Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

O N THE DAY of Nos Calan Gaeaf, the gates of Annwvyn were guarded by mortals. Mist crowned the old mountains, and the air held the promise of winter.

A gray mare trotted toward the gates, and the rider raised his hand in greeting. His horse wore the colors of Dyfed, and the man was dressed like a noble. He bore a sword that was clearly more ornament than weapon. The soldiers relaxed. Then they tensed anew when they saw the woman at his back. She had an unstrung bow, a full quiver of arrows, a dagger, and enough scars to make them nervous. A cat sat atop her shoulder.

“Good afternoon,” called the noble. “We apologize for startling you. I hope we’re not too late to join the Hunt.”

“Get the scribe,” one of the soldiers murmured, before taking a swig from a half-full flask.

A scribe scurried out of a tent, parchment and quill in hand. “Names?”

And Gwydion opened his mouth to tell the first lie of many.

Branwen had been skeptical of Gwydion’s plan from the beginning.

“From this moment, I am Nisien, the estranged third cousin of the Iarll of Emlyn,” he said as they rode from Branwen’s home. She cast one last look at her farm; it was everything familiar and dear, and she hated to leave it. She had told Mam she was going on a hunt, and that was not a lie. Glaw’s niece was given coin and instructions, and she would keep Mam safe. They would be all right, Branwen told herself.

Gwydion continued, “I married a woman from Gwaelod and took to living on the coast. I have been invited to the Hunt out of courtesy, with little expectation that I will attend because no one else from my family will be there. However, I am attending. And you are the huntress I hired on the way so I would not embarrass myself.”

Branwen bit back a snort. She kept one hand on his waist for balance. “That’s the story?”

“It’s the best explanation I could come up with as to why I attend the Hunt with a… lady lacking in rank.”

Branwen did not bother to hide her snort a second time. “Was that little dance all to avoid saying the word ‘commoner’?”

Gwydion laughed. “Sorry. It felt rude to say aloud.”

“It’s true. I am common.”

“You are many things,” he replied, “but common is not one of them.”

She flushed and ignored the remark.

“Nisien,” she said, “how did you come up with that story? And why is anyone going to believe it?”

There was a note of pride in Gwydion’s voice. “Because I am a very good trickster. And it is not a story. Nisien is a true person with an invitation to the Hunt. I intercepted his invitation.”

“And how do you know the real Nisien won’t show up?”

Gwydion took a moment to answer. “Because he is dead.”

Branwen grimaced. Surely, he hadn’t…

“I did not kill him,” said Gwydion, after an impossibly long moment. “He and his wife lived on the coast of Gwaelod.”

Branwen understood at once. “He drowned when the kingdom flooded.”

“He did,” agreed Gwydion. “Before word of his unfortunate passing could reach his family, I intercepted those letters. And from there… I simply replaced them with my own. His family thinks he is alive and well. That is why we can sneak into the Hunt when no one else can. Because we have a true invitation… even if it is addressed to another.”

Branwen’s neck prickled with unease. “So you took a dead man’s name? This is… something you do?”

“I keep my own little garden of spies,” said Gwydion. “Thieves, mostly. Beggars, children, those who need coin or healing or help. Most of them are in Gwynedd, but I have sent some to other kingdoms.” He must have sensed Branwen’s displeasure, because Gwydion added, “After the Hunt, Nisien will suffer an accident of his own. Let his family mourn him properly. But for now the guise is necessary. And if you think Dyfed does not have their own spies in Gwynedd, then you are far more gullible than I thought.”

“And what is my name?” she asked. “In this little ruse of yours?”

Gwydion took a moment to answer. “I admit, that same question has crossed my mind.”

She swallowed hard.

“When Rhain was attacked,” said Gwydion, “I heard what he said… something about calling you ‘girl’ for fear of using the wrong name.”

She had almost forgotten that Gwydion was there for Rhain’s passing—and all that it had entailed. She considered her answer.

“Branwen is my name,” she said. “Or, it is now. One of the folk called me that when I was a child. Three of them discovered what I could do, and I feared that they would find me and my mam if they knew my true name. They can do that, you know. Names have power.” She drew in a long breath, tasting the cold autumn air. “I refuse to belong to another.”

