Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

B RANWEN SPENT MUCH of the afternoon digging a grave.

The shovel was old, the blade worn sharp and thin. It cut through the dying grass and dry soil, but the soil was rocky and stubborn. The work went slowly.

Branwen lost herself in the digging. There were other duties to tend to—she needed to return to Argoed and speak with Davies’s widow. She needed to tell the villagers about Rhain’s passing. Her mam’s herbs still needed to be bought. Rhain’s animals would need tending.

There was so much to be done; she ached with grief and exhaustion.

Part of her yearned to kneel beside Rhain, to simply sit next to him and pretend the old man was merely napping. But Branwen forced herself to dig.

She picked a place beneath an old oak tree. Rhain had often sat beneath it, enjoying the shade and view of his farm. It’s a nice place to hear myself think , he once said.

She hoped that he would find this place as peaceful in death as he had in life.

Time passed—hours, though she could not be sure how many. Mam was at home, and Gwydion had gone… somewhere. Branwen could not bring herself to care about anything beyond the shovel in her hands, the weight of dirt, and the lingering scent of death.

It was only when the sun had begun to fall that she heard footsteps. Branwen was waist-deep in the grave. Her work had been slowed by thick roots and a few rocks that would not budge.

“I’m sorry.”

Branwen looked up. Gwydion stood over her, kneeling beside the grave. Gone was the polished young man she had met in the market… had it only been that morning? It felt like a lifetime ago. His clothes were rumpled and dirty, and he looked as exhausted as she felt.

“Why?” she said. “This was not your doing.”

“Nor was it yours,” said Gwydion.

A flicker of anger pierced her numb exhaustion. This pampered lordling did not understand. She had set those snares and, in doing so, accidentally driven that ci annwn to madness. She had tried to defend Rhain’s lands, and instead… he had died. “What would you know about it?”

“I know that you tried to save him,” said Gwydion.

“I failed,” she said dully. She let the shovel fall from her hands, and she knelt there, in a shallow grave with her dirt-stained fingers pressed against her eyes. Both eyes, as she hadn’t yet replaced her blindfold. “Damn it.”

“Here.” When she looked up, she saw Gwydion holding out his hand. She considered not taking it, but there was nothing to be gained by scrambling out of the grave and knocking some of the dirt back in. She clasped his hand—it was the one without the brace, she noticed—and he hauled her upward.

“What happened?” she asked. “After we parted ways?”

Gwydion grimaced. “I went to your home with your cat. Who managed to escape your bag, I might add, and left some rather deep scratches on my arms. Your mother was there, and when she heard of the attack, she wished to warn your neighbor. Then that… that hound. It attacked us in your neighbor’s yard.”

“It was a ci annwn,” Branwen said. “One of King Arawn’s hunting hounds. It must have slipped out of Annwvyn so near the Hunt.”

Gwydion nodded. “I suspected as much. I’ve heard rumors of such creatures—the unseen and unheard death, as the bards call them. You should be commended for killing it.”

“I should have killed it before it slew Davies and Rhain.” Branwen crossed her arms. It felt wrong to accept any praise for her failed hunt.

“I rode back to the village,” Gwydion said. “After the attack, I mean. I let that tavernkeeper know what happened—he said he would tell Davies’s widow and sent his sympathies about Rhain, and a basket of food. He also mentioned that the apothecary had the herbs you wanted, so I went ahead and bought them.” He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small bundle of herbs. Mam’s sleeping herbs, she realized. Branwen gazed at the dried flowers and plants. This morning, it had been all she yearned for. But now, she just felt hollow.

“I can’t pay you for them,” she said.

Gwydion shook his head. “I did not ask for coin.”

“I don’t take charity.”

“It’s payment,” he said. “For not letting me be eaten by a monster of Annwvyn. The political ramifications would have been… unfortunate. If one of the otherfolk slew me, my uncle might have been obligated to begin a war.”

