The fletching kissed the corner of her mouth—and then she let the arrow fly.
Cigfa whirled, slicing with that serrated knife. The arrow fell in two pieces.
The human man saw Branwen, and desperate hope flared in his eyes. “Please,” he gasped. “Please, help me. I have a family—please—”
Branwen nocked a second arrow and held a third at the ready. She stalked closer, and her aim never wavered. “You’re going to be all right.”
“Well, well,” said Cigfa, tilting her head. It made her look birdlike. “I do not know you.”
Branwen narrowed eyes. “Your people have called me the white crow.”
A slow smile spread across Cigfa’s face. “That eye of yours. It’s gold as autumn leaves.”
Branwen’s fingers froze on the arrow. “My eye is not gold.”
“It is,” said Cigfa. “Have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror? You should. You’re rather striking.”
“Of course I’ve seen myself in a mirror,” snarled Branwen.
Cigfa tilted her head in the other direction. “One without iron?”
Branwen opened her mouth to reply, then went silent.
Cigfa’s gaze slid past Branwen. “Hello, my favorite prince. I see you finally made friends.”
“Cigfa,” said Pryderi as calmly as though they had met in a pleasant courtyard. “What are you doing?”
“Hunting,” replied Cigfa. “Same as you.”
“No.” Pryderi’s mouth thinned. “I have never hunted like this.”
“You think rabbits do not feel fear?” Cigfa scoffed. “That a deer’s heart does not pound when it flees? That fowl cannot feel pain?” She stepped toward Branwen and Pryderi. “Unlike your kind, mine do not lie to ourselves. Every hunt is a cruelty.”
Branwen’s grip on the arrow never relented, even as her arm muscles burned. “Let him go.”
“Cigfa,” said Pryderi pleadingly.
“Why this mortal?” said Cigfa. Then she touched one of the severed hands at her belt. “Why not this one, or this one?”
“Because those are starting to look a little ripe.” Gwydion had emerged from the blackberries, Palug at his shoulder.
Cigfa took another step. “Kingdoms are not built upon thrones. They are built on blood and bone—the only difference between Pwyll and Arawn is that my king chooses to wear his misdeeds where all might see them.”
“I won’t tell anyone of this,” said the man, his voice shaking. “Please, just—”
Cigfa whirled, took hold of the man’s hair, and brought her knife down upon the back of his neck.
But her blade never found flesh. It clanged against Pryderi’s spear.
Quicker than thought, Cigfa pulled a second blade from her belt with her other hand. Pryderi lunged, using the spear to drive her back.
Cigfa wielded the weapons as though she had been born with a blade in each hand. Every movement was graceful. She deflected the blow and slashed the spear aside, her dark sea-green eyes alight.
“Well, well,” she said merrily. “The lost heir has found his teeth.”
Pryderi swallowed. “Don’t make me do this, Cigfa.”
She smiled. “Come now. You said you could fight. I prefer dancing, but I will settle for this.”
