Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

P RYDERI WAS HIDING. This time, he would openly admit it.

The chaos of the revel was overwhelming. There were too many things to see and hear and smell, and it all came together in a din. So Pryderi retreated to the edge of camp, where none would see him.

With a sigh, he sat down on a fallen log. A knot of shame twisted in his gut. He should be out in the revel—making friends, drinking, eating his fill. But the thought was simply too daunting. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back toward the stars. He hoped no one would notice his absence. If they did—

Something brushed his left leg.

Pryderi leapt to his feet, heart hammering. He half expected to see one of the folk or perhaps a human hunter. But there was no one.

Pryderi looked down… and then farther down.

A black-and-white cat stood by his ankle. It had long fur and startlingly green eyes. “Hello,” said Pryderi uncertainly.

The cat meowed and nudged at his leg. It seemed friendly enough. Pryderi squatted down and ran his hand along the cat’s back. It arched into his palm, a purr rumbling in its chest.

“You’re that huntress’s cat, aren’t you?” asked Pryderi. Perhaps it was foolish of him, but he had always spoken to cats on his foster family’s farm. He had enjoyed their company; they were curious and affectionate.

The cat meowed again. The last time he had seen the creature, it had been atop a huntress’s shoulder. Surely she would be missing it.

“Should you be out here alone?” asked Pryderi. “Where is your owner?”

The cat turned and trotted away. Then it looked back at him expectantly. Feeling both foolish—and a little relieved to have a task—Pryderi followed. He would make sure the cat ended up safely with its humans again.

But as he walked through the trees, the cat went still. Its fur stood on end, and it growled.

Pryderi frowned, but he heard it a heartbeat after the cat: the sound of raised voices.

At the edge of the camp, partly concealed within the trees, was the huntress. She had white-blond hair, wide-set pale eyes, and a scar across one cheekbone.

Two of the folk stood around her, caging her in. One was a young man with bloodred hair. He stood with a foot against the huntress’s back, pinning her to the ground. The other was a young woman, her hair braided and her dress made of moss. They were as lovely as poisonous berries. A human man was on the ground a few strides away, face pale with alarm.

The folk girl lunged for the huntress, driving a knife toward the young woman’s face.

Pryderi was moving before he made the decision to do so. He seized the folk girl’s arm and yanked her backward. The knife plunged into the earth, and the girl tumbled over Pryderi’s shoulder. She landed on her heels, nimble as a cat. She had to leave her knife embedded in the earth—for only a heartbeat. It was enough time for Pryderi to grab it. His fingers curled around the leather hilt, and the moment he touched the weapon, some hidden place within him relaxed. This was what he was meant for. Not for council meetings and diplomacy.

Pryderi bloomed in chaos. He thrived in upheaval and conflict, in those moments when there was too much danger to think. He did not have to worry about impressing anyone. All that existed was this moment: the knife in his hand and the enemy to be defeated.

The folk girl hissed, her fingers digging into the earth as she readied herself to lunge at him.

He let her.

She flew forward, just as the folk boy moved at Pryderi’s back. He heard the whisper of movement, and without hesitating, he sidestepped the girl’s lunge, grabbed her dress, and flung her. Her own momentum slammed her into the boy. They tumbled together, a falling star of tangled limbs and folk finery. When they landed, Pryderi stood over them.

“You know,” he said, “trying to maim a fellow hunter during the feast is rather unfair.”

The folk girl bared her teeth at him. “In the Wild Hunt, all are fair game.”

“The Hunt has yet to begin,” said Pryderi. “So scurry back to your friends and leave these two alone.”

“She’s a cheat,” said the folk boy. “We met her when we were young. She’ll steal your weapons and magic.”

“If you knew that, then perhaps you should have left your knives in your tent.” Pryderi gave the knife in his hand an indolent little twirl. He could kill them. He would have been well within his rights. These two had attacked him, the heir of Dyfed, without provocation. But the thought of sliding this knife into flesh made his stomach turn over.

He took a step back. “Leave. Both of you.”

