Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

E VERY FIFTH YEAR, King Arawn of Annwvyn summoned the Wild Hunt.

It began at autumn’s end, on the night of Nos Calan Gaeaf when the boundaries between magical and mortal were thinnest. In bardsong, the Hunt simply appeared from nothing. The immortal hunters of Annwvyn and the mortal hunters of the kingdom of Dyfed met deep within the forest. And then they took to the Hunt in a revel of blood and magic and madness.

Those bards would have been rather disappointed to see precisely how much work went into the Hunt’s preparations.

Hunting camps took time to assemble, and this was no exception. Tents were constructed, tables and chairs hauled by wagon, weapons unpacked, food prepared, and barrels of drink rolled into place. The servants were sent ahead first, followed by the hunt master and those that tended the hounds. King Pwyll of Dyfed and a handful of chosen nobles arrived a week before the Hunt, to settle into their tents and see friends that had made the journey. And it was rumored that King Arawn and King Pwyll took those seven days to reaffirm their friendship.

The otherfolk welcomed the nobles of Dyfed. They moved among the humans with a wild grace, their mortal guises discarded. They had hair braided into flowers and eyes the delicate shade of violets; there were shape-changers that flickered from form to form, singing tales of long-dead heroes; corgis trotted among the camp, carrying messages attached to their collars; a handful of mortal ironfetches drifted among the folk.

In the bustle of the hunting camp, no one noticed a single young man. He worked alongside the servants, helping carry tables and arrange chairs. Those who knew his name pretended not to see him, and those who didn’t thought he was just another servant.

A voice rang out from above him. “Hiding again, my lord?”

The young man looked up. Straightening, he tried to convey a sense of easy confidence. Which was not easy when he held a chair in each arm. “I’m not a lord,” he said.

One of the otherfolk sat in the branches of the tree, one leg dangling and arms crossed over her chest. She perched with an easy poise. “My apologies,” she said. “Prince Pryderi, son of King Pwyll and heir to the throne of Dyfed… are you hiding again?”

Pryderi fought back a smile. “I’m not hiding. I’m helping.”

She tilted her head. It made her even more birdlike. “You are aware my kind can sense untruths, are you not?”

Pryderi gave her a shallow bow. “It is considered a kindness among my people to allow certain lies to go unremarked upon, Lady Cigfa.”

Cigfa slipped from the tree branch and landed beside him. Like all the tylwyth teg, she was gorgeous. The first time he had seen her, Pryderi thought Cigfa looked like a quail: short, rounded, with delicate features and keen eyes. Her cloak was lined with dark feathers, and she had a laugh like birdsong.

She was also King Arawn’s champion, which made her the second deadliest person in camp.

“Do all mortal princes help carry furniture?” she asked.

Pryderi shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I have more experience with goats and chickens than princes.”

Cigfa laughed. “Unfortunately, I did not seek you out for your expertise with chickens and goats. The king sent me to find you.”

Pryderi forced his lips into a smile. “It would be a joy to speak with my father again.”

Cigfa offered him an indulgent look. “I don’t need magic to tell you’re lying,” she said. “Your face speaks more loudly than words.”

“I shall endeavor to make my face more believable,” he replied.

He liked Cigfa. She had an infectious smile and a wicked sense of humor, but there was no cruelty in her. She had been given the task of shepherding him through the formalities of the Wild Hunt. Even if she wouldn’t tell him precisely what the Hunt consisted of. No one had told him. His father, King Pwyll, said it was tradition. None but the kings ever partook in the Hunt more than once, and everyone else learned the rules as they hunted.

“The problem is that I have nothing to do but move furniture,” said Pryderi, falling into step beside Cigfa. “I’ve no diplomatic duties, and most of my own people are too wary or too eager to befriend me. The chairs don’t ask uncomfortable questions, at least.”

“The Hunt will begin in seven days’ time,” Cigfa said. “Then you might lose yourself in the woods rather than hide in your tent.”

Pryderi sighed. “The problem with the Wild Hunt is that… well, it’s a hunt. I will be expected to hunt something.”

“Have you never hunted?” she asked. “I would have thought…” She let the sentence trail off delicately.

“That because I was raised common, I would be hunting for my own meals?” He smiled to demonstrate her words had not offended him. “My foster father was a farmer. The only hunting I ever did was shooting the foxes that dared try for the chickens.”

“You can fight,” she replied, her eyes sliding to the blade tucked into his belt. “I heard the reason you were invited into the Hunt was because you beat a young noble in a duel.”

