I meet Hywel and Rhys that evening.

  Rhys barely acknowledges me, but Hywel circles me and examines me from head to foot.

  “Just another lost peasant,” he says, dismissing me and crawling onto his bed beside Rhys.

  Something about him makes my skin prickle. I glance down and I’m not surprised to see tiny flashes of blue gurek humming around my flesh.

  What caused that reaction? Does Hywel have magic also? Or is it a warning?

  “Yes, just another boy,” Gar says. “No boots for you to steal.”

  “Hey.” Hywel sits up and scowls at him. “I didn’t steal those boots.”

  “None of us can prove you did, you mean,” Gar says. “But we know you didn’t buy them.”

  “We’re all thieves here,” Rhys speaks up. “That’s why I sleep with my boots on.” He lifts his feet to demonstrate, and Gar grins.

  “Aye, I suppose none of us is above it,” he says.

  I say nothing. Gar knows I stole that horse. I have no moral high ground.

  And I don’t want Hywel to notice me.

  I spread the bag of straw on the ground and lie down, then I utter a sigh of surprise at how soft and comfortable it is. My whole body aches and begs to rest. I close my eyes, feeling the moisture behind my eyelids as I remember my hasty flight from Caerfyrddin.

  Everything I left behind. Everything I lost. Mam. Tad. Tarrant. Brenin.

  My body shakes with a suppressed sob, and I inhale and hold my breath, then roll inward to face the wall. I won’t let them label me a crybaby on my first night.

  “He’s going to get cold by himself,” Rhys says.

  “Myrddin,” Gar says. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor. There’s space on the bed for both of us.”

  I don’t roll over or open my eyes. “I’m comfortable here.”

  A wool blanket smacks the back of my head, and Gar says, “In case you get cold.”

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  There’s no fire here, and no fire in the room beneath ours, since a second story can’t be built above a hearth. At home I would wrap my cloak around me for warmth, but I don’t have it. I turn to thank him, but he blows out the candle and plunges us into darkness.

  I feel a little guilty, but not enough to make him take back the blanket. Instead I bunch it up around my eyes and let it soak up my tears.

  There’s no time to sneak away in the morning to approach King Wthyr’s court.

  I’m barely able to get out of the house before anyone else to relieve myself in privacy, squatting in the bushes and hissing at the piss to hurry, hurry, before I see the back door open. I stand and rearrange my tunic and try to make it appear I was pissing on my feet the same as any other boy.

  We are busy from sun-up until the midday meal.

  I work alongside Gar, my arms trembling with fatigue, my body aching. He gives me breaks while he pitches the hay.

  “You’ll get stronger,” he tells me. “But it takes a few weeks.”

  The sun is high when we finish with our day. We tend to the horses and the pigs and sweep out the street in front of the house. We drag our sweaty selves inside for food, and I know I’ve missed my chance to get to the court.

  The next few days blend together, and I become more and more anxious as I realize my morning hours are all accounted for. And while Gar is polite, he is watchful and obedient.

  I have no choice. I must feign sickness and avoid a day’s work.

  I spend an extra amount of time in the dark behind the house that evening, pretending to empty my bowels while actually trying to summon the gurek so they can help me fake an illness. The evening air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, and I shiver slightly, both from the chill and the anxiety gnawing at my gut. The good-for-nothing sprites don’t appear, and I curse them under my breath, though it could be that they are trapped by my talisman.

  I dig my fingers into the damp soil, finding some relief in the cool, calming dirt. I inhale the slightly sweet scent of decay and mold.

  Mushrooms.

  A shiver runs across my shoulders as my mind fixes on an idea. Mushrooms can induce sickness—I've heard the stories from the old women in the village. Their whispered tales of foragers who became violently ill after mistaking a deadly cap for an edible one haunt my thoughts. I don’t need to die; I just need to be convincingly ill, too sick to fulfill my duties but not so sick that I can't recover.

  I recall the shapes and colors from those tales, the illustrations in an ancient herbarium I looked through at the market once. I can picture one quite clearly, a brown cap with a white stalk, speckled with darker spots, that induces strong nausea but isn’t usually fatal. But in the pitch black of the night, I can’t see the colors or patterns. I feel the rough texture of the cap and the slight give when I press it.

  I curse the fading light and my own desperation. I have no torch or lantern—such things would draw attention, and the last thing I need is anyone noticing my prolonged absence. The servants' quarters are too close, the master's eye too sharp.

  I hope it’s not the kind that will kill me. If I don’t act now, my deception will be uncovered by morning, and I can't risk being found out. With a deep breath, I steel myself.

  I offer a quick, silent prayer to any listening spirits, beseeching them for protection. And then I pluck up the mushroom and bite into it.

  The taste is earthy and bitter, sending a shiver down my spine. I chew quickly, swallowing the lump in my throat, and sit back on my heels, waiting for the effects to take hold.