Only Pryderi would know differently. Because hewouldbe a monster. He would slay his enemy, slay his friend. This was what the afanc had wanted from him—to be more weapon than man. To wield a blade as easily as thought. To be the shadow that lurked in the minds of anyone that would dare hurt Dyfed.
He thought of Arawn, with a finger-bone crown and a smile on his wine-stained lips.
Kings and monsters are grown from the same soil.
Perhaps it had not been a coincidence that an afanc had come for him. There were tales that said the folk took human babes—and perhaps the king of the folk himself would ask one of his people to properly train his dearest friend’s son in the ways of rulers. Perhaps it had been his idea of a gift to a young prince.
Or perhaps none of this had been orchestrated. Perhaps the world was simply chaos and coincidence, and the only way to survive was to ride the waves of chance.
Pryderi could do it. He knew he could.
Be a monster.
Be a king.
Lose himself to the Hunt.
But there was no way to win and remain himself.
He thought of his mam. Not the queen, but the farmer’s wife who had washed the blood away when he wounded his knees in a fall, who had rubbed his back when he dreamed of water and scales, who had whispered in his ear that Pryderi washers, that he was good, and he could choose to be good even if the world declared him not.
And he remembered the voice of the girl in the cave.
You will never be a king.
The words had sounded like a curse, but now they were freedom.
He had never wanted to be a king. He had never wanted to be Pryderi.
He thought of his mam, whispering to him when he woke from a nightmare. A chant of his name, to remind him who he was and who he would be:Gwri, Gwri, Gwri.
That was who he had wanted to be. He wanted to be a son she could be proud of. Nothing more and nothing less.
He would not be a monster.
He would not be a king.
He had to stop this.
Pryderi caught Gwydion’s sword with his spear. “Gwydion,” gasped Pryderi. “Please. Wait—”
There was the whisper and twang of a bowstring.
Gwydion wrenched the sword free and stepped back, hesitation written across his face. He opened his mouth as though to answer.
The world slowed. Pryderi turned his head in time to see the recoil of Branwen’s bow, the graceful arch of her shoulder and fingers as she fired.
The arrow flew toward Gwydion. His sword was too low to deflect it.
She had made her choice. She had chosen Pryderi, chosen the prince over the trickster.
Panic crossed Gwydion’s face. He cried out, deflecting the arrow with a burst of magic.
The arrow wobbled in the air and curved away from the diviner.
Pryderi saw the gleam of sunlight on silver. He heard the whisper of air. He knew. He knew, he knew, he knew.
The girl, the woman, and the crone had told him.You will never be a king.
