Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

B RANWEN BEGAN HUNTING when she was nine.

It began with an unruly flock of sheep. The shepherd complained to Branwen’s mother that his herd was avoiding a large swath of pasture and grazing the rest to the ground. Branwen listened from her place in the corner, where she had been trying to mend a torn shirt. Seeing an opportunity for more excitement, she slipped outside.

She went to the pastures. True to the shepherd’s word, the sheep were avoiding the eastern edge of the fields. Branwen looked for the cause but found nothing. Finally, she unbound her iron-stitched blindfold.

That was when she heard the screaming. It seemed the magic that touched her right eye had changed her other senses, as well. Without the touch of iron, she could sense that which other mortals could not.

Branwen had hastened to a clump of bushes, where she found a coblynau caught in a hunter’s snare. It looked a little like a tiny man with astonishingly ugly features. It was said coblynau haunted quarries and mines, and they could find the richest veins if treated kindly.

The iron had snagged on one of the coblynau’s sleeves, rendering it helpless. The creature was exhausted and near starving. Branwen could have slain it. But the coblynau was no great monster. Carefully, she reached down and freed it. It bit Branwen for her troubles and then scurried into the bushes.

But the next morning, she found an uncut, beautiful red crystal on her doorstep.

After that, Branwen earned a reputation as the girl who could find and deal with magicked troubles. She kept quiet about her eye and simply let the villagers think that she had a knack for finding the unseen. She discovered a stray but friendly pwca—a shape-changing creature—disguised in the form of a goat and brought it to her poorest neighbor, advising them to feed it well. In return, the pwca had blessed their farm with milk and good harvests. One weaver was haunted by an owl and feared that it was an ill omen. Branwen climbed a tree to find an irate and wholly ordinary owl with a nest of eggs. She had returned to the weaver with bleeding arms and reassurances that the owl meant no harm.

When she was thirteen, she began to hunt the true monsters. There had been a llamhigyn y dwr that had nearly drowned her in a murky lake—and Branwen bore the scars across her left shoulder. An iron-mad pwca took the form of a wolf and killed two men before Branwen slew it with an arrow.

She had attempted less dangerous means of earning coin: She worked as a messenger, using her sight to navigate the outskirts of Annwvyn without falling into traps. But that did not pay enough. Then Branwen tried her hand at being a mercenary—until one of the men said something rather unsavory, and Branwen knocked out three of his teeth with her dagger. There was the month she spent as a ring fighter. Then a single week of serving drinks before the tavernkeeper, Glaw, declared her too restless for indoor work.

Branwen was not a mercenary, nor a messenger, nor a server of drinks.

She was a huntress. And she was tired of pretending to be anything else.

“What do you mean he’s dead?”

Ifor’s house was far more luxurious than Branwen was used to. The rugs were plush and thick, the air sweetened with burning herbs and the smell of fresh bread. As barwn, Ifor collected taxes, defended the village and its surrounding lands, and would be required to raise troops if Gwynedd commanded it. But even with his lavish house and servants, he was merely a vassal to nobles of higher rank.

One of the servants had led Branwen into a sitting room, whispered into the barwn’s ear, and scurried away. In hindsight, that servant had been wiser than Branwen. She should have sent a written note and a request for her fee. But Branwen knew how it felt to lose family, and she had wanted to do him a kindness.

Barwn Ifor stood before her, hands clenched and mouth drawn tight. Grief radiated from every quiver in his voice. “My son can’t be dead.”

Branwen reached into her cloak and withdrew the heavy signet ring. “This was all I could bring back.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Ifor. He was well past middle age, with silver hair and a brittleness about his eyes. “My son is alive. You’re—you’re wrong.”

“No,” she replied, keeping her voice soft. “I’m not.” She set the ring down on the barwn’s table.

“I paid you to find him!” snarled Ifor.

“And I did,” said Branwen. “What was left of him.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She knew it the moment the words left her tongue.

