Chapter 42

CHAPTER 42

W HEN brANWEN RETURNED from the Wild Hunt, her mam greeted her at the front gate.

It took her days to walk home. Headaches plagued Branwen. Palug had to meow at her when she accidentally stumbled from the road. Palug ran ahead, scratching at the door until Mam emerged and rushed to greet Branwen.

Glaw’s niece, the young woman Branwen had hired, was cooking by the fire. When she saw the state of Branwen’s bruises, she rushed to help her. At first, Branwen wanted to protest. But her arrow wound needed tending, and her head continued to throb.

She spent nearly two weeks recovering—sleeping in her bed, drinking warm broths, and allowing herself time to mourn. As far as her mother knew, Branwen had been on a hunting trip with a noble from Gwynedd. Something had gone awry, and Branwen had been injured.

She did not like to lie. But certain truths were too painful to utter aloud.

Time went on, and Branwen went on with it.

She took over the keeping of Rhain’s farm. She adopted his chickens and goat. She left flowers on the grave mound beneath the old oak tree. She tended the winter-sleeping gardens, preparing the soil for spring. The work soothed her, reminded her there was a world beyond the magical and the monstrous.

The days were easiest. But every night, she dreamed of a wooded clearing. She dreamed of a bow in her hands, the string drawn taut and her arrow aimed at a dark-haired young man. She dreamed how it felt to release that arrow—the despair and determination—only to see the arrow curve from its target.

She always woke before the arrow struck Pryderi. That was one mercy.

She did not pick up a bow. The thought of hunting turned her stomach. Rather, she spent time with her mother. She chopped firewood and crafted candles and ensured their food was well-secured in the pantry.

A month after she returned from the Hunt, she visited Argoed.

It felt strange. She walked among people she had known her whole life, yet they seemed like strangers. They spoke of local gossip, of small scandals, of the weather. There was no mention of kings nor monsters, nothing about the Wild Hunt. Branwen sat at the tavern, nursing a drink while Glaw told her about the rats he’d chased from his barn.

The stories made her feel both more and less at home.

“I know something happened on that hunt of yours,” said Mam one afternoon as they baked bread. Mam’s sleeves were rolled up to her forearms, and the house smelled like honey and oats as she warmed the griddle stone. “If you ever wish to speak of it…”

Branwen kept her eyes on the dough. She added another fistful of flour, kneading it. Palug sat a few feet away, watching them work with interest.

Branwen’s throat went tight. Part of her wanted to talk to her mother, to confide in her. To tell her all of it.

“I know you think me weak,” said Mam, crossing her arms. She regarded Branwen with rueful fondness. “But I am strong enough to carry my child’s troubles.”

Branwen shook her head. “No, Mam. I’ve never thought you weak. You’re… you’re ill sometimes, but that’s not your fault.” Pain twisted through her. She had come so close to saving her mam. The boon would have cured her… but at least she still had Gwydion’s coin. She could afford the sleeping herbs, at least for a year.

“I know.” Mam let out a weary breath. “But I promise if you tell me, I will remember. So long as it’s in the morning,” she added. That earned her a snort from Branwen. It was the first time she had laughed since the Hunt.

“Someday,” said Branwen. “I will tell you all of it. When it’s less painful.”

Mam nodded. They worked in silence for a few minutes until Mam said, “Derwyn sent a letter. He would like us to visit in the spring.”

“Would he?” Branwen looked up sharply.

“He’s been taking in some of the orphans from Gwaelod,” said Mam. “I think he wants us to meet them.”

Branwen thought of her cousin surrounded by children. It made her smile. “We should go. We can find someone to tend to the farm for a few weeks in spring.”

Mam nodded. “Something to look forward to.”

More time slipped by.

As winter deepened, there were rumors that something had changed in Annwvyn. The old sightings of monsters and tylwyth teg were becoming less and less. The villagers spread wildly untrue rumors, but Branwen never argued with them. They would never believe her tales.

And finally, when the first snow touched the land, Branwen ventured out to hunt.

She had to use one of Rhain’s bows. Hers had been lost in Annwvyn. She walked through the wilds, snow crunching gently beneath her feet as she enjoyed the quiet peace of the morning. Her mam had gone to the village, so Branwen did not have to hurry home.

When she crossed a hill, she saw three deer. They were clustered together, nosing at a tangle of dead grass. Branwen’s fingers went still on her bow, but she did not pull it taut. Rather, she watched them.

One of the deer lifted its head and sniffed in her direction. When she remained still, the deer seemed to decide she was not a threat. They went back to searching for greenery.

Branwen watched them until they vanished into the fields.

