Branwen scooted closer, her hands hovering over the brace. “How do I remove it?”
He talked her through it, and her hands were steady as sheunbound the laces and slid it free. She had an archer’s hands: strong and marked with calluses from a bowstring.
His right hand was paler than his left, the first two fingers stiff from lack of use. The pain was subdued, but it throbbed when he clenched and relaxed his hand. There had been a time when he’d considered simply cutting off those fingers and crafting a replacement from living wood. Perhaps he still might, someday.
“Can I ask how it happened?” said Branwen. Her voice was soft, and she held the brace like it needed to be protected.
Perhaps he should not have answered. But after the chaos and exhilaration of the day, he felt disarmed. He was sitting in an abandoned cottage in the middle of a magical wood with a king’s signet ring only an arm’s reach away. His world had ceased to make sense—as did all the reasons for keeping certain secrets.
“My brother crushed it in a door,” he said simply. “For besting him in a game.”
Shock flashed across her face. “How old were you?”
Gwydion’s lips twitched into a sour smile. “Twelve.”
Her eyes blazed with fury. “For family to do that to one another… it seems even more cruel. And over a game?”
Gwydion felt as though he owed her a few truths. “After my mother died, my uncle—the king—took charge of me and my siblings. He did not raise us the way a foster parent might. There was no affection, no love, no trust. Rather, he had us play games. He would ask us to steal something, to fetch a paper or a trinket and bring it to him. Little did we know that he was using us to do spying for him. And testing us to see how we would each play the game. If youwon, you had his favor for a day, a week, a month. You could never guess how long. And it would be wonderful while it lasted. But then it would fade, and you would have to fight for it again.”
“That sounds terrible,” said Branwen.
Gwydion nodded. “In hindsight, it was. But at the time… I wanted the king’s favor. I wanted to prove myself. Do you want to know why I became a trickster? Because the only way to survive in a court of games and shadows is to master them both. And perhaps with my power, I can keep my nephews from having the same childhood I did.”
“That’s why you’re trying to win the Hunt.” Branwen touched her mouth. “For them?”
“And because it’s the only way I can think of to keep Amaethon from the throne,” replied Gwydion. He held up his hand. “I have seen what he does to the helpless. I would rather not see what he does to our kingdom.”
Branwen regarded him with a bitter little smile. “I understand.” She leaned back, her fingers absent-mindedly stroking the brace. “Thank you for telling me.”
He shrugged. “You came with me on this impossible venture. I thought you deserved to know why.”
A throat cleared behind them. Gwydion and Branwen whirled.
Pryderi stood in the doorway, quaking with cold and slick with water. Embarrassment was written into every line of his face.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice chattering a little as he spoke. “Did not mean to eavesdrop. I’d have stayed outside, but it’s freezing.”
“How long were you standing there?” asked Gwydion dryly.
“Long enough to lose all sensation in my feet and hands,” answered Pryderi. His blond hair was soaked, and he carried a bundle of wet clothes in his arms.
Branwen scrambled to her feet. “Get in here.”
Together, they hung the now clean but very damp clothes. Gwydion coaxed a few maple branches through cracks in the cottage roof. When they had finished, Branwen made a fire in the cottage’s fireplace. “Evening is coming on,” she said. “That should hide the smoke.”
A fire steadily crackled. Pryderi, wearing his dry cloak and little else, sat nearest the flames. He warmed his hands by the fire. They rested in quiet for a few minutes while Gwydion slid his brace back on and Branwen began brushing Palug’s fur. The cat lolled on his back, paws in the air as he closed his eyes in contentment.
Pryderi blew out a breath. “I want you to know that it doesn’t matter what I overheard,” he said. His voice was steadier as he warmed. “Gwydion, whatever you did in the past—I will not judge you for it. I can’t. Not with what happened to me.”
Gwydion snorted. “You were kidnapped as a newborn. What do you have to be ashamed of?”
Pryderi shook his head. “You know that I was raised by an afanc until I was seven years old,” he said. “Everyone knows that. But what no one knows, what only I know, is—the afanc used me as bait. For as long as I can remember. It would put me at the edge of a river or lake. My crying was the lure. Those who were kind enough to stop were devoured.” He turned a faint, greenish color. “But that’s not the worst part. The worst—when I grew a little older, Iwantedto help. Because afterward, that was the only time the afanc was everkind to me. And I wanted that love and approval. It was a monster in every sense of the word, but part of me still loved it. And I wanted it to love me.” He closed his eyes, speaking with a hollow despair. “That’s why I fear I’ll be an unworthy prince.”
Gwydion glanced at Branwen. Her thoughts were spelled out across her face as clearly as pen put to paper. Gwydion knew because he felt the same.
“I’m sorry,” said Gwydion, “what part of ‘You were kidnapped as a newborn’ did you not comprehend?”
Branwen hid a smile behind her hand. Pryderi blinked.
