Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

P EOPLE ALWAYS VANISHED on a Hunt year.

It was simply expected, the way snow arrived in winter and wildflowers with the spring. Every fifth year, when the autumn was waning, those who ventured too near Annwvyn would disappear. Some reappeared… and others never did. There were always whispers about the Wild Hunt, about humans being chased through the woods. But at the revel of Nos Calan Gaeaf, Branwen had seen the celebration of mingled mortals and immortals. Surely those of Dyfed would not take part in hunting their own kind.

Of course they would , part of her whispered. Humans have never hesitated to harm their own.

Branwen thought of the barwn’s missing son. Being devoured down to the bone by a water wraith might have been preferable to this. This man had been stolen, given a folk signet ring, and set loose in the forest like a deer. He was to be hunted and bested—and judging from the bloat of those severed hands, the others Cigfa hunted had not lasted very long.

That might have been Branwen, if not for her magicked sight. How many times had she walked the outskirts of Annwvyn? She had avoided countless folk traps, slipped by the snares, walked freely without fear of illusion.

This poor man had not been so lucky.

“Cigfa can’t be,” said Pryderi. “She isn’t…” His face was bone white, stark against the dark green of the blackberry brambles. “I know her.”

Gwydion blinked. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Not like that,” said Pryderi. “I came with my father and the others to set up camp. She was given the task of keeping me out of trouble, introducing me to folk nobles, and showing me around. She made me laugh. She was never cruel.”

“The tylwyth teg aren’t human,” said Branwen. “I’ve spoken with an ironfetch about them. The folk are not cruel, but nor are they merciful. Is a hawk cruel for hunting rabbits? Or a storm merciful for passing by a house?”

“They’re not monsters,” said Pryderi.

“I believe the woman with a belt of severed hands might qualify,” said Gwydion.

Cigfa walked toward the fallen man with calm certainty. She held a terribly serrated knife—the kind used for sawing through sinew and bone. There was no chance of escape for that human. He could not run, not with an arrow through his knee.

Branwen could not simply watch. She had seen too much needless cruelty in her eighteen years; she would not bear witness to another death while she stood by. Fury set fire to her blood, giving her a strength she knew she would need.

“Gwydion,” whispered Branwen, “let me go.”

Gwydion shook his head. “Fallen kings, Branwen. I don’t think you can—”

But Branwen was moving before Gwydion could finish his sentence. Heedless of the thick vines, of the dying leaves, of the thorns that looked sharp enough to skewer, she rose from her crouch, yanked the dagger from her hip, and cut her way free. Briars snagged on her sleeve. Gwydion cursed, but he did so in a singsong. With the tune, the briars melted away before her.

The moment Branwen had an arrow drawn, all her disgust and fear and anger seemed to melt away. There was only the hunt.

The fletching kissed the corner of her mouth—and then she let the arrow fly.

Cigfa whirled, slicing with that serrated knife. The arrow fell in two pieces.

The human man saw Branwen, and desperate hope flared in his eyes. “Please,” he gasped. “Please, help me. I have a family—please—”

Branwen nocked a second arrow and held a third at the ready. She stalked closer, and her aim never wavered. “You’re going to be all right.”

“Well, well,” said Cigfa, tilting her head. It made her look birdlike. “I do not know you.”

Branwen narrowed eyes. “Your people have called me the white crow.”

A slow smile spread across Cigfa’s face. “That eye of yours. It’s gold as autumn leaves.”

Branwen’s fingers froze on the arrow. “My eye is not gold.”

“It is,” said Cigfa. “Have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror? You should. You’re rather striking.”

“Of course I’ve seen myself in a mirror,” snarled Branwen.

Cigfa tilted her head in the other direction. “One without iron?”

Branwen opened her mouth to reply, then went silent.

Cigfa’s gaze slid past Branwen. “Hello, my favorite prince. I see you finally made friends.”

“Cigfa,” said Pryderi as calmly as though they had met in a pleasant courtyard. “What are you doing?”

“Hunting,” replied Cigfa. “Same as you.”

“No.” Pryderi’s mouth thinned. “I have never hunted like this.”

