Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

E VERYONE MOVED IN the same moment.

Pryderi knew what he had to do. He had known since he saw that false ring attached to the roebuck’s antler. Gwydion could not be allowed to leave Annwvyn, not with those rings. Not bearing the fealty of two kingdoms. Even if it cost Branwen her freedom. Even if she hated him. Pryderi could not let Dyfed and Annwvyn fall.

He lunged, driving his spear at Gwydion.

But to Pryderi’s shock, Branwen attacked first. An arrow sliced through the air—toward the lapwing.

The shot would have slain the bird, if Gwydion had not jerked to one side, his braced hand covering the creature. The arrow glanced off the wood-and-leather brace, cracking it. Gwydion cried out in pain.

The lapwing tumbled from his fingers. The bird fell upon the ground, righted itself, and flew into the air.

Gwydion dove for it, but Pryderi gave him no chance.

He attacked the trickster of Gwynedd.

Pryderi had trusted Gwydion. He had offered his friendship—and all the while, Gwydion had been planning to escape with the rings. Not to bring them to Arawn or Pwyll… but to Gwynedd.

It would be the end of two kingdoms.

“Pryderi!”

The name rang in his ears. He chanced a look at Branwen. She had her bow strung, but the arrow wavered back and forth. She had been willing to fire upon her own lapwing, but she still hesitated to shoot Gwydion.

A choice.

Unspoken, unmade.

She would have to choose. Gwydion or Pryderi. Trickster or prince.

Pryderi whirled, striking out with his spear. Gwydion rolled beneath the blow, seizing the obsidian sword at his back. His weapon had less reach, but it allowed him to nimbly dart around Pryderi’s blows.

Pryderi had other weapons—a hunting knife at his belt, even his fists—but he knew his strength and reach were the best advantages he had.

That and Pryderi was raised for this.

He let his mind detach from his body, let himself become the creature the afanc had intended him to be. He fought with the spear, keeping Gwydion at a distance, forcing the trickster to react rather than attack. Gwydion wore his exhaustion on his brow; it would not take long to wear him down. When Gwydion dropped his guard, Pryderi would end him.

Gwydion seemed to realize this. He opened his mouth.

Panic flared hot in Pryderi’s chest.

He could not let Gwydion sing or speak. It was not only his words that gave him power—it was his divining.

Pryderi lunged at him. It was a mistake—Gwydion darted in close, cutting a shallow wound along Pryderi’s arm. Pryderi could not get the spear up fast enough to defend himself. He slammed his knee into Gwydion’s gut, driving the breath from him. Gwydion hit the ground, tumbled, and nearly impaled himself on his own sword. Gasping, he touched the grass and hummed weakly.

The greenery around Pryderi’s feet suddenly thickened. Roots sprang up, trying to entrap him.

Silence him. That was the afanc’s voice in his mind, but it was mingled with the memory of Arawn’s words. Cut out his tongue if you have to.

He reached down, seized a small rock, and threw it hard. Gwydion’s mouth snapped shut, and he struck the rock away with his sword. The distraction gave Pryderi a chance to tear himself free of the roots and grass.

Gwydion’s face was set in grim lines. He was outmatched, and he had to know it. He might have been a powerful diviner, but Pryderi was prince-born and monster-raised.

Gwydion rushed him, determined to get in close. He darted around Pryderi’s swing and held his sword high above his head. He brought down the sword the way a woodcutter would fell a tree. And in the gleam of its obsidian blade, Pryderi saw his future splinter into two paths.

In the first, he lifted his spear and caught the blade. With the strength of that swing, the blade would bite into the wood and Pryderi could use that to his advantage—twist the spear, wrench the sword from Gwydion’s hand, and then shove his smaller knife into Gwydion’s ribs. He would kill Gwydion, take those rings, and return to his father and King Arawn. He would deliver the signet rings of two kingdoms. That would be more than enough to win him the Hunt and secure his place at court. He would return not as a monster’s adopted son, but as the king’s true heir. His loyalty to his home would never be questioned again.

Only Pryderi would know differently. Because he would be a monster. He would slay his enemy, slay his friend. This was what the afanc had wanted from him—to be more weapon than man. To wield a blade as easily as thought. To be the shadow that lurked in the minds of anyone that would dare hurt Dyfed.

He thought of Arawn, with a finger-bone crown and a smile on his wine-stained lips.

Kings and monsters are grown from the same soil.

Perhaps it had not been a coincidence that an afanc had come for him. There were tales that said the folk took human babes—and perhaps the king of the folk himself would ask one of his people to properly train his dearest friend’s son in the ways of rulers. Perhaps it had been his idea of a gift to a young prince.

Or perhaps none of this had been orchestrated. Perhaps the world was simply chaos and coincidence, and the only way to survive was to ride the waves of chance.

Pryderi could do it. He knew he could.

Be a monster.

Be a king.

Lose himself to the Hunt.

But there was no way to win and remain himself.

He thought of his mam. Not the queen, but the farmer’s wife who had washed the blood away when he wounded his knees in a fall, who had rubbed his back when he dreamed of water and scales, who had whispered in his ear that Pryderi was hers , that he was good, and he could choose to be good even if the world declared him not.

And he remembered the voice of the girl in the cave.

You will never be a king.

The words had sounded like a curse, but now they were freedom.

He had never wanted to be a king. He had never wanted to be Pryderi.

He thought of his mam, whispering to him when he woke from a nightmare. A chant of his name, to remind him who he was and who he would be: Gwri, Gwri, Gwri.

That was who he had wanted to be. He wanted to be a son she could be proud of. Nothing more and nothing less.

He would not be a monster.

He would not be a king.

He had to stop this.

Pryderi caught Gwydion’s sword with his spear. “Gwydion,” gasped Pryderi. “Please. Wait—”

There was the whisper and twang of a bowstring.

Gwydion wrenched the sword free and stepped back, hesitation written across his face. He opened his mouth as though to answer.

The world slowed. Pryderi turned his head in time to see the recoil of Branwen’s bow, the graceful arch of her shoulder and fingers as she fired.

The arrow flew toward Gwydion. His sword was too low to deflect it.

She had made her choice. She had chosen Pryderi, chosen the prince over the trickster.

Panic crossed Gwydion’s face. He cried out, deflecting the arrow with a burst of magic.

The arrow wobbled in the air and curved away from the diviner.

Pryderi saw the gleam of sunlight on silver. He heard the whisper of air. He knew. He knew, he knew, he knew.

The girl, the woman, and the crone had told him. You will never be a king.

And the arrow sank deep.