He should have sensed the arrow coming. He should have deflected it. He cursed himself silently. He should have been prepared for an ambush. He had been too consumed with his own thoughts.
Branwen’s eyes slipped closed. “Hey,” said Gwydion. “You’re going to be all right. That’ll hurt for a few days, but you’re going to win the Hunt.”
She opened them again. “I better,” she said hoarsely. “Haven’t—haven’t said my old name aloud in so long. Has to be worth something.”
Branwen—he would think of her as Branwen, even if he had heard her other name. Shewasonly Branwen to him. He had spent his whole life as a seeker and guardian of secrets. He would keep her secrets safe.
He would keep her safe.
She deserved more than to be just another fealty to be bartered among kings.
Pryderi strode through the wood, dragging a man by his ankle. Gwydion sat up straighter. He knew that man. It was the red-haired assassin, the one escorting the others back to camp. The one who had looked at Branwen and Palug.
He had shot her.
Tendrils of cold anger wrapped around Gwydion’s heart. That assassin was lucky that Gwydion’s attention needed to remain with Branwen, otherwise he would find himself devoured by the roots of a tree.
The assassin snarled, kicking out at Pryderi. He managed to free himself and scurried to his feet, knives in hand. He moved with all the grace and ease of a viper.
With a contemptuous snap of his spear, Pryderi knocked him back. Gwydion swallowed hard. There was no mistaking the fury in Pryderi’s gait. Even when he had fought Arawn’s champion, Pryderi had kept his temper leashed. But now, he had given himself over to the fury.
“Wait,” the assassin cried. “I have—I have rings! We can bargain!”
Ice held more warmth than Pryderi’s voice. “What rings?”
With a shaking hand, the assassin reached into his shirt and pulled out a small cloth pouch. It clinked with metal.
“Where did you get those?” asked Pryderi.
The assassin said breathlessly, “Took them. From those I was—those going back to camp.”
Pryderi said, “You mean those you were protecting. You turned on them, didn’t you? Did you kill them?”
The assassin retreated, tossing a knife at Pryderi. The prince sidestepped the blade.
“That’s what the Wild Hunt is,” the assassin snapped. “You’re either hunter or prey. You should’ve learned that by now.”
Pryderi glanced over his shoulder to where Branwen lay on the ground, a bandage against her stomach and Gwydion’s hand soaked with blood. Then he looked at the bag of stolen rings the assassin held. Icy wrath stole into his eyes.
“You’re right,” said Pryderi, and his voice had gone toneless. He slammed the spear into the assassin’s wrist, sending that bag of rings flying. The assassin flicked another knife at him, but Pryderi batted the weapon away. Then Pryderi drove his spear into the meat of the assassin’s thigh. The scream that ripped out of him was raw and animal.
The man fell, pinned to the ground like a prized insect. Pryderi kept hold of the spear with an almost casual ease.
He was different now, Gwydion realized. Pryderi had changed in the cave—and not for the better. Something had frayed in him. Some crucial part of Pryderi was unraveling. Those prophetic words were swiftly coming to pass.
Cigfa had fought the son of a king.
The assassin fought the son of a monster.
“What—what’s happening?” Branwen tried to roll over, but Gwydion kept his hand gently on her shoulder. “Pryderi?”
Pryderi gave his spear a little shake, the way a cat might jostle a mouse in its jaws. “What happened to them? Those you claimed to protect?”
“I—I—” The assassin screamed as Pryderi drove the spear deeper.
“How many did you trick?” snarled Pryderi. “How many did you track and offer protection, only to turn on them when they could no longer hold a weapon?”
The assassin moaned in agony.
