He did not carry magic; hewasmagic.
Arawn snapped his fingers, and his lips moved soundlessly. The hounds retreated from the rabbit. He slid from his horse and knelt beside the snared ci annwn. He smoothed his hand down the hound’s back as though it were a favored pet. Perhaps it was.
Arawn reached down and unbound the snare. Then he rose, turning in a circle. Likely looking for whoever had set the trap.
Branwen knew she should have retreated. She should have shrunk into the shadows, covered the white gleam of her hair with a cloak and closed her eyes. That was the best way to deal with monsters, was it not? To hide under a blanket.
Gwydion’s face was drawn, lips slightly parted as though he yearned to call for his power.
Branwen’s right hand closed around his left, squeezing hard. A warning.
He returned the grip, his fingers curling around hers. He must have felt her shaking, for his thumb swept back and forth across the soft inside of her wrist. She felt that touch like a shiver up herarm—and heat blazed in her cheeks. She was not accustomed to easy caresses, to the way that some friends seemed to pass touch back and forth like shared drinks. Branwen had been a solitary creature for so long that even the gentle warmth of her hand in his felt scorching.
She did not draw away. She dared not move, not with the Otherking so near.
His horse pranced in place as Arawn looked about the clearing. Slowly, his gaze swept upward.
Branwen could not hear a thing—not even her own heartbeat. Palug’s claws dug into her arm, but she only held him tighter.
The Otherking’s golden eyes gazed up at the tree where Branwen and Gwydion knelt. He could have fired an arrow, thrown a spear, or called upon his magic. But Arawn did none of those things. Picking up the reins, he urged his horse into a canter. Hunter, horse, and hounds darted along the path and deeper into the forest.
She could have sworn that he had smiled.
The quiet lasted long after the hunting hounds had retreated.
Branwen sat in the cradle of tree branches, her breathing uneven. Palug had finally wormed his way free and sat on the edge of their shelter, gaze fixed on the place where Arawn had vanished. Gwydion picked up a water flask and poured two small cups, then mixed in a handful of dried blooms. “It will be cold, but it might help,” he murmured, handing a cup to Branwen.
She sniffed the water. “Chamomile?”
“I doubt either one of us will find sleep easily,” he replied. He offered her a small, forced smile. His gaze fell on Pryderi; the prince’s soft snores were muffled into his own chest. “I suppose I shouldn’t resent him for resting. He was, after all, the only one of us invited to this Hunt.”
Branwen huffed out a quiet laugh. “No rest for the uninvited.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, clinking his cup against hers.
It was not tea; there was no fire to warm it. But the chamomile water tasted herbal and a little sweet. The scent plunged her into memories of home. There was always chamomile in the sleep brew that the apothecary sold her. She bit her lip. Mam would be asleep by now, if all was well.
“What is it?” asked Gwydion. His eyes were on her face, a concerned crease between his brows.
She shook her head. “Just thinking of home.”
That line deepened, and he looked away. “You miss it?”
“I do,” Branwen admitted.
“You’ll see it again,” said Gwydion. There was something akin to guilt in his face. Perhaps he felt responsible for being the one to drag her into the Hunt. “It might not be for a while, but you will.”
“It’s not just home.” Branwen drained the last of her chamomile. “It’s… all of it. The smell of the hearthfire, the sound of Mam waking up in the morning, feeding the chickens, Palug demanding that I feed him first. It’s… it’s home.” There was no disguising the ache in her voice, and she did not try. “Do you miss Caer Dathyl?”
Gwydion let out a startled laugh. “I—no. Not at all.”
She gave him a disbelieving look.
“Truly, I don’t,” he said.
Perhaps it was the late hour or the magic all around them. Branwen felt brave enough to ask, “Then what do you miss?”
His eyes unfocused and his mouth softened, as though he were gazing at something only he could see. “A meadow.”
