He nodded at her knife. “Because of that.”
Her brows drew together in confusion. “Because of my dagger?”
“You said you took it from a monster,” he said. “That is the fang of an afanc.” He took a steadying breath. “You’ve heard the tales.”
“I’ve heard a little.” She tilted her head. “But I also know how tales can change in the telling.”
“They’re all true,” he said. “I was kidnapped by a monster. A farmer saved me.” His voice softened as he spoke of his family. “He was no warrior, no great hero. But he saw a child trapped by a monster and acted. Anyone with the bravery to fight an afanc has my respect.”
She reddened, her hand falling to the knife at her belt. “I didn’t kill the afanc myself, you should know. I was very young—and attacked by three of the folk that ventured into my village unseen. When they realized I could see them, they threatened to cut out my eye. To take back the magic they thought I had stolen. I fought back, stole their knife, and used it to defend myself.”
He thought of her, young and small, cornered by three immortal children. He knew the folk well enough to realize how terrifying that would have been. “You were still brave,” he said.
She shrugged, looking more embarrassed than pleased. “As were you. You helped slay your own monster, did you not?”
The rest of the day passed swiftly.
Gwydion took the lead, his feet bare and eyes half-closed. He hummed under his breath, and it took Pryderi a while to understand it was not because Gwydion enjoyed music—it was part of his magic. He made his way through the forest with ease: He never broke a twig or twisted a branch. Ferns bowed before him, and moss rose up to soften his steps.
It was a gift that Pryderi would have welcomed. He imagined what he could have done with such a power on the farm—their crops would have brimmed over, their family fed and happy. Their entire village would have prospered.
Dyfed did not have many diviners. Perhaps it was the distance from Annwvyn or iron in the ground or some trick of fate. Divinerswere more common in the north. If the other children of Dôn were as talented as Gwydion, then Dyfed would do well to make allies of them.
Perhaps Pryderi could. Perhaps this was why fate had led him on this journey.
They went east, climbing into the mountains. The foliage shifted as they went higher, the trees thinning out and the ground giving way to rocks and shorter grasses. As evening crept nearer, Gwydion led them to a cluster of pine trees.
“We can’t sleep here,” murmured Branwen. “Look.”
It took Pryderi a moment to see what she had: a near-invisible trail through the foliage. Something had worn a path into the ground. “Those tracks… well, I have never seen anything like them,” said Branwen. “I would not like to meet whatever left that game trail.”
Gwydion gave her a mocking little bow. “Who do you take me for, huntress?”
He placed his left hand on a tree. This time, he did not hum. He sang—a soft little song. It was a jaunty tune, and Gwydion carried it surprisingly well. Above them, the pine trees seemed to come awake. Needles whispered, wood creaked, and branches wove together. When Gwydion went silent, the canopy had become its own shelter.
“No one will look for us up there,” said Gwydion.
Branwen sighed. “That is a skill I would not mind having.”
“Magical tree houses?” said Pryderi.
She grinned. “I would have never come home.”
Pryderi did not relish the thought of spending a night in that tree. But he forced his unease into the pit of his stomach and followed the others. He tried not to look down as he climbed higher and higher. The birds around him went quiet and watched with confusion as three humans invaded their domain. Finally, he pulled himself up and over into the shelter Gwydion crafted. He had woven the branches into a tight little net. They were surrounded on all sides, so it would be difficult to fall. And no one would see them from beneath.
There was a scritching noise, and then Palug scurried into view. He had scaled the trunk of the tree, his whiskers pointed forward as he gazed at the birds’ nests overhead.
“Oh, no,” said Branwen, taking hold of the cat and gently prying him from the tree. “I’ve had enough of hunting for one day.” She reached into her pack and withdrew a smoked fish to distract the cat.
Pryderi ran his hand along the edge of the magicked shelter. “Thank you,” he said to Gwydion. “I appreciate this.”
“I can tell from the way you look like you want to vomit,” said Gwydion.
Pryderi let out a surprised laugh. “I am unfond of heights.”
“Safer up here than down there,” said Gwydion.
“Which is why I am up here.”