The folk girl and boy grimaced at him, but they did not attack. The girl darted a glare at Pryderi and murmured, “I see why only an afanc was fit to raise you.” Then before Pryderi could reply, they both hastened toward the revel.

Pryderi’s fingers tightened around the hilt. He forced himself to take deep breaths. Calm , he thought. Be calm. There were no more threats, no more battles to be won.

His gaze fell on the two humans. The pale-haired huntress was grinning at him. That took him aback—he half expected to see fear. The man stood half a step behind her, one hand raised as though to protectively draw her back.

“Well done,” said the huntress. She had large eyes, a straight nose, and a delicate mouth. Her features might have looked waifish, but there was an untamed quality to her. Her smile was all teeth.

“You’re welcome. And apologies,” said Pryderi, “but I do not know your names.”

“Which makes your timely rescue all the more welcome,” said the young man. He had the attractive, finely wrought face found so often in nobility. His skin was pale, his dark hair combed away from his face. It was his eyebrows that Pryderi found himself looking at—those brows hung over his eyes like swords waiting to fall. “Nisien of Emlyn. And this is my huntress, Branwen.”

Pryderi had spent the better part of a year memorizing the names of every noble family in Dyfed. It took him a moment to pull the memory; it was like trying to find a book he’d misplaced. Pryderi had met the Iarll of Emlyn, but not this wayward cousin. “I apologize. The rules of hospitality should have been honored—their attack broke that rule. I will bring word to my father.”

“Your father,” the huntress, Branwen, said. Her eyes widened, and he saw the moment she realized. “You’re the prince.”

“Please,” he said. “Just call me Pryderi.”

Nisien dropped into a hasty bow, but Branwen remained as she was. “There’s no need to bring this to the king. That fight had nothing to do with the Hunt.”

Pryderi recognized her desire for it to go unnoticed. It was the same for him when the noble boys of Dyfed murmured to themselves that Pryderi was wrong, that there was something unfit about him. He had never brought those words to his birth father or mother, for fear of bringing them to light. Some hurts were so close to the soul that they demanded secrecy.

“Well, let me bring you a drink to replace the one they destroyed,” said Pryderi. “As an apology for your rude welcome to the Hunt.”

Nisien said smoothly, “That’s kind but unnecessary. We wouldn’t want to demand more of your time, my prince.”

There was something about these two that made Pryderi’s neck prickle. It wasn’t quite fear, and it wasn’t quite excitement—but something in between.

Pryderi had been a farmer long enough to recognize foxes among the chickens.

“I insist,” said Pryderi.

“That’s very kind,” said Nisien.

It was a short walk to the royal tent. Pryderi slipped inside. Someone had arranged a table of sweets. Among the cwnffets, cyflaith, and teisen fêl, there was a bottle of medd. He stacked a small plate full of the honey cakes and toffees. The mead was golden as the sun. It was a drink of kings, as few commoners could afford the honey. Pryderi had only tasted it on his first night at the court of Dyfed, at a feast meant to welcome the lost prince home.

He hoped that Nisien and Branwen had remained where they were—he did not relish the thought of seeking them out in the chaos and clamor. He hurried through the revel until he broke free near the forest’s edge. Thankfully, Nisien and his huntress were where he had left them.

That black-and-white cat sat in Branwen’s lap as she stroked his long fur.

“My apologies,” said Pryderi, setting down the plate. “I saw that cat earlier and meant to return him to you. I was distracted by the attack.”

“You’re a prince,” said Nisien. “You don’t have to apologize to us.” His hand hovered over one of the honey cakes, but then he did a strange thing. He looked at Branwen.

The huntress shifted the cat aside, leaning over the plate. Her gaze slid over each and every sweet, then the bottle in Pryderi’s hand. “It’s safe,” she said.

“It should be,” said Pryderi. He considered sitting upon the bench, but both Nisien and Branwen were comfortably settled upon the ground. He did not want to imply that he thought himself above them. So he crossed his legs and sat near Branwen. “The food is from my father’s tent.”

Nisien choked on his mouthful of cake, swallowed, then croaked, “We’re honored.”

