Far from the bonfires and the flowing wine, the night chilled. Winter slipped its cold fingers between the bare tree branches. Pryderi’s breath fogged around him, and his ears went numb and itchy. The trees were dark, spindly shapes illuminated by moonlight. Wind rustled through the branches, giving the impression of whispering voices. Pryderi took a tighter hold on the spear. It would double as a walking stick, and the weight was a reassurance that he could defend himself.
They spent the better part of an hour picking their way through the forest. The farther they journeyed from camp, the more signs of animals appeared. There were deer tracks, birds’ nests in the trees, and freshly tilled earth from rabbits and voles. As they went, Branwen did a strange thing—she gave a little hop, then looked over her shoulder. “Don’t put your foot down on that piece of slate.”
Pryderi looked down. True enough, a rough rock jutted from the earth. It looked ordinary to his eyes.
Gwydion jumped over the slate. Pryderi did so, too.
Both his companions had their secrets. And while Pryderi would let them keep those secrets, he still made note of them.
Palug trotted ahead, tail curled like a fish hook. Once, he stopped and peered intently toward Branwen’s right. She paused, holding up a hand for the others to halt.
Pryderi heard noises. Other hunters were passing nearby, trampling undergrowth and cursing as one of the them stumbled over a fallen log.
Branwen gestured them into the bushes, and they all crouched. As they hid, the sound of voices grew louder.
“—not going to find anything with you making that racket,” said a woman irritably.
A man made a huffy sound. His voice had the accent of a Dyfed noble. “I am paying you very well to win this Hunt for me. If you cannot find a wolf—”
“We’ll not be finding wolves around here,” said the huntress. “Not in the dark, not in these woods. They’ll likely find us, if they want to. No, I told you. We need to find a wild hog. They’ll defend themselves far more viciously than any wolf.”
“I’m not attaching my signet ring to a pig.” He sniffed. “Just because you were content to tie your wedding ring to an otter—”
An otter was a good choice, Pryderi thought. They were clever and shy, and one could vanish into a river never to be glimpsed again. Even afancs had trouble hunting them.
The huntress said something that Pryderi did not catch. She and the nobleman were walking away, and their voices quieted. Branwen was the first to rise.
“She used her wedding ring?” said Pryderi, frowning.
“As I told him,” said Branwen, with a nod toward Gwydion, “this is how you know the Wild Hunt was created by nobles. Most of us common mortals don’t walk around with signet rings. Wealthy merchant families might purchase one, but the rest of us simply use our word as our oath. We have little need of silver and wax.”
“I wonder if we get our rings back,” mused Gwydion.
“I hope so,” replied Pryderi. “A signet ring is a dangerous thing to lose.”
“True,” said Gwydion.
They continued on. Another hour passed in relative quiet. They heard two other hunting parties, but Branwen managed to avoid them. Finally, they seemed to be so deep within the mountain forest that they were the only three people in the world. A stream burbled nearby.
“We should fill our flasks,” Branwen said. “Then we start looking. Many animals will keep to places with fresh water.”
While Branwen knelt beside the stream, Pryderi walked alongside the water. The air carried the sickly sweet smell of decay. He pushed aside a bush. Half-rotted into the ground was a dead polecat.
“You could tie your ring to that,” said Gwydion, “but I would try for something a little more nimble.”
Branwen snorted. “At least we know that we’re far enough from camp to encounter predators.”
She held the lantern aloft to study the damp earth. Her gaze flickered over indentations in the ground, the broken undergrowth, and the small trails. Pryderi found it fascinating to watch her work; her body loosened as she traced a footprint in the ground, then touched a broken branch. This was where she found her peace, he realized. Others looked for it in drink or stories, but Branwen found it in the hunt.
“Deer tracks,” she murmured. “Recent.” She rose and began to follow the water.
Gwydion and Pryderi exchanged a glance. “After you,” said Pryderi, with a polite inclination of his head.
Gwydion returned the smile—with just as much warmth. “Of course.”
Pryderi knew they were both thinking the same: that Pryderi would never let Gwydion walk at his back. It was far too easy to slide in a knife.
Pryderi had heard of Gwynedd’s royal family. King Math was a nightmarishly powerful diviner, capable of turning his enemies into animals or killing with a touch. But he had not ventured out of Caer Dathyl for many years. His niece and nephews were rumored to be cruel and capricious, warring among themselves for power.
