“Has no one told you it’s rude to stare?” said the crone. Her voice had a pleasant rasp, as though she had smoked a pipe for many years.
“Sorry,” said Pryderi, startled.
The crone laughed, seemingly delighted. “Of courseyouwould be the first to apologize.”
Pryderi glanced around, as though certain she was speaking to someone else. When her gaze remained fixed on him, he said, “We don’t mean to intrude.”
“As though you could,” said the middle-aged woman. “Not even you, king-born, could find this place without our leave.”
Pryderi’s mouth tightened. “Have we met?”
“No,” said the crone.
“And yes,” said the girl. Her voice held all the sweetness of a spring morning. She rested her chin in one hand, leaning on the table. Her hair flowed as though caught in some unfelt wind.
“Which is it?” asked Gwydion.
“That depends on your point of view.” It was the middle-aged woman who spoke. “And what a wasteful question, if I do say so.” Her attention turned to Branwen. “Now, girl, you are the only one with a question remaining. What shall you ask?”
A jolt of panic went through Branwen. This was some kind of test, she realized. Pryderi and Gwydion had each asked a question—the wrong questions.
Which left her. And she did not know if she would be able to ask twice.
“Can you take us to the Otherking’s game animal?” she asked.
“We can,” said the crone. She continued to stroke Palug’s back.
The woman smiled. “But first, you will pay a price.”
“Blood,” Gwydion murmured. “Or years of our lives. It’ll be one or the other, mark my words.”
The crone cackled. “I would take no years fromyourlife. That would be far too merciful.”
Gwydion blanched.
“No,” said the girl, her eyes on Pryderi. “But his would taste so sweet.”
“They would,” said the woman. “But they’re not ours to take.” She shifted in her seat, reaching for a pot of tea. The liquid that emerged had a strange quality: thick as oil and a glittering brownish gold.
“Perhaps we should ask them to join us,” said the woman. “Or keep one for ourselves. It’s been so long since we had a servant.”
The crone clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Because you ate the last one.”
The girl sniffed, pouting. “He got better.”
The more they spoke, the colder Branwen felt. This cave was a trap. There had been no need to do more than hide the entrance, no need to guard or leave snares to deter hunters. The Otherking had entrusted these three to guard his fealty.
Which meant they were the most dangerous creatures in this forest.
Branwen did not know what they were—monsters, tylwyth teg, ghosts, or something else entirely. But her every sense was screaming to leave, to run, to hide.
“We cannot stay with you,” said Gwydion smoothly, but Branwen heard an undercurrent of apprehension. “As lovely as that sounds. We must deliver fealty”—he gestured at the pouch of rings at Pryderi’s belt—“to a king.”
The crone cackled, her voice dry and mocking as a crow’s. “Must you?”
Pryderi said, “We will trade you something for Arawn’s ring.”
The three women seemed to change. Their gazes homed in on Pryderi, naked hunger on their faces. “Trade?” said the woman as slowly as if she wanted to taste every letter of the word.
