Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

T HE TREES OF Annwvyn were so old that they did not sing.

Gwydion had walked old forests, listening to melodies only he could hear: a chorus of oak, hazel, birch, yew, and ash. Annwvyn’s trees rumbled like a mountainous heartbeat. The forest had existed long before Gwydion’s great-grandfather was born, and it would outlast them all.

Gwydion had slipped off his boots. It took a small effort of magic to soften his footsteps with moss and lichen, but he wanted to feel the ground. It helped attune him to the forest, to feel its breaths and shifting moods.

Talk to me , Gwydion thought. Warn me of enemies.

He was not the only one to be cautious. Branwen’s gaze was narrowed, her attention wholly on their surroundings. With the sun risen, the Hunt and all of its dangers were underway. They were hunters and hunted alike.

Branwen kept her bow in one hand. She appeared to be following the places where sunlight broke through the canopy and the undergrowth was thickest. She checked for signs of voles and rabbits, murmuring that they would be prey for larger animals.

“You see the deepest parts of the forest?” she said, nodding toward a shadowed thicket. “You’ll find smaller game there—birds, voles, maybe a deer. But if you want larger game? Look for the places where the landscape shifts. Where meadow meets forest, where forest meets water, where water touches the grass. In-between places.”

“The way magic flourishes at dawn and dusk,” said Pryderi. He still took up the rear, that spear resting atop one broad shoulder.

“It does not,” said Gwydion, frowning. “Magic has nothing to do with time.”

“Your magic, mayhap,” said Pryderi. “But in the wild country, most people take measures to protect themselves during moments of change.”

“Or perhaps magic makes things change,” said Gwydion. “For better or worse.”

Pryderi pursed his lips. “Most would envy those with magic. Particularly yours.”

“Only one raised by a farmer would say that,” replied Gwydion with a bitter little smile. A pang went through his right hand. “Magic is all well and good in old legends, but I’ve seen what happens when a child has power and wants a sweet. The lucky servants escaped with a few burn scars.”

Pryderi seemed taken aback. “Is that why you’re so determined to keep your brother from the throne?”

“Yes,” said Gwydion. “And it is better for Gwynedd and Dyfed if Amaethon never wears a crown.”

They walked in silence for a while. Branwen stopped abruptly, kneeling by a broken fern. “Someone came this way recently.”

“Should we avoid them?” asked Pryderi. “To keep the cat safe?”

Palug was darting in and out of the undergrowth, chasing motes of dust and shadows.

“We shouldn’t seek them out,” said Branwen. “But if they attached their rings to animals nearby, the game might not have gone too far.”

“How many hunters?” asked Gwydion. All the footprints were a jumble to him, but Branwen read the tracks as though they were words upon parchment.

“Two,” she finally said. “One larger, one lighter. You can see the difference in the depth.”

“Or one was carrying something heavy,” Pryderi said. “Or armored.”

Branwen nodded. “Or that.”

The tracks dipped south, then southeast. Gwydion tried to find his bearings in the forest, to take in every tree and root. He walked with half-lidded eyes, listening more than seeing. So it took him by surprise when Branwen’s arm flung out and caught him in the chest.

There was a polecat standing perhaps ten strides away. It eyed the humans warily, tilting its head.

“Is there a ring?” whispered Gwydion.

Branwen drew in a breath. “That’s not a polecat.”

Pryderi shifted the spear in his hand. “It’s not?”

“No,” said Branwen in an undertone. Then, much louder, “Hello, friend.”

The polecat sniffed the air.

“It’s a pwca,” Branwen whispered. “Shape-changed to look like a polecat. They can be helpful, if you do them a kindness.” She dug into her pack and withdrew a small honeyed cake. It looked a little squashed, but the sweet scent drew the polecat’s attention.

“We won’t harm you,” said Branwen. She set the cake down. “Step back,” she said to the others. “Back, back, back.”

They all backed up, half stumbling over roots and grass. The polecat’s whiskers pointed forward as it skittered toward the cake.

