“Should I make a blindfold?” he asked quietly. “I could use part of my cloak.”
She touched her forehead. “It wouldn’t help. The iron is what drove the magic back, kept it caged. Without that…”
“What’s wrong?” asked Pryderi.
“Headache,” said Branwen tensely. “Bright lights, sounds—they’re beginning to grate. I’ve never used my eye for this long. My mam made me a blindfold stitched with iron to ward off the magic, but I could not bring it here.”
Pryderi touched the pouch he tied to his belt. “If we find a signet ring made of iron, would that work? It might be heavy, but we could put something together. At least so the eye wouldn’t pain you at night.”
“That’s not a bad—” Branwen began to say, then went silent. “Someone’s coming.”
They hastened off the game trail into a line of bushes. The leavesbrushed Gwydion’s exposed neck, sending droplets of cold rainwater down his back. He shivered and silently cursed the weather. At least it was not snow.
True to Branwen’s word, he heard the sounds a few moments later: the crunch of leaves underfoot, conversation, and laughter. A small group spilled out of the trees, heading westward down the mountain. There was an easy camaraderie among the hunters; one appeared to be telling a tale while the others laughed. They were eating smoked fish and bread as they walked.
The smell of fish proved to be too much. Palug darted from the bushes.
“No,” whispered Branwen, horror in her voice. “Palug, stop!”
Gwydion hummed, allowing a small trickle of his power into the ground. Ferns and weeds reached for the cat, but he was too quick. He flitted toward the hunting party.
“Thatcat,” said Branwen in exasperation, and rose to follow, knife in hand. Pryderi surged after her, making as much noise as a sheep caught in a fence. Which left Gwydion sitting alone in the bushes.
With a resigned little sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. If this was about to turn violent, he could at least try to protect the cat.
Palug rushed up to the hunters, meowing as though he had never tasted food in his life. “What a handsome cat,” said a mortal woman, kneeling.
“I would not,” said another hunter. This one had forest-green hair and eyes like moonlight. He gently pulled the woman back when she made to pet Palug.
Branwen and Pryderi scrambled after the cat. “Morning,” called Pryderi. “We mean no harm!”
“Morning,” called one of the hunters. He was another one of the tylwyth teg, with elegantly pointed ears and a shark’s smile. He used those sharp teeth to take another bite of fish. “Prince Pryderi, you’re looking well.”
“And you,” said Pryderi with a polite incline of his head.
“This yours?” The wary green-haired hunter nodded down at Palug.
“He’s an ungrateful little beggar,” Branwen said, picking him up. “But he is mine. Them, too,” she added, with a nod at Gwydion and Pryderi. “And the last hunting party that tried to hurt them ended up dead.”
One of the human women shook her head. “Nothing to fear from us,” she said. “We’re out of the Hunt.” She lifted her left hand—and Gwydion felt his breath catch. Curled around her index finger, growing up her arm, was a small bilberry bush. Roots wove through her fingers; leaves curled along her wrist and forearm. Even as he watched, the plant grew up her shoulder. Her magic-given ring must have been made from a bilberry root.
All the hunters bore such foliage—all except for one. He was human, with reddish-brown hair and a leanly dangerous look. His skin was unmarred by sun, but his hands were too worn to belong to a nobleman. Gwydion’s gaze flicked over him with practice; he had seen such men before. This man was a blade for hire. Likely a personal assassin belonging to one of the Dyfed nobles.
“Is that what happens when someone captures your signet ring?” asked Branwen, with a glance down at her own oaken ring.
The hunter nodded. “Yes. Once the ring sprouted and took holdof me, I could no longer hunt. We can only walk back toward camp. So we’re taking what rings we did collect to King Pwyll.”
“And I’m taking mine to King Arawn,” said one of the folk hunters.
“I’ve never seen such magic,” Pryderi said, gazing at another of the hunters. Around his arm grew what looked to be a small elm tree.
“It’s a binding,” said the folk hunter. “I’ve heard King Arawn constructs the spell every year. Once your ring is given to the Hunt, the forest can take hold of you.”
“Because a signet ring is near enough to a name,” murmured Branwen. Her gaze flicked uneasily to her own ring a second time.
The folk hunter nodded. “And names have power.”
“Are all of you out?” asked Gwydion curiously.
