Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

A S LONG AS Pryderi could remember, Nos Calan Gaeaf began with fire.

People spent days gathering wood for the bonfires. Pigs, cows, and chickens were prepared for a feast, and the smells of cooking meats, breads, and sweets would send village children into a frenzy. At least one would try to steal a cake only to be rewarded with a stern glare.

There were old traditions. Some villagers threw marked stones into the bonfires, hoping to find them in the morn. It was considered good luck… although if one’s stone could not be found, then the thrower would have ill luck for the rest of the winter. Children ran screaming around the bonfires, testing their courage to see who would brave the sparks. Hedgewitches brought apples and nuts to the fires, divining what they could from their burnt remnants. Older villagers brought chairs to sit near the warmth with a cup of ale.

Everyone looked forward to the festival, but there was always an undercurrent of tension. For the last day of autumn was when monsters roamed the mortal lands. There were rumors of a tree that would crack open to reveal a spiteful woman, a great hog would eat stray travelers, wraiths and ghosts wandered the fields, and even the tylwyth teg would walk among humans in mortal guise. The feast was as much a gathering for protection as it was a celebration.

As night fell within the mountains of Annwvyn, Pryderi felt the thrum of anticipation. Nobles and their chosen hunters were chatting among themselves, greeting friends old and new alike. Pryderi stayed in the shadows; he knew very few, and it felt far too awkward to join a conversation uninvited. So he smiled and fidgeted and tried to look as though he were having a good time.

When a messenger brought a summons from his father, Pryderi breathed a sigh of relief. It was an excuse to slip away. He found King Pwyll in the royal tent, tying a note to the collar of a corgi.

The small dog trotted toward the door, then looked at Pryderi. Pryderi stared back at the dog. It seemed to be waiting for something. Pryderi reached for the tent’s cloth door and held it open. The corgi woofed a soft thanks and ran outside.

“They’re spies and messengers, you know,” said Pwyll, watching the dog go. “Strange little things, but Arawn favors them.”

The thought of the formidable Otherking surrounded by a clutch of corgis was enough to make Pryderi laugh. “I like them, too.” He could feel his father’s eyes upon him, and he tried to stand straighter. “What do you need of me, Father?”

“Nothing,” said Pwyll. “I simply wished for you to join me.” He walked to the tent’s door and gestured for Pryderi to follow.

Pryderi tried to look eager instead of uneasy. It was not his father’s fault that Pryderi disliked celebrations. There were too many eyes upon him, too many whispers. “I was not sure what to expect from the festival tonight,” said Pryderi. “I’ve only experienced Nos Calan Gaeaf with humans.”

“The otherfolk celebrate the changing of the seasons as much as any mortal,” said Pwyll as they walked toward the unlit bonfires. Night fell quickly in the forest, and the cool evening air nipped at Pryderi’s bare neck. “More so, even. Tonight is a night of magic for them. They will have their own foretelling, their own dances. And you should take part, so long as you’re comfortable. More alliances are forged with a shared drink than through formal meetings.”

“Is that a command?” asked Pryderi, only half joking.

Pwyll’s hand fell on Pryderi’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Make some friends, son. But do not drink yourself into a stupor. You’ll need your wits this night.”

Pryderi managed not to flinch from the touch. “I will try not to disappoint you,” he said, and he meant it. He would try. He always tried to follow his father’s word even if his best efforts yielded few results.

What his father did not understand was that Pryderi was not raised for parties and court intrigue. He knew how to navigate the sinews of a winter-barren forest. He knew the taste of fear on a midnight mist. He knew a wounded animal cry—or the imitation of one—would bring forth prey. He knew how to survive.

His foster family had taught him far gentler lessons: how to ask for and accept help, how to slip a hand beneath a nesting hen for eggs, how to bake bread, how to be human. He missed them dearly. When he had lived with his family on the farm, it had been easier to put aside his monstrous upbringing. There had been no dangers to guard against, save for foxes and hawks that might prey on the hens.

Pryderi had not feared he would become a monster, for monsters needed enemies.

In the court of Dyfed, there were nothing but enemies. Even here, among Dyfed’s allies, Pryderi could feel eyes upon him—weighing, judging, regarding.

He did not want to be a monster. He did not even truly want to be a prince.