Gwydion tilted his head so he could meet her gaze over his shoulder. To her surprise, there was understanding in his expression. “I see.” He cleared his throat. “Then you shall be Branwen, huntress of Argoed, lady of the arrow and blade. The huntress I chose above all others.”

She rolled her eyes. “Does that sort of flattery work on noble ladies?”

“On noblemen, too,” he replied. “Everyone enjoys a touch of well-placed adulation.”

Branwen snorted for a third time. “Who else will be at this hunt? Anyone I should know of?”

“Well, King Arawn,” he said dryly.

“Of course,” she said, her tone equally dry.

King Arawn had ruled Annwvyn for centuries. The king of the tylwyth teg, lord of the otherlands, immortal and untamed as a winter storm. It was said he wore a crown of bones and had hair red as blood. He kept to his fortress of Caer Sidi in the farthest reaches of the mountains.

“And King Pwyll,” said Gwydion. “And I heard that his son, Pryderi, fought a duel for the honor of entering the Hunt.”

Branwen furrowed her brows, trying to remember what little she knew about the royal family of Dyfed. The southernmost kingdom of the isles was a prosperous one, brimming with trade, mines of copper and lead, sea fishing, and farmland. “Pryderi. Pryderi. Why do I know that name? There was something about a monster, right? Did he try and take one for a pet?”

Gwydion shook his head. “Other way around. There were rumors that King Pwyll wasn’t his father by blood, that his mother had taken an afanc as a lover. And the afanc took Pryderi to raise. He was only recovered a few years ago.”

Branwen made no attempt to hide her disdain. “I suppose that is a rumor you created.”

“I would never repeat such slander,” replied Gwydion. Then he added, “The rumor I started was that Pryderi was dead and this new king’s son is a convenient replacement.”

“You’re so kind,” she said.

Gwydion shrugged one shoulder. “It’s politics. Dyfed and Gwynedd are rivals, and for decades, Dyfed’s closest ally has been Annwvyn. It’s why none would dare attack Pwyll openly—he could call on Arawn. And the Otherking has never been fond of my family. We have too much magic for his liking.”

She swallowed. “And yet you’re still going to slip into his Wild Hunt, invade his lands, and win the entire thing under an assumed name?” She looked at his signet ring; it gleamed upon his left hand. A dragon, as befitted one of the royal family of Gwynedd. “Your ring is very subtle,” she added wryly.

Gwydion’s thumb rubbed across the ring. “I’ll stash it in my cloak. And no one will suspect us.”

She raised her brows at him. “Because you’re a better spy?”

“Trickster,” he amended.

“What is the difference between a trickster and a spy?”

“Spies are paid,” he said.

To Branwen’s surprise, Gwydion’s plan worked.

A harried-looking scribe checked the name Nisien against her own records, looked over the royal invitation Gwydion drew from his pack, then waved them past the soldiers. The soldiers eyed Palug with confused frowns, but no one made to stop them. With every step, Branwen tensed. This was too easy. Surely it should have been more difficult to infiltrate the Hunt.

The scribe led them toward the wood. “You cannot take any iron with you,” said the scribe, with a glance at Gwydion’s sword. “Weapons will be provided at the hunting camp. If your signet rings are made of iron, those are permitted. But nothing else.”

“Of course,” said Gwydion smoothly. “Give us a moment?”

The scribe nodded. She seemed used to taking orders from entitled nobles; she retreated out of earshot.

Unbidden, Branwen’s hand rose to her iron-stitched blindfold. She had not realized until this moment that she could not take it with her. The same iron that kept her from seeing magic would be forbidden in Annwvyn. With shaky fingers, she unbound the cloth. She felt vulnerable and bare without it.

Even on the fringes of the wood, Annwvyn seemed to pulse and throb with enchantment. A bird cried out, and Branwen looked up. At first, it looked to be a normal swallow—but as her sight adjusted, she saw the bird glitter with gold. Its eyes were oddly human.

“Branwen,” said Gwydion. “Are you all right?”

She glanced at him. He knelt a few paces away, unbinding his belt. There was an iron clasp, she realized. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s just… disconcerting, at first. I’ll end up with headaches, but that will take a few days.”

