Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

P RYDERI REMEMBERED LITTLE of the aftermath of the fight.

He remembered seeing Branwen fall, hearing that hunter admit he’d killed those he promised to protect, and the last thread of Pryderi’s self-restraint had snapped. Falling into that cold rage was almost a relief; he did not have to think. His world had narrowed to blood and bone.

It had taken Branwen saying his old name to call him back.

Names have power , she had told him in the cave. He should have believed her.

Part of him wished she had not managed to draw him back. Because when he returned to himself, he had to face the truth.

He did not know what he was. And the future held nothing but questions.

Gwydion worked over Branwen. “Hold her down,” he said to Pryderi.

Pryderi was grateful for the order; it gave him something to do. Branwen made a choked noise as Gwydion pulled away her tunic. Finally, the wound was visible. The arrow had deflected from the hilt of her dagger, sinking perhaps a finger’s width into the skin of her stomach.

Painful, yes. But it would only kill her if the wound was not tended to.

Once the arrow was removed and the wound cleaned and bandaged, Gwydion sat back on his heels. He met Pryderi’s eyes. “I am going to give her a little tincture of poppy,” he said quietly, “and then we’ll find shelter for the night.”

Pryderi nodded.

They walked with Branwen’s arm slung around Gwydion’s shoulder. He murmured quiet encouragements as they stumbled along. Her gait was unsteady from pain and the poppy. Pryderi wondered if he should offer to carry her, but the offer felt like an intrusion. Branwen needed a healer—not a monster or a prince.

Palug meowed. The cat had vanished during the fight, reappearing a few minutes later. Perhaps he had gone to hunt for field mice, for he kept licking his whiskers. Pryderi bent down and offered his shoulder to the cat. Palug considered, then leapt atop him and curled against Pryderi’s neck, purring. It was a small comfort.

They walked until Gwydion chose an old ash tree. He called to his magic and wove the branches tightly. Then he made a bed of his cloak. The branches lifted Branwen high, as gently as Pryderi could have lifted Palug. When he was certain she was settled, Gwydion turned to Pryderi.

“I’m going to refill our flasks,” he said quietly. “She’ll need plenty of water tonight. Keep her still and don’t let her fuss with the bandage. All right?”

The words seemed to wash over Pryderi. He felt them without truly hearing them. Gwydion had the same decisiveness that he had possessed when fixing that man’s knee.

“You should have been a healer,” said Pryderi. “Or a farmer. My da would have liked having you around.”

A line appeared between Gwydion’s dark brows. “Fallen kings, I’m stuck with a wounded huntress and a half-addled prince.”

“We aren’t the best company right now,” Pryderi agreed.

Gwydion took gentle hold of Pryderi’s upper arms, forcing the prince to meet his eyes. “Listen to me. Everything I said about you? I still mean it. You’re irritating and good-looking, and I still think you’ll be the best damn king Dyfed’s ever had. But right now, you need to go up into that tree and watch Branwen. And you”—Gwydion looked at Palug—“eat anyone that comes near them.”

Palug sat back on his haunches, curled his tail around his feet, and said, “Mreow.” To Pryderi’s ears, it almost sounded like an affirmative.

With Gwydion heading deeper into the woods, Pryderi mustered what energy he still possessed and climbed into the tree. At least the despair sapped his fear of heights. Branwen lay quietly, her eyes half-lidded. Her hand remained over her wound, fingers fidgeting absent-mindedly with the bandage. “You’re not supposed to do that,” said Pryderi, gently taking her hand. He guided her fingers against Palug’s fur. “Pet him instead.”

Branwen obliged.

“You all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

She blinked at him.

He looked away. “I lost control. I had hoped it wouldn’t happen again.”

She exhaled, the sound brimming with exhaustion. “It’s been a long day,” she said. “And that man did shoot me.”

“I wanted to kill him.” Pryderi drew his legs up to his chest. “Not only because he hurt you. But because…” He tilted his head back, gazing at the branches. “You heard the girl. I’ll never be a king.”

“I thought you were a little ambivalent about this whole king prospect.” Branwen waved her hand about, as though to convey a ship tossed upon waves.

“I was,” he answered. “I still am. But don’t you understand what that means? I am going to fail. Something I do, it will be enough to make Pwyll disinherit me.” He shook his head, frustrated. “I spent years trying to be good at this. To be the kind of ruler people need me to be. What am I to be, if not a king?”

Branwen patted his hand, and he flinched in surprise.

“Whatever you want,” she said. “You get to be whomever you want.”

His throat felt too tight. “You think?”

“I think you have a gentle heart,” she said, with the earnest honesty of one taken by drink or herbs. “And kindness is rare. Perhaps being a king would force you to become something else.”

“Even after I nearly killed that man?” he said quietly.

Branwen snorted. “I may not be able to feel the wound right now, but he did shoot me. He killed others. He ambushed all of us. The only reason I stopped you was because I knew you would blame yourself afterward.”

Warmth filled his chest. It was a rare thing to be seen and understood. He had never had anyone like her and Gwydion. They were both stubborn and intelligent and loyal. If nothing else came from the Hunt but this, he would count it as time well spent.

A faint cry made him look up. A second voice joined it, and then a third.

“What is that?” Branwen struggled to sit up, but Pryderi placed a hand on her shoulder. Palug leapt to the edge of their shelter, his green eyes peering into the wood. Pryderi did the same, keeping low enough that he could duck if an archer took aim.

But it was no attack.

Three of the tylwyth teg rode mountain goats. The goats were far too large to be mortal. The otherfolk cried out to one another, cheering as they chased a rabbit. A ring had been tied around its neck.

One of the folk laughed and waved her hand, beckoning her companions to follow. Her goat raced up a sheer cliff, and the huntress leaned low over its neck. She tossed a net at the rabbit, but it darted to the side, and the net tangled around one of her companions instead. He yanked it free, merrily throwing it back to his companion. “Your aim is as dismal as ever!” he called.

The huntress waved him off. “You’re in the way as ever.”

The third hunter ignored them both, urging his goat mount to give chase. The rabbit vanished into the undergrowth, and the three hunters followed, still laughing.

This was the Wild Hunt. It was companionship and joy as much as it was betrayal and ambition.

“It’s beautiful here.” Branwen’s soft voice startled him. Pryderi glanced over and saw she had managed to sit up. She leaned against the branches, her face exhausted but her eyes alight. “Even with all the monsters and killers and danger. This place”—she lifted a hand to one of the autumn-burnished leaves—“it’s still magical. And I’m glad we got to see it.”

Pryderi nodded. “Me too,” he agreed.