“You think rabbits do not feel fear?” Cigfa scoffed. “That a deer’s heart does not pound when it flees? That fowl cannot feel pain?” She stepped toward Branwen and Pryderi. “Unlike your kind, mine do not lie to ourselves. Every hunt is a cruelty.”

Branwen’s grip on the arrow never relented, even as her arm muscles burned. “Let him go.”

“Cigfa,” said Pryderi pleadingly.

“Why this mortal?” said Cigfa. Then she touched one of the severed hands at her belt. “Why not this one, or this one?”

“Because those are starting to look a little ripe.” Gwydion had emerged from the blackberries, Palug at his shoulder.

Cigfa took another step. “Kingdoms are not built upon thrones. They are built on blood and bone—the only difference between Pwyll and Arawn is that my king chooses to wear his misdeeds where all might see them.”

“I won’t tell anyone of this,” said the man, his voice shaking. “Please, just—”

Cigfa whirled, took hold of the man’s hair, and brought her knife down upon the back of his neck.

But her blade never found flesh. It clanged against Pryderi’s spear.

Quicker than thought, Cigfa pulled a second blade from her belt with her other hand. Pryderi lunged, using the spear to drive her back.

Cigfa wielded the weapons as though she had been born with a blade in each hand. Every movement was graceful. She deflected the blow and slashed the spear aside, her dark sea-green eyes alight.

“Well, well,” she said merrily. “The lost heir has found his teeth.”

Pryderi swallowed. “Don’t make me do this, Cigfa.”

She smiled. “Come now. You said you could fight. I prefer dancing, but I will settle for this.”

“If we fight—” Pryderi began to say.

“Dyfed’s champion against Annwvyn’s.” Cigfa’s smile blossomed. She was captivating as a sea storm, and she approached with the same inevitability. “I have heard the rumors of how you were raised. I wish to see them for myself.” And without another word, she attacked.

It looked like a dance—Cigfa was all grace and speed while Pryderi moved with the calm surety of a workhorse. When her blades slashed, he caught them on the spear’s shaft, then fended her off with his weapon’s reach. She could never get close enough to land a deadly blow.

Branwen sighted down her arrow, her aim jerking back and forth as Cigfa moved. She hesitated for fear of hitting Pryderi.

“Branwen!” A sharp voice made her glance back. Gwydion was a few strides away, kneeling beside the injured man.

Branwen inhaled, letting the world slow around her. All she needed was a heartbeat of stillness. She saw the sweat at Pryderi’s brow, the glimmer of sunlight through the winter-stark trees, and then the blur as she released the bowstring.

The arrow hissed through the bushes, cutting through the air, and—

Cigfa swung her knife and batted the arrow away. The shards of wood tumbled harmlessly into the ground. And then she was a blur, sprinting so swiftly that Branwen barely had time to bring her own knife to bear. She caught Cigfa’s blade with the jagged edge of her own dagger. Cigfa’s smile never wavered as she pressed her advantage, shoving forward. Branwen’s heels dug in, but for all of her strength, she was still mortal. She would never match one of the tylwyth teg for raw force.

“I like your knife,” said Cigfa. There was no strain or effort to her voice, as though she were remarking on Branwen’s gown at a royal feast. Her blade crept closer to Branwen, its edge shining in the sunlight.

Branwen’s foot slipped, and she crashed to her knees. One ankle tangled in the briars.

She snarled at the strain. Cigfa bore down on her, using her weight to shove Branwen deeper into the thorns.

“DOWN!”

Pryderi’s voice was a snarl.

Without hesitating, Branwen flung herself to one side, rolling into the blackberry bushes. Resistance gone, Cigfa fell forward just as Pryderi thrust the spear at her. She barely managed to dart to one side. There was a feral gleam to her smile as she attacked him.

Pryderi drove Cigfa back. There was a confidence to him that Branwen had never seen before. Gone was the young man filled with hesitation, who seemed torn between yearning and wariness.

This Pryderi looked like a prince sent to war.

The violence had Cigfa’s full attention. She let out a burble of merry laughter, her knives a blur.

Glad for the reprieve, Branwen managed to pull herself free of the thorns. Pain flared along her leg, but she ignored the discomfort. Gwydion was at the injured man’s side. “Help me,” he called. “I can’t do this alone!”

