Voices came from outside. Branwen whirled and saw her mam walking through the front door, carrying a basket brimming with fresh herbs. She was laughing. “You’ll have to tell me the rest of it someday,” she was saying. She stepped aside, and a figure filled up the doorway.
He was thinner than the last time she had seen him. His hair had gone entirely silver. But his eyes were the same—dark and watchful. “I will,” he said to Mam. “Let me take that.” He took the basket from Mam, hefting it under his left arm. His right hand was in a brace.
Branwen did not move. She could barely breathe.
“Branwen, dear, your friend stopped by,” said Mam. “I was just showing him the new chicken coop.”
Gwydion, son of Dôn, set the basket of herbs on the table. Hewore a simple gray cloak, and his boots were stained with snow from the road.
He was here. In her house.
She had spent nearly an entire season trying not to think about him. Yet here he was.
Palug meowed and walked up to greet him. He did so by reaching up and hooking his claws into Gwydion’s trousers, flexing his claws into the man’s knee. Gwydion winced, but he did not pull away.
“It was lovely to see you again,” said Mam. She poured water into the kettle and hung it over the fire. “I need to finish my chores. Branwen, why don’t you offer our guest tea?” And then she was bustling from the house, giving Gwydion a speculative little glance before she pulled the door shut.
Branwen did not speak for nearly half a minute.
Gwydion regarded her softly.
“These herbs aren’t in season,” she finally said.
If he considered that a strange greeting, he did not comment on it. “No, they’re not,” replied Gwydion. “I grew them myself.” He took a breath. “I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but can we talk?”
Branwen looked at the kettle. “I suppose Mam did offer you tea. You have as long as it takes for me to drink it.”
Gwydion smiled. “That seems a fair trade.”
She felt his eyes on her as she poured the water and steeped the tea. Finally, she set two cups at the table. He seemed to take that as invitation to sit. Steam danced from the cups, and Branwen watched it in silence. Palug curled up near the fire, licking snow from his paws.
“I met your mother in the village market,” said Gwydion. “She was giving a beggar a coin. I offered to escort her home, and we talked a little. You’ve been having headaches?”
At least this was easier to talk about. Branwen touched her temple. “Yes. Either from using my eye too much during the Hunt or the blow that knocked me out. The village healer isn’t sure.” She spoke without heat, but Gwydion winced.
“I can make a poultice, if you like,” he said.
She wrapped her fingers around her teacup. It warmed her cold hands. “You didn’t come here to look at chicken coops and make poultices.”
He leaned back in his chair, resting one hand on his knee. “You’re right. I came… because I made certain promises. And I needed to be sure they were delivered.”
“What promises?” asked Branwen. She had thought it would be something like this. When she glimpsed him in the doorway, she thought he would try to buy her forgiveness with sacks of gold or jewels.
Gwydion drew in a long breath. “Your mam.”
Branwen looked at him sharply. “What about her?”
“She met my uncle today,” said Gwydion.
Branwen stared at him in bewilderment. “Theking?”
“It’s all right,” said Gwydion. “I told him to act like a kind beggar and take your mother’s hand when she slipped him a coin.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Seeing him in a beggar’s cloak was well worth the trip.”
This made no sense. Branwen’s fingers tightened around herteacup. “Your uncle—King Math. He came to my village? He dressed as a beggar to meet my mam?”
“I expect he’s riding back to Caer Dathyl,” said Gwydion. “He looked as though he wished to remain not a moment longer than necessary. But the divining was part of my bargain with him.”
“He divined my mother?” Fear filled her stomach, and she made to rise. She had to be sure Mam was all right, that nothing—
