Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

W HEN PRYDERI FELL, Branwen fell with him.

She threw herself past Gwydion, her hands outstretched and seeking. Some part of her thought if she could take hold of him, if she held on tightly enough, she might keep him there. The arrow—her arrow—was buried deep in his chest. Branwen knew better than to yank it free; she had to stem the tide of the blood, push it back in him somehow. Her mind felt as though she’d reverted back to childhood and Pryderi was a broken toy that needed stitching back together. Surely someone could do it—Annwvyn was magic, this whole place was magic, and someone—

“Pryderi,” Branwen said, as she yanked her cloak free. She pressed it to his chest, trying not to jostle the arrow. “Hold on, just hold on—”

She should have offered comfort, but the only words to tumble from her lips were pleas.

She pressed a hand to Pryderi’s bloodied throat. There was a flutter against her fingertips, like the fading wingbeats of a bird.

This could not be happening. She had fired at Gwydion. It had torn her heart in two, but she had fired at Gwydion. Pryderi could not be dying.

A soft meow made Branwen look up. Palug stood a few strides away.

Something was happening to his collar. Those vines were withering. Tiny leaves browned and shriveled.

And then the collar broke. Pryderi’s signet ring tumbled into the grass.

He was gone.

Pryderi, heir to the throne of Dyfed and son of Pwyll, was dead.

In bardsong, he would be the young royal cut down in single combat. But to her, he would remain the kind boy who had saved her, who had only joined the Hunt to make his father proud.

It felt as though an eternity passed. Branwen could not have said how long she knelt there, one hand on Pryderi’s throat and the other on his bloodied chest. He was far beyond her reach, but she held on. Her breaths were ragged, her whole body unmoored.

All the birdsong went silent.

Branwen wondered if grief had deafened her. Then she realized the truth of the matter. She looked up and saw the canine silhouette standing between the trees. She should have reached for a weapon, but her fingers would not answer her.

The ci annwn was only a few strides away. It had approached so swiftly that she had not noticed the encroaching quiet.

A hand landed on Branwen’s shoulder. Gwydion stood over her, his gaze fixed on the ci annwn. His face was drawn and pale—more skull than human. His obsidian sword remained in his left hand.

The hound looked at them both. It had been drawn by the death… or perhaps it was a death omen come too late.

Branwen waited for the hound to attack. She felt too sluggish to react, too detached to care. If the hound lunged, she would let it.

The ci annwn sniffed the air. Then it lifted its head to the sky, opened its maw, and howled. It was a silent cry, but Branwen felt the echo of her own grief in the dog’s stance.

Gwydion’s hand tightened on Branwen’s shoulder. But before either of them could react, the ci annwn lowered its head. It gave Branwen a steady look, then darted into the bushes and out of sight.

Slowly, ever so slowly, sound returned to her.

Arawn knew of the death. He had likely known about it from the moment Pryderi’s blood spattered upon the forest leaves.

He was of Annwvyn and Annwvyn was of him.

Branwen drew a shuddering breath. She and Gwydion would never leave this forest alive. But the thought did not frighten her. There was no fear left in her.

Gwydion knelt beside Branwen. He spoke, but it was as if the words traveled a great distance. Every sound was muddled in her ears, drained of all meaning.

“—wen,” came Gwydion’s voice. “Branwen, look at me.”

He had been speaking to her for some time, she realized belatedly.

Panic had dissolved his surety. Gone was the elegant and self-assured young man, and in his place was someone that looked fearful and boyish. “Branwen, we need to go,” he said, as though he had uttered the words again and again. “Word will be traveling to Arawn and Pwyll.”

“Go?” she said. She could not imagine going anywhere. It felt as though the world had been cleaved away with that single arrow. All that existed was this clearing, this moment, this fallen friend. “Go where?”

“Gwynedd,” he said. His hands came up, cupping her face so that she could not look at Pryderi. “We’ll be protected there. When they come for us, they’ll have to bring an army.”

“When they come for us?” He was not making sense.

“Pwyll,” he said. On the surface, his voice was calm, but there was a pressing urgency beneath every word. “Arawn. I know the Wild Hunt is supposed to be that everyone is fair game, but not like this. Not when we infiltrated the Hunt.”

“I killed him,” she said numbly.

Something between shame and defiance flashed through Gwydion’s eyes. “You did not.”

“I fired the arrow,” she said. “I meant to stop you.”

Pain flickered across Gwydion’s face. “I know. This is my fault. I didn’t mean to—it was an accident. I tried to shove the arrow away from me. I didn’t intend for it to hit him.” He looked at her pleadingly, as though it was important that she believed him.

