In the bustle of the hunting camp, no one noticed a single young man. He worked alongside the servants, helping carry tables and arrange chairs. Those who knew his name pretended not to see him, and those who didn’t thought he was just another servant.
A voice rang out from above him. “Hiding again, my lord?”
The young man looked up. Straightening, he tried to convey a sense of easy confidence. Which was not easy when he held a chair in each arm. “I’m not a lord,” he said.
One of the otherfolk sat in the branches of the tree, one leg dangling and arms crossed over her chest. She perched with an easy poise. “My apologies,” she said. “Prince Pryderi, son of King Pwyll and heir to the throne of Dyfed… are you hiding again?”
Pryderi fought back a smile. “I’m not hiding. I’m helping.”
She tilted her head. It made her even more birdlike. “You are aware my kind can sense untruths, are you not?”
Pryderi gave her a shallow bow. “It is considered a kindnessamong my people to allow certain lies to go unremarked upon, Lady Cigfa.”
Cigfa slipped from the tree branch and landed beside him. Like all the tylwyth teg, she was gorgeous. The first time he had seen her, Pryderi thought Cigfa looked like a quail: short, rounded, with delicate features and keen eyes. Her cloak was lined with dark feathers, and she had a laugh like birdsong.
She was also King Arawn’s champion, which made her the second deadliest person in camp.
“Do all mortal princes help carry furniture?” she asked.
Pryderi shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I have more experience with goats and chickens than princes.”
Cigfa laughed. “Unfortunately, I did not seek you out for your expertise with chickens and goats. The king sent me to find you.”
Pryderi forced his lips into a smile. “It would be a joy to speak with my father again.”
Cigfa offered him an indulgent look. “I don’t need magic to tell you’re lying,” she said. “Your face speaks more loudly than words.”
“I shall endeavor to make my face more believable,” he replied.
He liked Cigfa. She had an infectious smile and a wicked sense of humor, but there was no cruelty in her. She had been given the task of shepherding him through the formalities of the Wild Hunt. Even if she wouldn’t tell him precisely what the Hunt consisted of. No one had told him. His father, King Pwyll, said it was tradition. None but the kings ever partook in the Hunt more than once, and everyone else learned the rules as they hunted.
“The problem is that I have nothing to do but move furniture,”said Pryderi, falling into step beside Cigfa. “I’ve no diplomatic duties, and most of my own people are too wary or too eager to befriend me. The chairs don’t ask uncomfortable questions, at least.”
“The Hunt will begin in seven days’ time,” Cigfa said. “Then you might lose yourself in the woods rather than hide in your tent.”
Pryderi sighed. “The problem with the Wild Hunt is that… well, it’s a hunt. I will be expected to hunt something.”
“Have you never hunted?” she asked. “I would have thought…” She let the sentence trail off delicately.
“That because I was raised common, I would be hunting for my own meals?” He smiled to demonstrate her words had not offended him. “My foster father was a farmer. The only hunting I ever did was shooting the foxes that dared try for the chickens.”
“You can fight,” she replied, her eyes sliding to the blade tucked into his belt. “I heard the reason you were invited into the Hunt was because you beat a young noble in a duel.”
Pryderi shook his head. “I don’t know how to duel.”
Cigfa frowned, likely confused by the truth in his voice. “But I heard—”
“I can fight,” said Pryderi. “I never said I could duel.” He resisted the impulse to rub at the back of his neck. He still bore the bruises of that fight. “I was cornered by a noble’s son. He wished to test me, to see if I truly am the prince of Dyfed. He did so by trying to hit me upside the head and shove me into a river.”
“So you defended yourself,” said Cigfa.
“I did,” said Pryderi. “By breaking his arm.” The memory of cracking bone and snapping sinew made him wince. In that moment, he had not been thinking—his only instinct had been to survive.
He continued, “And as my attacker could no longer join the Hunt, my father invited me to take his place. I was not even supposed to be here.” He looked at Cigfa. “Does that disappoint you?”
“My prince,” said Cigfa, her eyes agleam. “You just became far more interesting.”
He looked away. Taking pride in violence seemed wrong. Even now, he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He felt stained by the fight, rather than proud of it. Back with his foster family, he would never have reacted so violently. But in the royal court, he was always on edge.
