With a shaky hum, Gwydion released the roebuck from its bramble cage. The deer shook itself and tore into the woods.
For a moment, no one moved. Gwydion gazed at the wooden ring. “Does this mean…?”
“Welcome to the Hunt,” said Pryderi.
CHAPTER 19
NIGHT HUNTING WAS no easy feat.
If this had been a mortal hunt, Branwen would have risked a torch. She needed to find tracks and follow them to dens and roosts, to the places where animals hid at night. But this was no ordinary hunt—as evidenced by the living ring on Gwydion’s finger.
That ring glowed with magic. Tendrils of unseen power plunged into the flesh of Gwydion’s forearm like roots into soil. This was how the Hunt worked, Branwen realized. They traded their own signet rings for magical ones—and these replacements would bind them to the rules of the Hunt.
Branwen could not gaze at the ring for too long; it glowed too brightly. At least her sight allowed her to traverse the forest. She could see the magical traps left for unwary travelers—a snare tucked between two trees, a gleam of something gold and watching in thestream, and a bird overhead that sang with a human voice. When she mentioned it to Gwydion and Pryderi, both admitted they heard only owl song.
“I’m going to climb a tree,” she said. “See if there’s anything to be found.”
Gwydion nodded. He kept rubbing his thumb against the strange ring. His expression was distant, as though he only half listened to her. Palug meowed and made as though to climb with her, but Branwen picked up the cat and passed him to Pryderi. “Not now,” she said. “You keep them safe.”
Palug gave her a flat-eyed, unhappy stare.
She handed her lantern to Gwydion and found a sturdy oak. She took hold of one of the branches and heaved herself up. It took a few minutes, picking her way from branch to branch. But finally, she was high enough to gaze through the canopy. She peered at the forest. By moonlight, it was cast in silver. Night and autumn leeched color from the trees. Something flew through the night—a bat or an owl. Branwen watched its course as it dipped and fluttered, vanishing from sight. As her gaze followed the creature, she saw something.
Her heart jolted in surprise. There was a silhouette two branches away. She blinked, trying to force her eyes to focus in the dark. There was no telltale glitter of gold, which meant this creature was mortal. A cloud drifted, and its absence allowed moonlight to spill across the forest.
A lapwing. It had roosted among the branches of the oak tree.
Branwen had never believed in fate. She believed in tangiblethings: the strength in her body, the sharpness of her dagger. She knew magic existed, but it was simply a tool like any other. But seeing that lapwing made her stomach lurch. It felt as though the forest had meant it for her.
Her mother loved lapwings. They were beautiful, with long crests and their black and white feathers. When the sun struck those black feathers, they shone with iridescent purples and greens. This bird must have been lost from its flock and retreated to the trees rather than risk the forest floor.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Branwen reached out. She balanced with her weight against the branch, hoping that the bird would not wake and fly into her face. A fall from this height could kill her.
Carefully, Branwen formed a cage with her hands. One for each wing, so that the lapwing could not attack nor flee. It was how she held unruly chickens.
She took hold of the lapwing. It awoke at once, panicked. Branwen thought of the nights when her mam had awoken Branwen from a dead sleep, and she felt a twinge of sympathy for the bird. “I’m sorry, friend,” she whispered. “Please, please stay quiet.”
She expected the bird to writhe and peck at her, but when Branwen pressed the bird to her chest, the lapwing did not struggle. It made a wary little noise, its talons curled. But it did not attack.
As quickly as she could, Branwen touched her brooch to the lapwing’s leg.
The oak tree seemed to come alive. Branches curled, a whisper of dead leaves fluttering to the ground. Even half expecting it, Branwen flinched. She did not relish the thought that this forestwas aware of her. Gentle as a parent helping a child, the thinnest of branches curled around her brooch and tied it to the lapwing’s leg. In the same moment, a second branch twined around her finger.
She forced herself to breathe as the oak branch broke off and settled on her hand. And before her magicked eye, golden vines grew from the ring and delved into her forearm.
It did not hurt. She would not have even known the enchantment was there, if not for her sight.
But that did not calm her.
There was a magic on her, a spell she had never asked for. It was bound into her very flesh.
“Luck to us both,” she murmured, and released the bird. The lapwing wobbled on its branch, spread its wings, and then flew into the night. Branwen watched it go, silently urging it on.
Dawn crept closer and closer—and still, Branwen found no animal for Pryderi. There was a close call with a wildcat, but it scampered before Gwydion could capture it. Branwen almost netted a bat, but a rustle of leaves scared it off. Pryderi spotted a flicker of something in the wood, but they never saw a creature.
The passage of time made Branwen jittery. Soon, morning would warm the mountains, and the Hunt would be underway. If they could not find Pryderi an animal, he would be disqualified before it had even begun. Frustration burned within her as she scoutedanother set of tracks to an empty rabbit’s warren. With a huff, she rocked back on her heels.
“I have an idea,” said Gwydion.
