The sun sank toward the western seas and evening stole across the golden fields. She quickened her step, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. With Nos Calan Gaeaf a week away, it was best not to be out at dusk. The last night of autumn was known to be rife with magic.
As she rounded a bend in the path, she saw a creature waiting in the branches of an oak tree. For a moment, Branwen’s heartbeat quickened… and then she recognized the familiar black-and-white fur.
It was a cat. Her cat, to be specific.
“What are you doing out here?” said Branwen, frowning. “I locked you in the house.”
Palug stood, stretched, and then darted down the tree. Even among cats, he was a gorgeous creature. His black-and-white fur was long and well-groomed, his eyes were like cut emeralds, and he was quite large for a cat. But he had a kitten’s mew when he wanted food.
“Come out to greet me?” said Branwen, but concern tightened her belly. He should not have been outside; the neighbors had seen a pack of stray hounds wandering the countryside, likely escaped from Gwynedd’s soldiers. Branwen knew it was only a matter of time until a shepherd scraped together what coin they had and came knocking at Branwen’s door. Stray hounds were more dangerous than wolves because they did not fear humans. Sooner or later, they would attack livestock. It would be a dangerous and ill-paid job, but Branwen would take it. In the wild country, one needed the goodwill of their neighbors. And Branwen needed it more than most.
Palug batted at her bundle of food and gazed up at her adoringly.
“Oh, no,” Branwen said. “This cheese is not for you.”
Palug’s tail lashed in irritation. Branwen did the only thing she could: She scooped up the cat. He squirmed for half a heartbeat before he seemed to decide that the indignity of being picked up was worth a few chin scratches. He purred, relaxing against Branwen’s shoulder.
“Monster,” said Branwen affectionately.
Her home looked as it always had: stone walls, thatched roof, and windows that remained firmly closed during the fall and winter months. A small wooden fence rounded the home and tree. Gorsegrew up along that fence—a valuable protection against wild magic, even if she did have to cut it back every year. Branwen opened the gate, allowing Palug to slip from her shoulder. The cat trotted to the front door and meowed back at her, as if insisting she hasten her pace.
The door was ajar.
Fear slid into Branwen’s belly. She hurried into the house. “Mam?” she called.
There were no signs of violence, nothing out of the ordinary. Dried bundles of mint hung near the windows, a three-legged stool rested by the hearth, a half-written letter sat on the small table and a cup of tea beside it. Branwen touched her fingertips to the cup. Still warm—which meant it had not been abandoned for long.
She stalked outside and gazed at the tangled web of footprints in the dirt of the yard. And there it was—the delicate shape of a woman’s foot.
Barefoot, Branwen thought, a sympathetic shiver running through her.
Palug meowed as though he could not understand why he was not being fed.
“If you were a hound,” said Branwen, following the footprints toward the gate, “you could find her for me.”
Palug sat back on his haunches and looked away, haughtily indifferent.
“Keep the mice out of the food,” said Branwen, “and I’ll give you a bit of cheese.”
The trail led south. Branwen’s boots were worn so thin that she could feel every ridge in the road. A sheepdog watched her pass;a few small chickens scampered across the trail, heading home to roost. The shadow of the mountains loomed on her left. In evenings, Annwvyn looked as murky as a dark sea. Even Branwen dared not venture beneath its branches after the sun had set; her magicked eye wouldn’t protect her. She would just be able to see what came for her.
Despite the dangers, Branwen preferred Gwynedd’s wild countries to its cities. She liked the stillness of a forest, the beauty of a spiderweb beaded with morning dew, and the breath of cold mountain air.
A distant howl made Branwen quicken her pace. She hurried along the path, rounding small hills and swerving past thickets of trees until she stepped around a large alder.
Ahead was a familiar silhouette. Branwen’s heart lurched in relief. “Mam,” she called.
Branwen’s mother had been beautiful in her day—straight-backed, with hair like snow and bright eyes. Some said that Branwen looked like her, but Branwen couldn’t see it. Where her mam was soft and welcoming, Branwen was sinewy and scarred. Mam had the delicate beauty of a pressed flower, and Branwen was as sharp and pale as the white crow she’d named herself for.
“Mam,” said Branwen again.
Mam halted. She wore a loose dress for working around the house; it was far too thin to be worn outside. Her bare forearms were prickled with gooseflesh, and her feet were bare and muddied. There was a line between her brows, a distance to her expression.
Mam said a name that wasn’t Branwen.
Branwen winced, glad that they weren’t too near Annwvyn. Mam was one of the few who remembered her birth name. Branwen had forsaken it long ago, only using it once when she hunted amurderer. On that hunt, the nameBranwenwould have alerted her prey that she was after him.
“Your cousin invited us for a meal,” said Mam distractedly, her gaze roaming over the fields. “We should have left earlier—we’ll be late—”