She was not sure what she believed.

“We killed him,” she said. “He was our friend. He deserved better than this.”

“We need to go,” he said. “Branwen, please. Come with me. You’ll be safe in Caer Dathyl.”

Pryderi had been good. He had been kind when kindness was costly. He had been a cornerstone of their little alliance, their little band of hunters. He had wanted to do so much good. He had come here to prove himself… and he had. He had proven himself to be the kind of ruler that Dyfed needed. It had only taken his life to do so.

“No,” she said. “We’re not leaving. Not like this.” It took effort to rise, but she managed it. She feared that if she remained still for too long she would never move again.

“We’ll go to Arawn,” she said. “We’ll make amends. Somehow—we have to. We cannot murder the prince of Dyfed and flee like thieves. Not only would we be hunted for the rest of our lives… it isn’t right.” She stepped toward him. “We’ll tell him and Pwyll that this was an accident.” She was pleading with him, but she could not help herself. She wanted him to make amends, to be the person she wanted him to be.

She waited for a reply, but it did not come. Gwydion’s hands clenched. Even the right one. Which meant he wanted this moment to hurt.

“Branwen,” said Gwydion, an ache in his voice.

And that was all the answer she needed.

With a growl, Branwen seized her afanc-fang dagger. “Fine, then. You leave. You go—and I swear if you try and take Pryderi’s ring, I will kill you here .”

Gwydion took a step back, hands held out. “Branwen.”

“Just go,” snarled Branwen, taking a step forward.

“They’ll be coming for you, too,” Gwydion said desperately.

She had trusted him. Trusted this beautiful, dark-haired creature with the smile of a boy and the mouth of a trickster. They had shared blood and secrets, kept each other safe, and hunted through the otherlands. She had told him her name.

And now he stood before her, asking forgiveness she could not grant.

“I know this started with a lie,” he said. “I care for you. It’s why I tried to bring the lapwing back to you, even if it would have been wiser for me to run. When this began, I just needed a huntress—but I found you. If I had known…”

“If you had known what?” she said, advancing on him. “That I was a person? That I had feelings and family and a life? We’re all people, Gwydion. We’re not your plants, to be controlled at your whims. But you can’t even see that anymore, can you? You’ve spent so long trying to make yourself powerful that you’ve armored yourself against what makes you human.”

He stopped retreating, and the tip of her dagger dug into his tunic. The fang sliced through the wool, kissing flesh. All she had to do was step forward.

“Do it, if you must,” said Gwydion wearily.

Part of her wanted to. Another part of her knew that Pryderi would never have wanted this. He wouldn’t want Branwen to become a murderer in his name.

But before she could make a decision, everything changed.

Warmth burned around her finger. Her oaken ring burst into life. Roots curled around Branwen’s wrist, caressing her forearm as the magic awakened. Her left arm was snared in a sleeve of oak leaves and branches. All of it was laced with gold.

The spell had taken hold.

Someone had hunted the lapwing.

Gwydion’s eyes went wide. He made a horrified little sound, reaching for her. And that was when she understood.

Her fealty, her loyalty, her actions—they did not belong to her. Not anymore.

The dagger fell from her fingers and tumbled into the grass.

Gooseflesh rose along her arms, and she took a step back. She had not meant to take that step—she simply moved. She felt the tug of some invisible cord, the whisper of a command she could not hear. The magic of the Wild Hunt was settling into her bones.

“No!” Gwydion put himself in front of her, hands on her shoulders. “I’ll free you, I swear it.”

“Why?” she asked. “Why do you even care?”

He looked as though she had run him through with a blade. “Branwen. I cannot lose you to them.”

She had no control over her body. The magic of the oaken ring called to her. And perhaps that would have been terrifying if she could feel. The last of her despair had been doused with the capture of her brooch. It was almost a comfort not to feel, to retreat into herself.

“You lost me,” she said, “when you led me into this forest under false pretenses. When you looked me in the eye and said that we were equals when all the while I was nothing more than a tool to you.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders.

“I tried to take you from this,” he whispered. “Last night. Before I took the rings. I tried.”

Her body was not her own, but it carried her away. Like a river taking hold of a fallen leaf, she was yanked from Gwydion’s grasp.

“You made your choice,” she said. Another step took her near Pryderi’s fallen signet ring. On instinct, she seized it, holding it against her heart with her unspelled hand.

And then she was running, bidden to flee. Palug was at her side. She chanced one look over her shoulder. Gwydion was reaching for her, one hand outstretched.

It was the last thing she saw before tears blinded her.