Gwydion’s lips pressed into a sympathetic line. “I have herbs, if you need them. Willowbark, for pain. Others for swelling and infection. A tincture of poppy, if things become unbearable.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. She would endure the pain. For her mother.

Once they were finished discarding their iron, the scribe returned. “Come with me.”

They followed her from the outskirts of the forest, toward a narrow path. It looked as though many people had come this way recently; Branwen saw footprints etched into the dirt, and the nearby grasses were broken. She and Gwydion must have been among the last to arrive. The forest was ancient, the trees worn by wind and time. Roots dipped and curved through the earth like fish through streams. Late-harvest blackberries gleamed in the sunlight.

As they approached, Branwen heard song. It was not birdsong, nor did it sound human. It had the slow cadence of a song sung around simmering embers, when the fire had all but gone out and the stars were bright overhead. She shivered.

The trail rounded a bend, and then Branwen saw a strange sight. At first, she thought someone had planted silver flowers alongside the path. Then her eyes settled on a sword hilt. Someone had plunged the blade deep into the earth and left the weapon to rust. There were others: shields, spears, arrows, a few crossbows, and scattered caltrops.

“What are these?” said Branwen.

The scribe said, “Not all hunters return to claim their weapons.”

Branwen’s heart lurched.

It was a graveyard.

There might have been no bodies, but these weapons were unspoken grave markers. Her gaze darted across all those rusted swords, those rotting arrows, the blades and the armor. Every single piece had belonged to a hunter who had not survived.

Gwydion drew in a breath as they passed by. His right hand twitched, then he slipped both hands beneath his cloak. Palug trotted along, pausing to sharpen his claws on a tree.

The scribe led them to where the sunlight ended and wood began. The canopy cast the world into shadow.

Two old yew trees stood at the entrance of Annwvyn. Their branches were woven together to form an arch. Branwen’s mouth went dry. She had never before glimpsed the gates of Annwvyn. The two ancient trees were spoken of in whispers and bardsong. It was said that King Arawn himself had planted and tended to them. They were bound to him, and he to them. All of this forest was his.

“I leave you here,” said the scribe, with a small bow. “Follow the path to the hunting camp. It will take a few hours. The folk have left lanterns to mark your way. Do not leave the path, no matter what you see.”

“Thank you,” said Gwydion, touching a hand to his heart. Then Branwen realized that he had drawn a gold coin from the purse that hung around his neck. He tossed the coin to the scribe, who caught it easily. The woman gave Gwydion a more earnest smile.

“I hope you return, Lord Nisien,” she said, then turned and hastened from the gates. She looked as though she wished to be out of sight of them. Branwen had the feeling the woman would sleep with iron in her pockets tonight.

Gwydion and Branwen gazed at the yew trees. An inhuman song rose in her ears without any true source to pinpoint. It rose and fell, wordless and beautiful, and Branwen found herself straining to listen. Without iron to shield her, that song crystallized into words.

Every fifth year as harvests wane,

Two kingdoms meet in wooded domain.

“Can you hear that?” whispered Branwen.

Gwydion gave her a sharp glance. “The song? Of course.”

“Can you understand it?”

His brows drew tighter. “No.” Then with dawning comprehension, “Can you?”

She nodded.

And those who cannot hunt nor slay

Belong to your king for a year and a day.

“You still want to do this?” asked Branwen.

Gwydion squared his shoulders. “A little late for doubts.”

Something moved in the trees. Gwydion seized Branwen’s hand, as though to draw her behind him. They gazed into the trees, and a few heartbeats later, a flock of birds flitted through the branches. Palug chittered at them, tail lashing.

“We’ll be fine,” said Gwydion. It sounded as though he were telling himself that. His hand was still in hers. Perhaps she should have shaken him off. But it felt good to grip something human, something mortal. Palug trotted ahead, standing between the gates like he belonged there. He glanced back, as if to convey impatience.

With the othersong in her ears and a trickster’s hand in her own, Branwen stepped through the yew-tree gates of Annwvyn.

Kings and beggars, trust to your aim—

For in the Wild Hunt, all are fair game.