Branwen nodded, falling to her own knees beside the hunted man. “What do you need?”

“Hold him,” said Gwydion. To her surprise, his tone was tight but steady. She would have expected him to be far more frightened by such a wound.

She took hold of the man’s thigh and shin. The arrow that protruded from his knee was an ugly sight, and she winced in sympathy. It must have been agonizing.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” said Gwydion.

The man’s pupils were constricted with pain. “It hurts right now.”

“Well, what kind of trickster would I be if I told the truth?” Gwydion moved with surprising ease. He rolled up his sleeves and opened a bottle that smelled of strong spirits. He splashed a little on his hands, rubbing his fingers together. “What’s your name?”

The man blinked. “Penbras.”

“Don’t look at me, Penbras,” said Gwydion. He used a knife to cut the man’s trousers away. “This is Branwen, and she’s a far more pleasant sight. Look at her, all right? Isn’t she pretty?”

Penbras looked at Branwen. His throat jerked as he swallowed. “She’s beautiful.”

“I am not,” said Branwen, keeping a tight hold on Penbras’s leg. “But I suppose you’d say the same of any rescuer.”

“I don’t hear him complimenting me,” replied Gwydion. He took a knife to the edge of the arrow, cutting the jagged tip free. His voice was soothing, as though he spoke to a spooked horse. “Penbras, I want you to look at her. Tell me what you think of her hair. Tell me all the words you can think of to describe her hair.”

“My hair?” asked Branwen.

“Distraction, he needs a distraction,” continued Gwydion in that same singsong voice. “Tell me of her hair.”

Penbras looked utterly bewildered, but he obliged. “It’s… white. Like sheep’s wool. Or clouds. Or—” He let out a terrible scream as Gwydion ripped the arrow shaft free. Branwen’s grip tightened on Penbras’s leg, holding him in place.

“You’re doing well, you’re doing so well,” said Gwydion. He had a flask of water at the ready, and he cleaned the dirt and debris from the wound. Then he was binding it with a clean cloth. “Branwen, there’s a tincture in my pack. Clay jar, red wax stopper.”

She released Penbras’s leg. He was racked with breathless sobs. She found the jar and handed it to Gwydion. “This is going to help,” he said. “I promise.” Then he measured a small amount and tipped it into Penbras’s mouth.

“There you go,” he said, tying off the bandage. “You’re doing very well, Penbras. You’ll have a story to tell your grandchildren someday.”

“I don’t have children,” Penbras whispered. “I have two cats. And a husband.”

“Then this will be a wonderful story for your cats and your husband.” Gwydion finished binding the wound. He closed his eyes for a moment, then hummed. And with as much effort as one might pull a dandelion free, he reached down and yanked a root from a nearby tree. It came up easily, curling around his hand. Before Branwen’s eyes, the root shifted and changed into a walking stick. “You’re going to be a little drowsy. The poppy tincture will make you giddy, but you have to fight through that.

“You are going to go northwest,” continued Gwydion. “You hear me, Penbras? You will go that way. Get to Gwynedd.” He reached into the hidden pocket of his cloak and withdrew several gold coins. He knotted them into a strip of bandage and tied it around Penbras’s wrist. “You use these to pay for a healer. If you go to Caer Dathyl, ask for Eilwen. She’ll find you a place to stay while you recover. Tell her the gardener sent you, all right?”

Penbras’s eyes were glazed with pain. “I can’t outrun them,” he whispered.

Pryderi snarled as Cigfa’s blades nicked his arm. He whirled, a blur of graceful violence as he struck out. Cigfa was forced to retreat, merriment in her eyes.

It was true. Penbras would never survive Annwvyn so long as he was part of the Hunt. Branwen’s mind whirled. If he were taken out of the Wild Hunt, if he was no longer something to be hunted, he would have a chance.

Cigfa did not want Penbras. She wanted the ring he bore.

Branwen leaned over Penbras, brushing the hair from his forehead. “They will not hunt you,” she said. “If you give us that ring on your finger. It’s not yours, is it?”

Penbras shook his head. “She put it on me,” he said. “Two days ago. Said I had to run, to stay hidden.”

