Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

B RANWEN WAS TIRED of being tossed to the ground.

It had happened twice in as many hours. Which was just insulting. She gazed up at Pryderi. He looked menacing standing there with candlelight in his golden hair and eyes flashing like a sea storm.

Palug hissed at Pryderi, his body fluffing so that he looked twice his size. The sound drew Pryderi’s attention—which was his mistake.

Branwen bucked upward, locking both of her legs around Pryderi’s knee. Then she yanked herself back with all her strength, pulling his knee out from under him. Using that momentum, she flipped them, so that Pryderi lay with his back to the ground, her knee upon his chest and her afanc-fang dagger at his throat.

“I’m Branwen,” she said, baring her teeth. “Or did you forget?”

Pryderi’s eyes narrowed. His throat bobbed against the tip of the dagger. “You called him Gwydion. I know of only one Gwydion, and he does not hail from Emlyn.”

She heard Gwydion sigh behind her. “You did, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean to,” said Branwen defensively. “You—you magically undressed me without warning.”

“You practically tied your laces into knots,” said Gwydion.

“Then perhaps next time, you should hire a true spy instead of a huntress,” she retorted. She scowled down at Pryderi. “You followed us here. You were listening. You knew he wasn’t from Dyfed, didn’t you?”

He met her gaze. “I can recognize dangerous people.”

“We’re not dangerous,” said Branwen.

“You have a knife to his throat,” said Gwydion reasonably.

She glared at him. This was his fault; she had known that infiltrating the Hunt would never be as simple as taking a dead man’s name. And now she was holding a prince hostage, and they were surrounded by enemies. All Pryderi had to do was scream, and they would be dead.

Determination was written into every line of Pryderi’s face. The prince was not unafraid, but he would not be cowed. Even if Branwen cut his throat, he would never surrender. She did not know much of princes nor nobles. But she knew how to face down a foe with only her wits for weapons and stubbornness for armor. Pryderi was no pampered creature; she had seen the calluses worn deep into his hands and the sun-burnished freckles. He reminded her of the young farmers and shepherds from Argoed.

Perhaps she could still salvage this.

“We’re not here to harm anyone,” she said. “We’re here to win the Hunt—like I said. And you’re right… we’re not from Emlyn.”

Gwydion made a strangled noise, as though he disapproved of her honesty.

“Gwynedd,” said Pryderi. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” she said. “The rest is true, though. Gwydion is here to win some family argument.”

“Well,” said Gwydion. “It’s slightly more complicated than that.”

“Gwydion is here to win some complicated family argument,” Branwen amended. “I am here for coin. And because… because if I win the boon, then I could heal my mam.” The words came out a little jerkier than she’d intended. Pryderi gazed up at her, a line between his brows.

“Your mother is ill?” he asked.

Branwen nodded. “Memory sickness. Magic is the only thing that can save her. And Gwydion—he could use that boon to do what no royal from Gwynedd has ever managed.”

“Win a war against Dyfed?” said Pryderi dryly.

“Well, that was uncalled for,” replied Gwydion.

Branwen glanced at Gwydion and raised her brows. “Tell him why you’re here.”

Gwydion drew in a breath. “I assume you’ve learned a little of my family?”

“I have,” said Pryderi. “Wasn’t there something to do with stolen pigs?”

Gwydion closed his eyes for one long-suffering moment. “Never mind that rumor. King Math is choosing his successor from my siblings, as he has no children of his own. He has decided upon Amaethon.”

Pryderi’s eyes flickered back and forth for a moment, as though recalling something he had once read. “He is… the one who sets fires?”

“That would be the one,” agreed Gwydion. “A fire diviner, trained for war, hungry for glory. I imagine even Dyfed would have some trouble with him.”

Pryderi appeared unimpressed.

Branwen said, “He wants his sister to be queen instead. And from everything I’ve heard, she would make a better ruler than the brother picked for the job. Mayhap if she were on the throne, Gwynedd and Dyfed could be allies instead of enemies.”

Surprise flashed across Pryderi’s face. “I—oh.” He looked toward Gwydion. “Is that true?”

“Arianrhod has two sons,” said Gwydion, and there was no mistaking the truth in his voice. “She wishes to make a safe place for her children to grow up in. She would never start a war. She favors trade, diplomacy, an exchange of craftsman and knowledge. She would be open to it, I believe.”

“But we could not enter the Hunt as ourselves,” said Branwen. “We would never have been allowed. Gwynedd isn’t welcome here. But all we want is a chance.” She pulled her knife away from Pryderi’s throat. “That’s all we’re asking for.” She rose, stepping back. Fear beat hotly inside of her.

Pryderi did not move for a few moments. Then he rolled onto his side. His eyes were not on her face but on the blade in her hand. “Your dagger,” he said. “It came from an afanc.”

Her fingers tightened around the hilt. Most people did not recognize the weapon for what it was—all they saw was a wickedly curved knife, jagged along one edge.

Pryderi stood. “Did you take it from a monster?”

Unbidden came memories of being cornered in an alley. The remembered helplessness twisted her stomach. “Yes,” she said honestly.

Pryderi said, “Have you killed before?”

“Yes,” she said again. “Monsters.”

“How old were you? The first time?”

She racked her memories, gaping at him. Of all the questions he might have asked, she had not expected this. “I—I was thirteen. There was a llamhigyn y dwr drowning children. I killed it with this.” She gave the knife a little twirl.

Pryderi nodded. “I was seven.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “When you killed a monster?”

“When I distracted the only parent I had ever known,” he said, “so that a farmer could drive a pitchfork through its back. I have not slain another since. I have tried to make myself more human. To ignore the thrill of a fight, to pretend that danger does not entice me. You want to know why I came here? It was not because my father invited me. I came to the Wild Hunt to prove that I am the son of a king, not a monster.”

Branwen looked at Gwydion. He seemed to be considering the prince, his expression torn between wariness and eagerness. “Groups of no more than three,” he said.

Branwen nodded. She had been thinking the same.

Pryderi’s gaze jerked toward Gwydion. “What?”

“Join us,” said Gwydion. “That way you can keep an eye on us. Make sure we’re here for the reasons we said. We’ll help you win the Hunt. We can all win. If that doesn’t prove you’re the son of a king, nothing will.”

Pryderi’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you Gwynedd’s spymaster? Why should I trust you?”

“Trickster,” said Gwydion. “Not spymaster.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Pryderi doubtfully.

“Spies are paid,” said Branwen and Gwydion in the same breath.

Pryderi snorted. “Why should I trust a trickster, then?”

“Because right now our aims align,” said Gwydion. “And you could break me in two if you so desired. Branwen is who you should be worried about.”

Pryderi’s mouth lifted at the corner. “She is quite formidable.”

“She is also right here,” said Branwen, flushing. “Are you with us? Or will you hand us over to your father?” She reached down and picked up the spear. She held it out to Pryderi, the sharpened tip aimed at her own chest and the shaft extended toward him.

It was a silent offering—her life was in his hands. He could take that spear and kill her before she could draw a breath. Or he could simply shout and alert the Otherking to their presence. She had ceded the decision to him.

Pryderi’s eyes met hers. A storm of emotion roiled behind the calm lines of his face. She gave him the smallest of nods. No matter what he chose, she would understand. There were no lies between them. The girl who hunted monsters and the boy who feared he was one.

Pryderi’s hand settled around the spear.

“Let us hunt,” he said.