Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

D EEP IN THE heart of the forest, there was a cave.

If she had not known it was there, Branwen would not have found it. Cigfa had told them the paths to walk, the streams to follow, the signs to look for. A large oak tree had grown over the entrance. It was Gwydion who stepped forward, whistling as he approached. At the sound, the roots parted.

Branwen inhaled. The air smelled damp and stale.

“If this is a trap, it’s a good one,” said Pryderi. He stood with his spear resting against his shoulder. “Once we go in there, it would be a simple matter to collapse the way out.”

“Would anyone even know to look for this place?” said Branwen. “We never would have known, if Gwydion hadn’t figured out Cigfa was hiding something.”

Gwydion gave a humble shrug. “The otherfolk cannot deal in lies. It made sense if she was unnaturally cooperative that she was trying to hide something.”

“It also explains why there is no illusion here,” said Branwen. There was no telltale glitter of gold, no spells cast across the cavern. Rather, someone had used the tree’s roots and the foliage to hide it. “The folk would notice magic.”

“I wonder what kind of game animal Arawn uses,” said Gwydion. “What would be comfortable in a cave?”

“An afanc,” said Pryderi.

“A llamhigyn y dwr,” said Branwen.

Gwydion grimaced. “And here I was hoping it would be an otter.”

Branwen took half a step forward. The cave seemed to inspire dread; it looked like a place for dark and crawling things. They would have to venture inside without knowledge of what was awaiting them. Cigfa could not lie, but the folk could mislead through omission. She had said she did not know what creature possessed the ring, but she might have doomed them all by neglecting to mention that there was a secret passage or a lever that had to be pulled, lest a trap kill them all.

Not a comforting thought.

“Who is going first?” asked Branwen.

Before either of them could answer, Palug’s tail brushed the inside of her calf. He trotted into the cave.

They stared after him.

“Is the cat braver than all of us?” asked Gwydion.

“Yes,” said Pryderi.

“To be fair, I found him in a cave,” said Branwen.

“Maybe it’s a cavern full of knight-eating cats,” said Gwydion.

“I’ll risk that.” Pryderi set his spear against the outside of the cave, rolled his shoulders, and angled himself sideways to fit into the narrow entrance. He held out his hand. “So we don’t lose one another,” he said. Branwen nodded. There was no risking a torch in this constricted space, so they would need to take care. He took hold of her left hand and Gwydion her right. It felt a little like a child’s game, walking into the unknown, their hands linked.

Daylight struggled to reach more than a few steps into the cavern, and then they were in the bleakest dark. Without torches, the air felt close and damp.

Branwen did not realize how much she relied on her eyes until they were taken from her. The dark was impenetrable, so thick it felt like a physical thing. With every breath, she tasted damp stone and earth. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them wide again, hoping her sight would adjust. But she might as well have kept them closed.

It was impossible to ignore the press of stone all around her. It felt as though the mountains could come crashing down at any moment, burying them for eternity. The thought made her shudder, and she felt Gwydion’s hand squeeze her own. Her boot struck a pebble, and the sound echoed.

No one seemed willing to speak nor break the quiet. Perhaps it was a childish notion, but Branwen was glad for the silence. It felt as though the moment one of them spoke, the darkness might wake up and notice them.

They were intruders in this land, and Branwen had never felt that more keenly. If Annwvyn wished to slay her and Gwydion, this would be the perfect moment. No one would ever find them; no one would even know where to look.

They went slowly. Pryderi was fumbling by touch alone, and Branwen could tell every time he bumped into a stone or tripped over a ledge. The passage was narrow, the stone sharp and unwelcoming. She felt the ridges and breaks against the soles of her leather boots. She hoped that there were no wayward dead ends or they would be lost. If they had brought a long enough rope, they might have tied it to the entrance. But the deeper they went into the mountain, the more certain she became that no rope would have stretched so far.

She was not sure how long they walked—perhaps an hour, perhaps two. Or it might have been half that time. Without sun nor stars, time became irrelevant. There was only the breath in her lungs, the hands in hers, and the darkness all around.

They rounded a corner, and light glimmered in the distance.

They all froze.

“The way out?” whispered Gwydion.

