She did not climb down; rather, she threw herself from the tree and landed hard on her feet. Pain jolted up through her ankles, but she ignored it. She ran as fast as she could. Faster than she had run in years. As the hound gained distance, the silence vanished from her ears.
Perhaps it should have been a comfort to hear again. But it only meant she could hear her own panicked heartbeat.
Mam.
Branwen would not let mortal nor monster harm her mother. She would tear Annwvyn apart if that was what it took. She would hunt down every ci annwn in those mountains. She pushed herself faster, lungs on fire as she rounded a bend in the trail. She would warn Rhain and Mam, get them into her house, and then hunt that monster. It would regret stepping out of the otherlands.
She darted through the fields, cutting across farmland until Rhain’s home came into view. Her throat felt raw with every ragged breath, but she did not slow. Her feet slammed into the ground as she rushed past the small flock of sheep.
The quiet bloomed into silence.
And that was when she saw the attack.
The ci annwn had Rhain by the leg. The old hunter had a trowel in hand and slammed the cold iron into the creature’s skull again and again, blindly trying to defend himself. Mam was perhaps ten strides away, frozen in terror. She could not see the creature, but she must have known something was there. Gwydion was in front of Mam, trying to put himself between her and the unseen danger. There was a knife in his hand. When he saw Branwen, he opened his mouth—but she never heard what he said.
Rhain kicked out, dislodging the monster’s teeth through sheer luck. The hound snarled soundlessly, its fangs stained crimson. Branwen yanked the iron charm from around her neck and flung it at the hound.
The ci annwn seemed to sense the iron. It threw itself away, darting around the charm before plowing into Rhain. It tore into his side, and Rhain was screaming, screaming so loud and yet Branwen could not hear a thing.
She kicked the hound as hard as she could. Ribs snapped beneath her heel.
The ci annwn lunged at her. Its lips peeled back, eyes flashing—
Branwen slashed out with her knife. She felt the blow connect, felt the startled cry of pain as the afanc fang kissed flesh.
Branwen sank into a defensive crouch, knife held at the ready. The dog was limping badly, mouth foamy and red. It sprang at her.
There was no room for fear—she was pure fury.
Branwen screamed. And she drove the afanc knife through the hound’s ribs and into its heart.
The hound twitched, then went limp.
Abruptly, Branwen could hear again. Her breaths were loud, a jagged gasp on every exhale. Behind her, Mam was sobbing and Rhain was making quiet sounds of pain.
“What in the otherlands,” Gwydion gasped, his gaze on the ci annwn. Now that death had claimed it, its illusion was gone, Branwen realized. They could all see the hound crumpled and bleeding into the dirt.
“Rhain,” said Branwen, rushing to his side. The older man was trembling, unable to stand.
Gwydion hastened to Rhain’s other side. The young noble was pale, but his hands were steady as he tore off his cloak and bound itaround Rhain’s leg wound. Within moments, the wool was soaked through. She could see the throb and beat of his pulse.
“The bite must have nicked an artery,” said Gwydion.
There was a terrible understanding in his face—a sympathy that made Branwen’s stomach clench. She looked away; she couldn’t meet his eyes while he looked at her like that. It made everything far too real.
Rhain’s shaking hand reached for hers, and Branwen took it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I—I’m so sorry.”
She should have been here.
Rhain shook his head. “None of that,” he said. “Come here, girl.”
Grief burned hot at the back of her throat. Everything about this was wrong—the way his hair was rumpled, the pallor in his face, the flecks of blood against his cheek. It felt as though she should have been able to set things aright if she just knew the right words to say.
“You’ve always been a good girl,” he said. “Got no one to take the farm. You’ll have to look after the chickens, the goat—”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’ll take care of everything, I promise.”
His knuckles brushed her cheek. They were rough and too cold, but steady. “Good girl.” He blinked, and each time it seemed to take more effort to reopen his eyes. “Always meant it, when I called you that. Wasn’t just so I’d forget and use the wrong name.”
