Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

I T WAS NOT a monster that woke her. It was the quiet.

Branwen sat up, her cloak slipping away. Pryderi had fallen asleep with his back to the tree trunk, his head slumped and chin upon his chest. Gwydion was sprawled on his side, one arm still slung around Palug.

Branwen crawled to the edge of the woven branches, peering into the woods. She had set two snares near the dead rabbit. The first she hid near a clump of ferns and the second within the grass. The small knives the folk provided were unfamiliar. The metal was lighter than iron, and when she cut the second length of rope, she had yanked too hard and sliced a thin line down her finger. It was a thankfully small wound, and she’d bound it with a bit of clean cloth.

Now, she peered down at the dead rabbit. The quiet was deafening. Almost as if—

Fear burned through her. The shadows of the tall trees swayed as an unheard wind tugged at their branches.

And then one of those shadows moved.

Branwen’s breath caught. It was not a shadow but a large hound. She recognized the pale fur and red-tipped ears. Breath misted around its muzzle, fogging in the cool night. The ci annwn picked its way along the game trail.

It came upon the dead rabbit and snuffled the creature. Then the ci annwn lifted its head and howled silently.

Another hound stepped from the shadows, trotting up to its companion. Then another—and another. An entire hunting pack encircled the rabbit.

Something soft brushed Branwen’s arm, and she nearly fell from the tree. A hand seized her arm, steadying her. She looked up sharply. Gwydion was awake, his dark eyes focused on the hunting hounds below. Palug came up on Branwen’s other side. The cat glared down at the c?n annwn, his tail three times its normal size.

Fearful that he might leap at the pack, Branwen scooped him into her arms, caging the cat in place. She felt the vibration of his growl, even as she could not hear it.

The pack shifted and swayed, each of them sniffing at the rabbit. One hound snapped at another, then backed away with lowered ears. Its hind leg snagged in a snare. The hound leapt up in surprise, yanking at the rope. But Rhain had taught her well, and Branwen’s snare would only tighten the more the creature thrashed. The hound bit at its own leg, trying to free itself.

A sleek black horse glided from the shadows, cutting through undergrowth without stirring a single leaf. Atop the horse sat an armored figure. He was tall, with a cloak like blood and a crown of bone. He cast a monstrous shadow in the moonlight—some ancient thing arisen from an age before mortals. He did not bow to the laws of this world; gravity did not seem to weigh upon him, and time slid past without ever touching his features.

King Arawn.

Looking at him was like staring into the sun. Branwen’s right eye ached, pupil drawn tight while her left eye tried to compensate. He glowed, lit from within by some invisible power. She had seen otherfolk with her sight, but it had never been like this.

He did not carry magic; he was magic.

Arawn snapped his fingers, and his lips moved soundlessly. The hounds retreated from the rabbit. He slid from his horse and knelt beside the snared ci annwn. He smoothed his hand down the hound’s back as though it were a favored pet. Perhaps it was.

Arawn reached down and unbound the snare. Then he rose, turning in a circle. Likely looking for whoever had set the trap.

Branwen knew she should have retreated. She should have shrunk into the shadows, covered the white gleam of her hair with a cloak and closed her eyes. That was the best way to deal with monsters, was it not? To hide under a blanket.

Gwydion’s face was drawn, lips slightly parted as though he yearned to call for his power.

Branwen’s right hand closed around his left, squeezing hard. A warning.

He returned the grip, his fingers curling around hers. He must have felt her shaking, for his thumb swept back and forth across the soft inside of her wrist. She felt that touch like a shiver up her arm—and heat blazed in her cheeks. She was not accustomed to easy caresses, to the way that some friends seemed to pass touch back and forth like shared drinks. Branwen had been a solitary creature for so long that even the gentle warmth of her hand in his felt scorching.

She did not draw away. She dared not move, not with the Otherking so near.

His horse pranced in place as Arawn looked about the clearing. Slowly, his gaze swept upward.

Branwen could not hear a thing—not even her own heartbeat. Palug’s claws dug into her arm, but she only held him tighter.

The Otherking’s golden eyes gazed up at the tree where Branwen and Gwydion knelt. He could have fired an arrow, thrown a spear, or called upon his magic. But Arawn did none of those things. Picking up the reins, he urged his horse into a canter. Hunter, horse, and hounds darted along the path and deeper into the forest.

She could have sworn that he had smiled.

The quiet lasted long after the hunting hounds had retreated.

Branwen sat in the cradle of tree branches, her breathing uneven. Palug had finally wormed his way free and sat on the edge of their shelter, gaze fixed on the place where Arawn had vanished. Gwydion picked up a water flask and poured two small cups, then mixed in a handful of dried blooms. “It will be cold, but it might help,” he murmured, handing a cup to Branwen.