“I think so.” Branwen kept her own voice low. Again, she had that horrible sensation of being watched.

“Slowly,” murmured Pryderi. He went first, angling his tall form through a narrow bend in the cave.

As they approached the light, Branwen realized her mistake. That illumination was not the warm glow of sunlight—but the flickering of fire.

Torchlight.

Which meant someone—something—was waiting for them. Branwen licked her dry lips. It made sense; Arawn would not leave his fealty unguarded. Her hand twitched toward her knife. As though sensing her intentions, Gwydion pulled his hand from hers and rested his fingers against her shoulder instead. She unsheathed her afanc-fang dagger. The weight was a familiar comfort.

The torchlight grew brighter. Pryderi’s shoulders tensed, and Branwen could see how he readied himself: his jaw tight, eyes focused ahead, stride smoothing out. He would go first and take whatever blows would come. Branwen would attack second.

The light spilled through a large crack in the cave. Taking a deep breath, Pryderi stepped through, and Branwen darted after him.

But it was no monster’s lair.

She had stepped into someone’s home.

There was a wooden door at the back of the cavern, rugs to soften the stone floor, candles merrily burning, and a circular table where someone had set an afternoon tea. Steam wafted from the cups, and the cakes looked fresh from a griddle stone. Branwen’s mouth watered, even as her magicked eye warned her that none of it was mortal. Everything in the cave had a glitter of unreality about it—including the occupants.

Three women sat at the table.

The first was a girl with long legs and hair unbound. The second was a woman of perhaps forty, with strong forearms and a keen sharpness to her eyes. The last was shorter than the others: an old crone with a walking stick and wicked smile. There was an eerie symmetry to them—as though a painter had captured the same woman thrice over the years. But even as Branwen gazed at them, her eyes could not seem to focus. One moment, they were beautiful beyond comprehension. And the next, they looked as ordinary as any villager.

Palug sat in the crone’s lap. His tail was curled around his feet, eyes half-lidded as she stroked him. The little traitor.

“Look who has joined us for tea,” said the middle-aged woman. “A lapwing, a roebuck, and a hound.”

“A cat,” murmured the girl, in quiet correction.

“Oh no,” said the woman, with a glance at Pryderi. “He would make a far finer hound.”

Branwen, Pryderi, and Gwydion remained quiet. None of them seemed to know how to speak.

“Has no one told you it’s rude to stare?” said the crone. Her voice had a pleasant rasp, as though she had smoked a pipe for many years.

“Sorry,” said Pryderi, startled.

The crone laughed, seemingly delighted. “Of course you would be the first to apologize.”

Pryderi glanced around, as though certain she was speaking to someone else. When her gaze remained fixed on him, he said, “We don’t mean to intrude.”

“As though you could,” said the middle-aged woman. “Not even you, king-born, could find this place without our leave.”

Pryderi’s mouth tightened. “Have we met?”

“No,” said the crone.

“And yes,” said the girl. Her voice held all the sweetness of a spring morning. She rested her chin in one hand, leaning on the table. Her hair flowed as though caught in some unfelt wind.

“Which is it?” asked Gwydion.

“That depends on your point of view.” It was the middle-aged woman who spoke. “And what a wasteful question, if I do say so.” Her attention turned to Branwen. “Now, girl, you are the only one with a question remaining. What shall you ask?”

A jolt of panic went through Branwen. This was some kind of test, she realized. Pryderi and Gwydion had each asked a question—the wrong questions.

Which left her. And she did not know if she would be able to ask twice.

“Can you take us to the Otherking’s game animal?” she asked.

“We can,” said the crone. She continued to stroke Palug’s back.

The woman smiled. “But first, you will pay a price.”

“Blood,” Gwydion murmured. “Or years of our lives. It’ll be one or the other, mark my words.”

The crone cackled. “I would take no years from your life. That would be far too merciful.”

Gwydion blanched.

“No,” said the girl, her eyes on Pryderi. “But his would taste so sweet.”

“They would,” said the woman. “But they’re not ours to take.” She shifted in her seat, reaching for a pot of tea. The liquid that emerged had a strange quality: thick as oil and a glittering brownish gold.