When she returned home, Palug was waiting for her. He sat beside the door and howled to be let in. “You wanted to go play outside, you monster,” said Branwen fondly. She walked inside, kicking snow from her boots before she pulled off her cloak. Mam’s cloak was hanging from its hook, which meant she had returned. She was probably out doing chores.

Branwen strode inside, heading for the fire to warm her hands. As she walked by the kitchen, a gleam caught her eyes.

Sitting on the table was a brooch.

It was a simple circle, light and worn from years of use. She touched it to see if it was real. It clinked gently against her fingernail.

Voices came from outside. Branwen whirled and saw her mam walking through the front door, carrying a basket brimming with fresh herbs. She was laughing. “You’ll have to tell me the rest of it someday,” she was saying. She stepped aside, and a figure filled up the doorway.

He was thinner than the last time she had seen him. His hair had gone entirely silver. But his eyes were the same—dark and watchful. “I will,” he said to Mam. “Let me take that.” He took the basket from Mam, hefting it under his left arm. His right hand was in a brace.

Branwen did not move. She could barely breathe.

“Branwen, dear, your friend stopped by,” said Mam. “I was just showing him the new chicken coop.”

Gwydion, son of D?n, set the basket of herbs on the table. He wore a simple gray cloak, and his boots were stained with snow from the road.

He was here. In her house.

She had spent nearly an entire season trying not to think about him. Yet here he was.

Palug meowed and walked up to greet him. He did so by reaching up and hooking his claws into Gwydion’s trousers, flexing his claws into the man’s knee. Gwydion winced, but he did not pull away.

“It was lovely to see you again,” said Mam. She poured water into the kettle and hung it over the fire. “I need to finish my chores. Branwen, why don’t you offer our guest tea?” And then she was bustling from the house, giving Gwydion a speculative little glance before she pulled the door shut.

Branwen did not speak for nearly half a minute.

Gwydion regarded her softly.

“These herbs aren’t in season,” she finally said.

If he considered that a strange greeting, he did not comment on it. “No, they’re not,” replied Gwydion. “I grew them myself.” He took a breath. “I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but can we talk?”

Branwen looked at the kettle. “I suppose Mam did offer you tea. You have as long as it takes for me to drink it.”

Gwydion smiled. “That seems a fair trade.”

She felt his eyes on her as she poured the water and steeped the tea. Finally, she set two cups at the table. He seemed to take that as invitation to sit. Steam danced from the cups, and Branwen watched it in silence. Palug curled up near the fire, licking snow from his paws.

“I met your mother in the village market,” said Gwydion. “She was giving a beggar a coin. I offered to escort her home, and we talked a little. You’ve been having headaches?”

At least this was easier to talk about. Branwen touched her temple. “Yes. Either from using my eye too much during the Hunt or the blow that knocked me out. The village healer isn’t sure.” She spoke without heat, but Gwydion winced.

“I can make a poultice, if you like,” he said.

She wrapped her fingers around her teacup. It warmed her cold hands. “You didn’t come here to look at chicken coops and make poultices.”

He leaned back in his chair, resting one hand on his knee. “You’re right. I came… because I made certain promises. And I needed to be sure they were delivered.”

“What promises?” asked Branwen. She had thought it would be something like this. When she glimpsed him in the doorway, she thought he would try to buy her forgiveness with sacks of gold or jewels.

Gwydion drew in a long breath. “Your mam.”

Branwen looked at him sharply. “What about her?”

“She met my uncle today,” said Gwydion.

Branwen stared at him in bewilderment. “The king ?”

“It’s all right,” said Gwydion. “I told him to act like a kind beggar and take your mother’s hand when she slipped him a coin.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Seeing him in a beggar’s cloak was well worth the trip.”

This made no sense. Branwen’s fingers tightened around her teacup. “Your uncle—King Math. He came to my village? He dressed as a beggar to meet my mam?”

“I expect he’s riding back to Caer Dathyl,” said Gwydion. “He looked as though he wished to remain not a moment longer than necessary. But the divining was part of my bargain with him.”

“He divined my mother?” Fear filled her stomach, and she made to rise. She had to be sure Mam was all right, that nothing—

“It was a healing,” said Gwydion soothingly. “Nothing more.”

She looked at him sharply. “He… healed her?”

“Oh, yes,” said Gwydion. He looked down at his undrunk tea. “I’m sorry. He cannot restore memories. She may struggle to remember things that have happened since the illness took hold. But he stopped the deterioration. Your mother will lose no more memories.”

The world seemed to freeze around her. Branwen dared not take a breath for fear of breaking this moment.

