Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

A BONE-DEEP EXHAUSTION PLAGUED Gwydion’s every step.

He had spent too much of his power in too short a time. He yearned to stop and find a place to rest, to close his eyes. But he knew his body well enough to realize that to indulge in a short respite would only leave him more tired. So he reached into those reserves of energy he kept for days like this—when rest and care were not options.

They went east, following Pryderi up a steep path. It was only when he heard the sound of falling water that Gwydion realized Pryderi had discovered a waterfall. A creek carved a path down a slate cliff face, descending to a small lake. The ruins of a stone cottage stood near the water. A deer drank from the lake; when she heard the sound of the approaching humans, she lifted her head warily. A crow sat atop the ruins, silent and watchful.

Neither animal bore a ring. They were simply creatures of the forest. “Come,” said Pryderi, and he led the way toward the ruins. “You’re both ready to fall over. We should rest before we continue the Hunt.”

Branwen reached out and caught Pryderi’s elbow. “Let me go first.”

Her eyes raked over the ruins—likely checking for magical traps or illusions. “It’s safe.”

Part of Gwydion wanted to keep going. With the knowledge of where to find the Otherking’s ring, they were within arm’s reach of a prize that even he hadn’t dared to consider. To possess the rings of not one but two kings? It would change everything. His victory was only a short distance away… but he knew they all needed rest. He and Branwen were nearing the edge of their endurance.

Inside the stone cottage was an old bed frame. It had not been carved but rather grown from roots. It took only a small whisper of magic for those roots to awaken. An old maple tree overlooked the stone house. It was heavy with winter drowsiness, but maples were kind trees. When Gwydion called, it answered. Roots grew up around the ruins—not thick enough to be a barrier, but so that Gwydion would know if anyone—or anything—stepped on them. He would be forewarned should anyone try to attack.

Pryderi unpacked a meal of half-stale pies and old bread. Gwydion had little appetite, but he forced himself to eat. Branwen drained her water flask, ate an apple, then closed her eyes.

“Willowbark?” Gwydion asked, opening his own pack. “Or poppy?”

Branwen cracked one eye open. “What?”

“How bad is the pain?” he said. He gestured at her eye. “Don’t lie. That is my talent.”

The corner of Branwen’s mouth twitched. “When did Gwynedd’s trickster become such an accomplished healer?”

“Probably about the time he realized healers knew nothing about his own maladies,” he answered. “They could do little for me, so I learned on my own.” He shrugged. “If anyone asked, I told them I was growing and learning about poisons—which is not entirely a lie. Most remedies can be used to harm, if one knows how.”

“Comforting,” said Branwen. “But I’m not sure if herbs will help.” She touched the corner of her right eye. “Iron is the only cure I’ve found.”

“Then let’s make something of iron.” Pryderi reached down to the pouch at his belt. Gwydion’s heart leapt as he saw the jumble of signet rings in Pryderi’s palm. There were several of Dyfed nobility. The rings of the tylwyth teg were unknown to him but no less powerful. It was the heavy golden ring that drew Gwydion’s attention. The heavy signet ring of King Pwyll was beautiful. Part of him yearned to slip the ring into his own pocket, so that he could be sure it would not be taken.

“I think this is iron,” said Pryderi, picking up a small, unadorned ring. “It must have come from a hunter—there’s no signet. A wedding ring. Maybe it was the one that woman tied to an otter.” He grimaced, likely remembering this ring had come from one of the severed hands. “I hope not.”

Gwydion took the iron ring. He folded it into one of his clean bandages, then folded it again. “Here,” he said, gesturing Branwen closer. He bound the cloth in place around her head, ensuring the iron ring gently rested against her eye. “It isn’t very secure, but as long as you don’t thrash around in your sleep, it shouldn’t come off. How does it feel?”

Branwen kept her eyes closed for a moment. There were flickers of movement beneath the one visible lid, and a tensing in her jaw as though she was waiting for a blow. Then her shoulders slumped. “Better. It’s—better. I’ll need a few hours to rest, but after that I can use the eye again.”