“Perhaps we should ask them to join us,” said the woman. “Or keep one for ourselves. It’s been so long since we had a servant.”

The crone clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Because you ate the last one.”

The girl sniffed, pouting. “He got better.”

The more they spoke, the colder Branwen felt. This cave was a trap. There had been no need to do more than hide the entrance, no need to guard or leave snares to deter hunters. The Otherking had entrusted these three to guard his fealty.

Which meant they were the most dangerous creatures in this forest.

Branwen did not know what they were—monsters, tylwyth teg, ghosts, or something else entirely. But her every sense was screaming to leave, to run, to hide.

“We cannot stay with you,” said Gwydion smoothly, but Branwen heard an undercurrent of apprehension. “As lovely as that sounds. We must deliver fealty”—he gestured at the pouch of rings at Pryderi’s belt—“to a king.”

The crone cackled, her voice dry and mocking as a crow’s. “Must you?”

Pryderi said, “We will trade you something for Arawn’s ring.”

The three women seemed to change. Their gazes homed in on Pryderi, naked hunger on their faces. “Trade?” said the woman as slowly as if she wanted to taste every letter of the word.

“Trades must be fair,” said the girl. “If the Otherking’s fealty is what you desire, then your sacrifice will be of equal value.”

“I don’t think I have anything worth a throne,” said Branwen tightly.

The woman held out her hand expectantly. “Name yourself.”

Gwydion took half a step back. “What?”

“Name yourself,” repeated the woman.

Horror rose hot in Branwen’s throat. Of all the things they might have asked for, this was the truth she was least inclined to give.

“Name ourselves?” asked Pryderi in confusion. “That’s it? How is that a fair trade for the fealty of a king?”

All the women smiled. It was precisely the same smile stretched across three lifetimes.

Branwen swallowed. There was a reason she had forsaken her birth name the moment the tylwyth teg had taken notice of her. The folk could do terrible things with names. There were tales of humans bound by enchantments, lost to their own memories, even vanishing and reappearing decades afterward.

Names were a door. The moment that door was opened, monsters could walk through.

“Wait,” said Branwen, a note of warning in her voice. “I think we should leave.”

Gwydion looked at her sharply. “What?”

Arawn’s ring was not worth this. “Names are powerful,” she said softly. “If we give these women—whatever they are—our names, we don’t know what will happen to us. Or to our families.”

Pryderi raised his voice. “What do you intend to do with our names? Will you use them to hurt us?”

The woman delicately picked up her teacup. “We have never needed a name to harm a mortal.”

“How reassuring,” said Gwydion dryly. He took a deep breath, turning his head so that he spoke into Branwen’s ear. “Perhaps two names will be enough.”

It would not be. Branwen knew that as surely as she knew that these creatures were not human. Magical trades required balance. For three hunters to find the Otherking’s ring, they would need three names.

“Who are you?” said the girl, crossing her arms. “Tell us before I tire of you.”

It was Gwydion who stepped forward, placing a hand across his heart. “I am Gwydion, son of D?n.”

The three women gazed at him, implacable and unmoving as stone. “Who are you?” asked the girl.

“What?” said Gwydion, nerves edging into his voice. “Do you want me to go back further in my lineage?”

The crone shook her head, and her hair drifted like old cobwebs. “We did not ask for your parents’ names, boy. Who are you?”

“Gwydion,” said Gwydion, sounding out each syllable.

“Who are you?” said the woman.

“My name didn’t change in the last moment,” said Gwydion, growing frustrated. “I am Gwydion.”

“Who are you?” said the girl.

“I’m Gwydion,” he cried, “son of D?n. Of Caer Dathyl. I’m Gwynedd’s trickster. Anything else you care to know?”

The three women exhaled in unison. A glance passed between them, and then the crone said, “You have told us all that we need.”

“Finally,” said Gwydion. He turned, twisting a hand at Pryderi. “See if you can do better.”

Haltingly, Pryderi stepped forward. He fidgeted with his hands.

“Who are you?” asked the woman.

“My name is Pryderi, son of Pwyll,” said Pryderi.

The girl tsk ed chidingly. “Who are you?”