Mam would lose no more memories. It was a hope she had once cradled near to her heart—and Gwydion shattered it when he lied to her. Now he was here, trying to mend that hope.

“Why?” she finally said.

Gwydion’s dark eyes were sorrowful. “Because I spent my life lying to everyone around me. To myself. But I never wanted to lie to you. I meant everything. All of it. My lies were ones of omission, but they were still lies. I led you into that forest knowing what it might cost you. I killed Pryderi, even if I did not mean to. I injured you. And for all that, I am sorry.” He swallowed. “I know it means nothing to you, but I am truly sorry.”

She did not know what to say, so she kept quiet. They drank tea in silence for a few minutes.

“Your hair,” she finally said, gesturing at his temples. “That is new.”

“Oh, this?” Gwydion fingered one of the gray strands. “It began to grow in that way after the battle. I was… not myself for some weeks afterward. A cough, a fever. And the hair, of course.” He shrugged. “I don’t think any diviner has ever done what I did.” There was a trace of bitter pride in his voice. “But there’s a cost. Always a cost.”

“And we all paid it,” she said.

“Some more than others,” he agreed softly.

She did not have to ask to know he spoke of Pryderi.

She missed him. She missed Pryderi’s steady presence, the warm smiles, and the way he seemed to instill everything he did with care. She had only known him a short while, and it had not been enough.

“What will you do now?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t live at Caer Dathyl.”

“You can’t?”

“Exile,” said Gwydion, with a rueful smile. “A political gesture to appease Dyfed. As long as I keep my head low, I won’t be forced from Gwynedd.”

“You gave it all up?” she said. From the little that he had told her, he’d spent years building himself a web of informants and spies. His sister, his nephews… she could not imagine him leaving them all behind.

“I did,” said Gwydion. “For one thing, I was a political liability. If I stayed, my sister could not create the alliances she needed. And for another… when I returned to Caer Dathyl, I could not be myself again. The trickster died that day in the woods, and I have no desire to resurrect him.” He sighed. “I’ll see my nephews again. They’re already sneaking out of the castell. I’m sure they’ll find their way to wherever I am. It might take a few years.”

She wanted to say she was sorry, but she could not. Somehow it seemed a fitting price that Gwydion lose the home he had fought so hard for. “I’m surprised King Pwyll didn’t send assassins after you.”

“Oh, he did,” said Gwydion, with a trace of a smile. “Four of them. Three were gently extracted from the city and returned to Dyfed. The last was burned alive. He climbed through the wrong bedroom window, and Amaethon has been bad-tempered of late. Being rather publicly humiliated and then stripped of his throne… well. After that, Pwyll had to grudgingly accept that the only way he was getting recompense was through official means. Hence, the exile.” He spread his hands, gesturing at himself. “I have no title. No kingdom. No friends anymore.”

“You had friends?” she said. She meant it as a jest, but it came out too flat.

He looked at her, all the sadness in the world in his eyes. “Once.”

As he was leaving, Gwydion hesitated near the front gate. “I almost forgot,” he said, and dug into his pack. He came up with a familiar knife. “I hoped to return it.”

It was the afanc-fang dagger. When she took it, there was a slight shake to her hands. She had never thought to see this again. Her fingers settled around the hilt. It felt like a piece of herself had returned.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

“Where will you go?”

“I have a room in the village,” he said. “I can stay there for a while. After that…” He looked at the rolling fields. “I might try farming.”

“You, a farmer?” she said skeptically.

“I think I’d be good at it,” he said.

“Can you last a day without tricking a rabbit? Or magicking a barley stalk?”

A full-fledged grin broke across his face. “I suppose we’ll find out.” He sobered a little. “I was thinking… and you may refuse, if you like. I might take up the farm near you.”

“Rhain’s farm?” she said in surprise.

“Yes.” He tapped his left fingers against the fence post. “The barwn will grant me the land if I ask it. You said Rhain had no heirs, and I don’t want you to be responsible for it unless you want to.”

She thought of that old house. Of the dust collecting on the shelves, of forgotten cups and plates, of rooms that would need airing. “Rhain wasn’t sentimental,” she said. “There isn’t much there anymore.”

Gwydion shrugged. “I could refurnish the house a little. Maybe buy a goat or three. You could show me how to feed chickens.”

She did not answer.

She knew what he was asking, even as he did not say the words. She looked at him. At the trickster who had lied and stolen and killed. She knew what he had done; she couldn’t even deny he had good reasons. But some part of her still shied away from the memory of that betrayal.

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive you,” she said.

He nodded. “I know. But I have a year and a day to try.”