Branwen blinked in surprise. “Truly?”

“Or at least sent a strongly worded letter.” His smile held a wry humor, but all the deprecation was aimed inward.

Branwen looked up. Sunset was less than an hour off. “I’ll need to finish this tomorrow,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “If I put Rhain in his house… mayhap the body won’t deteriorate too quickly.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Gwydion took a step past her. He looked up at the old oak tree, then down at the half-dug grave.

He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. Then he began to sing. It was a soft little song, a lullaby so quiet that the words blended into one another. He had a surprisingly pleasant voice.

Motes of gold appeared at his lips. Branwen took a step back.

Not simply a noble. A diviner .

As Gwydion sang, the ground shifted beneath her feet. It was not the ground, she realized. It was the roots of the old tree. They moved beneath the earth. The oak creaked as though waking from a winter’s sleep.

The grave widened, the earth streaming away, as hundreds, perhaps thousands of tiny roots coaxed and pulled at the dirt. Then Gwydion fell silent.

The grave was ready to accept its due.

“Do you wish to say anything?” asked Gwydion quietly. “Is there anyone else who should be here?”

Branwen shook her head. “He had no living family.”

“He had you.” The words came with surprising gentleness, and Branwen felt a lump rise in her throat. She had not expected tenderness from the likes of a pampered nobleman.

“He did,” Branwen agreed.

For all the good it did him , she thought. She did not have the heart to say the words aloud.

Rhain’s body was quiet and still. If not for the blood, she might have thought him sleeping. There was a small brooch on his cloak; she reached down and unpinned it. It was no great treasure, but she had seen him wear it every day since she was a child. And she wanted something tangible to remember him.

Once the brooch was in her pocket, she picked him up as best she could, half staggering toward the grave. Before she could say a word, Gwydion made a soft sound.

The roots slipped free of the grave, winding through the air. The roots curled around Rhain, gentle as a parent taking a babe, and settled the old man into the earth.

Branwen knelt. There was so much she wanted to say—and yet no words rose to her lips. When she breathed, her exhale was a stuttering little gasp. The grief cracked her open, gaped like a fresh wound. Rhain would have scoffed if she tried to offer a flowery farewell. So she said the only thing she knew he would have appreciated. “You’ll be missed, old man.”

They buried him together. Gwydion helped in silence, picking up shovelfuls of dirt and heaving them into the grave.

When they were finished, her fingers were sore, but the work had soothed the ragged edges of her grief. Gwydion’s wavy hair had gone curly with sweat, and a flush had risen to his cheeks. He looked better undone, she thought. As though he were more of a person and less of a carefully arranged piece of art.

“Come on,” Branwen said. “I need to return home before evening, and you might as well stay at the house tonight. I’ll put some blankets before the fire.”

If she had expected him to protest, she would have been disappointed. Gwydion gave her a shallow little bow. “My thanks.”

Mam was glad to see them. As soon as Branwen stepped into the house, she was drawn into a bone-crackingly tight embrace.

“Oh, my dear,” Mam whispered. “You were so brave.”

Branwen returned the embrace slowly. She did not deserve thanks or praise, not with Rhain buried beneath an oak tree. “I should have done more.”

“You did what you could.” Mam brushed Branwen’s hair out of her eyes. “You always do. My dear daughter.”

Then Mam turned her attentions to Gwydion, clucking and fussing over his dirt-stained clothes. Gwydion made polite noises about the house and their meal of roasted rabbit and day-old bread. But when he thought no one was looking, Branwen glimpsed him feeding a bit of rabbit to Palug under the table.

The conversation was stilted. Mam was mostly concerned with the immediate aftermath: talking to their other neighbors, what to do with the chickens and the late harvest. Branwen simply listened, too tired to do anything else. When the dishes were clean, she brewed hot water, letting the sleeping herbs steep before giving the tea to Mam. Mam took it with a murmured thanks, not bothering to ask what was in it. A few months ago, she would have asked—but at some point, Branwen had become the head of their little household. It was disconcerting to realize that she held most of the power here.