“Oh, good,” muttered Gwydion, “it’s not just me.”

Branwen seized his arm, trying to silence him. His muscles were taut beneath her fingers, and his gaze met hers. He was every bit as frightened as she was. The only difference was that he talked through his fear.

Pryderi cleared his throat. “I am Prince Pryderi, son of King Pwyll.”

For a heartbeat, all was silent. Even Palug seemed to be holding his breath.

“Who are you?” asked the crone.

Pryderi’s hands clenched. Branwen yearned to reach out and touch his shoulder, to let him know that whatever his answer was, she wouldn’t care.

“I was raised by an afanc,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am king-born, as you called me. Monster-raised.”

“Who are you?” asked the girl again.

“I don’t know,” cried Pryderi. His voice broke as he spoke the words. “I—I’ve never known. That’s why I came here. To know.”

The middle-aged woman rose from her seat. Her dress flowed around her like mist, and she moved with the grace of a serpent. But her hand was gentle as she reached out and stroked Pryderi’s hair from his forehead. It was an oddly maternal gesture. “Who are you?” she said. “Truly?”

Pryderi shuddered but did not pull away. When he spoke again, every word was fragile. “Gwri,” he said. “My foster parents called me Gwri.”

Gwri. Branwen felt her lips form the name. Of course he would have had a different name. His foster parents would not have known his birth name.

“So you are,” said the woman approvingly. She stepped back, returning to her seat. Pryderi’s eyes were damp, and he would not look at Branwen nor Gwydion.

And all at once, Branwen found herself standing before the table. She was not sure if the others had taken a step back or if she had taken a step forward.

Palug lifted his head. He had been contentedly sitting in the crone’s lap, enjoying having his ears scratched. Now, he let out a meow of greeting. He leapt from the crone, ambling over to Branwen.

She squatted down to pick up the silly cat, painfully grateful to hold him. He felt solid and soft and warm in her arms. He rested his chin on her shoulder and purred.

“Not going to ask the cat’s name?” said Gwydion, an edge of challenge to his words.

The crone laughed. “Oh, we know that one’s name. All in the forest do. Why do you think the monsters of Annwvyn have given you a wide berth?”

Branwen swallowed. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Palug suddenly felt heavier in her arms.

The crone leaned over the table, tapping a finger impatiently. Her gaze was fixed on Branwen. “Who are you?”

Branwen closed her eyes for a heartbeat.

“I am Branwen, daughter of Penarddun,” she said. Perhaps it would be enough; she had gone by that name for so long that the years might have given it the ring of truth.

The middle-aged woman sighed. “Who are you?” she asked chidingly.

Gwydion stepped in front of Branwen, making a shield of himself. His expression was unyielding as he said, “Ask something else of me. But do not ask this of her.”

The girl laughed. It had the tinkling cadence of a bell. “We could never ask more of her than you have.”

Gwydion shook his head with such force that his dark hair swung before his eyes. “I will bear the cost of this trade.”

The girl replied, “Such bravery. How do you know we won’t ask for your nephews’ names?”

Gwydion’s throat jerked in a swallow. “Would you?”

For a heartbeat, Branwen considered letting him take this risk. It was true that he had drawn her into the Wild Hunt. He had risked her freedom, even if he had done so unknowingly. If she was bound to one of the kings for a year and a day…

If she was bound into magical servitude, then she knew that he would come for her. He would try to find a way to free her.

He was a trickster. He had little love for his enemies, and he would use any means at hand to defeat those who opposed him. But for all his ambition and practiced wit, she had observed the way he treated the helpless. He had seen to Rhain when the older man was dying; he had saved Penbras without so much as hesitating; he carried Palug as though the cat were an infant; he protected his nephews fiercely.

Branwen trusted only a few—but in that moment, she realized that she trusted him.

If he knew her name, he would never use it against her. Nor would Pryderi.

Branwen put her hand on Gwydion’s back. With gentle pressure, she pushed him aside. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “I appreciate your effort, but it’s all right.”

Gwydion’s mouth was set in a hard line. “It’s not,” he said, his voice similarly quiet. “I’ve taken too much of you.”

“You’ve taken nothing I wouldn’t give,” she replied.

