Chapter 38

CHAPTER 38

T HEY PUT brANWEN in armor.

The metal gleamed like starlight in deepest winter. Branwen did not protest as a flurry of folk dressed her. One of them fussed over her bandage, but there was no time for healing. Not with two kingdoms at stake.

“Come,” said one of the folk hunters. They had gathered as many as they could—humans, folk, soldiers, knights, and hunters. They were armed for battle and waiting expectantly. One of the folk guided Branwen to a horse. “You must lead.”

She had little experience with horses, but its saddle and bridle glittered with gold. Magicked, she realized. One of the folk heaved her into the saddle. The horse shifted uneasily beneath her, and before Branwen could steady herself, it broke into a rolling canter.

Gritting her teeth, Branwen tried to hold on to the horse’s mane with one hand and the reins with her other. The hunters followed, and hoofbeats rumbled through the woods like thunder.

Branwen tried to remember which direction she had come from and gave the reins a gentle tug. The horse responded to her touch at once, its long strides eating up the ground. It knew the forest, finding unseen paths. She rode out of the camp and deeper into the woods.

Behind her, the Wild Hunt followed.

A black streak of fur kept pace at Branwen’s side. Palug was racing alongside the horse, his ears flat against his head as he scurried through the undergrowth.

Gwydion had a head start, but the Wild Hunt had everything to lose.

She would have expected her horse to stumble or trip. The enchantment must have been to prevent that, for the horse never lost its footing. They ran across trails, over streams, through meadows. The horse leapt over a fallen log, sprinted down a game trail, and surprised two gray foxes. They darted from her in a panic. She glimpsed other creatures—deer, pwca, some of the otherfolk. More disconcertingly, some of the c?n annwn appeared to be following at a distance. She saw their red-tipped ears flashing through gaps in the trees, as they kept pace with the horses. An eerie baying made her shudder.

Finally, she rode into a horribly familiar clearing. Blood spattered the grass, and the earth was torn by magic. One of Branwen’s arrows rested amid the leaves.

Her heart lurched in recognition. This had been the place where Pryderi had died. Could it have been mere hours ago? It felt so much longer. She slipped from her horse while the others watched.

She had to look at the aftermath not as Branwen but as the leader of the Wild Hunt. So she inhaled one long breath and let her instincts take hold of her. She was a huntress—she knew how to follow prey.

She found the place where Pryderi had fallen. His body was gone. She hoped he had been found by Pwyll’s servants. He deserved a peaceful rest.

She knelt beside the dried blood. Her armlet of oak leaves rustled as she worked.

There were two lines of tracks: one was smaller, leading back toward camp. Her footprints, Branwen thought, seeing the familiar imprint of a boot sole. The other was of a longer stride. Barefoot and sure. Moss had grown up among the tracks. Only a plant diviner could have summoned that trail.

Gwydion had gone northwest. “This way,” she said, and mounted her horse a second time.

For all his magic, Gwydion still left evidence of his passing. There were light indentations in the dirt. And even a diviner could not erase every single blade of broken grass. They rode from the clearing, keeping a slower pace for fear of losing the trail.

Branwen followed Gwydion’s path. He was headed for the gates of Annwvyn. That made sense—there were few places a human without magicked sight could escape the wood without encountering magical traps or monsters.

She knew they had to be gaining. Even with his head start, he was on foot and they were on horseback. She dreaded the thought of seeing him again; she would have rather squeezed her eyes shut and ridden the horse as far as she could go. But Arawn’s orders bound her to this task.

She had to retrieve those rings at any cost.

The memory of last night flashed through her mind—the warmth of his mouth, the way he had looked at her, like she was all that mattered in the world. She did not know if that part had been a lie, too.

They followed Gwydion’s trail past a stream, across a meadow, and then into the thicker edge of the forest. Here, the trees of Annwvyn were nestled closely together—likely to keep trespassers from intruding. The canopy overhead twined together, casting the wood into shadow. Fallen leaves crunched beneath the horse hooves.