When Mam retired to her bedroom, Branwen turned to Gwydion. He sat before the fire, gazing into the flames. “Sit with me,” he said, patting the place beside him. “We should talk.”

Branwen plopped down. Palug was in her lap before she could so much as blink. Her fingers wove through his black-and-white fur. He seemed to sense her grief; he head-butted her chin and purred loudly.

“Those herbs you gave your mother,” Gwydion said. “They induce deep sleep.”

She looked at him sharply. “I would not expect a nobleman to know much of herbs.”

“I garden,” he said.

She held back a snort. From what she’d seen him do with that tree, it was an understatement. She looked down at the brace he wore on his right hand. It looked like half a glove, wood keeping his fingers from bending too far in either direction. The leather was tanned and soft with age. He had clearly worn it for years. And it was that small detail that made her trust him—he knew something of pain.

“She has the memory sickness,” Branwen said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. And strangely, she believed him. “She seems fine.”

Branwen shook her head. “Evenings are when it starts. She will be restless, forgetful, and she might wander. Once, she went to the village and could not recall the way home. I don’t dare leave for too long for fear of what would happen.”

“That is why you worked for the barwn,” said Gwydion, “because you needed coin to buy herbs that might put her into a sleep before the forgetfulness takes her.”

“It’s not a perfect solution.” Branwen’s fingers tightened on Palug, and the cat twitched in protest. He leapt from her lap and settled before the fire. “But even healers can only do so much.” She exhaled hard. “Now, since we are being truthful with each other. What you did with the oak tree… I’ve never seen the like.”

“Most haven’t,” he agreed.

“You’re a diviner.” He was not the first she’d seen. Branwen had glimpsed a diviner two years before in one of the western port cities. She had been a young woman dressed in a brown cloak and simple blue gown. As she moved, gold seemed to trail from her fingertips—lasting only a few heartbeats before it faded. The young woman had looked as though she yearned to remain unseen, and Branwen had let her go.

Branwen knew the comfort of being able to pass unnoticed. She wouldn’t deny another that mercy.

Gwydion warmed his hands over the fire. “You sound rather certain.”

“I am,” said Branwen. “No one but one of the folk or a diviner could have enchanted that tree.” She frowned at him. “Are you an oak diviner?”

He barked out a startled laugh. “Ah—no. Not oaks specifically. Plants and trees.” He let his hands fall into his lap. He gave her a sidelong glance. “Now, another truth. You’re no ordinary huntress.”

It was her turn to say, “You sound rather certain.”

“That hound,” he said. “I could not see it until it was slain. But you saw it, even at a distance. The way you focused on it… you knew where to strike.” Gwydion spread his hands as though in supplication. “And—forgive me for saying it, but I was under the impression you had only one eye.”

Unthinkingly, she reached up and touched the corner of her right eye. Her blindfold was still tucked into her pocket. She’d forgotten to put it back on.

For a moment, she considered lying. But untruths had never come easily to her.

“I can see magic,” she said.

He frowned. “No human can see magic.”

Branwen rose to her feet. She kept pots of mint on the windowsill for tea and to tease Palug.

She plucked two leaves, then sat down before the fire. She held out the mint leaves. “Use your magic on one of them. I won’t look while you’re doing it.”

Gwydion appeared unconvinced, but he took them.

“You want proof,” she said. “I’ll give it to you.”

She closed her eyes and waited. After a long, skeptical moment, he said, “All right.”

Branwen opened her eyes and surveyed the mint leaves. There was no telltale glitter of golden magic.

“You’ve divined neither,” she said.

She closed her eyes again—and so she heard Gwydion’s sharp intake of breath. A soft whisper and then something nearly like song.

Her eyes blinked open, and at once, she saw the glitter of gold. It danced around the left sprig.