Ifor’s grief crystallized into anger. And before Branwen could so much as blink, he struck her across the face. The shock had her staggering, and instinctively, her hand rose up to protect her cheek. Her fingers came away bloodied. His own signet ring had scratched a shallow cut across her face.

“Get out,” Ifor snarled.

He did not have to ask her again. Branwen turned on her heel and strode from the room. To her surprise, the servant appeared as though she’d been waiting. “This way,” said the servant, putting a hand on Branwen’s shoulder.

It was not in Branwen’s nature to take orders, but the gentle weight of the older woman’s hand and the warmth of her voice were irresistible. She could not recall the last time anyone had taken care of her. She found herself being guided into a well-kept kitchen. A cook was tending to a cawl simmering above the fire, and when she saw Branwen, sympathy flashed across her face.

“Come here,” said the servant. She picked up a cloth, dampened it with cool water, and pressed it against Branwen’s cheek. “You’re lucky he missed your eye. It’s not as though you have one to spare.”

Branwen snorted. Most people were under the impression she had lost her right eye in a childhood accident. It was a safer explanation than the truth.

“Did you find the barwn’s son?” asked the cook.

Branwen nodded. She did not have to explain; both the cook and the servant grimaced.

“I heard the lad before he left,” said the cook. “He was blathering on about joining the Wild Hunt.”

Branwen jerked in surprise. “What?” She thought the son had simply wandered too near Annwvyn, not that he had been fool enough to try and enter the Hunt.

The Wild Hunt was held on the last day of autumn every fifth year. It was a hunt for the immortal King Arawn and the mortal King Pwyll, in celebration of their friendship between their two kingdoms—Annwvyn and Dyfed.

No one knew what they hunted, but there were rumors aplenty: monsters, legends, even mortals. Those who lived near the village of Argoed knew better than to trespass into the woods on a Hunt year, lest they go missing.

“Why?” asked Branwen. “He must have known that was certain death.”

“He was saying that the winner of the Hunt was granted a boon,” said the cook. “And he wanted to be the greatest fighter in all the lands.”

The servant snorted. “As if a noble from Gwynedd would be allowed two steps into Annwvyn.”

“I know,” said the cook, with a long-suffering sigh. “He’s a daft one.”

“Was,” said the servant quietly. “He was a daft one.”

They all went silent for a moment, bowing their heads in acknowledgment.

Branwen shifted on her feet. “I should be going,” she said, pulling the damp cloth from her cheek. “It’s an hour’s walk home.”

“You give your mam these from me,” said the cook. She hurriedly bundled up an assortment of hard cheeses, salted fish, and a loaf of bread. “She helped deliver my niece a few years back. Tell her Olwenna still thinks well of her.”

Branwen took the food gladly. “I will.”

The gift meant she would not spend what little coin she had on food. While she could hunt for her meals, there were other necessities: cloth for mending and sewing, tools, and medicinal herbs. So many herbs. She had meant to visit the village apothecary, but without the barwn’s payment, Branwen could not afford it.

She left the village, ducking between houses until she was in the familiar countryside.

The sun sank toward the western seas and evening stole across the golden fields. She quickened her step, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. With Nos Calan Gaeaf a week away, it was best not to be out at dusk. The last night of autumn was known to be rife with magic.

As she rounded a bend in the path, she saw a creature waiting in the branches of an oak tree. For a moment, Branwen’s heartbeat quickened… and then she recognized the familiar black-and-white fur.

It was a cat. Her cat, to be specific.

“What are you doing out here?” said Branwen, frowning. “I locked you in the house.”

Palug stood, stretched, and then darted down the tree. Even among cats, he was a gorgeous creature. His black-and-white fur was long and well-groomed, his eyes were like cut emeralds, and he was quite large for a cat. But he had a kitten’s mew when he wanted food.

