Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

P RYDERI HATED THE sensation of falling.

Even as a child, he had disliked heights. He had been wary of trees and the hayloft, and his foster siblings used to tease him about it. For a moment, he was weightless. Then the ground rushed up, and he slammed into damp earth. He lay on his back, every muscle throbbing and his lungs disconcertingly hollow. He needed to move; he had to move. But his body came back to him with frustrating slowness. Finally, he managed to roll onto his side.

“Branwen,” he wheezed. He blinked again and again, trying to clear his vision. Branwen was on her hands and knees, her pale hair wrenched from its braided crown. Dirt stained her face, and she had a bleeding cut across her forehead.

“The deer,” she said tightly. Her hand landed on the deer’s neck. It lay stiffly between Pryderi and Branwen. “It’s dead.”

“Did it die in the fall?” asked Pryderi.

Branwen winced. “Too cold and stiff. It died hours ago.” She reached down for the signet ring tied to its neck. When she held it up, Pryderi saw it was a bit of wire curved to look like a ring.

Panic tore through him. This was no natural occurrence, no sinkhole. He could see the places where roots had been broken, where rocks were hauled away. Mortal hands had carved this pit.

A trap.

He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the protest of his sore muscles. “We need to get out of here. Right—”

Above them, someone screamed.

It was not a cry of fear. The sound simmered with challenge.

Gwydion answered with a shout. He was alone in the thicket, his companions trapped in a pit.

This was an ambush. And Pryderi had fallen into it. The sound of weapons being drawn made his breath catch. There was a clash of metal upon metal, a grunt, and then the battle yowl of a cat.

Pryderi’s first instinct was to leap for the top of the pit and heave himself out. To take apart anyone who dared challenge him. But he could not rush into danger and leave Branwen trapped down here.

He did not know her, not truly. But he wanted to. Perhaps it was because she had a way about her, a wry humor and confidence. Perhaps it was the way she looked at him, not like he was a prince but someone she might share a drink with.

Or perhaps it was because she could see monsters—and she had still chosen him as a companion.

“Here,” said Pryderi, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll lift you out.”

She nodded, stepping into his hands. He boosted her as steadily as he could, lifting her to the edge of the pit. She reached for something to heave herself to freedom, but then she jerked back.

Pryderi stumbled, off-balance, and the two of them fell a second time. He managed to catch her on the way down, keeping Branwen from slamming into the dirt. When he looked up, a face gazed down at them. There was a knife where Branwen’s hand had been.

It was a human hunter, a man with a wide grin and a scar through his mouth. He was a iarll’s son from Cedweli, Pryderi remembered. Cheerful and boisterous, as sturdy and stout as a wine barrel. “Prince,” he said cheerfully, before fitting arrow to bowstring and pulling it taut. He aimed at Branwen.

For a moment, Pryderi could not understand. This was the Wild Hunt. They were supposed to be hunting monsters and game animals, not one another.

In the Wild Hunt, all are fair game.

Pryderi moved without thinking, rolling so that he covered Branwen with his body. An arrow sank into the dirt near his thigh. Close, but it had not hit him. The archer must have flinched at the last moment.

Even he would hesitate to slay the prince of Dyfed.

Branwen squirmed beneath him, seizing her bow and an arrow. “Left,” she snarled, and he shifted left. She fired, and there was a cry from above.

Pryderi rolled off of her. His spear had fallen with them, and he picked it up. He met Branwen’s eyes.

She seemed to understand; there was a determined set to her mouth. Drawing two more arrows, she took a step toward him. He lowered the spear, keeping it horizontal with the ground. She leapt, landing on the shaft of the spear, and he heaved it up, launching her into the air. As she sailed, she fired one arrow, then landed on the ground above and vanished from sight.

There was another shout and a clash of weapons. With a grunt, Pryderi shoved the tip of his spear into the earth and used it to clamber out of the pit trap. It was ungraceful, but it worked. He scrambled up and out.

