Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

B RANWEN WOKE WITH gritty eyes and a cat’s tail hitting her in the face.

“Palug,” she whispered, swatting him away. Palug sat beside her, his tail waving indolently. “Stop it, I’m awake.”

Palug rose and stretched, his claws gently flexing into the wood of the door. His meaning could not be plainer.

“All right.” Branwen heaved herself up with far less grace than her cat. Around the door latch she had bound a rope in a snare that only a hunter—or a weaver—could have untangled. It soothed her worries that her mam would slip out in the night. Quietly, she heaved the door open, and Palug darted outside. A waft of cold air touched Branwen’s cheek. The morning smelled of frost and the straw that Rhain had scattered across the mud puddles forming in the front yard.

She dressed beside the embers of the hearthfire, then slipped outside. Dawn crept over the mountains, illuminating mist and fog. Branwen inhaled deeply, tugging her gloves into place. Palug came out of the bushes, tail held high. Branwen leaned down, and he jumped atop her shoulder, turned his face into her warm neck, and purred.

She loved this hour best. The world was caught between waking and sleeping, the pale violet sky flecked with stars. Mam would be safely tucked away in bed; she always slept better in the early morning.

Taking a deep breath, she set off toward Rhain’s farm. Something had been stealing from his fields—a few apples here, a patch of barley there. Branwen could not be sure if the thefts were magical in nature, but she set snares at the easternmost edge of his land and checked them every morning. Along each rope she slid a bit of iron—not enough to kill, but enough that it would entrap a lesser creature. It was a common deterrent, a way of letting the folk know that this land was claimed and defended.

Branwen knew more of the folk than most humans. Mortal ironfetches came into Argoed for supplies that could not be found within Annwvyn—herbs, clothing, tools. Two years ago, Branwen had befriended one ironfetch called Fane.

Never give one of the folk a yes or no answer , he had told her. Words are binding. And they can sense untruths. They have no sense of cruelty—but nor do they understand mercy.

Which was why Branwen set snares, marked her home’s doorway with iron, and kept her afanc knife at her belt. Thus far, her snares had only caught squirrels, a hare, and a few grouse.

On this morning, there were two rabbits. She knelt and unbound the snares. The rabbits would fetch a fair price at the tavern, where their meat would go into the cawl and their fur fashioned into the lining of a cloak. The coin she earned would go to the village healer, who sold small bundles of herbs. Those herbs did little for remembrances, but they would ease Mam’s sleep.

Palug darted through the tall grasses, chasing after something. He preferred live prey, hunting rabbits and mice and birds and taunting them with their own powerlessness.

All cats, Branwen thought, had a bit of monster to them. Perhaps that was why cats gleamed gold when she looked at them with her magicked eye. But they also purred and cuddled and kept vermin from granaries, so they were well-loved and well-fed little monsters.

The next snare was empty, and the last was… gone. Branwen knelt beside the fence post where she had hidden the snare, her fingers brushing over the torn earth. Something had ripped it free, stake and all. Perhaps a sheep had blundered into it and was now trailing the snare with every step.

Branwen grimaced; she would speak to Rhain this afternoon. If one of his animals had stumbled into the snare, he would have a few sharp words for her.

Another hunt gone awry , she thought sourly.

By the time Branwen reached the village of Argoed, the sun had risen. Preparations for Nos Calan Gaeaf were in full force. Space had been cleared in the square for bonfires; a traveling merchant opened his stall to sell wreaths and ribbons; children had been sent out to find sticks for the fires. Branwen stepped around the children, their arms brimming with tangled branches. Two broke away from the others, dropping their bundles to engage in a mock sword fight.

“Careful,” said Branwen, ducking as one of the girls thrust her branch with a little too much enthusiasm. The children whirled around, worried they would be scolded. “Don’t aim for the face,” Branwen said, nudging one of the girls with her hip. “Not unless you want to lose an eye. Go for the wrist. Knock your enemy’s weapon away.”

The girls’ faces brightened, and they began enthusiastically whacking each other’s arms. Branwen winced.

One of the young lads eyed the rabbits at Branwen’s shoulder. “Did you use the bow to kill them?” he asked eagerly. “My da says he’s going to take me hunting next year, when I’m older.”

“I bet the cat did the hunting,” said another young boy, kneeling down and offering his hand to Palug. “Mine dragged a mouse into my mam’s cloak last week.”

Palug sniffed the proffered hand, then gently rubbed his cheek against the lad’s fingers. “He prefers fish to rabbits,” said Branwen.

Seeing their friend petting the cat, a few others surrounded Palug. The cat flicked his tail in mild irritation but allowed the adoration.

