“Plants,” said Gwydion, with a gesture toward her gown. “Your dress is made of linen.”
She gaped at him.
“It’s grown from flax,” said Gwydion. “You didn’t know that?”
“I’m a huntress,” she said, “not a weaver.” Then she frowned at him. “Did you buy me linen clothes on purpose?”
He huffed out a laugh. “They’re well-made.”
“That was not a no.”
He shrugged. “I prefer to be around things I can control.”
She gave him a skeptical glance. “Do you have many friends?”
“No.”
“I can see why,” she said. She looked down at her ruined dress. “That cannot be a good use of royal funds.”
He silently disagreed. In that gown, she had been a bewitching creature of green and gold.
“Think of it every time you pay your taxes,” he replied.
They dressed in haste and silence, yanking on boots and trousers, dark cloaks and belts. Gwydion knelt beside his pack, checking its contents to make sure nothing had been disturbed.
“So we have to find an animal,” said Branwen. “Attach a signet ring to it. And then we hunt one another’s animals and try to bring as many rings as possible to our supposed king. But if our ring is taken, we’re out.”
“I think that’s an apt summary of the Hunt, yes,” said Gwydion. He pulled the pack onto his shoulders. Branwen was picking through the weapons.
“Proving that this is a hunt created for nobles,” said Branwen. “Most hunters won’t have a signet ring. I don’t have one. Does that mean I can’t hunt?”
Gwydion had not considered that. He raked his eyes across the tent, searching for… something. Then his gaze fell on the brooch at her cloak. It was a brass circle, simple yet elegant. “That,” he said, pointing at the brooch. “That should work.”
Her hand went to the brooch. “If you think this thing will fit around one of my fingers, then I have vastly overestimated you.”
“I know it’s not a ring,” said Gwydion. “But it’s important to you, yes? You took it from the old man, Rhain. Signet rings are nothing more than who you are. Who your family is. If that man was your family, then take it. It will serve well enough.”
Branwen’s thumb traced the edge of the brooch. “You sound certain of that.”
“I know something of magic,” said Gwydion. “Much of it has to do with intent.”
Branwen’s mouth tightened, but she nodded sharply. “All right. If you think this will work.”
“All of my plans work,” said Gwydion.
“Even the impossible ones?” she asked.
“Especially the impossible ones.”
She flashed a grin. He was not sure if it was the chaos, the danger, or the medd, but he felt a flush rise to his cheeks. The moment they had crossed the boundary into Annwvyn, they had become a team. They were united against the rest of the Hunt. And as much as Gwydion told himself he did not need anyone else, he rather liked that.
It was unwise, he told himself. This Hunt, this huntress—they were all merely part of his plan to keep Amaethon from the throne. He should not become attached to any of it.
“We should move,” said Branwen. “Dawn is perhaps eight hours away.”
Gwydion straightened his shoulders. “Lead on, huntress.”
She turned, reaching for the tent door. Before she could touch it, the flap flew open. A sudden wind made the torch flicker. Something surged into the tent.
