Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

T HREE HUNTERS SLIPPED through the morning mists.

They awoke before dawn, ate a hurried meal of stale cheese and old crusts, and left the ash tree behind. Branwen’s right side throbbed faintly, but Gwydion packed the wound with herbs and bound it securely. The injury would need time to heal, but for now, she was ready to move.

For there was one last hunt.

She had to find her brooch and Gwydion’s ring. Pryderi’s would be simple to retrieve, at least. Palug trotted alongside them, tail held high and ring dancing on his makeshift collar.

“How are we going to find two specific animals in all of this?” asked Pryderi, gesturing at the forest. It was a fair question.

“We’re heading back in the direction where we first began the Hunt,” replied Branwen. “From there… hopefully we’ll pick up a trail for the roe deer. Deer tend to keep to the same trails, the same places to graze. They’re creatures of habit. The lapwing might prove more troublesome.”

“Trust me,” said Gwydion. “I’ll find them.”

They walked for the better part of the morning, diverting when they saw evidence of a recent camp. The ashes were still smoking, and Branwen saw the places where two people had slept.

There were still other hunters. They needed to be wary.

Pryderi carried the small pouch of rings. Branwen found herself glancing at it, just to be sure it was still there. That small bag held all her hopes for the future—and part of her wanted to snatch it and shove it into a pocket so she could be sure it would never be stolen. But Pryderi was unhurt and the most intimidating of their little group. Any hunter would hesitate before challenging him.

They followed Branwen’s memory and Gwydion’s magical senses. She retraced their steps back to where they had hunted that first night. It felt like ages ago.

She did not know how she would find her lapwing again. It was a single bird in a mountain forest. It might not even have remained in the woods; lapwings preferred open fields. Or would the magic of the Hunt keep every animal contained? She did not know. Her only comfort was that she knew no one had found her brooch. Her oaken ring remained on her finger, the magic sleeping within.

She found the deer trail first. There were a few broken ferns, a trampled bit of moss. This was where the herd had fled from them, where Gwydion had captured the buck with divining and brambles.

“Hold on,” Gwydion murmured. He pulled off his boots, settling his bare feet on the earth. Branwen winced, but he did not seem to mind the cold nor the prickle of plants. Gwydion knelt, running his left hand through the dead grasses. Then he closed his eyes and sang a proper tune.

It was a beautiful melody. Tendrils of gold slipped through the earth. It was a gentle pulse of power, a searching. Those golden flickers danced through tree roots, glittered along the canopy, and vanished from sight. Gwydion kept quietly singing, and the trees creaked in answer. Leaves rustled and shifted.

Gwydion was using his power to search for their animals, Branwen realized. He was speaking with the forest in a way that no one else could. Gwydion’s head tilted, listening.

Those flickers of gold ran through the ground again—but this time, they returned to him. They flashed along branch and leaf, darting like lightning toward Gwydion. He blinked his eyes open.

“There is a lapwing south of here,” he said. “Alone, without a flock, roosting in a maple tree.”

“The wood told you that?” asked Pryderi.

Gwydion smiled. “They can feel things, too. Tiny talons, feathers, and they can certainly hear birdsong.”

“Could you not have been using your magic for the entire Hunt?” said Pryderi. “It would have made things easier.”

“For you, perhaps.” Gwydion rubbed at his forehead. “You will not bear the cost.”

“What about your deer?” asked Branwen. Her gaze followed the trail.

“We’ll find the deer next,” said Gwydion. “I’ll go after the bird. Yes,” he said, seeing Branwen’s mouth opening, “I will. Because you’re hurt and Pryderi hates heights. I can move more quietly on my own. Birds startle easily.”

Pryderi blinked. “True,” he admitted.

“You should be resting,” said Gwydion. He passed Branwen a water flask. “Drink. Eat something. Pryderi, you stay with her. I’ll return in an hour, even if I cannot find the bird. Then we can reconsider our plan.”

“I don’t need a minder,” said Branwen. “And who’s going to protect you?”

“I’ll take the cat,” replied Gwydion. “He’s far more terrifying.”

Palug looked rather proud of himself.

Branwen snorted. “Are you always this tyrannical in the mornings?”

“Only when someone’s snoring keeps me up half the night,” said Gwydion, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. It happened so quickly she did not have time to be surprised.

Pryderi cleared his throat.

“Not a word from you,” she said.

“I was not going to say anything,” Pryderi replied. He was fighting back a grin and losing badly. “Except to say I am a little disappointed that I did not get a kiss, as well.”

“Perhaps later,” said Gwydion. He leaned down so that Palug could leap atop his shoulder, then sauntered into the woods. Branwen watched him go, her cheeks burning.

Pryderi laughed.

“Laugh all you like, but you’re the only one who snores,” she said.

“I’ll try to breathe more quietly if we have to spend another night in a tree.” Pryderi’s gaze turned wistfully toward camp.

Branwen took hold of her bow. “You do realize neither of us is waiting here, right?”

Pryderi gave her a little half shrug. “I assumed as much.” He hefted his spear across one shoulder. “Shall we go hunting?”

It was a lovely winter day. The air was crisp and sharp against Branwen’s tongue, and the forest had an austere beauty. Soon, the winter rains would lash the mountains. She followed the deer trail alongside a small stream and through a thick clot of undergrowth. Crouching, Branwen half crawled and half shuffled into the bushes.

That familiar herd of roe deer grazed quietly among the trees. And upon one of the buck’s antlers gleamed something metal.

