Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

I T HAPPENED SO quickly that Gwydion did not sense the arrow.

One moment they were walking through patchy sunlight, smiling and triumphant—and the next Branwen staggered. Confusion flashed across her face, and she crashed to the ground, an arrow buried in her side.

“NO!”

At first, Gwydion thought he had uttered the word. It resonated through him, a denial that clawed up his throat. But the bellow had come from Pryderi. Spear in hand, the prince whirled toward where the arrow had been fired from.

Fear and fury churning with him, Gwydion fell beside Branwen. She lay on her side, curled in on herself. It had struck her in her right side. Gwydion had spent enough time with the healers that he knew it was a dangerous place for a wound.

“Branwen,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Let me.” As gently as he could, he rolled her onto her back. She cried out, the movement jostling the arrow. A phantom pain flared in his own stomach, but he ignored it. He used one of his small knives to cut open her tunic.

He remembered that first night, when he used his magic to unbind her dress. He remembered the delicate color on her cheekbones, and the way her eyes caught the candlelight. She had been beautiful in a moss-green gown with her hair bound into a braid. Now, her face was drawn with pain, her fingers digging into the earth as though she needed something to cling to.

There were sounds coming from the trees—the clash of weapons upon weapons, shouts and snarls, and the pained whisper of magicked trees as hot iron sank into the earth.

There was one kind of iron that all humans carried with them. It soaked through Branwen’s shirt, warm and sticky against his fingers.

Either Pryderi or Branwen’s attacker was bleeding. He hoped it was the latter. Let it be the latter. Gwydion could not fight and keep Branwen safe at the same time. Her lips were pale and eyes glazed with pain.

He should have sensed the arrow coming. He should have deflected it. He cursed himself silently. He should have been prepared for an ambush. He had been too consumed with his own thoughts.

Branwen’s eyes slipped closed. “Hey,” said Gwydion. “You’re going to be all right. That’ll hurt for a few days, but you’re going to win the Hunt.”

She opened them again. “I better,” she said hoarsely. “Haven’t—haven’t said my old name aloud in so long. Has to be worth something.”

Branwen—he would think of her as Branwen, even if he had heard her other name. She was only Branwen to him. He had spent his whole life as a seeker and guardian of secrets. He would keep her secrets safe.

He would keep her safe.

She deserved more than to be just another fealty to be bartered among kings.

Pryderi strode through the wood, dragging a man by his ankle. Gwydion sat up straighter. He knew that man. It was the red-haired assassin, the one escorting the others back to camp. The one who had looked at Branwen and Palug.

He had shot her.

Tendrils of cold anger wrapped around Gwydion’s heart. That assassin was lucky that Gwydion’s attention needed to remain with Branwen, otherwise he would find himself devoured by the roots of a tree.

The assassin snarled, kicking out at Pryderi. He managed to free himself and scurried to his feet, knives in hand. He moved with all the grace and ease of a viper.

With a contemptuous snap of his spear, Pryderi knocked him back. Gwydion swallowed hard. There was no mistaking the fury in Pryderi’s gait. Even when he had fought Arawn’s champion, Pryderi had kept his temper leashed. But now, he had given himself over to the fury.

“Wait,” the assassin cried. “I have—I have rings! We can bargain!”

Ice held more warmth than Pryderi’s voice. “What rings?”

With a shaking hand, the assassin reached into his shirt and pulled out a small cloth pouch. It clinked with metal.

“Where did you get those?” asked Pryderi.

The assassin said breathlessly, “Took them. From those I was—those going back to camp.”

Pryderi said, “You mean those you were protecting. You turned on them, didn’t you? Did you kill them?”

The assassin retreated, tossing a knife at Pryderi. The prince sidestepped the blade.

“That’s what the Wild Hunt is,” the assassin snapped. “You’re either hunter or prey. You should’ve learned that by now.”

Pryderi glanced over his shoulder to where Branwen lay on the ground, a bandage against her stomach and Gwydion’s hand soaked with blood. Then he looked at the bag of stolen rings the assassin held. Icy wrath stole into his eyes.

“You’re right,” said Pryderi, and his voice had gone toneless. He slammed the spear into the assassin’s wrist, sending that bag of rings flying. The assassin flicked another knife at him, but Pryderi batted the weapon away. Then Pryderi drove his spear into the meat of the assassin’s thigh. The scream that ripped out of him was raw and animal.

The man fell, pinned to the ground like a prized insect. Pryderi kept hold of the spear with an almost casual ease.

He was different now, Gwydion realized. Pryderi had changed in the cave—and not for the better. Something had frayed in him. Some crucial part of Pryderi was unraveling. Those prophetic words were swiftly coming to pass.

Cigfa had fought the son of a king.

The assassin fought the son of a monster.

“What—what’s happening?” Branwen tried to roll over, but Gwydion kept his hand gently on her shoulder. “Pryderi?”

Pryderi gave his spear a little shake, the way a cat might jostle a mouse in its jaws. “What happened to them? Those you claimed to protect?”

“I—I—” The assassin screamed as Pryderi drove the spear deeper.

“How many did you trick?” snarled Pryderi. “How many did you track and offer protection, only to turn on them when they could no longer hold a weapon?”

The assassin moaned in agony.

“How did you find us?”

“I followed you,” the assassin said, when he could speak. “Saw the signet ring on the cat the girl was carrying. It’s yours, isn’t it? Royal signet and all. It might win me the Hunt. I have to win, don’t you understand? I’m dying—there’s no cure. Not without magic.”

“Then you should have offered yourself up as an ironfetch,” said Pryderi. “Traded services for magic. Not killed your countrymen for it.” There was a deep contempt in his eyes.

“Be a servant?” gasped the assassin. “I’d rather die.”

“All right, then,” Pryderi replied, and yanked the spear free.

The noise the hunter made nearly cracked Gwydion’s eardrums.

Pryderi leveled the spear at the assassin’s chest, resting the tip against his breastbone. “You should never have hurt them,” he said quietly. “You should never have hurt her.”

“Pryderi,” said Branwen. She struggled to sit up. “You don’t—you’re not this. Pryderi—”

But he was beyond listening.

Branwen panted with pain, and her voice was high and thready as she said, “Gwri!”

It was like snapping a thread on a puppet. The spear lowered, and there was a terrible despair to Pryderi’s face. He looked over his shoulder, gaze locking onto Gwydion and Branwen.

“You’re only a monster if you choose to be,” she said. It cost her to say the words; sweat broke out across her brow, and Gwydion felt a fresh surge of blood against his hand.

There was a long silence, only broken by the hunter’s ragged breathing. Then Pryderi stepped away from him.

“Run,” he said quietly, “and pray the forest is merciful.”