Pryderi shook his head. “I don’t know how to duel.”

Cigfa frowned, likely confused by the truth in his voice. “But I heard—”

“I can fight,” said Pryderi. “I never said I could duel.” He resisted the impulse to rub at the back of his neck. He still bore the bruises of that fight. “I was cornered by a noble’s son. He wished to test me, to see if I truly am the prince of Dyfed. He did so by trying to hit me upside the head and shove me into a river.”

“So you defended yourself,” said Cigfa.

“I did,” said Pryderi. “By breaking his arm.” The memory of cracking bone and snapping sinew made him wince. In that moment, he had not been thinking—his only instinct had been to survive.

He continued, “And as my attacker could no longer join the Hunt, my father invited me to take his place. I was not even supposed to be here.” He looked at Cigfa. “Does that disappoint you?”

“My prince,” said Cigfa, her eyes agleam. “You just became far more interesting.”

He looked away. Taking pride in violence seemed wrong. Even now, he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He felt stained by the fight, rather than proud of it. Back with his foster family, he would never have reacted so violently. But in the royal court, he was always on edge.

The camp was brimming with activity. Every tent had its own banner to mark a noble house—and soon, those nobles would be arriving at the gates of Annwvyn. The royal tent of Dyfed was larger than the house Pryderi had grown up in. When they reached it, Cigfa gave Pryderi a merry little bow. “Good luck, my prince.”

Pryderi returned the bow with far less grace. Taking a steadying breath, he stepped into the royal tent. Old tapestries gilded the walls, and candles burned merrily. A table, laden with bottles of wine and plates of dried fruits and cheese, sat untouched. An overlarge chair—the makeshift throne for Dyfed’s king—sat at the head of the table. Pryderi expected to see his father there, his warm face creased with years of responsibility.

But it was not a human that resided in that chair.

Pryderi stiffened, his heartbeat stuttering in his chest. At once, he realized his mistake. Cigfa had told him that he’d been summoned by a king… but she neglected to mention which one.

King Arawn, ruler over the tylwyth teg and the otherlands, sat before him.

Assumptions would kill him as surely as any blade, Pryderi thought. Particularly in Annwvyn, where words were true, dangerous, and ever-binding.

It was said that the Otherking wore a crown of bones, that he possessed all the beauty of the otherfolk and all the mercilessness of a monster. He had red hair, golden eyes, and a wolf’s prideful countenance. Time could not touch him; he stood amid the ebb and flow of the world like an unchanging mountain. Pryderi knew better than to believe all the rumors. But the first time Pryderi had met King Arawn, he had seen that bone crown. It was no mere tale.

But for all the terror he instilled, Arawn had impeccable manners. “Heir of Dyfed,” said King Arawn, inclining his head politely.

Pryderi realized his mistake and hastily dropped into a bow. “King Arawn. It is an honor.”

Arawn chuckled. His voice was warm and rich as spiced wine. “I’m sure that is why you paled when you saw me.”

Pryderi bit back a denial. The king would sense the untruth.

“Apologies,” he said, keeping his head bowed. “I intended no offense. I expected a different king.”

“Ah, I see.” There was a rustle of fabric, and Pryderi looked up. Arawn had stood, one hand resting indolently on the back of the throne. He was a head taller than most men, with shoulders as broad as an oak. His crown was nowhere to be seen, but an old sword rested on the table.

“You wished to speak with me?” said Pryderi.

“I wished to take your measure before the Hunt.” A human might have softened the words with a bit of flattery, but the folk did not bother. It was almost reassuring. In his father’s court, Pryderi had come to expect the elegant dance of conversation, the half lies and insinuations. The otherfolk were dangerous, but none of them could lie. Not with their words.

Pryderi spread his arms. “Go on, then. I’ve disappointed lesser men. I might as well disappoint a great one.”

That earned him a full-bodied laugh. Arawn stepped around the chair, circling Pryderi. “You have your father’s charm.”

“At least I possess something of his,” said Pryderi wryly.

“Not his tact, though,” Arawn added, his eyes warm. He reached for a bottle of wine. He poured two cups, offering one to Pryderi.

Pryderi took the drink with a nod of thanks. “I favor my mother in looks,” he said. “Or so all the servants say when they think I cannot hear them.”