“All they want is that ring,” said Branwen. “Give it to me, and she will have no reason to hunt you.”

With trembling fingers, Penbras yanked the signet ring free. It looked to be carved of stone, with a fish etched into it. He held it out to Branwen. There was a trust in his eyes, and it made Branwen think of how children would reach their arms out to adults when afraid. Of how Palug leapt into her arms when he’d climbed too high into a tree. She hoped Penbras’s trust was not misplaced.

She took the ring from him.

And in that moment, something thudded to the ground. Branwen flinched, half expecting to see Pryderi fallen, a knife in his chest. For all that he had been raised by a monster, surely he could not win against an immortal.

But it was not Pryderi’s weapon upon the ground.

It was Cigfa’s.

Before Branwen’s eyes, the magic of the forest took hold. Cigfa’s wooden ring looked to be made of elder. Roots twined around her fingers, burrowing into her flesh. Sprigs of green twisted around her forearm, small white flowers bursting into bloom.

And that was when Branwen realized what she was holding.

This was Cigfa’s ring. She had been hunting her own signet.

“Fallen kings,” Branwen whispered.

Gwydion let out his own little curse. He heaved Penbras to his feet and gave him the walking stick. “Go,” he said. “Get as far as you can while the pain is gone.”

Penbras looked at them both with a wild relief. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, thank you.” He turned and hobbled away, leaning heavily on the root walking stick. Gwydion watched him go, then his gaze met Branwen’s. She could see the hope and anger churning behind those dark eyes. The Hunt was magic and power—but it was also so much unneeded pain and cruelty. His expression mirrored her own, and in that moment, she felt as connected to Gwydion as she had felt with anyone.

Thank you , she thought, hoping he saw the sentiment in her eyes. Saving that man had been a kindness only he had the skill for. She could not have managed it.

“I’ve spent enough time with the healers,” he said. “Picked up a few things.”

She let out a small, jittery laugh. Then they were both rising, her hand in his, terrified and elated, and carrying the signet ring of an immortal champion.

Cigfa stood very still. Along her left arm, the elder flowers shifted in the breeze. They were beautiful—a living armlet of blossoms and leaves. Pryderi was leaning on his spear. When he met Branwen’s eyes, he gave her a nod of thanks. A tremble ran up his legs, and Branwen realized that he would not have been able to battle Cigfa much longer. She returned his nod. He had saved her life in that fight—and she had just saved his. They were even.

“My dear prince,” Cigfa said, “you chose your friends well.” And without hesitation, she sank to her knees before Branwen.

They all gaped at her.

“Is this… what normally happens?” asked Branwen, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

“How should I know?” said Pryderi.

Cigfa said, “My fealty is yours. Now, what do you command?”

Branwen took a step back. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“You hold my ring,” said Cigfa. “You hold my fealty until you give it to your king.”

Branwen gazed at the woman. The words simply did not make sense. “I hold your fealty?”

Cigfa gave her a level, patient look. The look a parent might give an ignorant child. “My dear huntress. What did you think you were hunting for?”

Unease roiled up through Branwen’s stomach. “… Rings?”

Cigfa shook her head. “Jewelry is of little use to kings,” she said.

Branwen drew in a sharp breath. “What?”

“We do not hunt for rings,” said Cigfa. “We hunt for loyalty.”

This did not make sense. This was a hunt, just another hunt. A hunt for monsters and creatures and humans—but it was still just a hunt. Branwen felt as dizzy and unsettled as when she’d first glimpsed those hands at Cigfa’s belt.

“What do you mean?” asked Pryderi.

“I mean,” said Cigfa, “exactly what I say.”

And abruptly, Branwen remembered that eerie song—the one she had heard as they entered Annwvyn.

Every fifth year as harvests wane,

Two kingdoms meet in wooded domain.

And those who cannot hunt nor slay

Belong to your lord for a year and a day.

Kings and beggars, trust to your aim—

For in the Wild Hunt, all are fair game.

This hunt—it was no mere celebration.

Which meant—

“The Hunt,” breathed Branwen. “We’re—we’re not just the hunters. To the kings, we’re the prizes.”