Two hunters had lit torches and were driving back the trees with flame, trying to allow for a controlled retreat. One of them snarled as an ash swung at him. He withdrew a flask, scattering its contents across the ground. Then he set the spirits alight. The fire caught in the roots of the tree. The ash writhed, branches clawing at the air in wordless agony.
A folk huntress cast her own spell, murmuring as she tried to calm one tree. That ended when a large root curled around her ankle and began to drag her beneath the earth.
All around Branwen, a battle raged—blade against branch, arrow against thorn, spear against bramble. She could not imagine how much magic this had cost Gwydion.
A vine snagged on her wrist, but she yanked herself free. She could not stay to help the others; she had her orders from the Otherking.
This fight was merely a distraction.
Brambles were growing, creating a wall of thorns. All of it glowed with the same gold magic. Gwydion’s magic.
She darted around an oak that swung its thick branches into a human hunter, then around a birch tree that had snatched up several of the folk. There was a break in the magic ahead, and Branwen veered toward it. She was all reaction and instinct, trying to find her way through a chaos the likes of which she had never encountered. She raced beneath the trees and found herself standing on a familiar trail.
It led to the gates of Annwvyn.
Palug wriggled free of her arms. He raced down the path, his tail low to the ground.
She had no time. She hurtled down the trail, heart in her throat. One tree branch fell toward her, and she leapt back, then darted around it. A fallen hunter lay across the path, a sword still in his hand. Branwen snatched up the weapon.
She was so close. She just had to reach the gates before he did.
Brambles closed in around her. She slashed with the sword, cutting through them again and again. Thorns snagged on her clothes, in the oaken leaves along her left arm, in her unbraided hair.
She stumbled, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thought she would fall into those grasping briars. She shoved herself forward, ignoring the flashes of pain as the thorns snagged.
She ran until her lungs were raw, until tears half blinded her. Farther, just a little farther.
She pushed through the briars and fell onto the path. Gasping, her arms stinging from small wounds, she forced herself to rise. Behind her were the sounds of battle: the screams, the clash of weapons, the scent of burning wood. Ahead of her—
The yew-tree gates of Annwvyn.
She saw the familiar shape of the gates: their woven branches, the arch between the two trees.
More importantly, she sawhim.
Gwydion was half running, half stumbling toward the gates. His cloak had been discarded, and he wore only his tunic and trousers.
Retrieve the rings.
Arawn’s command rang through her, and she shuddered. Shecould no more disobey than she could have told her heart to stop beating. Her legs lurched without her making the choice, and she bolted after him.
He paused a moment, his head bowed and shoulders moving. As though he were speaking, as though he were singing…
And before her eyes, she saw gold threads leap from Gwydion and flit through the earth. They traveled from root to root, illuminating them beneath the earth. The magic jumped from tree to tree, heading for—
—the gates.
Branwen realized what he was doing. Or rather, what he was attempting to do: close the gates of Annwvyn.
It was impossible. None but Arawn could command those gates.
Gwydion’s magic sank into the roots of the two yew trees.
With a hiss of frustration, Branwen forced herself to run faster.
The yew trees were shifting like old warriors after a long nap. Branches creaked as they moved. Slowly, one by one, their branches wove together. Closing the gates.
Branwen tore into a sprint. The space between the two trees was narrowing, growing smaller by the moment. She screamed, knowing that if she was caught in those branches, she would be crushed.