“Come out to greet me?” said Branwen, but concern tightened her belly. He should not have been outside; the neighbors had seen a pack of stray hounds wandering the countryside, likely escaped from Gwynedd’s soldiers. Branwen knew it was only a matter of time until a shepherd scraped together what coin they had and came knocking at Branwen’s door. Stray hounds were more dangerous than wolves because they did not fear humans. Sooner or later, they would attack livestock. It would be a dangerous and ill-paid job, but Branwen would take it. In the wild country, one needed the goodwill of their neighbors. And Branwen needed it more than most.

Palug batted at her bundle of food and gazed up at her adoringly.

“Oh, no,” Branwen said. “This cheese is not for you.”

Palug’s tail lashed in irritation. Branwen did the only thing she could: She scooped up the cat. He squirmed for half a heartbeat before he seemed to decide that the indignity of being picked up was worth a few chin scratches. He purred, relaxing against Branwen’s shoulder.

“Monster,” said Branwen affectionately.

Her home looked as it always had: stone walls, thatched roof, and windows that remained firmly closed during the fall and winter months. A small wooden fence rounded the home and tree. Gorse grew up along that fence—a valuable protection against wild magic, even if she did have to cut it back every year. Branwen opened the gate, allowing Palug to slip from her shoulder. The cat trotted to the front door and meowed back at her, as if insisting she hasten her pace.

The door was ajar.

Fear slid into Branwen’s belly. She hurried into the house. “Mam?” she called.

There were no signs of violence, nothing out of the ordinary. Dried bundles of mint hung near the windows, a three-legged stool rested by the hearth, a half-written letter sat on the small table and a cup of tea beside it. Branwen touched her fingertips to the cup. Still warm—which meant it had not been abandoned for long.

She stalked outside and gazed at the tangled web of footprints in the dirt of the yard. And there it was—the delicate shape of a woman’s foot.

Barefoot , Branwen thought, a sympathetic shiver running through her.

Palug meowed as though he could not understand why he was not being fed.

“If you were a hound,” said Branwen, following the footprints toward the gate, “you could find her for me.”

Palug sat back on his haunches and looked away, haughtily indifferent.

“Keep the mice out of the food,” said Branwen, “and I’ll give you a bit of cheese.”

The trail led south. Branwen’s boots were worn so thin that she could feel every ridge in the road. A sheepdog watched her pass; a few small chickens scampered across the trail, heading home to roost. The shadow of the mountains loomed on her left. In evenings, Annwvyn looked as murky as a dark sea. Even Branwen dared not venture beneath its branches after the sun had set; her magicked eye wouldn’t protect her. She would just be able to see what came for her.

Despite the dangers, Branwen preferred Gwynedd’s wild countries to its cities. She liked the stillness of a forest, the beauty of a spiderweb beaded with morning dew, and the breath of cold mountain air.

A distant howl made Branwen quicken her pace. She hurried along the path, rounding small hills and swerving past thickets of trees until she stepped around a large alder.

Ahead was a familiar silhouette. Branwen’s heart lurched in relief. “Mam,” she called.

Branwen’s mother had been beautiful in her day—straight-backed, with hair like snow and bright eyes. Some said that Branwen looked like her, but Branwen couldn’t see it. Where her mam was soft and welcoming, Branwen was sinewy and scarred. Mam had the delicate beauty of a pressed flower, and Branwen was as sharp and pale as the white crow she’d named herself for.

“Mam,” said Branwen again.

Mam halted. She wore a loose dress for working around the house; it was far too thin to be worn outside. Her bare forearms were prickled with gooseflesh, and her feet were bare and muddied. There was a line between her brows, a distance to her expression.

Mam said a name that wasn’t Branwen.

Branwen winced, glad that they weren’t too near Annwvyn. Mam was one of the few who remembered her birth name. Branwen had forsaken it long ago, only using it once when she hunted a murderer. On that hunt, the name Branwen would have alerted her prey that she was after him.

“Your cousin invited us for a meal,” said Mam distractedly, her gaze roaming over the fields. “We should have left earlier—we’ll be late—”

Derwyn had not lived near the village in years. That Mam could not remember… it made Branwen feel ill. Mam was forgetting more and more.

