Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

T HE MORNING BEGAN with rain.

It dripped from the trees, spattering across Gwydion’s hood and dripping down his cloak. The cold made his right hand stiff, and when he tried to stretch the fingers, they throbbed in answer. Palug’s ears were pressed to his head, and he glared at the woods as though the rain were a personal betrayal. The rain dampened all of their moods: Branwen muttered about how tracks would be washed away, and even Pryderi looked a little bedraggled. Had this been a royal hunt of Gwynedd, they would have retreated to camp to indulge in mulled wine, game roasted over a fire, and conversation. But in the Wild Hunt, the stakes were too high for indulgences.

“What are you looking for?” asked Gwydion as Branwen led them down a muddied trail.

She shot an irritated glance over her shoulder. “You think you could do better?”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, holding both hands out. “I am not a hunter.”

“I would never have guessed,” said Pryderi dryly.

“I don’t know what signs you’re looking for,” continued Gwydion, “and if I did know… I might be of more use. I can sense the forest. It might not be like listening at a door for human talk, but I can discern some things.”

Branwen halted. “You make a good point,” she said. “Sorry.”

“No apologies needed.” He could see the taut line between her brows, the clench of her jaw. Pain was written across her face as clearly as if it had been scrawled on parchment. Gwydion had felt enough pain in his life to recognize it in another.

“Should I make a blindfold?” he asked quietly. “I could use part of my cloak.”

She touched her forehead. “It wouldn’t help. The iron is what drove the magic back, kept it caged. Without that…”

“What’s wrong?” asked Pryderi.

“Headache,” said Branwen tensely. “Bright lights, sounds—they’re beginning to grate. I’ve never used my eye for this long. My mam made me a blindfold stitched with iron to ward off the magic, but I could not bring it here.”

Pryderi touched the pouch he tied to his belt. “If we find a signet ring made of iron, would that work? It might be heavy, but we could put something together. At least so the eye wouldn’t pain you at night.”

“That’s not a bad—” Branwen began to say, then went silent. “Someone’s coming.”

They hastened off the game trail into a line of bushes. The leaves brushed Gwydion’s exposed neck, sending droplets of cold rainwater down his back. He shivered and silently cursed the weather. At least it was not snow.

True to Branwen’s word, he heard the sounds a few moments later: the crunch of leaves underfoot, conversation, and laughter. A small group spilled out of the trees, heading westward down the mountain. There was an easy camaraderie among the hunters; one appeared to be telling a tale while the others laughed. They were eating smoked fish and bread as they walked.

The smell of fish proved to be too much. Palug darted from the bushes.

“No,” whispered Branwen, horror in her voice. “Palug, stop!”

Gwydion hummed, allowing a small trickle of his power into the ground. Ferns and weeds reached for the cat, but he was too quick. He flitted toward the hunting party.

“That cat ,” said Branwen in exasperation, and rose to follow, knife in hand. Pryderi surged after her, making as much noise as a sheep caught in a fence. Which left Gwydion sitting alone in the bushes.

With a resigned little sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. If this was about to turn violent, he could at least try to protect the cat.

Palug rushed up to the hunters, meowing as though he had never tasted food in his life. “What a handsome cat,” said a mortal woman, kneeling.

“I would not,” said another hunter. This one had forest-green hair and eyes like moonlight. He gently pulled the woman back when she made to pet Palug.

Branwen and Pryderi scrambled after the cat. “Morning,” called Pryderi. “We mean no harm!”

“Morning,” called one of the hunters. He was another one of the tylwyth teg, with elegantly pointed ears and a shark’s smile. He used those sharp teeth to take another bite of fish. “Prince Pryderi, you’re looking well.”

“And you,” said Pryderi with a polite incline of his head.

“This yours?” The wary green-haired hunter nodded down at Palug.

“He’s an ungrateful little beggar,” Branwen said, picking him up. “But he is mine. Them, too,” she added, with a nod at Gwydion and Pryderi. “And the last hunting party that tried to hurt them ended up dead.”

One of the human women shook her head. “Nothing to fear from us,” she said. “We’re out of the Hunt.” She lifted her left hand—and Gwydion felt his breath catch. Curled around her index finger, growing up her arm, was a small bilberry bush. Roots wove through her fingers; leaves curled along her wrist and forearm. Even as he watched, the plant grew up her shoulder. Her magic-given ring must have been made from a bilberry root.