A small battle was being waged in the thicket. One hunter was trapped by brambles and trying to cut himself free. One lay upon the ground, an arrow buried in his shoulder. The last held an obsidian sword, advancing on Gwydion. Gwydion stood between the hunter and Palug, a snarl on his mouth and his left hand held out.

“Put down the sword,” said Branwen. She had her bow trained on the last man.

The hunter glanced at her. He was an older man with pale hair and gray eyes. His gaze darted from Palug to Gwydion, then to Branwen and Pryderi. Plans seemed to flash across his face, one by one, until he realized he was outnumbered. “Give up,” said Pryderi breathlessly. “And we’ll let you go.”

“Truly?” said Gwydion, jaw clenched. “They’ll follow us afterward. Since these vultures cannot hunt prey, they’ll steal rings from other hunters.”

“We are not vultures,” said the man with the arrow in his shoulder. The pain rendered him too breathless to continue.

“That’s precisely what you are,” replied Gwydion. “You likely put your own rings on the easiest game you could find, then built a trap to steal the rings from others. It’s a wonder you managed to bring down a deer for your pit.”

He was stoking their anger, Pryderi realized. Making them reckless.

“You’re not hunters at all,” said Gwydion. “Simply thieves.”

The older hunter snarled. He lunged at Gwydion, thrusting that obsidian sword forward. The attack was so swift that Pryderi reacted without thinking. He threw his spear, twisting so that all the strength of his upper body was in that throw. The spear found its mark—the old hunter’s sword.

And in the same moment, an arrow pierced the man’s heart.

The sword and spear hit the ground moments before the hunter did. There was a sucking inhalation, a look of startled bewilderment on the man’s face, and then he fell backward.

Branwen had gone as pale as her hair. Her lips were parted, as though she had begun to ask a question and faltered.

They were moving before Pryderi was truly aware of it. One moment they stood in the thicket, and the next they were running. Some part of him had remembered to retrieve the spear. Branwen darted ahead, swift and nimble as a deer. Gwydion was panting behind him, and then a streak of black fur scampered alongside them. Palug kept the pace easily, his tail held high.

There was a snarl from the thicket, the sound of undergrowth breaking and snapping. Then footsteps—hard and loud. Running.

They were being pursued.

Turn and fight , whispered an old voice from within Pryderi. It sounded ancient as the oceans. Ensure none can follow you.

It was what a monster would do; it was what a king would do.

But he was neither.

Not yet.

Gwydion made a sound of frustration. Behind them, the forest began to change. Branches wove together, roots sprang up, and the undergrowth thickened. Moss rose up to meet their every step, muffling the sound of their escape.

They ran until Pryderi’s lungs burned, and Branwen finally slowed. Gwydion was wheezing, and when they finally stopped, he sank to the ground. “Just—let—me—die,” he managed to say.

Branwen’s hair stuck to her forehead, and her tunic was soaked through with sweat. She looked as shaken as Pryderi felt; she stepped from side to side, as though she could not remain still. She had killed that man. It had been in defense of Gwydion, but she had still slain another human.

Gwydion had picked up the obsidian sword. It was beautiful: the bone hilt curved and the blade glittered in the sunlight. It was a weapon that should have been in the hands of an immortal. Perhaps those scavengers had killed one of the folk for it.

“Are you all right?” Pryderi said quietly to Branwen.

She gave him a curt nod. “Fine.”

“Well, I’m done hunting for the rest of the day,” said Gwydion hoarsely. “We should find a place to set up camp.”

Branwen blew out a frustrated breath. “We can’t rest now. We still—we have nothing. No rings, no—”

Gwydion reached into a hidden pocket of his tunic and withdrew a small velvet pouch. He tossed it at Branwen. She caught it, despite her surprise, then fumbled with the drawstring.

“The old hunter had that on him,” said Gwydion. He finally heaved himself into a sitting position. “I heard a bit of jingling and thought, ‘Who brings coin to a royal hunt?’ So I cut it from his belt when he was trying to strangle me.”