“Mam,” said Branwen, voice gentling. “Derwyn sent word that he cannot meet us tonight.”

Mam went still. “He did?”

“Yes.” Branwen took her mother’s arm, gently steering her back toward home. “We’ll see him tomorrow.”

A year ago, Branwen would have balked at telling such a lie. But since Mam had first begun to forget, Branwen learned that evenings were the worst of it. Something in the shifting light seemed to make Mam restless and uncertain, her memories waning.

Evenings were a time for magic and forgotten things.

Mornings brought remembrance.

Branwen woke early, boiling water for tea and grumbling when Palug wound between her legs and meowed for cheese.

Mam was awake. She was bright-eyed, sitting beside the fire as she braided her white hair. “Good morning,” she said. “When did you return from the village?” There was no hint of the confusion from last night. And perhaps that was the most painful part—these moments when all was well. Branwen wanted to cling to them, to hold on to these mornings tightly enough that they might never slip away.

To keep her hands busy, Branwen picked up a small knife and an apple and began to slice. While she did not lie , she chose her truths. “Late,” she replied, popping a bit of apple into her mouth.

“And did you find the barwn’s lad?”

Branwen grimaced.

“I can’t tell if you’re making that face because you found him or not,” said Mam, raising one pale brow.

“I found him.” Branwen twirled the small paring knife through her fingers. “… Or rather, parts of him.”

“Poor lad.” Mam finished the braid, letting it rest against her lean shoulder. She gestured for Branwen to come closer. “He should have known better than to venture into Annwvyn on a Hunt year.”

“According to Ifor’s cook, the Wild Hunt was his aim,” Branwen said as her mother began to braid her hair. Mam’s fingers were swift and sure, and the slight graze of fingernails against Branwen’s scalp made her shiver. Mam had been the one to teach Branwen how to braid her hair, how to keep it from being snagged in a bowstring or falling into her eye. When she had been a child, she had sat between her mother’s knees while she plaited her hair every morning. These days, Branwen mostly tended to her own hair. But the touch was familiar and comforting, and she leaned into it. “He thought he could win it.”

Mam shook her head. “Foolish child. I pity his father, though. No one should ever live through the loss of their child.” She folded the braid, making a crown of it, and pinned the hair in place. She nodded in satisfaction.

It was such a small little expression, but it made a lump rise to Branwen’s throat. These moments when her mam mothered her were becoming rarer and rarer. Part of her wanted to cling to them, to cling into her mam’s lap and be a child again. And another part of her wanted to recoil, to brace herself for the inevitable loss when Mam no longer remembered her.

Branwen’s nails dug into her palms. “I need to bring a few things to Rhain. Can you feed the chickens?”

“Of course. And then I have a few shirts to mend,” said Mam, waving her off. “How do you rip so many of them? Do you swim through briars?”

Branwen thought of the clawed fingers of the cyhyraeth.

“Yes,” she said airily. “Briars.”

Rhain had lived on the next farm over for as long as Branwen could recall. He had always been cantankerous, old, and yet surprisingly formidable. He taught Branwen how to hunt and fight. He had taken a liking to her when she was a child. While her bluntness seemed to irritate some villagers, Rhain only let out a hoarse chuckle when Branwen returned one of his barbs with her own.

Branwen brought a basket of apples and a loaf of bara cymysg. The maslin bread was a little stale, but the apples were crisp and sweet.

Rhain was weeding in his garden. He had fashioned an overturned barrel into a table, and a few of his tools sat upon it. His back and shoulders were a little bowed, and his hair looked like old cobwebs, but his eyes were sharp. “Morning, girl,” he said. His gaze settled on Palug. “You brought the monster, I see.”

“Be polite or he might devour your sheep,” said Branwen solemnly. Palug regarded the old hunter for a moment, then head-butted Rhain’s knee. Rhain reached down to rub the cat’s ears.

“Can’t you use that eye of yours to tell if he’s truly magic?” he asked. He was one of the few people who knew the truth. He was trustworthy—and besides, he had no one to tell but his chickens.

