“A fanciful tale,” came a voice from behind her. The children looked up, then scattered like chickens sighting a hawk.
Branwen rose to her feet and turned.
A young man leaned against the tavern wall, his stance one of easy idleness. He was striking as a tree in winter: dark hair and eyes,pale skin, and a fox’s smile. His dark hair was tousled, with a bit of curl, and he wore clothing that brimmed with wealth. But it was not his beautiful face that made her breath catch. It was the way he gazed at her, with a wry smile and a tilt to his eyebrows. He was looking at her as though he were evaluating her.
He asked, “Do you embellish all your stories?”
“I embellished nothing,” said Branwen, offended.
The young man shrugged. “Of course.”
“Can I help you?” asked Branwen irritably.
“That depends,” he replied. “Are you the huntress? Branwen?”
Branwen gave him a flat stare. “I should think the dead rabbits and bow would be answer enough.”
The man swept into a small, courtly bow. That made her distrust him all the more. No one bowed to the likes of her.
“I am looking for a hunter,” he said. “I heard rumors of you at Caer Dathyl. And if your story has even the slightest bit of truth to it, then you are the huntress I need.”
Branwen crossed her arms. Her cheek still bore the fading bruise from Ifor’s slap, and now another noble had come asking for her help. “No.”
The man’s smile was unfaltering. “What?”
“No,” she said again. Then she strode toward the tavern.
“I can pay—”
“Whatever the job is, I don’t want it,” she said, not bothering to look back as she walked away.
“But—”
“No thank you, and I have to sell these rabbits,” she said, and walked around to the back of the tavern.
The tavern was one of the larger buildings in Argoed. Branwen rapped on the kitchen door. The tavernkeeper, Glaw, answered. His hair was flecked with flour, and his left hand held a wooden spoon. His right sleeve was buttoned at the elbow. As a former soldier, Glaw had lost most of his right arm to an inflamed wound. If he had been wealthier, he might have paid a metal diviner to craft a replacement. Instead, he poured what coin he had into brewing. The tavern may have been modest, but the ale was crisp and sharp, and there was always fresh-baked bread and cawl. “Branwen,” he said warmly. “You’re looking well. How’s your mam? All right?”
Palug meowed, winding around Glaw’s ankles.
“And you, of course,” said Glaw. He reached back into the kitchen for a moment, emerging with a scrap of cooked chicken. He offered it to the cat. Palug sniffed delicately, as though considering the offering. Then he took the chicken and retreated a few steps to devour it.
Branwen smiled. “We’re as well as ever. And your sister? Has she returned from the city?”
Glaw snorted. “Returned from Caer Dathyl with a stray hound and enough gossip to last until winter.”
“That’s important for a tavern,” replied Branwen, unable to hide her smile.
“I’d rather have a cat,” said Glaw, with a nod at Palug. “At least they keep rats from the stores. This hound just naps all day in front of the fire. You ever decide to sell that cat of yours, you let me know.”
Palug’s tail twitched. He glared at Glaw.
“Palug might eat more than the hound,” said Branwen. “Along with a few of your guests.” She shrugged her shoulder, allowing therabbits to slip down her arm. “I brought you something for tomorrow’s cawl.”
The wooden spoon fumbled in Glaw’s hand. All the easy warmth vanished from his eyes. “I… apologies, Branwen. I won’t be buying from you today.”
Branwen frowned. Glaw had been the first villager to buy her game when she began hunting. He never turned down fresh meat. “Why?”
Glaw looked as though he would rather eat those rabbits raw than answer. “There’s been talk.”