The relief stripped all the defenses from Branwen’s face. Gwydion had never seen her look so vulnerable. With her eyes closed and tension unspooling from her body, she looked less a fierce huntress and more the eighteen-year-old girl.

Gwydion looked away before she could open her eyes and see him staring. He looked at Pryderi instead.

It was a mistake. Pryderi had pulled off his tunic. Shirtless, he was all sun-burnished muscle and sinew. Gwydion gazed at him perhaps a moment too long to be casual, then shook his head and glanced at Branwen. She had seen him gawping at the prince. She winked with her one visible eye. He tossed a bandage at her, and she batted it away, laughing quietly.

“What?” said Pryderi.

“Nothing,” said Branwen.

“Then I am going to stand under the waterfall,” Pryderi said. “See if it can’t wash away what feels like half a mountain’s worth of dirt in my hair and clothes. Either of you wish to join me?”

A bath might have been nice, but the thought of undressing sounded like too much work. “Tomorrow,” Gwydion said.

Branwen frowned. “We can’t stay here that long. We need—”

“Rest,” Gwydion said firmly. “Trust me. No one will get to the ring before us. No one even knows where to look.”

Branwen arched a brow.

“Well, Cigfa knows where to look,” said Gwydion. “But you bound her to silence. I think we can afford a night’s rest.”

“I, for one, welcome a night when I will not be sleeping in a tree,” said Pryderi. He bundled up his dirty clothes, yanked off his boots, and walked out of the stone cottage. Palug curled up in a patch of sunlight where the cottage’s roof had given way.

“You know, I’m beginning to think my tree houses are underappreciated,” remarked Gwydion.

Branwen laughed, and there was an adorable snort in it. “He appreciates them. He just doesn’t enjoy them.”

“All right, I’ll accept that,” said Gwydion.

They fell into quiet as Gwydion unbound his hand brace. The poultice had helped, but he wanted to wash away the slick oil and herbs and replace them. Branwen watched as he worked. “Do you want help?”

“I have it,” he said. He was rather good at tying and untying knots with his teeth and left hand.

“I didn’t ask if you needed help,” said Branwen. “I asked if you wanted it.”

His left hand froze. He had spent so much of his life learning self-sufficiency, ensuring that he relied on no one but himself.

“If you like,” he said quietly.

Branwen scooted closer, her hands hovering over the brace. “How do I remove it?”

He talked her through it, and her hands were steady as she unbound the laces and slid it free. She had an archer’s hands: strong and marked with calluses from a bowstring.

His right hand was paler than his left, the first two fingers stiff from lack of use. The pain was subdued, but it throbbed when he clenched and relaxed his hand. There had been a time when he’d considered simply cutting off those fingers and crafting a replacement from living wood. Perhaps he still might, someday.

“Can I ask how it happened?” said Branwen. Her voice was soft, and she held the brace like it needed to be protected.

Perhaps he should not have answered. But after the chaos and exhilaration of the day, he felt disarmed. He was sitting in an abandoned cottage in the middle of a magical wood with a king’s signet ring only an arm’s reach away. His world had ceased to make sense—as did all the reasons for keeping certain secrets.

“My brother crushed it in a door,” he said simply. “For besting him in a game.”

Shock flashed across her face. “How old were you?”

Gwydion’s lips twitched into a sour smile. “Twelve.”

Her eyes blazed with fury. “For family to do that to one another… it seems even more cruel. And over a game?”

Gwydion felt as though he owed her a few truths. “After my mother died, my uncle—the king—took charge of me and my siblings. He did not raise us the way a foster parent might. There was no affection, no love, no trust. Rather, he had us play games. He would ask us to steal something, to fetch a paper or a trinket and bring it to him. Little did we know that he was using us to do spying for him. And testing us to see how we would each play the game. If you won, you had his favor for a day, a week, a month. You could never guess how long. And it would be wonderful while it lasted. But then it would fade, and you would have to fight for it again.”

“That sounds terrible,” said Branwen.

Gwydion nodded. “In hindsight, it was. But at the time… I wanted the king’s favor. I wanted to prove myself. Do you want to know why I became a trickster? Because the only way to survive in a court of games and shadows is to master them both. And perhaps with my power, I can keep my nephews from having the same childhood I did.”

