“The kings divide up the hunters?” asked Pryderi in astonishment. “That’s what the Hunt is about?”
“For a year and a day,” said Cigfa, painstakingly slow. “Yes.”
Gwydion said, “Why?” His voice was oddly emotionless. Perhaps the implications had not sunk in.
“It’s a celebration,” said Cigfa.
Pryderi took a step forward. “How is tradingpeoplea celebration?”
“You know the story of how your father and Arawn met, do you not?” asked Cigfa. She sat on the ground, seemingly tired of kneeling. The elder flower armlet rustled as she moved. “Pwyll intruded on the Otherking’s hunt. As recompense, Arawn shape-changed them both. For a year and a day, Pwyll ruled Annwvyn in his stead. It was a test of loyalty—one he passed. In doing so, he earned my lord’s trust. And now, every five years, they trade hunters for a year and a day. To keep our alliance strong.”
“But none of the hunters know about this!” cried Branwen.
“Most of them do not,” agreed Cigfa. “But they will serve, nonetheless.”
Branwen turned toward Pryderi, naked panic on her face. “Did you know about this?”
“Branwen, I didn’t,” he said. “I promise you. I thought this was just a hunt.”
“How could you not know?” she cried.
“Because all the Hunt’s participants are magicked never to speak of it,” said Gwydion quietly. “Right? To outsiders, it would simply look as though certain hunters or nobles were on a diplomatic task.”
Branwen swallowed. She felt dizzy as she spun around, her gaze on the trees. Some wild part of her thought she might see the lapwing. “We have to find my brooch.”
Gwydion put his hands on her arms, steadying her. “We will,” he said. “Breathe, Branwen.”
She breathed. It came out jagged and shuddering. She had come here for her mother. She could not keep her mam safe if she belonged to a king for a year and a day.
Pryderi squatted down beside Cigfa. “Those hands. They belonged to kidnapped humans?”
“Some mortals trespass,” said Cigfa simply. “They serve a purpose.”
“They are people, not a purpose,” said Pryderi.
“That’s exactly what we are,” said Branwen wildly. “All of us—in this hunt. We’re pieces being moved about a board, to be collected and hoarded. We’re just tallies to be counted.” Panic rose hot in her throat. The Hunt was not an enemy she could fight, not a beast she could best. The Hunt was a game, and she was not even truly a player. Her fate had been taken from her the moment she slipped her brooch onto a lapwing.
She clawed at the ring around her finger. The oaken ring would not budge, no matter how she yanked at it. Pain flared up her hand as she dug her nails in so deeply that she drew blood. The tendrils of golden magic were embedded in her hand and arm. She had willingly given herself over to the Hunt—and the enchantment would never release her.
She had walked into this trap. Worse, she should have known it was a trap all along. People like her—they did not get to be heroes. They were simply unimportant pieces in someone else’s tale.
Helpless.
She was helpless.
Hands settled across her shoulders. She looked up.
Pryderi stood before her. His face was steady, his eyes on hers. “Branwen, I’ll get your brooch from my father. I’ll take it. If it’s delivered to him, I will command you. And I promise, I’ll give you only one command—to live your life as you will.”
It was a kind promise, but his words rang hollow.
“And if one of the folk finds my brooch and delivers it to Arawn?” she said.
It was Cigfa who replied. “Then you shall be a champion of the Otherking. After all, you bested me. You will take my place.”
The thought made Branwen shudder. She did not want to belong to anyone, much less the Otherking.
She looked at the stone ring in her hand; part of her yearned to simply throw it into the woods. But another thought occurred to her.
