Cigfa held up three fingers. “It’s been a day. I used a bit of magic to keep you asleep and to heal the worst of your wounds.” She put one finger down. “We are a short distance from the gates of Annwvyn.” Another finger. “And the battle is over. We burned a good portion of the trees, hacked down another, and then it all just went still. Arawn and that human trickster came to some kind of agreement. Arawn sent me to keep you safe until you woke.”
“What was the bargain?” asked Branwen. Her head throbbed, but she had to know.
Cigfa shrugged. “Not entirely sure yet. King Pwyll has his ring back, but the rest are gone.”
Gwydion had done it. He had escaped with the fealty of hunters and an immortal king. He would be fleeing toward Caer Dathylwith his prize. Branwen closed her eyes for a few moments. He was alive—and she did not know if that was a comfort or not.
“What now?” said Branwen. Surely the Otherking had orders for her.
Cigfa sighed. “We’re leaving.”
Branwen pulled Palug a little closer. “We?”
“The otherfolk, tylwyth teg, whatever you mortals call us. We can’t stay,” said Cigfa. “If a mortal can control the Otherking… it’s too dangerous for all involved.”
“Where will you go?” asked Branwen.
Cigfa smiled. “You would not know the place.”
Branwen sat there, holding her monstrous cat, and tried to sort through her muddled thoughts. It felt as though she were trying to find her feet amid a rockslide—every thought sliding away from her as soon as she grasped at it. Her head hurt so badly she wished to lie down and return to sleep. “What about Pryderi?”
Cigfa’s smile faltered. “We took his body to his father,” she said quietly. “He will be buried at home.”
Branwen’s heart ached. “I’m sorry.”
“Many will mourn him,” said Cigfa. “But he will be remembered. It is the best mortals can hope for.”
They sat in quiet for a few moments.
“So where do I go?” asked Branwen. She had half expected Cigfa to drag her back into Annwvyn by now. It would be work or imprisonment.
Cigfa looked at her oddly. “What do you mean?”
“I belong to Arawn,” said Branwen slowly, trying to make her understand. “For a year and a day.”
Cigfa shook her head. “Not anymore. Your fealty changed hands.”
Confusion and fear rose within her. What had Arawn done with her brooch? Had he given it to Pwyll? Would she be dragged to Dyfed in chains, to face Pryderi’s family as one of those complicit in his death? Perhaps that was the fate she truly deserved.
“Who,” she began to say, then faltered.
“You belong to the trickster,” said Cigfa. “It was part of the bargain he made with our king.” She gave Branwen a curious look. “I must say, you two are far more interesting mortals than I ordinarily deal with.”
Branwen closed her eyes. Gwydion. Of course he would have found a way. Somehow he had managed to wrest her free of Arawn’s control.
Please, Blodeuyn!
His voice still rang in her ears.
Branwen looked at her left arm. Her armlet of oaken leaves had changed—they had gone golden and brown as a tree in autumn. As she moved, the leaves began to fall.
“What will you do now?” asked Cigfa.
Branwen looked west. “I am going home.”
CHAPTER 41
WHEN GWYDION RETURNED to Caer Dathyl, he did so through the main gates.
