Chapter 37

CHAPTER 37

T HE WORLD FELT like a fever dream.

Everything was a blur of sounds and sights, the sensation of her feet hitting the ground, branches whipping at her cheeks. It was as though Branwen had died in that clearing and she was a ghost haunting the wood. She could not touch nor affect anything.

There was only the tug of a will not her own. Branwen surrendered to it.

It was a relief. Let someone else have control of her. Let the world carry her away. Perhaps then she would not have to face the death of one friend and the betrayal of another.

She did not know for how long she ran. Her feet ached, and her legs itched with overuse.

Slowly, the world returned to her. She became aware of the smell of woodsmoke and cooking meat, then heard the sound of chatter. She blinked several times, as though she had surfaced from deep water.

She had journeyed into the camp of the Wild Hunt. Without being told, her feet carried her through the camp, past the watchful soldiers and hunters, past a tent where the wounded were tended, past faces she had glimpsed only a few days ago at the revel. There were significantly fewer than before.

She walked past them all. A guard glared at her but allowed Branwen to pass.

When she finally stopped, she stood in a royal tent. There was a table for food and wines, a desk, and stools for visitors. Sitting on one was none other than Cigfa. Her brows swept upward when she saw Branwen, but that was the only evidence of her surprise. There were a few others, folk and humans, scattered into quiet groups. They stood at the edges of the room, some holding handkerchiefs and others openly weeping.

Branwen wrenched her gaze away.

Two men stood before her. No, two kings stood before her. One wore a crown of gold and the other a crown of bone.

Her brooch gleamed between the Otherking’s fingers.

And that was it. Branwen would belong to him for a year and a day. She was Branwen of Annwvyn, and her mother would likely never see her again. She would be punished for Gwydion’s crimes. Perhaps it would be imprisonment in Caer Sidi or working among the ironfetches for a century. But she would never escape these mountains. Even when the year was ended, she doubted he would release her.

“Tell me your name, huntress,” said Arawn quietly.

She did.

“Tell me who killed the prince.”

She did. The tale came tumbling from her lips. She could not have held it back if she tried. She told Arawn of her magicked eye, of hunting iron-mad monsters, of Gwydion’s offer of work, of their infiltration of the Hunt, of their alliance with Pryderi, of finding Pwyll’s ring and then Arawn’s, and finally, she spoke of Gwydion’s betrayal.

When she finished, her throat was raw. She was so exhausted she might have curled up on that tent floor and slept for a hundred years. But rest was a mercy the Otherking would not grant.

“I did not know,” Branwen said hollowly. The room’s colors danced around her, a painting smudged at the edges. “What Gwydion intended… I didn’t know.”

“Why would we believe you?” asked Pwyll. His voice was cracked open by grief. There were tears on his face, and he made no attempt to hide them.

Palug meowed.

She had almost forgotten him. The cat stepped up between her legs, curling his tail around her calf. He looked up at the Otherking, his gaze unblinking.

Arawn’s hand curled into a fist. “Where did you find that creature?”

Branwen looked down at Palug. “He’s mine. You can’t—you can’t hurt him.” She did not care if he did own her fealty. She would kill him before he touched her cat.

“I could not hurt that creature if I tried,” said Arawn flatly. “How did you find him? How did you manage to keep him?”

“I don’t know,” said Branwen. She reached down to pick him up. Every single tylwyth teg took half a step back. All the humans just looked baffled.

Palug began kneading her shoulder, purring.

With her free hand, she held out Pryderi’s ring. It had warmed in her palm.

But it was not her ring to keep.

Pwyll rose and took it from her, running his thumb over the golden surface. His eyes welled anew.

“I’m sorry,” Branwen said. “For your loss. Pryderi… he was a good man. And he died in single combat against a dangerous foe. You and your wife should be proud.”

She could do that much for Pryderi. His legacy would be that of a hero. Of a prince. He would be remembered as a good man.

“So the trickster of Gwynedd has stolen my ring,” said Arawn, his golden eyes agleam. “At least now I know who managed to slip past the three. And why I bear this.” He held up his left arm. He wore an armlet of yew branches. Pwyll’s left arm was ornamented with rowan leaves. They were bound by the rules of the Hunt, just as she was.

“We cannot let him leave the forest.” Pwyll slammed a hand onto the table, sending cups and plates scattering. “I will not let him have Dyfed.”

Arawn placed his hand on Pwyll’s shoulder. “Nor shall he, my friend.” Arawn looked at Branwen.

She did not know what he wanted. She had nothing more to give—she had been broken and scraped hollow by the Wild Hunt.

“I shall put together a hunting party,” said Arawn. He nodded at Branwen. “Arm yourself,” he said. His voice was bone-dry. “My champion was ordered not to hunt mortals. I wonder who might have given such an order.”

Cigfa gave Branwen a merry little wave.

“I won’t apologize for it,” said Branwen stubbornly.

The Otherking exhaled. “You have a fighter’s spirit. Good. You shall need it.”

He drew in a breath, and in that moment, Branwen remembered the crone’s words: You will hunt that which you love.

“You,” said Arawn, “shall lead the Wild Hunt.”