Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

T HE HUNTRESS WAS unexpected.

With a name like “the white crow,” Gwydion had imagined a woman well into her years. But Branwen could not have been any older than eighteen. Her right eye was covered by a cloth. He wondered if she had lost it in a hunt, but he knew better than to ask. He had dealt with enough pointed questions about his hand.

Branwen ordered drinks and a mutton soup, then settled down in the tavern’s farthest corner. Her cat sat beside her, his tail flicking and green eyes fixed on Gwydion. He was glad when a middle-aged man approached the table, easily balancing a tray of drinks and food on one hand. He slid two tankards before them, inclined his head slightly toward Gwydion and far more deeply to Branwen. She picked up the tankard and drained half of it in a few gulps—which gave Gwydion time to study her.

Her hair was so pale it was nearly white. Her eye was icy, and she had a gaze that pierced sharper than any arrow. She was no beauty of the court; she wore no elegant gown, nor jewelry, and her lips were unpainted. But she had a feral, visceral quality about her. He found himself glancing at her again and again, merely for the pleasure of seeing her. Every time, he saw something new—the way her brows were slightly darker than her hair, the strong line of her jaw, and the scar along one cheekbone. Seeing where he looked, she touched her cheek. “Wolf hunt,” she said. “Now, why did you want to speak with me?”

Gwydion straightened. He had practiced this speech a few times with his horse on the ride to Argoed, but now all of those words felt wrong. He was prepared for a mercenary, easily lured by coin. But Branwen had dismissed him twice now. “As I said, my name is Gwydion. You might have heard of me.”

She ate a mouthful of soup, then said, “Should I have?”

She was a commoner. A huntress. She would have no reason to be familiar with the inner workings of Caer Dathyl. Or that was what Gwydion reminded himself. “I am the youngest nephew of King Math,” he said.

Branwen’s brow scrunched in thought. Then her face brightened. “Oh. I have heard of you.” She thunked her fist against the table. “You stole pigs, right? Tried to start a war or something?”

Gwydion pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead. “No. No. No. ” He repeated the word with mingled despair and irritation. Of course she would have heard that rumor.

“So there’s no truth to it?” asked Branwen.

Gwydion looked at her through his fingers. “There was an incident. When I was younger. But I have never started a war over pigs.”

“That’s a relief,” she said. “If you’re going to start a war, there should at least be a deer, hound, or bird involved.” Her face was solemn, but there was a wicked gleam in her eye.

He looked down at his soup. “May I ask you a question?”

“You have bought my attention for as long as it takes me to eat,” said Branwen, her fingers curling around the half-full tankard. “I suggest you use that time well.”

Gwydion had intended to make his offer at once, but now that he had spoken with her, he had to ask. “How did someone like you begin hunting monsters?”

She set her tankard down. “Someone like me?”

“I meant no insult,” he said. “Merely that when I heard rumors of a monster hunter, I thought I would find someone…”

“Older?” she said. “More grizzled? Stares into the distance and broods?”

“Precisely,” he agreed. “Not a friendly young woman with a cat.”

Her mouth twitched. “You consider me friendly ?”

Perhaps not with him, but he had listened to her with those children. Many would have simply walked past them, but she had taken a few minutes to speak with them, to offer a story and a little wisdom. The twins would like her, he thought, if they ever had the chance to meet. They would have climbed all over her and demanded more stories.

“Compared to those I normally deal with, yes,” he replied.

“I think that’s more a statement on the company you keep.” Branwen took a slower sip of her drink. “To answer your question, I hunt monsters because it is the only thing I’m good at. I began when I was young because in the wild country, we don’t have the luxury of stone walls and iron everywhere. While some of the folk remain in the mountains, others will cross into our lands. Some are friendly and some are not. I’ve learned how to distinguish between the two.” She nodded at his drink. “You should try that.”

Gwydion picked up his tankard and sipped. He had expected a watery, stale drink like those he shared with Eilwen. But this tasted smoky and rich. “This is good,” he said in surprise.

“Glaw’s been brewing for years,” said Branwen. “There are rumors that some of the otherfolk will venture into Argoed wearing the guise of humans just to try it.”

“I can see why.”

Branwen picked a small piece of mutton from her soup and placed it before her cat. The cat gave the meat a sniff before using a single claw to drag it from the table, presumably to be devoured out of sight. “I assume that Caer Dathyl has a monster problem you wish for me to fix,” said Branwen.

Gwydion bit back a wry smile. “There are always monsters to be found among the royal courts. But you’re wrong as to the particulars.” He took a deep breath. This was his moment, the one he had placed so much weight upon.