“He’s so soft,” said one of the girls. She chanced on the spot where Palug loved to be scratched—where his neck fur fluffed out against his chest. As though against his will, Palug leaned into her hand and purred. “Where did you find him?”

“On a hunt,” Branwen replied.

The children gazed at her with hopeful, upturned faces. Even Palug seemed to be waiting.

“I went to Ynys M?n,” she said. She lowered her voice, as though confiding a secret. The children clustered more tightly around her, and she knelt so she could meet their eyes. “There were rumors of a monster prowling the shores. It carried off sheep and goats and left enormous tracks alongside the sea. A hundred knights were sent after the monster, but none returned. Desperate, a noble set a bounty—if anyone could slay the beast, he would pay a fortune.”

One of the boys leaned forward, his eyes alight. “Did you hunt the beast?”

Branwen nodded solemnly. “I did. I spent a week tracking it, following tangled paths and bits of the livestock it had slain. And finally, on the seventh night, I ventured into a sea cave. There was a scratching noise, like enormous claws against the rock.” She dragged her nails across her bow, and one of the girls shuddered. “I kept quiet, arrow at the ready, and crept through the cave. The air stank of dead things, and the only light came from my lantern. As I went, I saw the bodies of those that had hunted the creature—there was old armor, swords, and one shield. I followed the sound of raking claws… until suddenly, all went silent.”

The children all drew in sharp breaths.

“I tried to be as quiet as possible, but the monster must have heard my heartbeat.” Branwen shifted, her fingers wrapping around the knife at her belt. “Something rushed past me so swiftly I could not see it, but it knocked me sideways. The lantern tumbled from my hand. I grabbed a shield from a fallen knight.”

All the children, and even some of the wreath-makers, were enraptured by her tale. “The shield was well polished, and it caught the glimmer of my lantern. I heard the sound of paws and then a skitter. No matter where I turned, the sound followed me. Then I lowered the shield and saw…”

She dragged the words out, enjoying the way her small audience seemed to be holding their breath. “A large black-and-white cat. It was chasing the reflected light from my shield, the way it might have hunted a mouse. I gave him some dried meat, and he purred and crawled into my lap. I took him home.” She held out her arm, and Palug wriggled free of the children. He leapt atop Branwen’s shoulder and head-butted her cheek fondly.

“So there was no monster?” asked a lad, sounding disappointed. “Just the cat?”

Branwen stroked between Palug’s ears. “Well, something killed all those knights. I suppose the creature might have run before I arrived. But ever since I took Palug from that cave, there were no more vanished livestock. And no more knights were slain.”

One of the girls looked skeptical. “You think your cat was the monster?”

“I think he was hungry and alone,” said Branwen. “And hunger can make monsters of us all.”

The children seemed satisfied by this answer.

“A fanciful tale,” came a voice from behind her. The children looked up, then scattered like chickens sighting a hawk.

Branwen rose to her feet and turned.

A young man leaned against the tavern wall, his stance one of easy idleness. He was striking as a tree in winter: dark hair and eyes, pale skin, and a fox’s smile. His dark hair was tousled, with a bit of curl, and he wore clothing that brimmed with wealth. But it was not his beautiful face that made her breath catch. It was the way he gazed at her, with a wry smile and a tilt to his eyebrows. He was looking at her as though he were evaluating her.

He asked, “Do you embellish all your stories?”

“I embellished nothing,” said Branwen, offended.

The young man shrugged. “Of course.”

“Can I help you?” asked Branwen irritably.

“That depends,” he replied. “Are you the huntress? Branwen?”

Branwen gave him a flat stare. “I should think the dead rabbits and bow would be answer enough.”

The man swept into a small, courtly bow. That made her distrust him all the more. No one bowed to the likes of her.

“I am looking for a hunter,” he said. “I heard rumors of you at Caer Dathyl. And if your story has even the slightest bit of truth to it, then you are the huntress I need.”

Branwen crossed her arms. Her cheek still bore the fading bruise from Ifor’s slap, and now another noble had come asking for her help. “No.”

The man’s smile was unfaltering. “What?”

“No,” she said again. Then she strode toward the tavern.

“I can pay—”

“Whatever the job is, I don’t want it,” she said, not bothering to look back as she walked away.

“But—”

“No thank you, and I have to sell these rabbits,” she said, and walked around to the back of the tavern.