In truth, Pryderi was not sure if he believed it. His birth mother, the queen, had welcomed him home with shaking hands and sobs, with whispered apologies and a desperation that made him want to pull away. She always seemed to want something from him—some nameless thing he could not give. It made him feel impossibly guilty.

Arawn let out a breath. “Unfortunate what happened to her.”

Pryderi drank to drown out his reply. Unfortunate would not have been his choice of words. She had been imprisoned for nearly fifteen years for a crime she had never committed.

“Tell me,” said Arawn, refilling Pryderi’s cup. “What do you make of my kingdom?”

Pryderi said, “I have seen very little. But what I have seen is beautiful, Your Majesty. Your people have made me welcome. Cigfa has done a fine job keeping me out of trouble.”

“Now there is your father’s tact,” replied Arawn. “It only took a little wine to draw it out.”

Pryderi snorted. “My father’s advisers will be thrilled to know that I should be attending council meetings with a cup in hand.”

Arawn threw back his head and laughed again. “You remind me a little of myself when I was young. Hard as untempered metal. You will settle, young prince. A few years and the role will not seem so daunting. In the meantime, enjoy yourself. Your burdens will only grow heavier—but you will grow with them.”

Pryderi blinked in surprise. He had imagined King Arawn had always ruled in Annwvyn. But there was a wistful remembrance in the king’s voice.

“That is a relief to hear,” said Pryderi. “I was not raised to rule.”

Amusement glimmered behind Arawn’s golden eyes. And before Pryderi could react, Arawn drew his sword. The scabbard was made of scarred leather, and the blade was heavy and unadorned. It was not a decorative weapon but one that had tasted blood—and King Arawn swung it at Pryderi’s collarbone.

If he had been raised a prince, Pryderi would have frozen. Fear would have flooded his mouth, cascaded into his stomach, and held him hostage.

Pryderi was prince-born—but he was monster-raised.

It was not magic but instinct. The bone-deep memories flared to the surface.

And for the first time since walking into camp, he was unafraid.

He fell to one knee and rolled. In the same movement, he lunged toward Arawn. There was a dagger at the king’s belt—and quicker than thought, Pryderi ripped the blade free. It was not iron but some gleaming metal he did not recognize.

The second time Arawn brought his sword down, Pryderi met blade with blade. Then he seized Arawn’s wrist and dragged the Otherking closer, in reach of the short dagger. He had the tip at Arawn’s ribs, ready to slide in if the king made a move.

But there was nothing. Arawn was utterly still, his breath even and unhurried. And he was smiling . Not a polite smile, but the bared teeth of a wolf.

Before Pryderi could react, Arawn spun his sword around, slamming the pommel into Pryderi’s wrist. The dagger dropped from his suddenly numb hand.

Pryderi fell to his knees as he came back to himself. He had attacked a king. He had attacked a king. This was no mere scuffle with another noble lad; this was a diplomatic disaster. His fingers dug into the plush carpet as shame rolled over him like a wave.

“Majesty,” he gasped. “I apologize.”

This was why he should never have been brought to court, he thought miserably. In the court, he could never let down his guard. Because the moment he did… he became this . Pryderi licked his dry lips—and thought he tasted uncooked fish and falling rain—but it was merely an old remembrance. He yanked himself back to the present with a force of will. He did not want to return to those times in his waking hours; they haunted his dreams often enough.

Arawn’s eyes flicked over Pryderi. “Why would you apologize? I attacked first.”

Pryderi shook his head. “You are a king. One of my father’s dearest friends. I should never have raised a weapon against you.”

“I am your father’s friend and a king,” said Arawn with a gentle twitch of his brows. “But when I swung a blade at you, I became none of those things. I was a threat. You defended yourself. And you have nothing to be ashamed of. I wanted to take your measure, and I did.”

Anger flickered through Pryderi. “This was… this was a test?”

“I heard of how you entered the Hunt. I thought perhaps it was simply rumor,” said Arawn. He slipped his sword into its scabbard. He looked utterly at ease, untouched by the violence. “And I should be the one apologizing. I wished to see how you would react. Kings may talk all they like, but when their life is in danger, their true nature emerges. Some freeze; some cry out for help.”

The words made Pryderi’s stomach clench. “So that is my true nature?” he said quietly. “To see a challenge coming and answer in kind?”

Arawn gave an elegant shrug. His fine red cloak rippled, spilling across his shoulders like blood.

The Otherking said, “As I would. As would your father. Whether you like to admit it or not, you were raised to rule. Kings and monsters are grown from the same soil.”