“That’s why you’re trying to win the Hunt.” Branwen touched her mouth. “For them?”

“And because it’s the only way I can think of to keep Amaethon from the throne,” replied Gwydion. He held up his hand. “I have seen what he does to the helpless. I would rather not see what he does to our kingdom.”

Branwen regarded him with a bitter little smile. “I understand.” She leaned back, her fingers absent-mindedly stroking the brace. “Thank you for telling me.”

He shrugged. “You came with me on this impossible venture. I thought you deserved to know why.”

A throat cleared behind them. Gwydion and Branwen whirled.

Pryderi stood in the doorway, quaking with cold and slick with water. Embarrassment was written into every line of his face.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice chattering a little as he spoke. “Did not mean to eavesdrop. I’d have stayed outside, but it’s freezing.”

“How long were you standing there?” asked Gwydion dryly.

“Long enough to lose all sensation in my feet and hands,” answered Pryderi. His blond hair was soaked, and he carried a bundle of wet clothes in his arms.

Branwen scrambled to her feet. “Get in here.”

Together, they hung the now clean but very damp clothes. Gwydion coaxed a few maple branches through cracks in the cottage roof. When they had finished, Branwen made a fire in the cottage’s fireplace. “Evening is coming on,” she said. “That should hide the smoke.”

A fire steadily crackled. Pryderi, wearing his dry cloak and little else, sat nearest the flames. He warmed his hands by the fire. They rested in quiet for a few minutes while Gwydion slid his brace back on and Branwen began brushing Palug’s fur. The cat lolled on his back, paws in the air as he closed his eyes in contentment.

Pryderi blew out a breath. “I want you to know that it doesn’t matter what I overheard,” he said. His voice was steadier as he warmed. “Gwydion, whatever you did in the past—I will not judge you for it. I can’t. Not with what happened to me.”

Gwydion snorted. “You were kidnapped as a newborn. What do you have to be ashamed of?”

Pryderi shook his head. “You know that I was raised by an afanc until I was seven years old,” he said. “Everyone knows that. But what no one knows, what only I know, is—the afanc used me as bait. For as long as I can remember. It would put me at the edge of a river or lake. My crying was the lure. Those who were kind enough to stop were devoured.” He turned a faint, greenish color. “But that’s not the worst part. The worst—when I grew a little older, I wanted to help. Because afterward, that was the only time the afanc was ever kind to me. And I wanted that love and approval. It was a monster in every sense of the word, but part of me still loved it. And I wanted it to love me.” He closed his eyes, speaking with a hollow despair. “That’s why I fear I’ll be an unworthy prince.”

Gwydion glanced at Branwen. Her thoughts were spelled out across her face as clearly as pen put to paper. Gwydion knew because he felt the same.

“I’m sorry,” said Gwydion, “what part of ‘You were kidnapped as a newborn’ did you not comprehend?”

Branwen hid a smile behind her hand. Pryderi blinked.

“We were all raised by monsters,” said Gwydion. Then added, “No, not you, Branwen, your mother is wonderful. But we did not choose our parents.”

Pryderi shrugged. “I mean, I sort of did. I helped kill the afanc and chose a foster family instead.”

Gwydion aimed a finger at him. “Stop poking holes in my speech.”

Pryderi held up both hands in surrender.

Gwydion continued, “You’re not a monster. You’re a little irritating, too handsome for your own good, and you will be the best king Dyfed has ever had.”

Pryderi went bright scarlet. “I don’t know which part of that to object to.”

“Then don’t,” said Branwen. “I agree with all of it, except for the irritating part.”

Pryderi laughed. “Well, thank you, both. For everything.”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Gwydion. He reached down to stroke Palug’s belly. The cat purred louder.

“You allied with me,” said Pryderi. He hesitated. “I am going to ask my father about sending a diplomatic envoy to Gwynedd.”

That made Gwydion freeze, fingers stilled in Palug’s fur. “What?”

“Even if we lose the Hunt,” said Pryderi, “I will ask that of him. You’ve proven that there are good people in the royal family of Gwynedd. My father won’t be happy about it, but I will encourage him to reopen diplomacy. And we will support whoever you think should take Gwynedd’s throne.”