“Tell me what you know of the Wild Hunt,” he said. “If you would be so kind.”

Her forehead scrunched. “Kings Arawn and Pwyll hold it every fifth year. It’s a friendly hunt between Annwvyn and Dyfed, and it’s said that the kings bring their best hunters. It’s dangerous. People die. But there’s rumors that King Arawn grants some kind of magical boon to the winners, so everyone wants to try. As to what they hunt, I don’t know. Those from Gwynedd know better than to go near Annwvyn on a Hunt year. Too many go missing.”

Gwydion gave her a nod. “A concise explanation. And you’re right. No one from Gwynedd has ever managed to join—or win—the Hunt.” He leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “Until now.”

He waited for an intake of breath, for the flash of surprise.

But she burst into laughter.

“You?” she said, her shoulders quaking with mirth. “You’re going to win the Wild Hunt?”

Gwydion sat there, hands folded on the table, and kept his smile firmly fixed in place.

It was not the first time someone had laughed at him. But if his plan worked, it would be the last. He would make it work. And to do that, he needed this woman. This monster-hunting, beer-drinking, one-eyed woman with a cat she claimed had eaten a hundred knights.

Perhaps this had not been his best-laid plan.

“I’m sorry,” said Branwen, recovering herself. Some of his irritation must have flickered through his careful mask, because she made an effort to tamp down her laughter. “It’s just—the very idea. Have you ever been near Annwvyn on Nos Calan Gaeaf?”

He hesitated. “No.”

She pointed her spoon at him. “Well, I have. Which is why everyone in Argoed binds dried gorse to their fence posts, locks up their livestock, marks their doors with iron, and remains indoors once the sun sets. Monsters prowl the edges of the forest. If a person values their life, they don’t go near the mountains when the seasons change.” She sat back, her gaze flicking over him. “And forgive me for saying so, but you don’t strike me as a hunter.”

He gave a small shrug. “I know. Which is precisely why I came to you. I need a champion.”

All of her amusement vanished in a heartbeat. “You want me to win the Wild Hunt for you.”

“I will go with you,” he said. “I have a plan to infiltrate the Hunt.”

Branwen drained her tankard and gestured for a second. “Has anyone ever told you that your plans are impossible?”

“Every day,” replied Gwydion.

Neither spoke for a few moments. To Gwydion’s surprise, the quiet felt thoughtful rather than uncomfortable.

Finally, Branwen sighed. “There are two problems.”

“Tell me,” said Gwydion.

Branwen gave him a look that was almost pitying. “First, what you’re attempting is impossible. Only a few days ago, I encountered the skull of someone who attempted precisely what you’re proposing now. He was eaten alive. And he was one of the lucky ones. He was found.”

“A minor detail,” he said. “What’s the second problem?”

That earned him a half smile. “The last time I worked for a noble, all I received was a slap and a snarl, and now no one will buy my game for fear of angering the barwn.”

“Is that why you cannot sell your rabbits?” he said, taken aback. He recalled Barwn Ifor’s fury at Math—and how it had gone unanswered. This young woman must have become the focus of his ire.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not know.”

Branwen shrugged. “It is my problem to solve, not yours.”

“But it could be,” said Gwydion. “If you become my champion, I will ensure that Barwn Ifor never threatens you again.”

If he had expected gratitude or fawning adoration, he would have been disappointed. She merely ate another spoonful of soup. “How?”

“He would not dare cross a prince,” he said.

She speared him with a glance. “You’re not a prince, though, are you?”

“My uncle is king.”

“But you’re not an heir,” she said.

He winced. “I am not,” he said. Better to admit the truth. “But I still have power.”

Branwen opened her mouth, but before she could reply, the door burst open. All heads swung toward it as a middle-aged woman staggered inside. She looked ragged and fearful, her cloak torn at one edge. But it was her eyes that drew Gwydion’s attention: They were white-edged and wild like a cornered animal. “Branwen—is she here? I asked and couldn’t find her and—”

The tavernkeeper raised a hand toward Gwydion’s table. The woman hurried over.

“Please,” she said, her voice breaking with panic. “Please—Branwen, they attacked my goats. My husband tried to fight them, but they dragged him into the fields near Rhain’s farm.”

Gwydion began to rise, but Branwen was already on her feet. “What was it?”

The woman’s shaking hands touched her mouth. “A pack—wolves, dogs, I’m not sure.”

Branwen cursed beneath her breath. “I knew this would happen.” She flung a glance at her cat. Then she looked at Gwydion.

“I have a horse,” he said, rising from his seat. “It’ll be faster than going on foot.”

She bit her lip, as though she wished to argue. “Come on, then.”