The tavern was one of the larger buildings in Argoed. Branwen rapped on the kitchen door. The tavernkeeper, Glaw, answered. His hair was flecked with flour, and his left hand held a wooden spoon. His right sleeve was buttoned at the elbow. As a former soldier, Glaw had lost most of his right arm to an inflamed wound. If he had been wealthier, he might have paid a metal diviner to craft a replacement. Instead, he poured what coin he had into brewing. The tavern may have been modest, but the ale was crisp and sharp, and there was always fresh-baked bread and cawl. “Branwen,” he said warmly. “You’re looking well. How’s your mam? All right?”

Palug meowed, winding around Glaw’s ankles.

“And you, of course,” said Glaw. He reached back into the kitchen for a moment, emerging with a scrap of cooked chicken. He offered it to the cat. Palug sniffed delicately, as though considering the offering. Then he took the chicken and retreated a few steps to devour it.

Branwen smiled. “We’re as well as ever. And your sister? Has she returned from the city?”

Glaw snorted. “Returned from Caer Dathyl with a stray hound and enough gossip to last until winter.”

“That’s important for a tavern,” replied Branwen, unable to hide her smile.

“I’d rather have a cat,” said Glaw, with a nod at Palug. “At least they keep rats from the stores. This hound just naps all day in front of the fire. You ever decide to sell that cat of yours, you let me know.”

Palug’s tail twitched. He glared at Glaw.

“Palug might eat more than the hound,” said Branwen. “Along with a few of your guests.” She shrugged her shoulder, allowing the rabbits to slip down her arm. “I brought you something for tomorrow’s cawl.”

The wooden spoon fumbled in Glaw’s hand. All the easy warmth vanished from his eyes. “I… apologies, Branwen. I won’t be buying from you today.”

Branwen frowned. Glaw had been the first villager to buy her game when she began hunting. He never turned down fresh meat. “Why?”

Glaw looked as though he would rather eat those rabbits raw than answer. “There’s been talk.”

“Talk?”

“That anyone who buys your game will find themselves an enemy of Barwn Ifor,” said Glaw heavily.

Branwen let out a startled breath, as though she had been thumped in the stomach. “No.”

“He’s been raging,” said Glaw. “My sister heard that he spoke out against King Math, of all people, for not keeping our lands safe.” He gazed at Branwen with sympathy. “It’s the loss of his son. He’s trying to spread his grief around because he cannot bear the weight of it. You’re getting the brunt of his anger, I’m sorry to tell you.”

“So you’re not going to buy my rabbits,” said Branwen stiffly. “Because word might get back to the barwn.” Anger flared deep within her. Glaw was among those Branwen counted as friends. She had never thought he would pull away for fear of being associated with her.

Branwen and her mother had lived outside the village for many years, but they were still a part of it. Her mam had been a well-respected midwife, and Branwen was well-liked. She had saved children from monsters; in hard, hungry winters she came to the village with pheasant, red grouse, and rabbits; she helped her neighbors when they needed it. In the village, one’s word and reputation mattered. One could not survive on their own in the wild country.

As though he sensed her growing fear, Glaw said soothingly, “I’m sure the barwn will relent in a few weeks. Maybe after winter.”

“I don’t have until after winter,” said Branwen. She needed the coin these rabbits would fetch.

“Mayhap the butcher,” said Glaw. “Or you could try Sawyl’s aunt. She’s been talking about selling oggies at the bonfires.”

Branwen took a step back. She forced herself to say, “Thank you, Glaw.”

He nodded back at her.

Her heart heavy, Branwen left Glaw in the shadow of the doorway. She hastened around the tavern, barely aware of her surroundings. There was a terrible rushing in her ears and dread churning in her belly. She needed to go to the apothecary. Her mam’s sleep had been growing more restless, and without sleep she would deteriorate all the faster.

“Weren’t you going to sell those?”

It was the noble. He stood a few steps away, his arms idly crossed and one eyebrow cocked.

Branwen glared at him. Her manners were worn thin. “I don’t suppose you’re interested.”

The man hesitated, looking awkward for the first time. “I… no. Thank you. I did not come here for rabbits.”

She pulled the rabbits from her shoulder, sitting down on the bench by the tavern. “Why did you come to Argoed?”

He seemed to take this as invitation and sat beside her. “I have need of a huntress.”

“For what?”

“A hunt,” he said dryly.

She gave him an unamused look.

“And here I thought I was being hired to braid your hair,” said Branwen tartly.

A grin broke across his mouth. That smile seemed to disarm him—scrunching at his eyes and giving him a boyish look—but he banished it in a heartbeat. His face smoothed out into careful lines, and he was cold and stark and beautiful once again.

“Who are you?” she said.

“My name is Gwydion, son of D?n,” he said. “And I would very much like to buy you a drink.”