Branwen’s neck prickled with unease. “So you took a dead man’s name? This is… something you do?”
“I keep my own little garden of spies,” said Gwydion. “Thieves, mostly. Beggars, children, those who need coin or healing or help. Most of them are in Gwynedd, but I have sent some to other kingdoms.” He must have sensed Branwen’s displeasure, becauseGwydion added, “After the Hunt, Nisien will suffer an accident of his own. Let his family mourn him properly. But for now the guise is necessary. And if you think Dyfed does not have their own spies in Gwynedd, then you are far more gullible than I thought.”
“And what is my name?” she asked. “In this little ruse of yours?”
Gwydion took a moment to answer. “I admit, that same question has crossed my mind.”
She swallowed hard.
“When Rhain was attacked,” said Gwydion, “I heard what he said… something about calling you ‘girl’ for fear of using the wrong name.”
She had almost forgotten that Gwydion was there for Rhain’s passing—and all that it had entailed. She considered her answer.
“Branwen is my name,” she said. “Or, it is now. One of the folk called me that when I was a child. Three of them discovered what I could do, and I feared that they would find me and my mam if they knew my true name. They can do that, you know. Names have power.” She drew in a long breath, tasting the cold autumn air. “I refuse to belong to another.”
Gwydion tilted his head so he could meet her gaze over his shoulder. To her surprise, there was understanding in his expression. “I see.” He cleared his throat. “Then you shall be Branwen, huntress of Argoed, lady of the arrow and blade. The huntress I chose above all others.”
She rolled her eyes. “Does that sort of flattery work on noble ladies?”
“On noblemen, too,” he replied. “Everyone enjoys a touch of well-placed adulation.”
Branwen snorted for a third time. “Who else will be at this hunt? Anyone I should know of?”
“Well, King Arawn,” he said dryly.
“Of course,” she said, her tone equally dry.
King Arawn had ruled Annwvyn for centuries. The king of the tylwyth teg, lord of the otherlands, immortal and untamed as a winter storm. It was said he wore a crown of bones and had hair red as blood. He kept to his fortress of Caer Sidi in the farthest reaches of the mountains.
“And King Pwyll,” said Gwydion. “And I heard that his son, Pryderi, fought a duel for the honor of entering the Hunt.”
Branwen furrowed her brows, trying to remember what little she knew about the royal family of Dyfed. The southernmost kingdom of the isles was a prosperous one, brimming with trade, mines of copper and lead, sea fishing, and farmland. “Pryderi. Pryderi. Why do I know that name? There was something about a monster, right? Did he try and take one for a pet?”
Gwydion shook his head. “Other way around. There were rumors that King Pwyll wasn’t his father by blood, that his mother had taken an afanc as a lover. And the afanc took Pryderi to raise. He was only recovered a few years ago.”
Branwen made no attempt to hide her disdain. “I suppose that is a rumor you created.”
“I would never repeat such slander,” replied Gwydion. Then he added, “The rumor I started was that Pryderi was dead and this new king’s son is a convenient replacement.”
“You’re so kind,” she said.
Gwydion shrugged one shoulder. “It’s politics. Dyfed andGwynedd are rivals, and for decades, Dyfed’s closest ally has been Annwvyn. It’s why none would dare attack Pwyll openly—he could call on Arawn. And the Otherking has never been fond of my family. We have too much magic for his liking.”
She swallowed. “And yet you’re still going to slip into his Wild Hunt, invade his lands, and win the entire thing under an assumed name?” She looked at his signet ring; it gleamed upon his left hand. A dragon, as befitted one of the royal family of Gwynedd. “Your ring is very subtle,” she added wryly.
Gwydion’s thumb rubbed across the ring. “I’ll stash it in my cloak. And no one will suspect us.”
She raised her brows at him. “Because you’re a better spy?”
“Trickster,” he amended.
“What is the difference between a trickster and a spy?”
“Spies are paid,” he said.
To Branwen’s surprise, Gwydion’s plan worked.
A harried-looking scribe checked the nameNisienagainst her own records, looked over the royal invitation Gwydion drew from his pack, then waved them past the soldiers. The soldiers eyed Palug with confused frowns, but no one made to stop them. With every step, Branwen tensed. This was too easy. Surely it should have been more difficult to infiltrate the Hunt.
