“Talk?”
“That anyone who buys your game will find themselves an enemy of Barwn Ifor,” said Glaw heavily.
Branwen let out a startled breath, as though she had been thumped in the stomach. “No.”
“He’s been raging,” said Glaw. “My sister heard that he spoke out against King Math, of all people, for not keeping our lands safe.” He gazed at Branwen with sympathy. “It’s the loss of his son. He’s trying to spread his grief around because he cannot bear the weight of it. You’re getting the brunt of his anger, I’m sorry to tell you.”
“So you’re not going to buy my rabbits,” said Branwen stiffly. “Because word might get back to the barwn.” Anger flared deep within her. Glaw was among those Branwen counted as friends. She had never thought he would pull away for fear of being associated with her.
Branwen and her mother had lived outside the village for many years, but they were still a part of it. Her mam had been a well-respected midwife, and Branwen was well-liked. She had savedchildren from monsters; in hard, hungry winters she came to the village with pheasant, red grouse, and rabbits; she helped her neighbors when they needed it. In the village, one’s word and reputation mattered. One could not survive on their own in the wild country.
As though he sensed her growing fear, Glaw said soothingly, “I’m sure the barwn will relent in a few weeks. Maybe after winter.”
“I don’t have until after winter,” said Branwen. She needed the coin these rabbits would fetch.
“Mayhap the butcher,” said Glaw. “Or you could try Sawyl’s aunt. She’s been talking about selling oggies at the bonfires.”
Branwen took a step back. She forced herself to say, “Thank you, Glaw.”
He nodded back at her.
Her heart heavy, Branwen left Glaw in the shadow of the doorway. She hastened around the tavern, barely aware of her surroundings. There was a terrible rushing in her ears and dread churning in her belly. She needed to go to the apothecary. Her mam’s sleep had been growing more restless, and without sleep she would deteriorate all the faster.
“Weren’t you going to sell those?”
It was the noble. He stood a few steps away, his arms idly crossed and one eyebrow cocked.
Branwen glared at him. Her manners were worn thin. “I don’t suppose you’re interested.”
The man hesitated, looking awkward for the first time. “I… no. Thank you. I did not come here for rabbits.”
She pulled the rabbits from her shoulder, sitting down on the bench by the tavern. “Why did you come to Argoed?”
He seemed to take this as invitation and sat beside her. “I have need of a huntress.”
“For what?”
“A hunt,” he said dryly.
She gave him an unamused look.
“And here I thought I was being hired to braid your hair,” said Branwen tartly.
A grin broke across his mouth. That smile seemed to disarm him—scrunching at his eyes and giving him a boyish look—but he banished it in a heartbeat. His face smoothed out into careful lines, and he was cold and stark and beautiful once again.
“Who are you?” she said.
“My name is Gwydion, son of Dôn,” he said. “And I would very much like to buy you a drink.”
CHAPTER 9
THE HUNTRESS WAS unexpected.
With a name like “the white crow,” Gwydion had imagined a woman well into her years. But Branwen could not have been any older than eighteen. Her right eye was covered by a cloth. He wondered if she had lost it in a hunt, but he knew better than to ask. He had dealt with enough pointed questions about his hand.
Branwen ordered drinks and a mutton soup, then settled down in the tavern’s farthest corner. Her cat sat beside her, his tail flicking and green eyes fixed on Gwydion. He was glad when a middle-aged man approached the table, easily balancing a tray of drinks and food on one hand. He slid two tankards before them, inclined his head slightly toward Gwydion and far more deeply to Branwen. She picked up the tankard and drained half of it in a few gulps—which gave Gwydion time to study her.
Her hair was so pale it was nearly white. Her eye was icy, and shehad a gaze that pierced sharper than any arrow. She was no beauty of the court; she wore no elegant gown, nor jewelry, and her lips were unpainted. But she had a feral, visceral quality about her. He found himself glancing at her again and again, merely for the pleasure of seeing her. Every time, he saw something new—the way her brows were slightly darker than her hair, the strong line of her jaw, and the scar along one cheekbone. Seeing where he looked, she touched her cheek. “Wolf hunt,” she said. “Now, why did you want to speak with me?”