Pryderi shrugged. “I know some of the folk enchant their own meals for enjoyment or trickery. I’d rather not wake in a month, wondering what became of the Hunt.” He looked at Branwen. “Are you some kind of poison taster?”

Branwen snorted. “I’d cram a poisoned cake into his mouth before I’d take a bite.”

“Such loyalty,” said Nisien. If he was offended, he did not show it. Rather, he was grinning.

Many nobles had brought their own servants. It was widely accepted that in most hunts, the actual work fell to hired hunters. Nobles saved their strength for the honor of the killing blow. Skilled hunters were prized in many royal courts. But Pryderi had never heard one speak so informally to their employer.

“Did the two of you know each other before the Hunt?” asked Pryderi. Perhaps they were friends.

“I’ve known her less than a week,” said Nisien.

Pryderi opened the bottle of medd but realized he’d forgotten to take any cups.

“Oh, just drink it from the bottle,” said Branwen. “We won’t judge.”

Feeling a little self-conscious, Pryderi drank a few swigs from the bottle. The medd tasted sharp and sweet as honeyed sunlight. He offered the bottle to Branwen.

“I’ve never shared drinks with a prince before,” said Branwen, taking it.

“Our mouth leavings taste the same as most people, I expect,” said Pryderi.

She grinned at him. “I have to say, you’re not what I expected.”

Pryderi looked down at his hands. He’d folded them in his lap to hide the old calluses and scars; they were not the hands of a prince.

“That’s a good thing,” said Branwen. “I always thought princes would be more… finicky. Like cats.” Her gaze went to the black-and-white cat in her lap.

“What is the cat’s name?” asked Pryderi. He offered his fingers for the cat to sniff.

Branwen took her own drink of the medd, then made a sound of pleasure. “He’s called Palug.” She took another sip. “Where did you find this?”

“The medd is from my father’s stores,” replied Pryderi. “He brings a few bottles to every Hunt, or so I’ve heard.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small hard cheese he’d wrapped in a cloth. He broke off a bit and offered it to the cat. “I took a little for the corgis,” he said, when Branwen raised her brows. “I don’t normally carry cheese around with me.”

Palug sniffed the cheese, then delicately took it from Pryderi’s fingers. He devoured it in a matter of moments. When Pryderi held out his hand a second time, Palug rubbed his cheek against his fingers. Perhaps it was the medd in his belly or the cat’s acceptance, but Pryderi finally felt at ease. Surely anyone that kept a cat could not be so bad.

“Do you know what the Hunt consists of?” asked Branwen. “No one’s told us yet what we’ll be hunting.”

“No,” said Pryderi. “No one knows. The Wild Hunt… well, there are certain traditions. Once you join the Hunt, you never do so again.”

Branwen swallowed. Nisien blinked.

“Not that everyone dies,” said Pryderi, seeing where he’d gone awry. “I mean, some people do die. But a person can only join the Wild Hunt once. After that, they are magicked never to speak of what happened. I think it’s to keep hunters from passing along secrets to their children, giving them an unfair advantage. Only my father and Arawn attend every Hunt.”

“So no one knows,” said Branwen, her lips pursing. “Not even a prince?”

Pryderi shook his head. “My father would not tell me.” He looked at the others. “And why did you join the Hunt?”

“It’s an honor to be invited,” said Nisien.

“A true honor,” agreed Branwen.

Pryderi raised his brows. He was not one of the folk, but some untruths were so blatant one did not need magic to hear them. “Try again,” he said.

The line of Branwen’s mouth fractured into a smile. “Because he’s paying me. And I want the boon.”

“Fair enough,” said Pryderi. He suspected most of the other hunters would have said the same. He glanced at Nisien. “And you?”

“To win a family argument,” said Nisien.

Pryderi was startled into a laugh. Those answers had the ring of truth. “I appreciate your honesty.”

Nisien returned the smile with his own. There was something about that smile—it was too practiced, too perfect. “We do strive to be honest.”

That was the moment Pryderi finally understood why his instincts were clamoring at him. It was Nisien’s accent. The more he drank, the more his accent shifted. His words softened and became melodic.

That was not the accent of a man from Dyfed.