All the hunters bore such foliage—all except for one. He was human, with reddish-brown hair and a leanly dangerous look. His skin was unmarred by sun, but his hands were too worn to belong to a nobleman. Gwydion’s gaze flicked over him with practice; he had seen such men before. This man was a blade for hire. Likely a personal assassin belonging to one of the Dyfed nobles.

“Is that what happens when someone captures your signet ring?” asked Branwen, with a glance down at her own oaken ring.

The hunter nodded. “Yes. Once the ring sprouted and took hold of me, I could no longer hunt. We can only walk back toward camp. So we’re taking what rings we did collect to King Pwyll.”

“And I’m taking mine to King Arawn,” said one of the folk hunters.

“I’ve never seen such magic,” Pryderi said, gazing at another of the hunters. Around his arm grew what looked to be a small elm tree.

“It’s a binding,” said the folk hunter. “I’ve heard King Arawn constructs the spell every year. Once your ring is given to the Hunt, the forest can take hold of you.”

“Because a signet ring is near enough to a name,” murmured Branwen. Her gaze flicked uneasily to her own ring a second time.

The folk hunter nodded. “And names have power.”

“Are all of you out?” asked Gwydion curiously.

The red-haired assassin shook his head and held up his bare arm. His wooden ring was still intact. “I’m escorting them back to camp.”

“Is that necessary?” asked Pryderi.

The assassin gave him a sharp smile. “There are hunters attacking those returning to camp. There is only one rule at this point. Be hunter or hunted. As this group cannot defend themselves, I will keep the scavengers at bay.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Pryderi.

He shrugged. “Any decent sort would.”

Gwydion wouldn’t. But then again, he’d never claimed to be decent. “How many rings did you collect?” he asked.

One hunter shrugged. “Likely not enough for the boon. Seven rings, mostly found on rabbits and grouse near the camp.”

“Impressive,” said Pryderi.

“Have you seen the beast yet?” asked one of the women.

Gwydion blinked. “The beast?”

“There’s something in the wood,” said the other woman. “We never saw it. But… we heard screaming last night. And this morning, we found…”

“Corpses without hands,” said another hunter. “They were bound by root and bush, so we couldn’t return their bodies to camp. Mayhap that’s what happens when you die in the Hunt—you belong to the forest forever.”

“Where did you find the bodies?” asked Branwen. Her gaze was hard as the winter sky.

The woman pointed northeast. “An hour in that direction. Take care, if you choose to hunt it.”

“Why would we hunt it?” asked Pryderi.

“Because,” said the assassin, with a gleaming smile, “what kind of hunter could manage to attach his ring to a beast?”

It was Branwen who figured it out first. “A king of beasts.”

“Precisely,” said the assassin. “I suspect that a royal signet ring would carry more weight in this competition than ten of lesser value.” He shifted restlessly, using his left hand to check the dagger strapped to his other wrist. As he did so, Gwydion saw the rings upon the man’s hands. There were five signet rings. This man had captured or killed five animals all on his own.

Dangerous, indeed.

Branwen nodded. “Good hunting.”

The assassin returned the nod politely. “You as well.”

But as they walked away, the assassin’s gaze remained on Branwen. The look made Gwydion’s stomach tighten. It was a gaze of pure hunger, of a starving man a few strides from a feast. Gwydion had the wild impulse to step forward and put himself between Branwen and that man. That was foolish. For one thing, Branwen was a far better fighter. For another, it would reveal his own impulsive loyalties.

He had no loyalty to her, Gwydion told himself silently. He had other loyalties—and those had to come first.

He had little patience for others. His friendships were transactional, like the alliance he shared with Eilwen. True trust, warmth, and companionship were too costly. To let someone near was too great a risk.

There were only four people he was sure loved him: his mother, Arianrhod, Dylan, and Lleu. He was here for them.

As the assassin walked by Branwen, dread filled Gwydion. For the man was not looking at her with that naked desire.

He was looking at the ring around Palug’s neck. He had seen the prince’s signet ring.

When the two groups parted ways, Gwydion’s steps slowed. Years of living at the Gwynedd royal court had taught him how to plot and scheme. He could never beat that assassin in a fair fight, so he would not fight fair. He could double back. He could entrap that assassin in a cage of blackberry briars, capture him in the roots of an oak, or simply knock him in the back of the head with a rock. Then that assassin would pose no more threat.

