“Who are you?” asked the woman.
“My name is Pryderi, son of Pwyll,” said Pryderi.
The girltsked chidingly. “Who are you?”
“Oh, good,” muttered Gwydion, “it’s not just me.”
Branwen seized his arm, trying to silence him. His muscles were taut beneath her fingers, and his gaze met hers. He was everybit as frightened as she was. The only difference was that he talked through his fear.
Pryderi cleared his throat. “I am Prince Pryderi, son of King Pwyll.”
For a heartbeat, all was silent. Even Palug seemed to be holding his breath.
“Who are you?” asked the crone.
Pryderi’s hands clenched. Branwen yearned to reach out and touch his shoulder, to let him know that whatever his answer was, she wouldn’t care.
“I was raised by an afanc,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am king-born, as you called me. Monster-raised.”
“Who are you?” asked the girl again.
“I don’t know,” cried Pryderi. His voice broke as he spoke the words. “I—I’ve never known. That’s why I came here. To know.”
The middle-aged woman rose from her seat. Her dress flowed around her like mist, and she moved with the grace of a serpent. But her hand was gentle as she reached out and stroked Pryderi’s hair from his forehead. It was an oddly maternal gesture. “Who are you?” she said. “Truly?”
Pryderi shuddered but did not pull away. When he spoke again, every word was fragile. “Gwri,” he said. “My foster parents called me Gwri.”
Gwri.Branwen felt her lips form the name. Of course he would have had a different name. His foster parents would not have known his birth name.
“So you are,” said the woman approvingly. She stepped back,returning to her seat. Pryderi’s eyes were damp, and he would not look at Branwen nor Gwydion.
And all at once, Branwen found herself standing before the table. She was not sure if the others had taken a step back or if she had taken a step forward.
Palug lifted his head. He had been contentedly sitting in the crone’s lap, enjoying having his ears scratched. Now, he let out a meow of greeting. He leapt from the crone, ambling over to Branwen.
She squatted down to pick up the silly cat, painfully grateful to hold him. He felt solid and soft and warm in her arms. He rested his chin on her shoulder and purred.
“Not going to ask the cat’s name?” said Gwydion, an edge of challenge to his words.
The crone laughed. “Oh, we know that one’s name. All in the forest do. Why do you think the monsters of Annwvyn have given you a wide berth?”
Branwen swallowed. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Palug suddenly felt heavier in her arms.
The crone leaned over the table, tapping a finger impatiently. Her gaze was fixed on Branwen. “Who are you?”
Branwen closed her eyes for a heartbeat.
“I am Branwen, daughter of Penarddun,” she said. Perhaps it would be enough; she had gone by that name for so long that the years might have given it the ring of truth.
The middle-aged woman sighed. “Who are you?” she asked chidingly.
Gwydion stepped in front of Branwen, making a shield ofhimself. His expression was unyielding as he said, “Ask something else of me. But do not ask this of her.”
The girl laughed. It had the tinkling cadence of a bell. “We could never ask more of her than you have.”
Gwydion shook his head with such force that his dark hair swung before his eyes. “I will bear the cost of this trade.”
The girl replied, “Such bravery. How do you know we won’t ask for your nephews’ names?”
