The drunken hunter had been name-bound with magic to never speak of the particulars. But if the trickster knew anything, it was that magic was imperfect.
The trickster pierced the man’s tongue with iron—for then he could speak of the Hunt.
“It’s not like any mortal hunt,” the old hunter said, his words coming out half-mangled. “They hunt not for animals but for fealty. For a year and a day, they trade soldiers and nobles. Even thrones. It matters little to Arawn and Pwyll, for they trust each other with their kingdoms.”
The trickster drew in a sharp breath. “So the balance of power remains the same.”
The old hunter wobbled in his chair, unsteady from pain and drink. “But if someone from another kingdom entered the Hunt…”
The trickster smiled.
“Then he could steal two kingdoms,” he said.
CHAPTER 33
BRANWEN COULD NOT breathe. It felt as though all the air had vanished from the wood.
This could not be true. It simply could not be.
“Do not move,” said Pryderi, cold fury simmering beneath every word.
Gwydion was pale but resolute. His gaze flicked toward the woods, as though considering the best way to run. The lapwing was in his left hand, cradled against his heart.
In a moment, Branwen had an arrow fitted to the string. She kept the arrow pointed at the earth—but the threat was there, nonetheless.
Gwydion shook his head. “You can’t shoot me,” he said. “You do that, this bird flies away. Along with your only chance for freedom.”
“Where are they?” said Branwen. Her voice sounded oddly distant. “The true rings?”
Gwydion swallowed. “They’re safe.”
“With you,” she said.
“Branwen, it’s not what you think,” he said quietly.
She took two steps closer, her fingers tightening on the bowstring. “You stole the rings from us. What else is there to know?”
Pain flickered through his eyes. “I didn’t mean to do it this way. I wasn’t… You weren’t supposed to…” For the first time since she’d met him, his words faltered.
“I wasn’t what?” she said. “Supposed to matter?”
He drew in a sharp, pained breath. “Branwen—”
She flung the words at him. “You made me think—you spent all this time getting me to trust you. Playing the part of the wounded royal, the broken little trickster who just wanted someone to love him. Who could be more, if he was just given the chance. Who didn’t care that I was a commoner or a huntress. You’re a better liar than I thought.”
“It wasn’t a lie,” he said. “I meant it. All of it. I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“Then tell us what you held back,” said Pryderi. If Branwen’s fury was molten, his was as icy and unrelenting as winter.
Gwydion’s shoulders slouched. Some of the defiance leaked from his face, draining away into unhappiness. “I knew how the Hunt worked,” he said tonelessly.
“That’s not possible,” said Pryderi. “Hunters are magicked never to talk about it.”
Gwydion smiled thinly. “There are only two things I excel at: growing plants and finding secrets. I used the latter to give myself an advantage in the Hunt.”
Branwen’s mind raced, trailing back through her memories. She thought of the first time they met, how he had invited her into his confidences about how they would sneak into the Wild Hunt, how they would infiltrate and win it.
“This is why you gave me a year’s pay,” she said faintly. “That first day we met, you gave me enough gold to feed a family for a year. A year and a day—that’s how long I would belong to someone else, how long I could never go home.”
