Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

P RYDERI COULD NOT decide if this was a mistake.

He had found two infiltrators from Gwynedd. A king’s son would have reported them; a monster’s son would have slain them. But Pryderi had allied with them. He did not know what that made him.

A traitor , he thought, or a fool.

But he had seen Branwen’s desperation when she spoke of her mother—and he could not deny another a chance to save their family. He recalled how his foster mother used to invite passing travelers to their table for meals. When Pryderi pointed out that was a good way to be robbed, his mam had smoothed a hand over his hair and said, “I will not let the evils of the world frighten me out of kindness.”

He thought his foster mother would have liked these two—the trickster and the huntress. She would have been amused by them, at the very least. His foster father would have liked the cat; he had always had more of an affinity for animals than people.

Pryderi wished he could have spoken to his foster family. He had sent and received letters, but it was not the same.

The other hunters were gathering their gear and supplies, murmuring to one another. The raucous celebration had died away, leaving a quiet urgency in its wake. Branwen lit a lantern and took the lead. Her cat twined around her ankles, purring softly. Gwydion wore a dark gray cloak and carried an assortment of pouches at his belt. His expression was cool and contemplative, but he nodded at Pryderi when their gazes met.

When they reached the forest, Branwen took a deep breath. Palug stepped up beside her, his eyes fixed on something in the dark. She reached down, picking him up. The cat perched atop her shoulder as she shifted into a hunter’s gait.

“Where are we going?” asked Pryderi quietly.

Branwen said, “Away from camp. All the noises will have scared away game. We should look for water.”

“There’s a stream south of here,” said Gwydion.

Pryderi shot him a frown. “Have you visited Annwvyn before?”

“No,” said Gwydion, and offered no explanation.

They walked into the forest. The ground was thick with fallen leaves, and the once-lush foliage looked skeletal in the night. The wind carried the scent of cold mist, the bright greenery of conifers, and the smoke of distant fires. When the sun rose, it would be Calan Gaeaf—the first day of winter.

Branwen led them east, deeper into the mountains. They navigated by the pale lantern light. Pryderi snagged his ankle on a bramble once, and even she stumbled over a few loose rocks. Of the three of them, Gwydion moved through the forest with the most ease.

Magic , Pryderi thought. The children of D?n were all diviners. Gwydion would be no different. Pryderi’s fingers tightened around the spear.

Far from the bonfires and the flowing wine, the night chilled. Winter slipped its cold fingers between the bare tree branches. Pryderi’s breath fogged around him, and his ears went numb and itchy. The trees were dark, spindly shapes illuminated by moonlight. Wind rustled through the branches, giving the impression of whispering voices. Pryderi took a tighter hold on the spear. It would double as a walking stick, and the weight was a reassurance that he could defend himself.

They spent the better part of an hour picking their way through the forest. The farther they journeyed from camp, the more signs of animals appeared. There were deer tracks, birds’ nests in the trees, and freshly tilled earth from rabbits and voles. As they went, Branwen did a strange thing—she gave a little hop, then looked over her shoulder. “Don’t put your foot down on that piece of slate.”

Pryderi looked down. True enough, a rough rock jutted from the earth. It looked ordinary to his eyes.

Gwydion jumped over the slate. Pryderi did so, too.

Both his companions had their secrets. And while Pryderi would let them keep those secrets, he still made note of them.

Palug trotted ahead, tail curled like a fish hook. Once, he stopped and peered intently toward Branwen’s right. She paused, holding up a hand for the others to halt.

Pryderi heard noises. Other hunters were passing nearby, trampling undergrowth and cursing as one of the them stumbled over a fallen log.

Branwen gestured them into the bushes, and they all crouched. As they hid, the sound of voices grew louder.

“—not going to find anything with you making that racket,” said a woman irritably.

A man made a huffy sound. His voice had the accent of a Dyfed noble. “I am paying you very well to win this Hunt for me. If you cannot find a wolf—”

“We’ll not be finding wolves around here,” said the huntress. “Not in the dark, not in these woods. They’ll likely find us, if they want to. No, I told you. We need to find a wild hog. They’ll defend themselves far more viciously than any wolf.”

“I’m not attaching my signet ring to a pig.” He sniffed. “Just because you were content to tie your wedding ring to an otter—”

An otter was a good choice, Pryderi thought. They were clever and shy, and one could vanish into a river never to be glimpsed again. Even afancs had trouble hunting them.

The huntress said something that Pryderi did not catch. She and the nobleman were walking away, and their voices quieted. Branwen was the first to rise.

“She used her wedding ring?” said Pryderi, frowning.

“As I told him,” said Branwen, with a nod toward Gwydion, “this is how you know the Wild Hunt was created by nobles. Most of us common mortals don’t walk around with signet rings. Wealthy merchant families might purchase one, but the rest of us simply use our word as our oath. We have little need of silver and wax.”

“I wonder if we get our rings back,” mused Gwydion.

“I hope so,” replied Pryderi. “A signet ring is a dangerous thing to lose.”

“True,” said Gwydion.

They continued on. Another hour passed in relative quiet. They heard two other hunting parties, but Branwen managed to avoid them. Finally, they seemed to be so deep within the mountain forest that they were the only three people in the world. A stream burbled nearby.

“We should fill our flasks,” Branwen said. “Then we start looking. Many animals will keep to places with fresh water.”

While Branwen knelt beside the stream, Pryderi walked alongside the water. The air carried the sickly sweet smell of decay. He pushed aside a bush. Half-rotted into the ground was a dead polecat.

“You could tie your ring to that,” said Gwydion, “but I would try for something a little more nimble.”

