold on and keep my head down.

***

Terrant is dead.

My hands shake, and I can’t believe he is gone. Just hours ago my mam sent me to find him.

Mam.

There is nothing else here for me.

I turn my back on Caerfyrddin and ride for the trees.

Behind me, the town burns.

Other villagers flee into the forest to the east, but I avoid them. If we run in a cluster, we are more likely to be caught. Instead, I head north. I will ford the river at Eglofnowith.

The horse clomps through the woods, putting miles between us and Caerfyrddin. I have to direct him back to the forest several times as he tries to make his way to the old Roman roads. They would make my travel faster, but they would also make it easier to find me. Silence falls around me as we move farther from the carnage, the sounds of death and victory fading away.

Tears flow unceasing down my face. I sniff and wipe at them, and when my hand comes away brown with dried blood, I realize the terrible state I must be in. I could use a good wash.

But my thoughts are stuck on my mam and tad, and the physical ache in my chest makes it difficult to breathe. I can’t fathom a life without them. Without my brother. Or Brenin.

I close my eyes, tortured by thoughts of the future I almost had, ripped away from my fingertips.

Brenin’s sisters are as good as dead. I know it. Brenin knows it. He’s a farmer, not a warrior, but he will fight if he has to. He can handle a sword almost as well as I can. But he will die in the attempt.

My breath shudders through me, the loss a fissure of pain in my heart.

King Afon did this. His orders destroyed my village.

My eyes open as anger burns like fire in my chest, wicking away my despair and refueling my veins with something stronger and headier.

Vengeance.

It wasn’t enough to kill his son. I need to kill him.

The buzzing is back. Pinging around in my head.

I sit up straighter on the horse, blinking, confusion creasing my brow. The black spots hover around me, sticking to my skin like oil. I try to shake them off, but they won’t go.

“What are you?” I whisper.

I want them off. I hate the way they feel, clinging to me.

I take the dagger from my waistband and scrape at them, trying to ply them from my skin, but the sharp blade slices my palm. I let out a cry and drop the knife, grasping my hand and watching the bright red blood bead along my skin.

In an instant, the ash-like creatures swarm around it. I stare in part horror, part fascination as the black pulls away from my skin and sucks itself into the wound, turning the blood black unto the wound closes up, knitting itself shut, concealing the darkness entirely under my flesh.

I turn my hands over in wonder, but the black is gone. The buzzing is gone. My flip my palms upward and let out a cry of surprise.

In place of the raw, red edges of a new cut, a black rune is tattooed across my hand.

Goosebumps pop up across my flesh.

I’ve seen this rune. I’ve seen it carved into the blades my father made in his forge.

And on my thigh. My hand runs down to trace the bumpy mark on my skin. I first noticed it about a month ago.

The same time I began to hear the voices.

Heir of the magic-bearer.

I want to banish the words from my mind.

But ignoring them won’t change what’s happening.