But he had little choice in the matter.

A dais of gnarled roots had been constructed by magic. Upon it sat two chairs—one wrought of velvet and oak and the second of moss and yew. Two thrones for two kingdoms united in friendship. And beside each throne was a lit torch.

King Arawn and King Pwyll approached the dais from different directions. Arawn was the taller of the two. He looked as ageless as the moon. Pwyll was well into his fifth decade, and while his shoulders were still broad, he had a lined face and silvering hair. As the two kings clasped hands, Pryderi thought he saw a glimpse of how his father must have looked all those years ago when he first met Arawn. For the briefest heartbeat, Pwyll looked buoyant and young.

“My friend,” said Pwyll.

“My friend,” replied Arawn.

At the sound of their voices, the camp fell silent. All eyes were upon the two kings.

They turned to look at the hunting camp. “Welcome, all,” said Arawn, placing a hand over his heart. “To my court, thank you for accompanying me. To my mortal friends, thank you for making the journey. I know it is not a short one.”

“You’ll find no arguments here,” called out one of the Dyfed nobles.

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Even Arawn allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his mouth. “The Wild Hunt is one of our dearest traditions,” he said. “It is to reaffirm our kingdoms’ friendship. It is to remember how I met one of my dearest friends.” His hand fell on Pwyll’s shoulder. “We met on a hunt. Or rather, he intruded on my hunt.”

“I did not know the stag was yours,” Pwyll said good-naturedly. “And it’s not my fault your hunting hounds were so much slower than mine.”

Arawn waved away another bout of laughter. “I am very glad to welcome you all. Especially Pryderi, first and only son of Pwyll.”

Cold nausea swam in Pryderi’s stomach as all eyes turned toward him.

Every noble, every hunter, every servant—they were all gazing at him. Taking his measure. It was Pwyll who gestured to Pryderi, beckoning him toward the dais. To turn away or even to hesitate would be a display of weakness.

As he walked, Pryderi tried to glance at the crowds without seeing them, tried to let them become part of the landscape. It was the only way he could stand in front of them without feeling utterly self-conscious. He saw a middle-aged man from Dyfed who frowned and whispered to his companion. Cigfa wore a gown of feathers and velvet. She beamed at him, and Pryderi felt a small bit of relief. At least there was one person here who liked him. As his gaze drifted over the hunters, he saw a woman that made him blink. She had long, pale hair braided into a crown, and her eyes were a pale blue. A black-and-white cat perched atop her shoulder. The cat was such a surprise that Pryderi found himself looking at her longer than he should.

She met his gaze unflinchingly. Most did not. The servants bowed and averted their gaze around royalty; the nobles looked over him, through him, but never at him. But this woman regarded him without fear.

Pryderi was the one to look away first.

He stepped up to the dais. Feeling awkward, Pryderi turned to face the crowd. “This Hunt is particularly important to me,” said Pwyll, and there was no mistaking the undercurrent of emotion in his voice. “For it is the first one since I found my son again.”

A cheer rose up from the crowd. Pryderi did not know if he should join in it, wave, or simply stand there with his arms at his sides. The choice was made for him when Pwyll picked up the torch beside his throne. “Here,” he said. “As my heir, you will light the first of the bonfires.”

Pryderi took the torch, fervently hoping he wouldn’t drop it. Wouldn’t that be a tale to tell? He could imagine how the gossip would reach all corners of the isles.

Gripping the torch, he stepped down. Arawn was beside him, his own torch in hand. The Otherking’s face was harsher in the torchlight, the gold of his eyes all the brighter and his smile like that of a wolf.

As one, Pryderi and Arawn tossed their torches into the bonfire. The dry tinder caught, and flames blazed. A cheer rose up from the crowd, and then hunters were thumping Pryderi on the back. It was welcoming, joyous, and he should have reveled in it. But the press of people and the closeness made his jaw clench.

Among the cheers, Pryderi heard drums and fiddles, crwth and song. With the first of the bonfires lit, other nobles were carrying torches to the smaller ones at the edges of camp. The festival of Nos Calan Gaeaf had truly begun.

Pryderi looked around, hoping that in the chaos and bustle he might see that flash of pale blue eyes.

But the huntress was nowhere to be seen.