Branwen tapped the corner of her right eye. “I could. Only trouble is all cats are a little bit monstrous. Hard to tell if he’s more monster than the rest.”

Rhain grumbled softly beneath his breath. “What brings you here so early?”

“Mam wandered off again,” said Branwen. “Last night.”

A flicker of sadness touched Rhain’s face. “Oh. I’m sorry.” He brushed some of the dirt from his hands. “I was in the village last night. When I looked in on her beforehand, she was at home.”

Rhain had promised to do his best to keep an eye on Mam when Branwen was hunting. But she could not expect him to be there at all hours of the day. “It’s not your fault,” she said. She leaned against the barrel, letting some of her exhaustion creep into her shoulders. There were very few people she allowed to see her weakness, but Rhain was one of them. He would never hold it against her.

“I cannot keep leaving her,” said Branwen. “One of these days, she will wander someplace dangerous.”

Rhain’s face was grave. “You need to hire someone,” he said, with a blunt honesty that Branwen appreciated. “I’m not spry enough to follow her at all hours of the day. And I have my own home to tend to. Find a young servant or one of the farmhands.”

“As though I could pay them.”

“You need more coin,” said Rhain.

Branwen snorted. “Truly an inspiring insight.”

Rhain gave her a tolerant look. “You need to take that pride of yours and put it aside.” He crossed his arms; he had rolled his sleeves to his elbows, showing off old scars. “Monster hunting is all well and good, but you need steady work.”

“I have tried other work,” said Branwen. “Hunting is the only skill I have. I thought perhaps working for nobles would help, but all the barwn paid me was this.” She touched the bruise at her cheek.

Rhain shook his head, grizzled gray hair falling across his eyes. “Girl, the nobility are as temperamental as cats and twice as likely to bite you. I’d find a wealthy merchant or those newly come into coin. They’d pay well for the taste of a hunt… even if you’re merely chasing foxes.”

Branwen bit her lip. Her gaze fell on Palug, who had begun grooming himself in the morning light. She thought of the warm place above the hearth where she slept, the familiar smells and tastes of home. If she did as Rhain advised, she would have to leave them. There were no wealthy merchants near the village of Argoed; she would have to venture into one of Gwynedd’s cities. She feared her mother would take a turn for the worse in Branwen’s absence. Mam thrived in the familiar. An upset in her day would unbalance her. But if leaving was the only way to pay for Mam’s herbs…

“I will think on it,” she said finally.

Rhain nodded. “Call on me, if you need help,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” said Branwen.

They remained in comfortable silence for a few moments before he said, “What did happen to the barwn’s son?”

Branwen made a sour face. “I found a few bones in a cyhyraeth’s lair.”

Rhain’s battle-scarred hands froze on a weed. “That’s a fate I’d wish on no one. I thought they didn’t come this way?”

“The iron’s driving them into Annwvyn.” Branwen reached down to pick up Palug. She wanted the warmth and softness of him. Palug meowed in annoyance, but he allowed it. “With all the kingdoms trying to grow their territory, iron is leaking into the rivers now. Soon, I fear we’ll have monsters from all the isles retreating into those mountains. And crossing our fields to get there.”

“It’s too early for that kind of talk,” said Rhain. He shook his head. “Someone will have to send word to Caer Dathyl if this keeps up. King Math is bound by duty to protect all of Gwynedd’s people from Annwvyn. Even a village like ours.”

Branwen raised a brow. “Would you go to the royal court yourself?”

He shuddered. “I’d rather walk into Annwvyn blindfolded and naked.”

“That would be a sight,” she said teasingly. “Might be enough to make all the monsters flee.”

“Jest all you want, girl,” replied Rhain, “but royals are far more bloodthirsty than any water wraith or magicked cat. Mark my words. Stay away from the lot of them.”

Branwen laughed. Rhain spoke as though he expected a king to ride over the hillside at any moment. “What kind of royal would have anything to do with me?”