Dawn touched the forest.
And with that, the Wild Hunt truly began.
CHAPTER 20
THE TREES OF Annwvyn were so old that they did not sing.
Gwydion had walked old forests, listening to melodies only he could hear: a chorus of oak, hazel, birch, yew, and ash. Annwvyn’s trees rumbled like a mountainous heartbeat. The forest had existed long before Gwydion’s great-grandfather was born, and it would outlast them all.
Gwydion had slipped off his boots. It took a small effort of magic to soften his footsteps with moss and lichen, but he wanted to feel the ground. It helped attune him to the forest, to feel its breaths and shifting moods.
Talk to me, Gwydion thought.Warn me of enemies.
He was not the only one to be cautious. Branwen’s gaze was narrowed, her attention wholly on their surroundings. With the sun risen, the Hunt and all of its dangers were underway. They were hunters and hunted alike.
Branwen kept her bow in one hand. She appeared to be following the places where sunlight broke through the canopy and the undergrowth was thickest. She checked for signs of voles and rabbits, murmuring that they would be prey for larger animals.
“You see the deepest parts of the forest?” she said, nodding toward a shadowed thicket. “You’ll find smaller game there—birds, voles, maybe a deer. But if you want larger game? Look for the places where the landscape shifts. Where meadow meets forest, where forest meets water, where water touches the grass. In-between places.”
“The way magic flourishes at dawn and dusk,” said Pryderi. He still took up the rear, that spear resting atop one broad shoulder.
“It does not,” said Gwydion, frowning. “Magic has nothing to do with time.”
“Your magic, mayhap,” said Pryderi. “But in the wild country, most people take measures to protect themselves during moments of change.”
“Or perhaps magicmakesthings change,” said Gwydion. “For better or worse.”
Pryderi pursed his lips. “Most would envy those with magic. Particularly yours.”
“Only one raised by a farmer would say that,” replied Gwydion with a bitter little smile. A pang went through his right hand. “Magic is all well and good in old legends, but I’ve seen what happens when a child has power and wants a sweet. The lucky servants escaped with a few burn scars.”
Pryderi seemed taken aback. “Is that why you’re so determined to keep your brother from the throne?”
“Yes,” said Gwydion. “And it is better for Gwynedd and Dyfed if Amaethon never wears a crown.”
They walked in silence for a while. Branwen stopped abruptly, kneeling by a broken fern. “Someone came this way recently.”
“Should we avoid them?” asked Pryderi. “To keep the cat safe?”
Palug was darting in and out of the undergrowth, chasing motes of dust and shadows.
“We shouldn’t seek them out,” said Branwen. “But if they attached their rings to animals nearby, the game might not have gone too far.”
“How many hunters?” asked Gwydion. All the footprints were a jumble to him, but Branwen read the tracks as though they were words upon parchment.
“Two,” she finally said. “One larger, one lighter. You can see the difference in the depth.”
“Or one was carrying something heavy,” Pryderi said. “Or armored.”
Branwen nodded. “Or that.”
The tracks dipped south, then southeast. Gwydion tried to find his bearings in the forest, to take in every tree and root. He walked with half-lidded eyes, listening more than seeing. So it took him by surprise when Branwen’s arm flung out and caught him in the chest.
There was a polecat standing perhaps ten strides away. It eyed the humans warily, tilting its head.
“Is there a ring?” whispered Gwydion.
Branwen drew in a breath. “That’s not a polecat.”
