Glendower was a legend in most ways. A mystical giant who’d left a permanent footprint.
But this story … some of the Welsh weren’t convinced that throwing sticks at their English neighbours would improve Wales’s dire straits. In particular, one of Glendower’s cousins, a man named Hywel.
Glendower was a lawyer and —like Gansey— a believer in the power of words. He arranged to meet Hywel alone in a deer park to talk it all over.
Gansey was untroubled with the story up to this point. This was the Glendower he’d follow anywhere.
Then, the two men spotted a deer. Hywel lifted his bow. But instead of shooting the animal, he let the arrow fly at Glendower … who had cleverly worn chain mail beneath his tunic.
Gansey would’ve preferred the story to end here.
But it didn’t. Instead, unharmed by the arrow and enraged by the betrayal, Glendower pursued Hywel, stabbed him, and finally stuffed Hywel’s body inside an oak tree.
All the stabbing and stuffing and utter loss of temper seemed rather ignoble. Gansey wished he hadn’t ever found the story. There was no unreading it. But now, after hearing Kavinsky’s slow laugh on the other end of the line, imagining Ronan drunk in his absence from Henrietta, picturing the Camaro in any state other than how he’d left it, Gansey thought he finally glimpsed understanding.
He was at once closer and farther from Glendower than he’d been before.