She sniffed the water. “Chamomile?”

“I doubt either one of us will find sleep easily,” he replied. He offered her a small, forced smile. His gaze fell on Pryderi; the prince’s soft snores were muffled into his own chest. “I suppose I shouldn’t resent him for resting. He was, after all, the only one of us invited to this Hunt.”

Branwen huffed out a quiet laugh. “No rest for the uninvited.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he said, clinking his cup against hers.

It was not tea; there was no fire to warm it. But the chamomile water tasted herbal and a little sweet. The scent plunged her into memories of home. There was always chamomile in the sleep brew that the apothecary sold her. She bit her lip. Mam would be asleep by now, if all was well.

“What is it?” asked Gwydion. His eyes were on her face, a concerned crease between his brows.

She shook her head. “Just thinking of home.”

That line deepened, and he looked away. “You miss it?”

“I do,” Branwen admitted.

“You’ll see it again,” said Gwydion. There was something akin to guilt in his face. Perhaps he felt responsible for being the one to drag her into the Hunt. “It might not be for a while, but you will.”

“It’s not just home.” Branwen drained the last of her chamomile. “It’s… all of it. The smell of the hearthfire, the sound of Mam waking up in the morning, feeding the chickens, Palug demanding that I feed him first. It’s… it’s home.” There was no disguising the ache in her voice, and she did not try. “Do you miss Caer Dathyl?”

Gwydion let out a startled laugh. “I—no. Not at all.”

She gave him a disbelieving look.

“Truly, I don’t,” he said.

Perhaps it was the late hour or the magic all around them. Branwen felt brave enough to ask, “Then what do you miss?”

His eyes unfocused and his mouth softened, as though he were gazing at something only he could see. “A meadow.”

Branwen wrapped her arms around her knees. “A meadow?”

“It was my mother’s favorite place,” he said softly. “A day’s ride from Caer Dathyl. She used to take me there when I was young. She had tended it for years, used her magic to grow herbs and flowers. It was a hidden little meadow—and only she could come and go as she pleased. The trees would welcome her.” He cleared his throat. “I inherited my power from her.”

“That sounds lovely.”

The softness fell away from Gwydion’s face. He inhaled, straightening his shoulders. “It’s likely gone now. I don’t know what became of it after she died.”

“What happened?” asked Branwen.

“Illness,” he said. “D?n’s power was like mine. Divining takes something from the diviner, you know. Fire diviners lose heat, water diviners are parched, metal diviners drain the metals in their blood. But as for plant diviners… no one truly knows what the magic costs. Mother used the power freely, spending her life with little care for herself. She grew slow to heal and quick to exhaustion. My uncle might have healed her with his magic, but he did not. So she slipped away.” His right hand flexed. “The healers tried experimenting on me for a while, trying to find out where my magic came from, but I stopped them. They never helped. So I don’t overtax myself. I decide when and where to spend my power. But I still wonder if I will end up the same.”

Branwen shivered. Her body had been a reliable thing for as long as she could remember. It was not perfect. She was scarred; her magicked eye gave her painful headaches if used for too long; her once-broken cheekbone ached in cold weather. But she could not imagine living a life where every decision had to be weighed against the cost. “That must frighten you. It would frighten me.”

Gwydion shook his head. “It does not. I’ve known no other life.”

It seemed a night for truths. Perhaps the silence of the hounds had left them both hungry for sound of any kind. “Then what do you fear?” she asked.

He looked down at his hands. No, she realized. Not both of his hands—just the right one. The one protected in a leather-and-wood brace.

“Being at the mercy of another,” he said softly.

Because he did not trust others. The last time he had allowed himself to be powerless, he had been hurt. He might as well have spoken the words aloud. All of his jests and his wit, all of his charm and his intelligence—it was his armor. He had made himself a trickster because he would never be a knight.

She pointed to the scar along her cheekbone. “You couldn’t stop looking at this scar when we met.”

His gaze focused on the old mark. “You said it was a wolf hunt.”

She exhaled. “It was a man,” she said. “Not a wolf. Although he liked to call himself that. He… he slew one of my family. And I could not stop it. Nor avenge it.”

His hand came up, fingers brushing over the old scar. His thumb stroked back and forth, as though he were committing it to memory. His brows hung low over his dark eyes; anger embrittled the corners of his mouth. She knew that anger was not aimed at her. His hand fell away, and she felt his fingertips graze her lips.

She said, “Powerlessness. That is what I fear most.”

Something flickered through his eyes. It might have been shame; it might have been understanding. He gazed at her as though she were a knot that had just unraveled in his hands.

“Perhaps that’s why we’re all here,” said Branwen. “Because the boon is power. It’s a choice we can make for ourselves. Noble or common, hunter or hunted, we all want that.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “We do.”