She touched it. “That one.”

Surprise flashed across his face. He glanced at the mint, then back at her. “I’ve… never heard of such a power.”

“That’s because it was an accident,” she said. “My mam was a midwife. She delivered a child of the folk—and in the delivery, I was touched with the same oils meant to anoint the child.” She touched her right eye. “Here. I use the iron blindfold to keep the power contained when I don’t have to use it.”

As she spoke, a light kindled behind Gwydion’s expression. He looked like a man who had discovered a great treasure hidden in a heap of sheep’s dung.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Branwen.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not as valuable as you think I am,” she said tightly.

She did not know how to tell him that she failed far more often than she succeeded. She had not saved that traveler on the road when she was young; she had not saved her cousin’s daughter when mercenaries came for them; she had not saved Ifor’s son; she had not saved Davies nor Rhain.

The memories welled up like old blood, flooding her mouth with bitterness.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward her.

She shrugged.

He leaned into her, his hand hovering over her cheek. She could feel the warmth of his fingers, so close that a breath could barely pass between them. He studied her, a line of concentration between his brows. “I can’t see anything abnormal about that eye.” He sat back, hand falling away. “Why do you keep your power hidden?”

“Because I would rather not be conscripted,” she said tartly, “by Gwynedd’s spymaster.”

Gwydion opened his mouth, as though to protest that such a thing would never happen.

“All right,” he admitted. “That might happen. But we don’t have a spymaster—just me.”

“The court gardener?” she said skeptically.

“The court trickster,” he amended. “I found secrets more useful.”

“Pity, that. I think plants are better company than secrets.” Branwen sighed. “But now you know why I can hunt monsters. It is why I agreed to look for Barwn Ifor’s son. Because I alone can slip in and out of Annwvyn without fear of being ensnared by a spell or one of the otherfolk. But even with my abilities, I’m not sure I could survive the Hunt.”

He nodded. “Having seen that ci annwn, I understand your reluctance to join the Wild Hunt. Tell me, what do you want?”

She did not answer. Truths were dangerous as blades if placed in the wrong hands. And her wants were nameless things that she dared not give voice to. To do so would be to give them power over her. “You first,” she said. “No lies. Why do you want to win the Wild Hunt?”

Gwydion’s gaze flicked away. He seemed to be gathering his words, pulling them from some deep and painful place within himself. “My uncle is the king,” he said. “You know that, of course. What you don’t know is that he plans to choose his heir from my siblings. My brother Amaethon is the king’s first choice. He is…” Gwydion’s right hand twitched. “… Not suitable. His cruelty could doom Gwynedd. My nephews were nearly killed less than a week ago because Amaethon has so many enemies he could not count them all. I fear what he would do with a throne.” He inhaled deeply. “My sister, Arianrhod, would be a good princess, but she does not have Amaethon’s ambition. But if I bring her the spoils of the Hunt, she could use them to take the throne.”

Branwen blinked. She had never truly given much thought to the passing of Gwynedd’s crown. For her, rulers were as distant and constant as the sun.

“Does the king know you’re attempting this?” she asked.

“No, and he won’t know until I win it,” said Gwydion. “I’d rather not have him maneuvering against my plans in the meantime.”

“So you’re here for our kingdom?” asked Branwen. “You wish to save Gwynedd from your tyrannical brother?”

Gwydion smiled thinly. “Is that not enough?”

“For a pig-stealing trickster?” Branwen raised her brows. “Likely not.”

That earned her a flash of amusement. “Well, you’d be right, then. I have other reasons to keep Amaethon from the throne. But my reasons are my own and will have no effect on the Hunt, I promise.” His face cleared of mirth. “Now, I will ask again. What do you want?”

“Nothing you could grant,” she said.

His calm expression did not waver. “What do you want?”

It was the third time he had asked that. In the tales, questions had to be asked thrice for them to be magical. She looked at the bedroom door.

