“Consider it your first payment,” he said. “Use it to take care of your family while you’re away. We have two days until Nos Calan Gaeaf. We must journey to the gates of Annwvyn to join the Hunt.”
She gaped at the coin. It was the answer to so many of her sleepless nights, and he had handed it over without flinching. It almost angered her how easily he had fixed her problems with a handful of gold. She took a deep breath; if they were going to accomplish this, she needed him just as he needed her.
“This is folly,” she finally said.
“My plans have been called worse,” he replied. “Are you in?”
Branwen hesitated. And then she clasped his hand.
CHAPTER 12
ON THE DAY of Nos Calan Gaeaf, the gates of Annwvyn were guarded by mortals. Mist crowned the old mountains, and the air held the promise of winter.
A gray mare trotted toward the gates, and the rider raised his hand in greeting. His horse wore the colors of Dyfed, and the man was dressed like a noble. He bore a sword that was clearly more ornament than weapon. The soldiers relaxed. Then they tensed anew when they saw the woman at his back. She had an unstrung bow, a full quiver of arrows, a dagger, and enough scars to make them nervous. A cat sat atop her shoulder.
“Good afternoon,” called the noble. “We apologize for startling you. I hope we’re not too late to join the Hunt.”
“Get the scribe,” one of the soldiers murmured, before taking a swig from a half-full flask.
A scribe scurried out of a tent, parchment and quill in hand. “Names?”
And Gwydion opened his mouth to tell the first lie of many.
Branwen had been skeptical of Gwydion’s plan from the beginning.
“From this moment, I am Nisien, the estranged third cousin of the Iarll of Emlyn,” he said as they rode from Branwen’s home. She cast one last look at her farm; it was everything familiar and dear, and she hated to leave it. She had told Mam she was going on a hunt, and that was not a lie. Glaw’s niece was given coin and instructions, and she would keep Mam safe. They would be all right, Branwen told herself.
Gwydion continued, “I married a woman from Gwaelod and took to living on the coast. I have been invited to the Hunt out of courtesy, with little expectation that I will attend because no one else from my family will be there. However, Iamattending. And you are the huntress I hired on the way so I would not embarrass myself.”
Branwen bit back a snort. She kept one hand on his waist for balance. “That’s the story?”
“It’s the best explanation I could come up with as to why I attend the Hunt with a… lady lacking in rank.”
Branwen did not bother to hide her snort a second time. “Was that little dance all to avoid saying the word ‘commoner’?”
Gwydion laughed. “Sorry. It felt rude to say aloud.”
“It’s true. I am common.”
“You are many things,” he replied, “but common is not one of them.”
She flushed and ignored the remark.
“Nisien,” she said, “how did you come up with that story? And why is anyone going to believe it?”
There was a note of pride in Gwydion’s voice. “Because I am a very good trickster. And it is not a story. Nisien is a true person with an invitation to the Hunt. I intercepted his invitation.”
“And how do you know the real Nisien won’t show up?”
Gwydion took a moment to answer. “Because he is dead.”
Branwen grimaced. Surely, he hadn’t…
“I did not kill him,” said Gwydion, after an impossibly long moment. “He and his wife lived on the coast of Gwaelod.”
Branwen understood at once. “He drowned when the kingdom flooded.”
“He did,” agreed Gwydion. “Before word of his unfortunate passing could reach his family, I intercepted those letters. And from there… I simply replaced them with my own. His family thinks he is alive and well. That is why we can sneak into the Hunt when no one else can. Because we have a true invitation… even if it is addressed to another.”
