And the arrow sank deep.
CHAPTER 35
WHEN PRYDERI FELL, Branwen fell with him.
She threw herself past Gwydion, her hands outstretched and seeking. Some part of her thought if she could take hold of him, if she held on tightly enough, she might keep him there. The arrow—her arrow—was buried deep in his chest. Branwen knew better than to yank it free; she had to stem the tide of the blood, push it back in him somehow. Her mind felt as though she’d reverted back to childhood and Pryderi was a broken toy that needed stitching back together. Surely someone could do it—Annwvyn was magic, this whole place was magic, and someone—
“Pryderi,” Branwen said, as she yanked her cloak free. She pressed it to his chest, trying not to jostle the arrow. “Hold on, just hold on—”
She should have offered comfort, but the only words to tumble from her lips were pleas.
She pressed a hand to Pryderi’s bloodied throat. There was a flutter against her fingertips, like the fading wingbeats of a bird.
This could not be happening. She had fired at Gwydion. It had torn her heart in two, but she had fired at Gwydion. Pryderi could not be dying.
A soft meow made Branwen look up. Palug stood a few strides away.
Something was happening to his collar. Those vines were withering. Tiny leaves browned and shriveled.
And then the collar broke. Pryderi’s signet ring tumbled into the grass.
He was gone.
Pryderi, heir to the throne of Dyfed and son of Pwyll, was dead.
In bardsong, he would be the young royal cut down in single combat. But to her, he would remain the kind boy who had saved her, who had only joined the Hunt to make his father proud.
It felt as though an eternity passed. Branwen could not have said how long she knelt there, one hand on Pryderi’s throat and the other on his bloodied chest. He was far beyond her reach, but she held on. Her breaths were ragged, her whole body unmoored.
All the birdsong went silent.
Branwen wondered if grief had deafened her. Then she realized the truth of the matter. She looked up and saw the canine silhouette standing between the trees. She should have reached for a weapon, but her fingers would not answer her.
The ci annwn was only a few strides away. It had approached so swiftly that she had not noticed the encroaching quiet.
A hand landed on Branwen’s shoulder. Gwydion stood over her,his gaze fixed on the ci annwn. His face was drawn and pale—more skull than human. His obsidian sword remained in his left hand.
The hound looked at them both. It had been drawn by the death… or perhaps it was a death omen come too late.
Branwen waited for the hound to attack. She felt too sluggish to react, too detached to care. If the hound lunged, she would let it.
The ci annwn sniffed the air. Then it lifted its head to the sky, opened its maw, and howled. It was a silent cry, but Branwen felt the echo of her own grief in the dog’s stance.
Gwydion’s hand tightened on Branwen’s shoulder. But before either of them could react, the ci annwn lowered its head. It gave Branwen a steady look, then darted into the bushes and out of sight.
Slowly, ever so slowly, sound returned to her.
Arawn knew of the death. He had likely known about it from the moment Pryderi’s blood spattered upon the forest leaves.
He was of Annwvyn and Annwvyn was of him.
Branwen drew a shuddering breath. She and Gwydion would never leave this forest alive. But the thought did not frighten her. There was no fear left in her.
Gwydion knelt beside Branwen. He spoke, but it was as if the words traveled a great distance. Every sound was muddled in her ears, drained of all meaning.
“—wen,” came Gwydion’s voice. “Branwen, look at me.”
He had been speaking to her for some time, she realized belatedly.
