“If we fight—” Pryderi began to say.
“Dyfed’s champion against Annwvyn’s.” Cigfa’s smile blossomed. She was captivating as a sea storm, and she approached with the same inevitability. “I have heard the rumors of how you were raised. I wish to see them for myself.” And without another word, she attacked.
It looked like a dance—Cigfa was all grace and speed while Pryderi moved with the calm surety of a workhorse. When her blades slashed, he caught them on the spear’s shaft, then fended her off with his weapon’s reach. She could never get close enough to land a deadly blow.
Branwen sighted down her arrow, her aim jerking back and forth as Cigfa moved. She hesitated for fear of hitting Pryderi.
“Branwen!” A sharp voice made her glance back. Gwydion was a few strides away, kneeling beside the injured man.
Branwen inhaled, letting the world slow around her. All she needed was a heartbeat of stillness. She saw the sweat at Pryderi’s brow, the glimmer of sunlight through the winter-stark trees, and then the blur as she released the bowstring.
The arrow hissed through the bushes, cutting through the air, and—
Cigfa swung her knife and batted the arrow away. The shards of wood tumbled harmlessly into the ground. And then she was a blur, sprinting so swiftly that Branwen barely had time to bring her own knife to bear. She caught Cigfa’s blade with the jagged edge of her own dagger. Cigfa’s smile never wavered as she pressed her advantage, shoving forward. Branwen’s heels dug in, but for all of her strength, she was still mortal. She would never match one of the tylwyth teg for raw force.
“I like your knife,” said Cigfa. There was no strain or effort to her voice, as though she were remarking on Branwen’s gown at a royal feast. Her blade crept closer to Branwen, its edge shining in the sunlight.
Branwen’s foot slipped, and she crashed to her knees. One ankle tangled in the briars.
She snarled at the strain. Cigfa bore down on her, using her weight to shove Branwen deeper into the thorns.
“DOWN!”
Pryderi’s voice was a snarl.
Without hesitating, Branwen flung herself to one side, rolling into the blackberry bushes. Resistance gone, Cigfa fell forward just as Pryderi thrust the spear at her. She barely managed to dart to one side. There was a feral gleam to her smile as she attacked him.
Pryderi drove Cigfa back. There was a confidence to him that Branwen had never seen before. Gone was the young man filled with hesitation, who seemed torn between yearning and wariness.
This Pryderi looked like a prince sent to war.
The violence had Cigfa’s full attention. She let out a burble of merry laughter, her knives a blur.
Glad for the reprieve, Branwen managed to pull herself free of the thorns. Pain flared along her leg, but she ignored the discomfort. Gwydion was at the injured man’s side. “Help me,” he called. “I can’t do this alone!”
Branwen nodded, falling to her own knees beside the hunted man. “What do you need?”
“Hold him,” said Gwydion. To her surprise, his tone was tight but steady. She would have expected him to be far more frightened by such a wound.
She took hold of the man’s thigh and shin. The arrow that protruded from his knee was an ugly sight, and she winced in sympathy. It must have been agonizing.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” said Gwydion.
The man’s pupils were constricted with pain. “It hurts right now.”
“Well, what kind of trickster would I be if I told the truth?”Gwydion moved with surprising ease. He rolled up his sleeves and opened a bottle that smelled of strong spirits. He splashed a little on his hands, rubbing his fingers together. “What’s your name?”
The man blinked. “Penbras.”
“Don’t look at me, Penbras,” said Gwydion. He used a knife to cut the man’s trousers away. “This is Branwen, and she’s a far more pleasant sight. Look at her, all right? Isn’t she pretty?”
Penbras looked at Branwen. His throat jerked as he swallowed. “She’s beautiful.”
“I am not,” said Branwen, keeping a tight hold on Penbras’s leg. “But I suppose you’d say the same of any rescuer.”
“I don’t hear him complimenting me,” replied Gwydion. He took a knife to the edge of the arrow, cutting the jagged tip free. His voice was soothing, as though he spoke to a spooked horse. “Penbras, I want you to look at her. Tell me what you think of her hair. Tell me all the words you can think of to describe her hair.”
“My hair?” asked Branwen.