One of the c?n annwn let loose a distant howl. “It has the scent,” said one of the knights at Branwen’s elbow. He rode a white stallion and bore the symbol of Dyfed across his plate armor. His expression was eager, his eyes searching for any sign of Gwydion. He kicked his horse into a gallop and pushed forward past Branwen.

It was what saved her.

For only twenty paces ahead, an ash tree suddenly moved .

It snapped one branch downward, catching the knight in the chest and flinging him into the air. Like a child with a toy , Branwen thought in wonder as the man flew high. He fell, screaming, and slammed into the ground with the snap of breaking bone.

Every single hunter drew their horse to a halt. The mounts shifted uneasily, tails flicking and eyes rolling.

That was when Branwen heard the silence. The forest had gone utterly quiet. Wind whispered, but there was no birdsong, no rustle of leaves, no murmur of ravens.

A prickle ran up the back of Branwen’s arms. And for the first time since she had seen Pryderi die, she felt a flicker of fear. The forest had always been a dangerous place, brimming with magic and wonder and monsters. But now it felt… hungry.

“Something is wrong,” said one of the folk.

“What is that—” said another folk hunter in alarm.

Branwen saw the encroaching gold.

Magic crept through the earth. It flickered like a spiderweb growing at twenty times its normal speed, casting out lines of gold. Those magical threads ran along the tree roots, darting from one to another, and the moment the magic connected, the trees glowed with power.

Horror rushed through Branwen. She had never seen magic like this, had never even thought it was possible.

“Fallen kings,” Branwen breathed. Then she shouted, “GET DOWN!”

A few of the humans hesitated, but the folk were moving. They had seen the danger just as she had.

Branwen looked wildly at the other mortal hunters. But before she could call another warning—

The screaming began.

Trees slammed their branches into the earth, crushing victims and tossing them aloft. Roots reached from the ground to drag hunters and horses wailing beneath the dirt. Dust flew into the air; Branwen could only see a few paces ahead. She pressed herself low to the horse’s neck.

Gwydion had conjured an army from the very forest.

A rowan tree snapped toward her.

Branwen did not have time to make a sound. She threw herself from her horse, rolling out of reach. The rowan struck her horse with all the force of a rockslide. Branwen darted under another branch, hissing as something struck her cheek. Blood welled up, but she ignored it.

She scrambled through the bushes, using her magicked sight to guide her. “Palug!” she cried desperately. She could not lose him.

A black blur leapt through the bushes. Palug kept low to the ground, his fur fluffed so that he looked like a furious black-and-white storm cloud. “Come here,” she said. Palug jumped into her arms, and she held him, desperately grateful that he was all right.

Everywhere around her, soldiers and hunters fought the woods. The folk were calling on their own spells, trying to deflect the flying branches and calm the churning earth. Trees crashed into hunters with the force of battering rams, shattering bone and armor in a single blow. Vines curled around wrists and ankles. Roots shifted, making the earth crumble and surge. Brambles snaked around unwary ankles.

It was utter chaos.

The others tried to rally, but they had been caught unawares. They had armed themselves for a hunt, not a battle. Branwen had never wished for her afanc-fang dagger more; the sword in her hand felt unfamiliar as she sliced through briar and branch. A sapling knocked the blade from her hand, and it vanished into the churning earth.

She could see which trees held the battle enchantment and which did not. She followed her sight, trying to find a path through the cursed forest. She ducked under an ordinary oak tree, trying to catch her breath.

An alder root curled around Branwen’s ankle and snagged her. She snarled and reached for a knife. It glittered with the same iridescence as her armor. She swung out, slicing the root apart. It wriggled like a worm. Palug hissed and batted it away.

She pushed herself upright and ran.