But Gwydion knew that Branwen and Pryderi would disapprove. They had admired the assassin’s decency in escorting those others back to camp. They were both good people, wanting to believe in the goodness of others. They hadn’t seen the look of hunger on the assassin’s face. If Gwydion suggested ambushing him, he knew they would regard him as a selfish, unscrupulous trickster.

Which he was. He very much was.

But there were far worse things to be.

They walked for the better part of the morning, taking a break to wash their faces in a cold stream. Branwen found fresh tracks while Gwydion unearthed a jar of poultice from his pack. His hand was aching, and he knew better than to ignore it. If he left it too long, the joints would swell and burn.

“I’m looking for where game trails meet hunter trails,” Branwen said as she refilled her water flask. She shaded her eyes against the sun, wincing. “Then we can follow the game, and hopefully those will be the animals marked with rings.”

“Are you all right?” Pryderi asked, frowning. “You keep looking away from the sun.”

Branwen’s arm fell to her side. “I’m fine.”

“I suspect you would say that, even if you were missing a limb,” said Pryderi. He shifted so that he stood between her and the sun.

Gwydion half listened to the conversation as he took the poultice, packing it around the knuckles of his right hand. It smelled of oil and fresh herbs, and he covered it with a clean cloth, trying to tie it off with his left hand. It was not his dominant hand, but he had become rather accustomed to using it for most tasks. Unfortunately, the oil of the poultice smeared across his fingers, making the bandage slippery.

Pryderi reached for the bandage, taking the edges from Gwydion. “You’re both stubborn, you know that?” He tied off the bandage so gently that Gwydion barely felt the pressure. “If you’re in pain, we’ll rest.”

“If we rested every time I was in pain,” said Gwydion. “We’d never get anywhere. We—”

A shriek of birdsong cut him off. Gwydion looked up sharply. Above them, birds took to the air, darting and whirling, crying out.

Branwen had an arrow nocked and aimed before Gwydion could blink. Her gaze narrowed on the flock, assessing. The tip of her arrow swayed as she aimed and aimed again. Then, the corner of her mouth twitched—and she released the arrow.

It cut through the misty air, felling one of the birds. She ran toward the bushes and emerged with it in hand.

It had a golden ring tied around one foot.

“How did you even see that?” said Pryderi, impressed.

She shrugged. “The sunlight reflected off the ring.”

“You know,” said Gwydion, a note of warning in his voice. “I believe we should find cover.”

The forest had gone quiet. Even the trees seemed to be holding their breath. Gwydion did not know what creature could frighten this forest. He suspected it would take something truly monstrous.

A beast.

A cloud passed across the sun. All around him, the forest fell into shadow.

“Something’s coming,” breathed Branwen.

There was a thicket of blackberries nearby. Their leaves were half gone, green growth edged with the brown of winter. A few desiccated berries clung to the brambles.

“In here,” Gwydion said, and with a hum and a gesture, he parted the blackberries. Branwen and Pryderi squeezed into the small space. Palug looked at the brambles, his tail waving uneasily. “You too,” Gwydion said, picking the cat up like a babe. Then he ducked into the foliage. With one more whisper, the thorns and half-dead leaves covered them.

They waited, hidden from view, peering through the branches. With his fear-sharpened senses, Gwydion was keenly aware of the taste of the winter mists, the smell of dying leaves, and the warm press of Pryderi and Branwen at his back. Palug shifted in his arms, but not as though he wanted to escape. The cat twisted so that he could see through the brambles. Pryderi’s signet ring bumped gently against Gwydion’s wrist.

Gwydion closed his eyes, letting his magical senses sink deep into the foliage. Something was running—no, fleeing. Footsteps crashed into the earth, crushing moss and grass, breaking branches, and tearing through ferns.

His mind raced with possibilities. If that assassin was right, then Arawn had chosen a beast to carry his signet ring. What kind of monster would carry the ring of an immortal king? An aderyn y corph? Twrch Trwyth? Or perhaps a creature that had not been named in tales.

But the creature that emerged from the woods was not a corpse-bird nor a giant boar.

It was a young man. He could not have been older than twenty-five.

“Not the monster I imagined,” murmured Pryderi. “Unless I am missing something.”

“No,” said Branwen, just as quietly. “He has no magic. He’s like us.”

But something prickled at Gwydion. It was an awareness that something was wrong, out of place.

That man wore rough-spun trousers and a tunic. And he was barefoot, his feet bleeding as he ran.

