“I know,” whispered Branwen. “You—you were always—” But she did not know what to say. All the words dried up in her mouth. He had taught her how to hunt, how to track, how to craft and use a bow. He’d brought meals after her cousin lost his home anddaughter. He had watched over Mam, fed Palug scraps, and treated Branwen with a gruff fondness.
Rhain may not have been of her blood, but he was family.
“I know, girl,” he said. “I know.”
And those were the last words to pass between them.
CHAPTER 11
BRANWEN SPENT MUCH of the afternoon digging a grave.
The shovel was old, the blade worn sharp and thin. It cut through the dying grass and dry soil, but the soil was rocky and stubborn. The work went slowly.
Branwen lost herself in the digging. There were other duties to tend to—she needed to return to Argoed and speak with Davies’s widow. She needed to tell the villagers about Rhain’s passing. Her mam’s herbs still needed to be bought. Rhain’s animals would need tending.
There was so much to be done; she ached with grief and exhaustion.
Part of her yearned to kneel beside Rhain, to simply sit next to him and pretend the old man was merely napping. But Branwen forced herself to dig.
She picked a place beneath an old oak tree. Rhain had often satbeneath it, enjoying the shade and view of his farm.It’s a nice place to hear myself think, he once said.
She hoped that he would find this place as peaceful in death as he had in life.
Time passed—hours, though she could not be sure how many. Mam was at home, and Gwydion had gone… somewhere. Branwen could not bring herself to care about anything beyond the shovel in her hands, the weight of dirt, and the lingering scent of death.
It was only when the sun had begun to fall that she heard footsteps. Branwen was waist-deep in the grave. Her work had been slowed by thick roots and a few rocks that would not budge.
“I’m sorry.”
Branwen looked up. Gwydion stood over her, kneeling beside the grave. Gone was the polished young man she had met in the market… had it only been that morning? It felt like a lifetime ago. His clothes were rumpled and dirty, and he looked as exhausted as she felt.
“Why?” she said. “This was not your doing.”
“Nor was it yours,” said Gwydion.
A flicker of anger pierced her numb exhaustion. This pampered lordling did not understand. She had set those snares and, in doing so, accidentally driven that ci annwn to madness. She had tried to defend Rhain’s lands, and instead… he had died. “What would you know about it?”
“I know that you tried to save him,” said Gwydion.
“I failed,” she said dully. She let the shovel fall from her hands, and she knelt there, in a shallow grave with her dirt-stained fingerspressed against her eyes. Both eyes, as she hadn’t yet replaced her blindfold. “Damn it.”
“Here.” When she looked up, she saw Gwydion holding out his hand. She considered not taking it, but there was nothing to be gained by scrambling out of the grave and knocking some of the dirt back in. She clasped his hand—it was the one without the brace, she noticed—and he hauled her upward.
“What happened?” she asked. “After we parted ways?”
Gwydion grimaced. “I went to your home with your cat. Who managed to escape your bag, I might add, and left some rather deep scratches on my arms. Your mother was there, and when she heard of the attack, she wished to warn your neighbor. Then that… that hound. It attacked us in your neighbor’s yard.”
“It was a ci annwn,” Branwen said. “One of King Arawn’s hunting hounds. It must have slipped out of Annwvyn so near the Hunt.”
Gwydion nodded. “I suspected as much. I’ve heard rumors of such creatures—the unseen and unheard death, as the bards call them. You should be commended for killing it.”
“I should have killed it before it slew Davies and Rhain.” Branwen crossed her arms. It felt wrong to accept any praise for her failed hunt.
“I rode back to the village,” Gwydion said. “After the attack, I mean. I let that tavernkeeper know what happened—he said he would tell Davies’s widow and sent his sympathies about Rhain, and a basket of food. He also mentioned that the apothecary had the herbs you wanted, so I went ahead and bought them.” He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small bundle of herbs. Mam’s sleeping herbs, she realized. Branwen gazed at the dried flowers and plants.This morning, it had been all she yearned for. But now, she just felt hollow.
“I can’t pay you for them,” she said.
Gwydion shook his head. “I did not ask for coin.”
