“Please,” he said. “Just call me Pryderi.”
Nisien dropped into a hasty bow, but Branwen remained as she was. “There’s no need to bring this to the king. That fight had nothing to do with the Hunt.”
Pryderi recognized her desire for it to go unnoticed. It was the same for him when the noble boys of Dyfed murmured to themselves that Pryderi was wrong, that there was something unfit about him. He had never brought those words to his birth father or mother, for fear of bringing them to light. Some hurts were so close to the soul that they demanded secrecy.
“Well, let me bring you a drink to replace the one they destroyed,” said Pryderi. “As an apology for your rude welcome to the Hunt.”
Nisien said smoothly, “That’s kind but unnecessary. We wouldn’t want to demand more of your time, my prince.”
There was something about these two that made Pryderi’s neck prickle. It wasn’t quite fear, and it wasn’t quite excitement—but something in between.
Pryderi had been a farmer long enough to recognize foxes among the chickens.
“I insist,” said Pryderi.
“That’s very kind,” said Nisien.
It was a short walk to the royal tent. Pryderi slipped inside. Someone had arranged a table of sweets. Among the cwnffets, cyflaith, and teisen fêl, there was a bottle of medd. He stacked a small plate full of the honey cakes and toffees. The mead was golden as the sun. It was a drink of kings, as few commoners could afford the honey. Pryderi had only tasted it on his first night at the court of Dyfed, at a feast meant to welcome the lost prince home.
He hoped that Nisien and Branwen had remained where they were—he did not relish the thought of seeking them out in the chaos and clamor. He hurried through the revel until he broke free near the forest’s edge. Thankfully, Nisien and his huntress were where he had left them.
That black-and-white cat sat in Branwen’s lap as she stroked his long fur.
“My apologies,” said Pryderi, setting down the plate. “I saw that cat earlier and meant to return him to you. I was distracted by the attack.”
“You’re a prince,” said Nisien. “You don’t have to apologize to us.” His hand hovered over one of the honey cakes, but then he did a strange thing. He looked at Branwen.
The huntress shifted the cat aside, leaning over the plate. Her gaze slid over each and every sweet, then the bottle in Pryderi’s hand. “It’s safe,” she said.
“It should be,” said Pryderi. He considered sitting upon the bench, but both Nisien and Branwen were comfortably settled upon the ground. He did not want to imply that he thought himself above them. So he crossed his legs and sat near Branwen. “The food is from my father’s tent.”
Nisien choked on his mouthful of cake, swallowed, then croaked, “We’re honored.”
Pryderi shrugged. “I know some of the folk enchant their own meals for enjoyment or trickery. I’d rather not wake in a month, wondering what became of the Hunt.” He looked at Branwen. “Are you some kind of poison taster?”
Branwen snorted. “I’d cram a poisoned cake into his mouth before I’d take a bite.”
“Such loyalty,” said Nisien. If he was offended, he did not show it. Rather, he was grinning.
Many nobles had brought their own servants. It was widely accepted that in most hunts, the actual work fell to hired hunters. Nobles saved their strength for the honor of the killing blow. Skilled hunters were prized in many royal courts. But Pryderi had never heard one speak so informally to their employer.
“Did the two of you know each other before the Hunt?” asked Pryderi. Perhaps they were friends.
“I’ve known her less than a week,” said Nisien.
Pryderi opened the bottle of medd but realized he’d forgotten to take any cups.
“Oh, just drink it from the bottle,” said Branwen. “We won’t judge.”
Feeling a little self-conscious, Pryderi drank a few swigs from the bottle. The medd tasted sharp and sweet as honeyed sunlight. He offered the bottle to Branwen.
“I’ve never shared drinks with a prince before,” said Branwen, taking it.
“Our mouth leavings taste the same as most people, I expect,” said Pryderi.
She grinned at him. “I have to say, you’re not what I expected.”
Pryderi looked down at his hands. He’d folded them in his lap to hide the old calluses and scars; they were not the hands of a prince.