“Who is that?” asked Branwen. In the tight confines of their hiding place, there was no room for her to draw her bow. Gwydion saw her fingers twitch toward her afanc-fang dagger, settling on the hilt.

The man scrambled down the mountainside, tripping over roots and splashing across the stream.

Panic , Gwydion realized. That was why the young man appeared so out of place. Every other mortal in this land had chosen to be here, but this man ran as though all the hounds of Annwvyn were at his heels.

Even the trees could taste the man’s terror.

Hunted. The man was being hunted.

“We have to help him,” whispered Pryderi. He shifted, as though to rise. Gwydion seized his arm.

“No,” hissed Gwydion. He knew the many flavors of fear—he had been the youngest, smallest child in a family that played cruel games. This man was not afraid of something trifling. His eyes were white and rolling like those of a cornered animal. Every breath was a pained gasp, and the stench rolling off him meant he had pissed himself as he fled. Whatever chased this man… Gwydion knew it would be a nightmare.

Pryderi tried to pull his arm free, but Gwydion held on, ignoring the pain. Pryderi looked at Gwydion in betrayal and confusion. He was the kind of person who would run toward danger to help another. Selfless, kind. He would be a good king.

But Gwydion would not allow the prince to rush free of the brambles. That would put both him and Branwen in danger. Perhaps that was selfish, but Gwydion did not care.

The man stumbled over a loose rock and fell to his knees. He pushed himself upright, a whimper emerging from his throat. “We have to,” Pryderi began to say.

The stranger managed to take a single step—and then an arrow slammed into his knee.

It happened so quickly that Gwydion had to stifle a gasp. Branwen flinched beside him, and even Pryderi recoiled. The man screamed and desperately tried to pry the arrow free, fingers slick with blood as he pawed at the wound. When that failed, he began to crawl.

It was no use.

The branches rustled, the undergrowth shifting to allow for something to pass. Gwydion held his breath, waiting. He needed to see what kind of creature inspired such terror.

A woman walked from the shadows.

She was short, and her figure was one of shapely curves. Even among the tylwyth teg, she was strikingly beautiful. Her dark hair was bound into a knot, and she walked with a comfortable grace. Her ears came to delicate points, and she wore scale armor. Not armored scales but scale hide . It gleamed iridescent in the sunlight. A cloak of feathers was knotted at her throat.

It was Arawn’s champion, Gwydion realized. He had seen her by the Otherking’s side at the revel.

Pryderi went still. His jaw clenched so hard Gwydion saw a muscle jump in his cheek.

“Cigfa,” he breathed.

“Friend of yours?” asked Gwydion.

“Yes.” Pryderi’s gaze raked over the woman as though he could not believe what he was seeing.

“What is it?” asked Branwen softly.

“That is the hide of an afanc,” whispered Pryderi. “Only cold iron can pierce it.”

Gwydion swallowed. If Cigfa had slain an afanc and taken its hide for armor, she was a far more dangerous hunter than any they had encountered.

But that was not the most frightening thing about her.

Hanging from her belt were—

Gwydion closed and opened his eyes.

—four human hands.

They had been severed at the wrist. A cord had been tied around each, and their fingertips were dark with pooled blood.

On her belt, those severed hands swayed sickeningly.

Each hand bore a signet ring.

Cigfa had not bothered to take the rings; she had simply taken their hands.

And with a nauseating twist of his belly, Gwydion thought of Arawn’s finger-bone crown.

“Fallen kings,” Branwen whispered. “Any animal. That’s what he said—any animal, mortal or immortal.” She seized Gwydion’s right wrist, squeezing hard. As though she might make him understand through pressure alone. “Any animal.”

He gazed at her, uncomprehending.

She said urgently, “This is why people go missing on a Hunt year. There were rumors. I thought—after I heard the rules, I thought it was just a tale. But it’s true. If the barwn’s son hadn’t been eaten…”

It took Gwydion a moment to recall who she was talking about. Barwn Ifor—his missing son. Gone into Annwvyn and never returned. It was true that a few people vanished every year. Gwydion had heard the same rumors, but he’d never wanted to believe them. It was easier to blame the disappearances on human mistakes.

He felt abruptly cold. His gaze sought the man’s hand—and true enough, he bore a dark signet ring.

“What is it?” asked Pryderi.

“The otherfolk,” Gwydion said hoarsely. “They’re using captured humans as their game animals.”