Branwen snorted. “At least we know that we’re far enough from camp to encounter predators.”

She held the lantern aloft to study the damp earth. Her gaze flickered over indentations in the ground, the broken undergrowth, and the small trails. Pryderi found it fascinating to watch her work; her body loosened as she traced a footprint in the ground, then touched a broken branch. This was where she found her peace, he realized. Others looked for it in drink or stories, but Branwen found it in the hunt.

“Deer tracks,” she murmured. “Recent.” She rose and began to follow the water.

Gwydion and Pryderi exchanged a glance. “After you,” said Pryderi, with a polite inclination of his head.

Gwydion returned the smile—with just as much warmth. “Of course.”

Pryderi knew they were both thinking the same: that Pryderi would never let Gwydion walk at his back. It was far too easy to slide in a knife.

Pryderi had heard of Gwynedd’s royal family. King Math was a nightmarishly powerful diviner, capable of turning his enemies into animals or killing with a touch. But he had not ventured out of Caer Dathyl for many years. His niece and nephews were rumored to be cruel and capricious, warring among themselves for power.

It could all be tales, Pryderi knew. Kingdoms waged war with words as much as they did with steel. A rumor here, an insinuation there. It all tipped the balance of power. Gwydion could be as dangerous as the tales whispered, or he could simply be a young man with a penchant for trickery. Pryderi did not know—and he could not trust him.

They walked uphill, then Branwen veered from the water. She seemed to be following a trail only she could see.

An eerie cry rang out. They all went still.

“Monster?” asked Pryderi quietly, his gaze roaming the dark wood.

Branwen smiled at him. “From the sound, you’d think so. But no. That is the cry of a roe deer.”

“That was a deer ?” said Gwydion.

“A roe deer,” she replied. “Something must have startled them.”

Branwen drew her bow. Her hands were steady as she strung it. Pryderi could see why Gwydion had gone to the trouble of hiring her; she walked through the forest as though the wilds were her kingdom.

Several deer had taken refuge within a small clearing. They were small, elegant creatures with reddish-brown coats. A lone buck stood by the herd with his ears pricked and stance wary.

Branwen nocked an arrow. “We can’t kill them,” she murmured. “But if we could herd them into a trap…”

In the distance echoed the eerie baying of a hound. All around them, hunts were playing out. Nobles and hunters, mortals and folk—they were all in these woods with the same ambition. Alliances were being forged, weapons sharpened, snares set. Against his will, a small fire of anticipation kindled in Pryderi’s chest. There was a part of him that wanted to win. To test himself against the best that Dyfed and Annwvyn had to offer and emerge victorious. Perhaps then he would feel worthy of a kingdom.

At the sound of the distant hounds, the deer herd jerked to awareness, shifting and moving like a living thing. They began to flee the clearing, slipping through old brambles and undergrowth. It was like watching water vanish between the cracks of a broken cup—there was no stopping them.

As Branwen stepped forward, hissing in frustration, Gwydion reached out and placed a hand on her wrist. And then he did a strange thing.

He sang. It was a soft little tune, barely audible under his breath.

And the brambles closed around one deer like a fist.

Pryderi drew in a sharp breath. Magic.

The herd was gone. Between one heartbeat and the next, they had all vanished. All but one. The trapped roebuck thrashed against his bramble cage. The plants moved with him, never injuring the creature, but keeping the deer secure.

The roebuck made panicked barking sounds as they approached.

“Well, that was impressive,” said Pryderi, but there was an edge of wariness to his voice. “Plants, then?” He had never heard of such a magic.

Gwydion threw him a rueful smile. “Plants,” he agreed. “Not quite as powerful as fire or metal, I’ll admit.”

Pryderi bit back his disagreement. Fire and metal were both dangerous, but neither compared to this. Plants were everywhere, and they affected everything. He had lived on a farm long enough to know how growing things could carve the very earth.

“This was your victory,” said Branwen to Gwydion. “I think you should have this one.”

Gwydion slipped a ring from his cloak. Branwen held out a bit of twine, and he took it. “Hello, friend,” Gwydion said softly as he approached the deer. Branwen and Pryderi kept back, for fear of panicking the deer further. The roebuck’s breath gusted into the night, heavy and terrified.

Gwydion knelt beside the deer. He slipped the twine through his ring, and made to tie it around the deer’s antler.

But the moment his ring touched the creature, roots sprang from the earth like skeletal fingers.

Gwydion fell back, but one of the roots took hold of him. Branwen cried out, drawing the dagger at her belt, but Pryderi seized her arm. It would not help Gwydion to rush into a trap.

Before their eyes, the roots curled through Gwydion’s ring and the roebuck’s antler, tying it into place. And then, gently as a lover’s caress, the second root curved around Gwydion’s left hand. A small tendril wound itself around his index finger and then broke off, curving into a ring.

All around them, an eerie birdsong rang out. But before Pryderi could pinpoint its source, the roots were sliding back into the earth. They did not so much as leave a scar upon the ground.

Gwydion sat back on his haunches. He held up his left hand, eyeing the wooden ring as though he feared it might bite him. “That was not me,” he said.

“It was the Otherking’s magic,” said Branwen, her eyes on the trees. Her hand remained on her dagger. “He is Annwvyn and Annwvyn is him. These woods are his. That spell must be how he keeps track of us.”

With a shaky hum, Gwydion released the roebuck from its bramble cage. The deer shook itself and tore into the woods.

For a moment, no one moved. Gwydion gazed at the wooden ring. “Does this mean…?”

“Welcome to the Hunt,” said Pryderi.