Two hunters had lit torches and were driving back the trees with flame, trying to allow for a controlled retreat. One of them snarled as an ash swung at him. He withdrew a flask, scattering its contents across the ground. Then he set the spirits alight. The fire caught in the roots of the tree. The ash writhed, branches clawing at the air in wordless agony.

A folk huntress cast her own spell, murmuring as she tried to calm one tree. That ended when a large root curled around her ankle and began to drag her beneath the earth.

All around Branwen, a battle raged—blade against branch, arrow against thorn, spear against bramble. She could not imagine how much magic this had cost Gwydion.

A vine snagged on her wrist, but she yanked herself free. She could not stay to help the others; she had her orders from the Otherking.

This fight was merely a distraction.

Brambles were growing, creating a wall of thorns. All of it glowed with the same gold magic. Gwydion’s magic.

She darted around an oak that swung its thick branches into a human hunter, then around a birch tree that had snatched up several of the folk. There was a break in the magic ahead, and Branwen veered toward it. She was all reaction and instinct, trying to find her way through a chaos the likes of which she had never encountered. She raced beneath the trees and found herself standing on a familiar trail.

It led to the gates of Annwvyn.

Palug wriggled free of her arms. He raced down the path, his tail low to the ground.

She had no time. She hurtled down the trail, heart in her throat. One tree branch fell toward her, and she leapt back, then darted around it. A fallen hunter lay across the path, a sword still in his hand. Branwen snatched up the weapon.

She was so close. She just had to reach the gates before he did.

Brambles closed in around her. She slashed with the sword, cutting through them again and again. Thorns snagged on her clothes, in the oaken leaves along her left arm, in her unbraided hair.

She stumbled, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thought she would fall into those grasping briars. She shoved herself forward, ignoring the flashes of pain as the thorns snagged.

She ran until her lungs were raw, until tears half blinded her. Farther, just a little farther.

She pushed through the briars and fell onto the path. Gasping, her arms stinging from small wounds, she forced herself to rise. Behind her were the sounds of battle: the screams, the clash of weapons, the scent of burning wood. Ahead of her—

The yew-tree gates of Annwvyn.

She saw the familiar shape of the gates: their woven branches, the arch between the two trees.

More importantly, she saw him .

Gwydion was half running, half stumbling toward the gates. His cloak had been discarded, and he wore only his tunic and trousers.

Retrieve the rings.

Arawn’s command rang through her, and she shuddered. She could no more disobey than she could have told her heart to stop beating. Her legs lurched without her making the choice, and she bolted after him.

He paused a moment, his head bowed and shoulders moving. As though he were speaking, as though he were singing…

And before her eyes, she saw gold threads leap from Gwydion and flit through the earth. They traveled from root to root, illuminating them beneath the earth. The magic jumped from tree to tree, heading for—

—the gates.

Branwen realized what he was doing. Or rather, what he was attempting to do: close the gates of Annwvyn.

It was impossible. None but Arawn could command those gates.

Gwydion’s magic sank into the roots of the two yew trees.

With a hiss of frustration, Branwen forced herself to run faster.

The yew trees were shifting like old warriors after a long nap. Branches creaked as they moved. Slowly, one by one, their branches wove together. Closing the gates.

Branwen tore into a sprint. The space between the two trees was narrowing, growing smaller by the moment. She screamed, knowing that if she was caught in those branches, she would be crushed.

A branch slid across her arm, dragging at the oaken leaves—

And then she was through.

The yew-tree gates of Annwvyn closed behind her. The moment they did, all the sounds of the battle died away. Silence closed in all around her, until the only thing Branwen could hear was that of her own ragged breathing.

She stumbled to a halt.

Gwydion stood in the path. His chest was heaving, face pale and shining with sweat. There was a wildness to him, a ragged energy that seemed to roll off him. There was no restraint to his magic; he had given it free rein for likely the first time in his life.

“What did you do?” she said, her voice a rasp.

Gwydion whirled. When he saw her, his expression crumpled. “No. Not you.” The word frayed on his lips; his pleasant voice had gone hoarse with overuse. “Please—just turn back.”