“To keep my mam safe,” she said.

He nodded, as if that were a reasonable price to pay.

“Be my huntress,” he said, leaning closer. “And I shall give you and your mother a home where you need not fear for her.”

Branwen flinched back. “I do not wish to live at Caer Dathyl.”

“Nor should you. Horrid place.”

She laughed, a snort escaping her before she could silence it.

“If you wish to remain here,” he said, gesturing at the house, “I shall ensure the barwn will leave you be. You will never worry about coin again. Any hunts you undertake will be for your own benefit or that of your neighbors. Never because you have no power over your own life.”

Those last words struck something within her. She knew what it was to scramble and scrounge. She could never recall a time in her life when she was not planning one meal, one day, one week ahead. Her life was a constant shuffling of resources—whether it be coin or food or time.

“And there’s one more thing,” said Gwydion. He cleared his throat. “The boon.”

Branwen frowned. “The boon? That might simply be rumor.”

“It’s the truth,” said Gwydion. “The boon is real. I have my sources. There was a hunter from Dyfed who used his boon to become a noble. Another asked for a magical ship that would never sink. And there was a woman who used it to cure her daughter of the plague. The boon can be anything you want… anything that magic or power can grant.”

Treacherous hope bloomed in Branwen’s heart. It was a dangerous thing to hope. It opened the door to so much pain. “You’re saying… you’re saying the Otherking could cure my mam,” she said softly.

“That’s precisely what I’m saying,” agreed Gwydion. “And if my coin cannot sway you, perhaps that will.”

Branwen swallowed hard. She imagined a future in which Mam was herself again—bright and whole and well. They would never have to worry about coin again. They could travel, or rebuild their home, or simply enjoy the luxury of never having to worry over winter-hungry bellies again. All Branwen had to do was win the Wild Hunt.

She couldn’t do this.

She couldn’t not do this.

“We’re going to die,” said Branwen. “If that happens, there’ll be no one to care for my mam.”

“I’ll write to my sister,” said Gwydion. “If we both end up dead, she will ensure your mother is taken care of.” Gwydion rubbed his thumb across the dragon of his signet ring. “You have my word.”

The Wild Hunt was for kings and monsters, not a trickster and a huntress. But she was no ordinary huntress. She was the only human alive who could pierce the illusion of magic. And Gwydion had a power she had never even heard of. The very trees and plants would answer to him.

Perhaps they could manage this. A hunt to upend her life, a way to find her feet anew.

“If I do this, I’ll need someone to watch over my mam while I’m gone,” she said.

Gwydion nodded. “Is there anyone in the village you trust?”

She considered it. “The tavernkeeper has a few nieces who could use the work.”

Without hesitating, Gwydion pulled his pack between his knees and opened it. Branwen watched, brows raised as he rummaged through the contents. There were clothes, some firesteel, a small purse, and food that would not spoil. They were all of finer make than anything Branwen possessed, but it was all mundane. For a self-proclaimed trickster, she expected… more.

Then he reached into the lining of the bag. It was cleverly hidden, she realized, sewn so that only he could find it. From there, he withdrew a second purse. This one looked to be far fatter.

“Take this,” he said, handing it to Branwen. The weight of it surprised her. Startled, she pulled it open. There was enough coin to keep herself and her mam fed for well over a year.

“Consider it your first payment,” he said. “Use it to take care of your family while you’re away. We have two days until Nos Calan Gaeaf. We must journey to the gates of Annwvyn to join the Hunt.”

She gaped at the coin. It was the answer to so many of her sleepless nights, and he had handed it over without flinching. It almost angered her how easily he had fixed her problems with a handful of gold. She took a deep breath; if they were going to accomplish this, she needed him just as he needed her.

“This is folly,” she finally said.

“My plans have been called worse,” he replied. “Are you in?”

Branwen hesitated. And then she clasped his hand.