Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

B EFORE GWYDION COULD so much as draw a breath, he felt Branwen’s hand close around his left wrist. She half dragged him toward their tent.

Moving through the crowd was akin to being caught in a stampede of panicked deer—everyone was fleeing in every direction, and it was all Gwydion could do not to let go of Branwen. Palug darted between the trampling feet with the ease of a fish navigating white waters. Finally, their tent came into view. Branwen pushed the flap door open, then yanked it shut behind them. It quieted a little of the clamor.

Someone had left an assortment of weapons resting on a bedroll. There was a crossbow, a short bow, bolts and arrows alike, a slender knife, and a longer spear. There were other tools: a lantern, rope, and a flask of water. “Good,” said Gwydion. He yanked off his formal tunic and reached into his pack for more practical clothing. “We should hurry, get as far out into the woods as we can before the other hunters can manage.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Branwen hastily untying her dress’s bodice. Her fingers slipped on the laces, and she let out a curse. “This is why I never bothered with gowns. They’re impossible.”

Gwydion considered reaching out to help, but laces required both hands, and his right hand throbbed after the fight. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He hummed a soft little melody, drawing from his internal well of magic.

Branwen made a startled noise. “Gwydion!” The dress shifted of its own accord—cloth rippled away from her shoulders, her bodice loosening and laces giving way. The gown almost slid from her, but she clutched at the front. Her bare shoulders gleamed in the torchlight.

“I thought you divined trees,” she hissed.

“Plants,” said Gwydion, with a gesture toward her gown. “Your dress is made of linen.”

She gaped at him.

“It’s grown from flax,” said Gwydion. “You didn’t know that?”

“I’m a huntress,” she said, “not a weaver.” Then she frowned at him. “Did you buy me linen clothes on purpose?”

He huffed out a laugh. “They’re well-made.”

“That was not a no.”

He shrugged. “I prefer to be around things I can control.”

She gave him a skeptical glance. “Do you have many friends?”

“No.”

“I can see why,” she said. She looked down at her ruined dress. “That cannot be a good use of royal funds.”

He silently disagreed. In that gown, she had been a bewitching creature of green and gold.

“Think of it every time you pay your taxes,” he replied.

They dressed in haste and silence, yanking on boots and trousers, dark cloaks and belts. Gwydion knelt beside his pack, checking its contents to make sure nothing had been disturbed.

“So we have to find an animal,” said Branwen. “Attach a signet ring to it. And then we hunt one another’s animals and try to bring as many rings as possible to our supposed king. But if our ring is taken, we’re out.”

“I think that’s an apt summary of the Hunt, yes,” said Gwydion. He pulled the pack onto his shoulders. Branwen was picking through the weapons.

“Proving that this is a hunt created for nobles,” said Branwen. “Most hunters won’t have a signet ring. I don’t have one. Does that mean I can’t hunt?”

Gwydion had not considered that. He raked his eyes across the tent, searching for… something. Then his gaze fell on the brooch at her cloak. It was a brass circle, simple yet elegant. “That,” he said, pointing at the brooch. “That should work.”

Her hand went to the brooch. “If you think this thing will fit around one of my fingers, then I have vastly overestimated you.”

“I know it’s not a ring,” said Gwydion. “But it’s important to you, yes? You took it from the old man, Rhain. Signet rings are nothing more than who you are. Who your family is. If that man was your family, then take it. It will serve well enough.”

Branwen’s thumb traced the edge of the brooch. “You sound certain of that.”

“I know something of magic,” said Gwydion. “Much of it has to do with intent.”

Branwen’s mouth tightened, but she nodded sharply. “All right. If you think this will work.”

“All of my plans work,” said Gwydion.

“Even the impossible ones?” she asked.

“Especially the impossible ones.”

She flashed a grin. He was not sure if it was the chaos, the danger, or the medd, but he felt a flush rise to his cheeks. The moment they had crossed the boundary into Annwvyn, they had become a team. They were united against the rest of the Hunt. And as much as Gwydion told himself he did not need anyone else, he rather liked that.

It was unwise, he told himself. This Hunt, this huntress—they were all merely part of his plan to keep Amaethon from the throne. He should not become attached to any of it.

“We should move,” said Branwen. “Dawn is perhaps eight hours away.”

Gwydion straightened his shoulders. “Lead on, huntress.”

She turned, reaching for the tent door. Before she could touch it, the flap flew open. A sudden wind made the torch flicker. Something surged into the tent.

Branwen reacted at once, yanking a dagger from her belt.

But the attacker was too swift. It knocked an elbow into Branwen’s shoulder with almost inhuman speed, then hooked her leg with his own, yanking her to the ground. Gwydion seized the only weapon he could reach: a long-handled spear. It was a terribly awkward weapon for a close-quarters fight, but it was better than nothing. Gwydion swung it round, hoping it would not snag on the tent wall.

The attacker ducked beneath the spear, one leg slamming into Gwydion’s left arm. His elbow went numb, and he dropped the spear, dizzy with the sudden pain. Pain was nothing new to him—he lived with it nearly every day. But this was startling and sudden, and he could not guard against it.

Disarmed and gasping, both Gwydion and Branwen gazed at the monster that had invaded their tent. It wore a dark cloak, and when it rose, it stood taller than Gwydion.

They all went very still.

“Who are you?” said Gwydion, once he could speak. His heart hammered, and his mind was coming up with a thousand lies with every beat.

Their attacker pulled back his hood.

And there stood Pryderi, prince of Dyfed. “I should ask you the same question.”