There it was—Gwydion’s ring.

Branwen’s heart lurched in relief. Deer tended to remain in the same grazing lands, but she had feared this herd would flee or be captured. The last thing she wanted was for some hunter to capture Gwydion’s fealty.

“Do we take the ring?” whispered Pryderi. He had crouched down beside her.

Branwen shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Remember how the Hunt works? If we take that ring, then we own Gwydion’s fealty. He won’t be able to hunt properly again. We need to bring the deer to Gwydion so he can take his own ring back. The way Cigfa was trying to do with hers.”

Pryderi nodded. “Capture? Or…?”

Her jaw clenched. She had hunted deer before, but those creatures had kept Branwen and her mother from going hungry in harsh winters. If she brought down this deer, she knew there would be no time to properly dress it. It felt like a wasted life. But she also knew that carrying or dragging a live roe deer through the woods would bring every hunter within earshot. Roe deer had a shriek that would carry across mountains.

Branwen drew in a breath. For Gwydion, she thought. For the Hunt. For her mother.

She fitted an arrow to the bowstring. The buck was grazing among the herd, his ears twitching—listening for danger.

The buck never heard his death coming.

The arrow slammed home, and the herd scattered in terror. The buck was dead before it hit the ground. A painless end was the only mercy a huntress could offer.

Pryderi pushed free of the bushes, striding toward the deer. “A good shot,” he said. “Perhaps when this is all over, I’ll hire you as a huntress.”

“When this is all over,” she replied, “I’m sleeping for a week. And then bathing. And eating a full meal that isn’t stale pie.”

He flashed a smile at her. “Fair enough.” He knelt beside the fallen buck and hefted it over his shoulders. He was strong enough that it looked easy. Branwen nodded, impressed.

“One game animal down,” she said. “I hope Gwydion managed as well as we did.” She twisted her left arm, gazing at the oaken ring.

They walked back to the clearing in quiet. They both knew how dangerous the wood remained, even if the Hunt was almost over. Branwen looked for traps—magical or otherwise. She kept her bow strung and at the ready. When they returned, Pryderi eased the dead buck to the ground with a sigh of relief. There was no sign of Gwydion.

“You think he was delayed?” asked Branwen, shielding her eyes against the sun.

“It’s just been an hour. I’m sure he’ll be on his way.” Pryderi squatted beside the deer. “Look at this.” With care, he took hold of one of the deer’s small antlers and tilted its head.

Branwen frowned. “What?”

“This… is this Gwydion’s signet ring?” he asked, gazing at the slip of metal.

For one terrible heartbeat, Branwen thought she had shot the wrong deer. “It has to be,” she said. “I recognize that deer—the scar along its throat. It’s the same animal.”

But Pryderi was right. This was not the signet ring she had glimpsed upon Gwydion’s left hand. There was no dragon of Gwynedd. This ring was thin and delicate. It looked like an intricate tree.

“That’s copper, not gold,” said Pryderi quietly. There was a note of disquiet in his voice.

“How can it be the right animal but the wrong ring?” asked Branwen.

Pryderi did not answer. The lines around his mouth deepened, and he sat back on his heels. Unease was written across his face, and Branwen felt it, too. Something had gone awry, but she did not know what.

The undergrowth rustled, and Branwen picked up her bow.

Gwydion strode into the clearing. Between his hands, he held a black-and-white crested bird. Branwen’s heart leapt into her throat—it was the lapwing. Her lapwing. He had found it. Palug was trailing behind Gwydion, his attention wholly on the bird. “And here my brother said I would never be a decent hunter,” Gwydion began to say. Then he fell into silence when he saw the deer. “What did you…?”

“We went hunting,” said Pryderi flatly. “As did you.”

And before Branwen could utter a protest, Pryderi yanked the ring free of the roebuck’s antler. Gwydion cried out, lunging forward with his hand outstretched, the lapwing gently cradled to his chest.

Branwen drew in a sharp breath. She waited for his ring of roots to spring to life, for it to grow across Gwydion’s fingers and up his arm.

It never did.

“Why aren’t you out of the Hunt?” asked Pryderi, his voice frozen over. “I captured your ring. Why didn’t the spell awaken?”

“Because that’s not his ring,” said Branwen. She picked up the copper tree ring. “I—I saw his signet ring before the Hunt. It’s the dragon of Gwynedd. He hid it before we came here, so no one would recognize it at the revel. I thought he dug it out for the Hunt, but…”

He had not.

“Is this why you did not care if we hunted for the deer?” said Branwen. “Because you knew that it did not matter?”

The blood had drained from Gwydion’s face. His gaze jerked from Branwen to Pryderi. “I—”

It felt as though the world had twisted sideways, as though she were scrambling for her feet. Gwydion had given the Hunt a false ring. He had never been in danger of losing his freedom, his fealty.

How had he known—

And a terrible dread swelled in her chest. She knew. She knew even before she snapped at Pryderi. “Give me the rings,” she said, holding out her hand.

Pryderi blinked, but he did as she asked. He unbound the pouch from his belt and handed it over.

Kneeling on the ground, Branwen untied the pouch and upended it.

No rings fell out.

Instead, small pebbles and river rocks tumbled to the ground. Branwen stared at them, unable to understand. Her mind simply would not accept it. Perhaps she had grabbed the wrong pouch.

It could not be true.

Please, let it not be true.

She looked up at Gwydion.

“I’d rather hoped,” he said quietly, “you wouldn’t open that.”