Gwydion drew in an involuntary breath. They must have recognized him. How? His mind raced to come up with a lie, an excuse. He felt like he had when Amaethon had held flame in his hand, staring up at the oak tree that Gwydion had taken refuge within. Trapped, cornered, helpless.
He had to talk his way out of this. He had to—
But before he could say a word, the girl knocked the bottle from Branwen’s hand. It broke upon the ground, and the sparks of the bonfires glimmered on the shattered glass.
“That’s not for you, crow,” said the folk girl. “You stole Cydifor’s magic.”
“And my knife,” said the boy.
It wasn’t him, Gwydion realized. They had not recognized him. They were after Branwen.
His fear sharpened into anger. He stepped between the folk and Branwen, his words commanding and edged with an unspoken threat. “Touch her again and—”
The boy seized Gwydion’s right hand. That grip was inhumanly strong, and pain flared down Gwydion’s right arm. He twisted,trying to break free of the sudden agony that consumed him, but the folk boy flung him to the ground. Gwydion stumbled, falling to one knee. “I would really appreciate,” he said, through clenched teeth, “if people would stop grabbing that hand.”
“Humans,” said the girl, making no attempt to hide her disdain. “You’re weak, fragile, and so very greedy.”
An old fury simmered to the surface. Gwydion had spent most of his life being calledweak. Weak for a diviner, weak for a brother, weak for a royal. Part of him yearned to reach into his pocket, to take the blackberry seeds he kept hidden and unleash his power upon them. He imagined these two folk hunters wrapped in briars, powerless for the first time in their lives.
But the moment he used his magic, he would be unmasked. There was only one plant diviner in the isles—and he was the trickster of Gwynedd.
“Bold words,” said Branwen. She reached into one sleeve of her gown and withdrew that wickedly curved knife. “For one who lost a fight to a mortal child. You never did return for this. Too frightened?”
The boy snarled. “No one frightens us, least of all a mortal. Give me my knife.”
Branwen bared her teeth at him. “No. It does well chopping firewood.”
Fury glittered in the boy’s eyes. He lunged, and Branwen darted aside.
The gown was her undoing. Her beautiful, cursedly long gown. The boy stamped one foot upon the hem, and she fell. She rolled, trying to rise, but the boy’s foot came down on her back, pinning her in place.
She clawed at the boy’s ankle, trying to free herself. But he was as immovable as a mountain.
“We will have that eye,” said the girl. She had a knife of her own.
Gwydion’s mouth went dry. He had to stop this. He had to—
But he couldn’t stop this, part of him whispered. The moment Gwydion used his magic, his plans would come undone. He had come too far, risked too much. He liked Branwen well enough, but if it came down to a choice of her or the Hunt, he knew which one he had to pick.
There had to be some words to disarm the situation, some way he could stop this without unraveling everything.
“We are here for the Hunt, as are the rest of you,” he said desperately. “We are not here for trouble.”
“Then give us her eye,” snarled the girl, and drove the knife down.
CHAPTER 15
PRYDERI WAS HIDING. This time, he would openly admit it.
The chaos of the revel was overwhelming. There were too many things to see and hear and smell, and it all came together in a din. So Pryderi retreated to the edge of camp, where none would see him.
With a sigh, he sat down on a fallen log. A knot of shame twisted in his gut. He should be out in the revel—making friends, drinking, eating his fill. But the thought was simply too daunting. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back toward the stars. He hoped no one would notice his absence. If they did—
Something brushed his left leg.
Pryderi leapt to his feet, heart hammering. He half expected to see one of the folk or perhaps a human hunter. But there was no one.
Pryderi looked down… and then farther down.