Within the pouch were three signet rings. Pryderi recognized the heraldry as two from Rhos and one from Gwarthaf. “They’re from Dyfed,” he murmured. “Are we… allowed to take them?”

“All’s fair,” said Branwen bitterly. Shame was written into every line of her body.

Looking at her was like gazing into a mirror. Pryderi’s own instincts had betrayed him more than once—a bruise against his foster sister’s cheek when she woke him from a nightmare, a cup smashed in a moment of anger, harsh words that he did not truly mean. He knew what it felt like to be haunted. He’s young , he once heard his mam murmur to his da. He went through something none of us understand, and he is still trying to sort himself out. Give him time.

Gwydion reached down, picking up their flasks. “I can hear water nearby,” he said. “I’ll refill these. Come on, cat.”

Palug had settled on a sunlit patch of fallen leaves. But at Gwydion’s words, he stretched and trotted after the diviner. Together, they vanished into the trees.

“Branwen,” Pryderi said quietly. Branwen looked at Pryderi, her face smoothing into a mask. “It’s all right.”

At his words, her mouth twisted. “It’s not,” she said.

“Have you ever killed before? A person, I mean. Not a monster.”

She shook her head. “I tried, once. But I couldn’t manage it.”

“There are shameful reasons people kill,” he replied. “Out of anger or greed or cruelty. But there was none of that in you. You did it to protect a friend. There’s no shame in that.”

A breeze drifted through the trees. It smelled of pine trees and damp rocks. Branwen lifted her face to it, closing her eyes for a heartbeat. She seemed to drink in the wind, and when she spoke, her voice was calm. “I didn’t just do it for Gwydion. I can’t… I can’t lose this hunt.”

He nodded in understanding. “Your mam.”

“My mam,” she agreed.

And there was truly nothing else to say. Pryderi did not know what he would have done to protect his foster mother.

They sat in quiet for a few moments, simply catching their breath.

“May I ask you a question?” Branwen said.

“We’re allies,” he replied. “Ask what you will.”

“About that.” She gestured at him. “Why did you ally with us, instead of turning us over to the kings?”

It was a fair question. Discovering spies and delivering them to his father would have been a fine way to prove his worth.

He nodded at her knife. “Because of that.”

Her brows drew together in confusion. “Because of my dagger?”

“You said you took it from a monster,” he said. “That is the fang of an afanc.” He took a steadying breath. “You’ve heard the tales.”

“I’ve heard a little.” She tilted her head. “But I also know how tales can change in the telling.”

“They’re all true,” he said. “I was kidnapped by a monster. A farmer saved me.” His voice softened as he spoke of his family. “He was no warrior, no great hero. But he saw a child trapped by a monster and acted. Anyone with the bravery to fight an afanc has my respect.”

She reddened, her hand falling to the knife at her belt. “I didn’t kill the afanc myself, you should know. I was very young—and attacked by three of the folk that ventured into my village unseen. When they realized I could see them, they threatened to cut out my eye. To take back the magic they thought I had stolen. I fought back, stole their knife, and used it to defend myself.”

He thought of her, young and small, cornered by three immortal children. He knew the folk well enough to realize how terrifying that would have been. “You were still brave,” he said.

She shrugged, looking more embarrassed than pleased. “As were you. You helped slay your own monster, did you not?”

The rest of the day passed swiftly.

Gwydion took the lead, his feet bare and eyes half-closed. He hummed under his breath, and it took Pryderi a while to understand it was not because Gwydion enjoyed music—it was part of his magic. He made his way through the forest with ease: He never broke a twig or twisted a branch. Ferns bowed before him, and moss rose up to soften his steps.

It was a gift that Pryderi would have welcomed. He imagined what he could have done with such a power on the farm—their crops would have brimmed over, their family fed and happy. Their entire village would have prospered.

Dyfed did not have many diviners. Perhaps it was the distance from Annwvyn or iron in the ground or some trick of fate. Diviners were more common in the north. If the other children of D?n were as talented as Gwydion, then Dyfed would do well to make allies of them.

Perhaps Pryderi could. Perhaps this was why fate had led him on this journey.