“There you go,” said Branwen. It was the soft, soothing tones that one used for a child or animal. “See? We’re not here to hurt you.”

The polecat reached for the cake. Then it froze.

Gwydion realized their mistake too late. They had forgotten to account for their cat.

Palug growled. He had fluffed himself up to twice his normal size. He looked like an angry black-and-white storm cloud.

“Palug, no,” Branwen said, reaching for him.

The cat yowled a battle cry. The pwca-polecat seized the cake, then sprinted toward a tree and scampered out of sight. Palug tried to follow, but Branwen threw herself at the cat and scooped him up. He howled with impotent fury as she carried him away.

“Well, that was useless,” said Branwen. She looked down at Palug. The cat had given up his squirming and sat in her arms with a glum expression. “You can’t murder everything we come across, you little monster.”

Palug grumbled under his breath.

“I believe that’s cat for ‘I can try,’” said Gwydion.

Pryderi gazed at Branwen with a cool awareness.

“What?” said Branwen.

“You knew that was one of the folk,” said Pryderi. “You did not guess. You knew.”

“I’m not sure a pwca is truly one of the folk,” replied Branwen. “They’re not as conniving as the tylwyth teg.”

“You knew,” Pryderi repeated. Then he looked at Gwydion. “One of the many secrets you mentioned?”

“It’s a long story.” Branwen set Palug down and pointed at her right eye. “I can see magic. It’s why he hired me. It’s why I can hunt monsters. Because their illusions don’t work on me.”

Gwydion tensed. He was not sure how the prince would react to such a revelation. If Pryderi responded badly, Gwydion would be ready to defend her.

“You can see monsters?” said Pryderi quietly.

Branwen nodded. “Magical ones.”

Several emotions flickered across Pryderi’s expression. His lips pressed tight, as though he did not trust himself to remain silent. “That seems,” he finally said, “a useful skill to have.”

“It’s served well enough.” Branwen turned and picked up the trail. “We should keep moving.”

They walked until Branwen gestured them to another halt. They stood at the edge of a small thicket of birch trees and ferns. “I think there’s something up ahead,” she said softly. “See how those leaves are broken? Something trampled them.” She drew an arrow, nodding at Pryderi and Gwydion. “Stay here.”

“I can help,” said Pryderi mildly.

Branwen said, “All right. Gwydion, you take Palug. I don’t want him flushing anything out until I’m ready.”

“So I am on cat duty?” said Gwydion.

“No, of course not,” said Pryderi, smiling faintly. “You’re also in charge of ensuring we don’t walk into briars.”

Gwydion snorted and turned toward the cat. With a sigh, he reached down and picked up Palug. Then he turned the cat onto his back, cradling him in the crook of his arm like he’d held Dylan and Lleu when they were babes. Palug looked up at him, his feet in the air.

“You’ve never held a cat before, have you?” said Branwen, choking back a laugh.

“He likes it,” said Gwydion, scratching the cat’s chest.

Palug began to purr.

“He’s a little trickster himself,” said Branwen. “No wonder the two of you get on so well.” Carefully, she reached for the ferns. She twitched them aside.

Within the thicket was a sleeping deer. A silver signet ring was tied around its neck.

Branwen exhaled. She whispered something to Pryderi, and he nodded, reaching into his pack. He pulled out a small net.

Ah , Gwydion thought. They would try and catch the deer, rather than kill it. Personally, he would have slain the creature; it would have made matters simpler. But he would aid Branwen as best he could. Humming under his breath, he reached for his magic. It trickled through the roots of the trees, delving into the ground. If the deer woke, he would entrap it.

Branwen and Pryderi each took hold of the net, creeping into the thicket.

But as Gwydion’s magic sang through the trees, something made him pause. There was a hollowness, an ache through the ground. He had felt that only a few times before, when visiting the mines. Plants would sense when a tunnel had come too near, when their roots met only empty air.

“Wait,” he said, suddenly alarmed.

And then the ground collapsed.