“Distraction, he needs a distraction,” continued Gwydion in that same singsong voice. “Tell me of her hair.”
Penbras looked utterly bewildered, but he obliged. “It’s… white. Like sheep’s wool. Or clouds. Or—” He let out a terrible scream as Gwydion ripped the arrow shaft free. Branwen’s grip tightened on Penbras’s leg, holding him in place.
“You’re doing well, you’re doing so well,” said Gwydion. He had a flask of water at the ready, and he cleaned the dirt and debris from the wound. Then he was binding it with a clean cloth. “Branwen, there’s a tincture in my pack. Clay jar, red wax stopper.”
She released Penbras’s leg. He was racked with breathless sobs.She found the jar and handed it to Gwydion. “This is going to help,” he said. “I promise.” Then he measured a small amount and tipped it into Penbras’s mouth.
“There you go,” he said, tying off the bandage. “You’re doing very well, Penbras. You’ll have a story to tell your grandchildren someday.”
“I don’t have children,” Penbras whispered. “I have two cats. And a husband.”
“Then this will be a wonderful story for your cats and your husband.” Gwydion finished binding the wound. He closed his eyes for a moment, then hummed. And with as much effort as one might pull a dandelion free, he reached down and yanked a root from a nearby tree. It came up easily, curling around his hand. Before Branwen’s eyes, the root shifted and changed into a walking stick. “You’re going to be a little drowsy. The poppy tincture will make you giddy, but you have to fight through that.
“You are going to go northwest,” continued Gwydion. “You hear me, Penbras? You will go that way. Get to Gwynedd.” He reached into the hidden pocket of his cloak and withdrew several gold coins. He knotted them into a strip of bandage and tied it around Penbras’s wrist. “You use these to pay for a healer. If you go to Caer Dathyl, ask for Eilwen. She’ll find you a place to stay while you recover. Tell her the gardener sent you, all right?”
Penbras’s eyes were glazed with pain. “I can’t outrun them,” he whispered.
Pryderi snarled as Cigfa’s blades nicked his arm. He whirled, a blur of graceful violence as he struck out. Cigfa was forced to retreat, merriment in her eyes.
It was true. Penbras would never survive Annwvyn so long as he was part of the Hunt. Branwen’s mind whirled. If he were taken out of the Wild Hunt, if he was no longer something to be hunted, he would have a chance.
Cigfa did not want Penbras. She wanted the ring he bore.
Branwen leaned over Penbras, brushing the hair from his forehead. “They will not hunt you,” she said. “If you give us that ring on your finger. It’s not yours, is it?”
Penbras shook his head. “She put it on me,” he said. “Two days ago. Said I had to run, to stay hidden.”
“All they want is that ring,” said Branwen. “Give it to me, and she will have no reason to hunt you.”
With trembling fingers, Penbras yanked the signet ring free. It looked to be carved of stone, with a fish etched into it. He held it out to Branwen. There was a trust in his eyes, and it made Branwen think of how children would reach their arms out to adults when afraid. Of how Palug leapt into her arms when he’d climbed too high into a tree. She hoped Penbras’s trust was not misplaced.
She took the ring from him.
And in that moment, something thudded to the ground. Branwen flinched, half expecting to see Pryderi fallen, a knife in his chest. For all that he had been raised by a monster, surely he could not win against an immortal.
But it was not Pryderi’s weapon upon the ground.
It was Cigfa’s.
Before Branwen’s eyes, the magic of the forest took hold. Cigfa’s wooden ring looked to be made of elder. Roots twined around herfingers, burrowing into her flesh. Sprigs of green twisted around her forearm, small white flowers bursting into bloom.
And that was when Branwen realized what she was holding.
This was Cigfa’s ring. She had been hunting her own signet.
“Fallen kings,” Branwen whispered.
Gwydion let out his own little curse. He heaved Penbras to his feet and gave him the walking stick. “Go,” he said. “Get as far as you can while the pain is gone.”
Penbras looked at them both with a wild relief. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, thank you.” He turned and hobbled away, leaning heavily on the root walking stick. Gwydion watched him go, then his gaze met Branwen’s. She could see the hope and anger churning behind those dark eyes. The Hunt was magic and power—but it was also so much unneeded pain and cruelty. His expression mirrored her own, and in that moment, she felt as connected to Gwydion as she had felt with anyone.
Thank you, she thought, hoping he saw the sentiment in her eyes. Saving that man had been a kindness only he had the skill for. She could not have managed it.
“I’ve spent enough time with the healers,” he said. “Picked up a few things.”
She let out a small, jittery laugh. Then they were both rising, her hand in his, terrified and elated, and carrying the signet ring of an immortal champion.
Cigfa stood very still. Along her left arm, the elder flowers shifted in the breeze. They were beautiful—a living armlet of blossoms and leaves. Pryderi was leaning on his spear. When he metBranwen’s eyes, he gave her a nod of thanks. A tremble ran up his legs, and Branwen realized that he would not have been able to battle Cigfa much longer. She returned his nod. He had saved her life in that fight—and she had just saved his. They were even.
