“I don’t see how it could,” said Branwen. “We take the rings to King Pwyll so Pryderi can impress his father. Our team wins the Hunt. Arawn gives us a boon—and you can wish for anything. You could ask for diplomacy, for alliances, for promises to support your sister as queen.”
A shadow crossed Gwydion’s face. “So we deliver the fealty of kings and knights and hunters to Pwyll,” he murmured. “Strengthening Dyfed. One of our kingdom’s enemies. Perhaps that is what will do it.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “Stop that. Your mind is racing like a hound after a rabbit, and it’s getting you nowhere.”
He quieted but the unease never left his face. The moonlightseemed to sharpen his features. “If I asked you to leave with me, right now,” he said. “Would you?”
She frowned. “What?”
He spoke the words quickly. “If I asked you to leave the Hunt, would you?”
Her brows drew tight. “What about my brooch?”
“We would look for it,” he said. “But even if we could not find it, you could come to Caer Dathyl. They would have to fight through armies to take you from me.”
Confusion welled up within her. “What brought this on?”
He ran his left hand through his hair. “Just thinking through contingencies.”
She reached out and laid a hand on his knee. “If you’re worried because one of us got hurt,” she said, “don’t. I am pretty sure Pryderi is the most dangerous person in this Hunt. Well, except for Arawn. And now, we have the Otherking’s ring.” She looked at where Pryderi slept. The small pouch full of rings was tied to his belt. “Do you think I could just order the Otherking to find my ring for me?”
Gwydion frowned as though that had not occurred to him. By now both Arawn and Pwyll would know that someone had found their rings. They were out of the Hunt.
“You never answered my question,” he said. “If I asked you to leave, right now, would you?”
Her lips pressed together. “I can’t. You know I can’t. I need the boon.”
“If I paid for your mother’s care,” he said, his voice soft. “If I promised to take care of you both.”
She shook her head. “If I am to keep my mam as she is, I need magic. Nothing else will cure her.”
He bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For bringing you into this. For allowing you to be hurt.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” she said. “You brought me to the Hunt. You gave me this chance. If anything, I should be thanking you.” She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable place against the tree. She was not sure if it was the poppy that gave her the courage to say, “Are you afraid of me now?”
He raised his brows. “Afraid of you?”
“Because of what the crone said to me,” she answered.
“That you’re going to hunt someone?” he replied. “No, that does not worry me in the least.”
Her forehead scrunched. “I feel as though I should be offended by that.”
He laughed lightly. “Not at all,” he said. “Rather, she said you would hunt that which you love. Which means the creature in the most danger here is Palug.”
At the sound of his name, Palug gently flexed his claws into Gwydion’s trousers. He winced and tried to extract those claws without disturbing the cat.
“I’m not going to hunt my cat,” said Branwen.
“I assumed as much.” Gwydion’s smile faded a little. “No. I’m not worried about it.”
That made her frown.
He saw it, and he laughed again. “I meant, I am no great wondrous hero of old. I am a liar. I’m not a prince, and I never will be one.At best, I’m a trickster. At worst, I’m a court gardener. If you were going to love someone, it would never be me.”
She gave him a flat look. “You’re also a little self-pitying.”
“That, too,” he agreed.