“I can’t,” she said simply.

For a few moments, neither moved. “You unleashed the forest,” said Branwen.

Gwydion nodded. “I could think of no other way to escape.”

“And the cost?” She thought of how he had spoken of his magic, how every decision had a price. How he had recoiled from using his power too much, lest it shorten his life.

A faint, regretful smile touched his mouth. “It’s not the worst cost I’ve paid in this Hunt.”

Palug came up beside her. The cat shook himself, green eyes on Gwydion.

“I’m sorry,” said Gwydion. “I’m so sorry.”

And perhaps the worst part was she knew he meant it.

Branwen took a step forward. Then another. And another. She could not stop herself, could not even try. “Arawn told me to retrieve the rings.”

Sorrow crossed his face. “That’s who has your brooch,” he said. “I suppose one of his hunters delivered it to him.”

It was not a question, but she nodded.

“You will kill me if I refuse,” said Gwydion. Another not-question.

“Please don’t make me,” she said.

He inhaled. Then he turned to run.

She attacked him.

Gwydion darted to one side, avoiding the first sweep of her sword. Before the blade could kiss his flesh, a dagger flashed upward and knocked the sword aside.

He held a dagger. Her dagger. He must have retrieved it.

The sharp afanc fang looked crude beside her sword, but it would kill her easily enough. For a few heartbeats, they circled each other. She knew what she had to do, even as she fought against it.

You will hunt that which you love.

Branwen lunged. Gwydion stepped aside, and as they passed each other, she was so close she could feel his breath.

She whirled, bringing her sword down. He deflected the blow, trying to yank her sword from her hands. With a snarl, she cracked the pommel into his side.

Her strength overpowered his. He stumbled, pain flashing across his face as he used his right hand to catch himself. Determination settled across the grim lines of his face.

There was intent in his eyes.

He attacked again, this time spinning the afanc-fang dagger so that she was on the defensive. She caught every slash on her blade, meeting him blow for blow. She was no great soldier, but then again, neither was he. A trickster and a huntress were evenly matched.

But tricksters fought with little honor.

He slammed his elbow into her side, right into her still-healing wound. The pain jolted through her, a spike of unexpected agony that drove her to her knees.

He seized the hilt of her sword, his left hand around her right. She tried to shake him off, the sword dangerously near his face. A few strands of his dark hair were sliced, and they fluttered to the earth. He shoved her sword downward, slamming hand and hilt against the ground and pinning her in place.

She cracked her forehead into his.

Lightning flashed through her skull.

He fell over backward, blood spilling from a wound above his brow. She crawled after, her sword still in hand. In a flash, she was atop him, knee against his breastbone and sword at his throat.

“Give them to me, now,” she said. It was not an order but a plea. For whatever had happened between them, she did not want to do this. If she cut his throat, she would never be able to rid herself of this day. She would never be able to look in a mirror, live within her bones, nor forget what she had done.

“I can’t,” gasped Gwydion.

“Damn it,” she whispered. And then she pushed the blade down.

The edge of the blade brushed his throat. Blood welled up, staining the metal.

“Give me the rings,” she pleaded.

The resolve in his eyes seemed to shatter. Lips parted, a flush on his cheeks, he looked like who he had been before—her companion. Her friend. And possibly something more.

She sobbed, her fingers tightening around the sword’s hilt. The magic of the Wild Hunt pulsed through her, impossible to deny. She was an instrument of the Otherking.

She pressed the blade down.

“Please!” The word ripped out of Gwydion. “Blodeuyn!”

Branwen froze.

That name—the sound of her birth name in his mouth—fractured the magic. For a heartbeat, just a heartbeat , she felt herself again. She was no longer Branwen of the Wild Hunt.

She was Blodeuyn.

And then Gwydion was twisting beneath her.

She never saw the knife. She never felt the blow.

All she heard was “I’m sorry.”