And she spoke a name she had not said aloud in years.

The three women smiled together. It was a smile of satiation. “You have all been very pleasant guests,” said the woman. “We try to be gracious hosts.”

“Tea?” asked the girl, her eyes agleam. “We could give them a drop each.”

“Not again,” said the woman. “The last mortal who had three drops became such a nuisance afterward.”

The crone snorted. “Truth, then,” she said, in that dry and crow-like voice. “We will give you each a truth.”

“I am not sure that is such a kind gift,” murmured the woman.

“Well, you will not let me give them tea,” said the girl, pouting.

The women all rose in one movement.

The girl looked at Pryderi. “You will never be a king.”

A flicker of shock crossed Pryderi’s face.

The middle-aged woman looked at Gwydion and said, “You will break a throne.”

Gwydion took half a step back.

Then those terribly ancient eyes focused on Branwen. She felt like a mouse before a cat—waiting for the blow that would shatter her.

The crone said, “You will hunt that which you love.”

And with that, the three of them simply vanished.

It was like watching steam evaporate—they dissolved into golden motes, as though they had never been there at all. The cavern’s furnishings vanished with them: the table, the chairs, the rugs, even the candles. The door melted away, revealing a passage. Sunlight spilled through it.

Branwen swallowed. They had come this far. There was no turning back. Slowly, she walked toward the light.

The passage led upward, stone giving way to earth, and Branwen climbed out into a meadow. It was beautiful—perfectly green grass, wildflowers in bloom, and a warm breeze. It was a meadow of summer, surrounded by a forest that bowed its head to winter. Behind her, she heard Gwydion and Pryderi make small sounds of surprise. All of the meadow, from the earth to the trees to the water—it was all magic. The golden glow made Branwen’s eyes ache.

At the edge of a small pond stood the creature—the one to whom Arawn had given his ring.

It was not an afanc, nor a llamhigyn y dwr.

It was a fallow deer. The buck had enormous antlers and a spotted red-brown coat. The animal was lovely—the curving antlers elegant and full, coat soft as dandelion seeds, eyes large and dark. Tied to the base of one antler was a gleaming gold ring. Branwen slowly reached for her bow, hoping the deer would not run.

But she had forgotten Palug.

The cat meowed plaintively and sidled up to the deer. The buck looked down at the cat with mingled confusion and curiosity. He made a soft, questioning sound. The buck leaned down to sniff him. Branwen stepped closer, trying to keep silent and seem unthreatening.

Gently, she broke the small branch that tied the ring to the antler. The ring fell into her palm. It was far heavier than it looked. Etched into the gold were the sun and moon in perfect balance, circling each other. This was the signet ring of Arawn, Otherking of Annwvyn.

She wondered if the king had given himself a wooden ring. If at this very moment, tree branches were creeping up Arawn’s left arm.

The buck stepped away from her. Then, without a backward look, he bounded out of sight.

His leaving seemed to break the spell that had fallen across the meadow. Branwen breathed again and again, feeling the weight of the ring. She had the wild impulse to slip it on, to see if it would fit any of her fingers. A power vibrated through the metal, sending a tingle through her palm. No matter how long she held it, the gold never warmed.

She hoped the ring was worth the price it had cost her.

You will hunt that which you love.

The memory made her flinch.

She would not. No matter what happened, she would never hunt anyone she cared for. Not her mother, not her cat, not—

She thought of the gentle weight of Gwydion’s hand in hers. Of Pryderi’s warmth and friendship.

No. She would hunt nothing that she loved.

Trying to distract herself from the crone’s words, Branwen’s gaze fell to the shallow pond. Its surface was clear and still as a mirror.

The woman that stared back had pale hair and sharp features. Her eyes were large and wide-set, and her mouth was set in a line. But that was not what drew Branwen’s attention to her own reflection.

It was her eyes. The left was a familiar blue. But the right—

Her right eye was gold.

Branwen blinked. She had seen her reflection before, but always with her iron-stitched blindfold. That woman had been Branwen of Argoed.

The woman reflected in the pond had wild, pale hair and an eye gold with magic. She carried the ring of an immortal king. She was Branwen of the Wild Hunt.