They went east, climbing into the mountains. The foliage shifted as they went higher, the trees thinning out and the ground giving way to rocks and shorter grasses. As evening crept nearer, Gwydion led them to a cluster of pine trees.

“We can’t sleep here,” murmured Branwen. “Look.”

It took Pryderi a moment to see what she had: a near-invisible trail through the foliage. Something had worn a path into the ground. “Those tracks… well, I have never seen anything like them,” said Branwen. “I would not like to meet whatever left that game trail.”

Gwydion gave her a mocking little bow. “Who do you take me for, huntress?”

He placed his left hand on a tree. This time, he did not hum. He sang—a soft little song. It was a jaunty tune, and Gwydion carried it surprisingly well. Above them, the pine trees seemed to come awake. Needles whispered, wood creaked, and branches wove together. When Gwydion went silent, the canopy had become its own shelter.

“No one will look for us up there,” said Gwydion.

Branwen sighed. “That is a skill I would not mind having.”

“Magical tree houses?” said Pryderi.

She grinned. “I would have never come home.”

Pryderi did not relish the thought of spending a night in that tree. But he forced his unease into the pit of his stomach and followed the others. He tried not to look down as he climbed higher and higher. The birds around him went quiet and watched with confusion as three humans invaded their domain. Finally, he pulled himself up and over into the shelter Gwydion crafted. He had woven the branches into a tight little net. They were surrounded on all sides, so it would be difficult to fall. And no one would see them from beneath.

There was a scritching noise, and then Palug scurried into view. He had scaled the trunk of the tree, his whiskers pointed forward as he gazed at the birds’ nests overhead.

“Oh, no,” said Branwen, taking hold of the cat and gently prying him from the tree. “I’ve had enough of hunting for one day.” She reached into her pack and withdrew a smoked fish to distract the cat.

Pryderi ran his hand along the edge of the magicked shelter. “Thank you,” he said to Gwydion. “I appreciate this.”

“I can tell from the way you look like you want to vomit,” said Gwydion.

Pryderi let out a surprised laugh. “I am unfond of heights.”

“Safer up here than down there,” said Gwydion.

“Which is why I am up here.”

They ate a cold meal of dried meats, rolls, and leftover pies. Dusk drained all the warmth from the forest, and Pryderi was glad for the wool of his cloak. He wondered if his father was settling into his tent, back in the comfort and safety of the royal camp. Perhaps he would share a meal with King Arawn and the two would discuss whatever it was that kings talked about.

They fell quiet as night closed in around them. Gwydion settled up on his side, bundled up in his fur-lined cloak. Palug curled against his stomach, and Gwydion lifted the cloak, letting the cat snuggle in. Palug purred loudly.

Pryderi shifted, trying to get comfortable. It felt a little like sitting in an overlarge hammock crafted of woven pine branches. Needles kept jabbing his bare skin.

Branwen did not share his unease. She lay on her stomach, her arms braced on the edge of their makeshift camp, gazing at the forest below. She seemed to be watching for something.

“What’s down there?” Pryderi asked quietly.

“Game going home for the night,” she replied, equally soft. She reached for her bow, pulling a single arrow free. She fitted arrow to string, drawing it tight.

Pryderi took a deep breath, then chanced a look down. At once, his belly swooped. But he forced himself not to react, to look where Branwen looked.

Something was moving through the grasses.

Branwen inhaled deeply. Her gaze seemed to unfocus, her lips parted slightly, and as she exhaled, her fingers released the bowstring. The arrow cut through the evening, thudding into something far below.

A dead rabbit fell into the game trail, an arrow through its throat.

“That was a good shot,” said Pryderi. Looking down at the dead rabbit, he said, “Should I fetch it?”

“No.” Branwen tapped a finger against her bow. “You don’t eat raw rabbit unless you’re truly desperate. And we can’t make a fire up here.”

“Then why did you—”

“Because,” said Branwen, picking up a length of thin rope, “something will always come for the scent of fresh blood.”