A black-and-white cat stood by his ankle. It had long fur and startlingly green eyes. “Hello,” said Pryderi uncertainly.
The cat meowed and nudged at his leg. It seemed friendly enough. Pryderi squatted down and ran his hand along the cat’s back. It arched into his palm, a purr rumbling in its chest.
“You’re that huntress’s cat, aren’t you?” asked Pryderi. Perhaps it was foolish of him, but he had always spoken to cats on his foster family’s farm. He had enjoyed their company; they were curious and affectionate.
The cat meowed again. The last time he had seen the creature, it had been atop a huntress’s shoulder. Surely she would be missing it.
“Should you be out here alone?” asked Pryderi. “Where is your owner?”
The cat turned and trotted away. Then it looked back at him expectantly. Feeling both foolish—and a little relieved to have a task—Pryderi followed. He would make sure the cat ended up safely with its humans again.
But as he walked through the trees, the cat went still. Its fur stood on end, and it growled.
Pryderi frowned, but he heard it a heartbeat after the cat: the sound of raised voices.
At the edge of the camp, partly concealed within the trees, was the huntress. She had white-blond hair, wide-set pale eyes, and a scar across one cheekbone.
Two of the folk stood around her, caging her in. One was a young man with bloodred hair. He stood with a foot against the huntress’s back, pinning her to the ground. The other was a young woman, her hair braided and her dress made of moss. They were as lovely aspoisonous berries. A human man was on the ground a few strides away, face pale with alarm.
The folk girl lunged for the huntress, driving a knife toward the young woman’s face.
Pryderi was moving before he made the decision to do so. He seized the folk girl’s arm and yanked her backward. The knife plunged into the earth, and the girl tumbled over Pryderi’s shoulder. She landed on her heels, nimble as a cat. She had to leave her knife embedded in the earth—for only a heartbeat. It was enough time for Pryderi to grab it. His fingers curled around the leather hilt, and the moment he touched the weapon, some hidden place within him relaxed. This was what he was meant for. Not for council meetings and diplomacy.
Pryderi bloomed in chaos. He thrived in upheaval and conflict, in those moments when there was too much danger to think. He did not have to worry about impressing anyone. All that existed was this moment: the knife in his hand and the enemy to be defeated.
The folk girl hissed, her fingers digging into the earth as she readied herself to lunge at him.
He let her.
She flew forward, just as the folk boy moved at Pryderi’s back. He heard the whisper of movement, and without hesitating, he sidestepped the girl’s lunge, grabbed her dress, and flung her. Her own momentum slammed her into the boy. They tumbled together, a falling star of tangled limbs and folk finery. When they landed, Pryderi stood over them.
“You know,” he said, “trying to maim a fellow hunter during the feast is rather unfair.”
The folk girl bared her teeth at him. “In the Wild Hunt, all are fair game.”
“The Hunt has yet to begin,” said Pryderi. “So scurry back to your friends and leave these two alone.”
“She’s a cheat,” said the folk boy. “We met her when we were young. She’ll steal your weapons and magic.”
“If you knew that, then perhaps you should have left your knives in your tent.” Pryderi gave the knife in his hand an indolent little twirl. He could kill them. He would have been well within his rights. These two had attacked him, the heir of Dyfed, without provocation. But the thought of sliding this knife into flesh made his stomach turn over.
He took a step back. “Leave. Both of you.”
The folk girl and boy grimaced at him, but they did not attack. The girl darted a glare at Pryderi and murmured, “I see why only an afanc was fit to raise you.” Then before Pryderi could reply, they both hastened toward the revel.
Pryderi’s fingers tightened around the hilt. He forced himself to take deep breaths.Calm, he thought.Be calm.There were no more threats, no more battles to be won.
His gaze fell on the two humans. The pale-haired huntress was grinning at him. That took him aback—he half expected to see fear. The man stood half a step behind her, one hand raised as though to protectively draw her back.
“Well done,” said the huntress. She had large eyes, a straight nose, and a delicate mouth. Her features might have looked waifish, but there was an untamed quality to her. Her smile was all teeth.
“You’re welcome. And apologies,” said Pryderi, “but I do not know your names.”
“Which makes your timely rescue all the more welcome,” said the young man. He had the attractive, finely wrought face found so often in nobility. His skin was pale, his dark hair combed away from his face. It was his eyebrows that Pryderi found himself looking at—those brows hung over his eyes like swords waiting to fall. “Nisien of Emlyn. And this is my huntress, Branwen.”
Pryderi had spent the better part of a year memorizing the names of every noble family in Dyfed. It took him a moment to pull the memory; it was like trying to find a book he’d misplaced. Pryderi had met the Iarll of Emlyn, but not this wayward cousin. “I apologize. The rules of hospitality should have been honored—their attack broke that rule. I will bring word to my father.”
“Your father,” the huntress, Branwen, said. Her eyes widened, and he saw the moment she realized. “You’re the prince.”