Gwydion swallowed hard. “That’s… more than I ever hoped for.”

Pryderi gave him a weary smile. “You’ve more than earned it.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “And what of you, Branwen? What dark secrets will you unburden upon us?”

She snorted. “What makes you think I have dark secrets?”

“Because no perfectly balanced person would risk her life in the Wild Hunt,” he said.

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Fair point.”

“I know,” he agreed. “Is this all for your mother, then?”

Branwen hesitated. “Yes. And no.” She drew a breath, and the amusement vanished from her eyes. “My cousin Derwyn used to live near my home. He and his husband lived near the village. Derwyn was a kind soul, gentle and eager to help anyone who needed it. He had adopted a daughter.”

Oh , Gwydion thought, seeing the agony flicker through her eyes. This was her own dearly held truth, one so painful that he was sure she had not told another in years.

She continued, “There were border skirmishes along the edges of Gwynedd and Gwaelod, as I’m sure you know. Poisoned wells, little fights, and mercenaries. The mercenaries were the worst—they would come into a village, take what they pleased, and leave only ashes and tears in their wake.

“When the mercenaries came, they demanded Derwyn’s home. ‘We need a place to stay,’ the leader said. Derwyn had tried to use gentle words to fend off the company. The head mercenary was furious that Derwyn would refuse him.”

A painful lump rose in Gwydion’s throat. He had heard of those attacks, had learned of them through coded missives and reports from his uncle’s soldiers. They had been about lost mills and granaries, farmland put to torch and buildings destroyed. Not once had those reports mentioned the people who were hurt. “What happened?” he asked quietly.

Branwen shivered. “He killed Derwyn’s child to make an example. I tried to stop him, but I was outnumbered. We sent word to Caer Dathyl, but Gwynedd wouldn’t do anything. So I did.” Gwydion flinched. Her gaze was cold but without blame, full of old pain. “I tracked that mercenary for months. It wasn’t difficult, as he left a trail of mourners. And finally, when he wasn’t with his crew, I challenged him to a fight.”

“And you slew him?” asked Pryderi.

Branwen let out a bitter, breathless laugh. “No. He bested me soundly, and I returned home with this scar,” she touched her cheekbone. “He was slain by another. I know I should take comfort in that, but it still feels like I failed my family.”

“How old were you?” asked Pryderi.

“Sixteen,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Derwyn and his husband left Gwynedd after that. They were the last blood family that Mam and I had. Now it’s just the two of us.” Her jaw clenched, and unspent tears shone in her eye. “The week after he left, Mam had her first forgetful night.”

Gwydion gazed at her. There it was—the moment that had defined her. Branwen was fierce, unbending, and practical because she had learned that no one would save her. She hated helplessness because she had tasted it.

“I’m sorry,” Gwydion said. He winced—an apology with nothing else attached was merely empty words. He reached down, covering her hand with his. “Things will be different if Arianrhod is queen. She would take care of Gwynedd, I know it.”

She looked at him with mingled fondness and rueful hope. “For one with so few friends, you do have a lot of faith in certain people. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“I have faith in the two of you,” Gwydion replied, with a glance toward her and Pryderi. “And neither of you have let me down yet.”

“Perhaps later,” said Pryderi, with a wry little smile.

Color rose to Branwen’s cheeks. She looked down at their hands, but she did not pull away. “You’re a rather disappointing trickster. Your truths are far more charming than your lies.”

He laughed quietly. “I’ll try to make my lies more charming.”

“Don’t.” Her fingers gently squeezed his. “Please don’t.”

A shiver of pleasure ran up his arm. He liked the way she touched him—without hesitation or fear. She was so close he could see the flecks of gray in her eye.

It would be so simple to kiss her.

The thought jolted him. It was a wild impulse, likely brought on by the chaos of the day. They were lucky to be alive; it was natural that he yearned for the nearness of another.

Of all the lies he might have told himself, that was the weakest. Because looking at Branwen in the dim light of the cabin, unarmored and half smiling, he saw how easy it would be to fall in love with her.

He could not. She was a weakness he could never afford.