But before Pryderi could say a word, a loud horn rang out.

All of them looked toward the heart of the revel. “Listen well, all hunters!” came the call of a crier. “Listen well!”

“I should probably return,” Pryderi said, rising. He gave Nisien and Branwen a polite bow.

“Perhaps we’ll see you in the Hunt,” said Nisien. His dark gaze rested on Pryderi, as though he were fixing the prince in his mind.

“Perhaps,” replied Pryderi. Something in Nisien’s face gave him pause, but he pushed aside his own hesitation. He would worry about those two later.

He made his way through the crowds, past humans and folk alike. Everyone was gathering around the daises. As Pryderi watched, Kings Arawn and Pwyll ascended the steps for the second time that evening.

A hush fell over the crowd.

“A moment, if you please,” said Arawn. He had donned his finger-bone crown and bare-bladed sword. His crimson cloak trailed behind him like spilled blood. “I hope you are enjoying the feast.”

Cries of agreement broke out; there were cheers and raised cups. A few corgis even took up a howl.

“Good,” said King Pwyll. “Now, a few announcements—first, weapons have been delivered to your tents. I know most of you had to leave your iron swords and arrows behind, so replacements have been provided.”

Arawn held one hand up, then deliberately and slowly removed the signet ring from his index finger. At this distance, Pryderi could not make out the details, but he knew what the ring entailed: a sun and moon, balanced against each other. A ring for an eternal being, for whom time had little consequence.

Pwyll did the same, holding his own signet ring aloft. It bore the dragon and seahorse of Dyfed.

“These are the rules of the Hunt,” said Pwyll. “Listen well.”

The quiet drew into a taut silence. Pryderi’s heartbeat quickened, and he strained to listen. He did not wish to miss a word.

“Capture an animal,” said the Otherking. “Bind your signet ring to it. Then, you will hunt those animals that have been chosen to bear rings. Gather as many rings of value as you can. Bring them to your king. Hunters may work together in groups of no more than three—and those who bring the most fealty to their king will win the Hunt.” Arawn smiled, the candlelight glittering in his golden eyes. “And those hunters will each receive a boon from myself.”

A quiet rumble went through the crowds. While there were always whispers of the boon, even Pryderi had not been sure he believed in it. A boon from the Otherking would be magic few could ever dream of. It could change the course of a person’s life.

Pryderi wondered fleetingly what he would ask for, if he were to win.

To go home , part of him whispered.

To be a good prince , he thought, trying to quash the first impulse.

“Any animal?” called one of the hunters from Annwvyn.

“Any animal,” replied Arawn, with a knife-edged smile. “Be it mortal or immortal, so long as its heart beats and you can capture it—it may carry your fealty. I suggest you choose well, lest it be too easily slain. You may send the animal away or keep it with you, but the moment your own ring is captured by another, your time in the Hunt is ended. If you fail to bind your ring to an animal, you will not be allowed within the Hunt.”

“How would we know if our ring is captured?” called one of the folk hunters.

Arawn’s eyes gleamed gold. “You will know.”

“And when we hunt?” said a huntress from Dyfed. “Must we bring the animal back alive?”

Arawn shook his head. “The ring is all that matters. As for your prey… in the Wild Hunt, all are fair game.”

“We capture our animal at dawn?” asked another.

“No,” said Pwyll. Even in the crowd, Pryderi felt his father’s gaze fall on him. “You have until dawn to capture an animal.”

Cries of protest rang out, but Arawn silenced them with a look. Folk and mortals alike had spent the last few hours drinking, feasting, and dancing. They wore finery and shoes unsuited to a hunt in the woods. And then there were the woods themselves. Outside the circle of torchlight, the world seemed to fall away. Trying to find an animal in the dark was an impossibility.

But this was the Wild Hunt. No one had ever promised it would be easy. This was why Pwyll had warned him against imbibing too readily. The medd in Pryderi’s belly burned like a small honeyed fire. But at least he was on his feet.

Arawn raised one hand. His fingers were long, casting spidery shadows. His face held a gentle, wicked amusement.

“Good hunting,” the Otherking said, and then he dropped his arm.