Her jaw clenched. She had hunted deer before, but those creatures had kept Branwen and her mother from going hungry in harshwinters. If she brought down this deer, she knew there would be no time to properly dress it. It felt like a wasted life. But she also knew that carrying or dragging a live roe deer through the woods would bring every hunter within earshot. Roe deer had a shriek that would carry across mountains.
Branwen drew in a breath. For Gwydion, she thought. For the Hunt. For her mother.
She fitted an arrow to the bowstring. The buck was grazing among the herd, his ears twitching—listening for danger.
The buck never heard his death coming.
The arrow slammed home, and the herd scattered in terror. The buck was dead before it hit the ground. A painless end was the only mercy a huntress could offer.
Pryderi pushed free of the bushes, striding toward the deer. “A good shot,” he said. “Perhaps when this is all over, I’ll hire you as a huntress.”
“When this is all over,” she replied, “I’m sleeping for a week. And then bathing. And eating a full meal that isn’t stale pie.”
He flashed a smile at her. “Fair enough.” He knelt beside the fallen buck and hefted it over his shoulders. He was strong enough that it looked easy. Branwen nodded, impressed.
“One game animal down,” she said. “I hope Gwydion managed as well as we did.” She twisted her left arm, gazing at the oaken ring.
They walked back to the clearing in quiet. They both knew how dangerous the wood remained, even if the Hunt was almost over. Branwen looked for traps—magical or otherwise. She kept her bow strung and at the ready. When they returned, Pryderi eased thedead buck to the ground with a sigh of relief. There was no sign of Gwydion.
“You think he was delayed?” asked Branwen, shielding her eyes against the sun.
“It’s just been an hour. I’m sure he’ll be on his way.” Pryderi squatted beside the deer. “Look at this.” With care, he took hold of one of the deer’s small antlers and tilted its head.
Branwen frowned. “What?”
“This… is this Gwydion’s signet ring?” he asked, gazing at the slip of metal.
For one terrible heartbeat, Branwen thought she had shot the wrong deer. “It has to be,” she said. “I recognize that deer—the scar along its throat. It’s the same animal.”
But Pryderi was right. This was not the signet ring she had glimpsed upon Gwydion’s left hand. There was no dragon of Gwynedd. This ring was thin and delicate. It looked like an intricate tree.
“That’s copper, not gold,” said Pryderi quietly. There was a note of disquiet in his voice.
“How can it be the right animal but the wrong ring?” asked Branwen.
Pryderi did not answer. The lines around his mouth deepened, and he sat back on his heels. Unease was written across his face, and Branwen felt it, too. Something had gone awry, but she did not know what.
The undergrowth rustled, and Branwen picked up her bow.
Gwydion strode into the clearing. Between his hands, he held a black-and-white crested bird. Branwen’s heart leapt into herthroat—it was the lapwing. Her lapwing. He had found it. Palug was trailing behind Gwydion, his attention wholly on the bird. “And here my brother said I would never be a decent hunter,” Gwydion began to say. Then he fell into silence when he saw the deer. “What did you…?”
“We went hunting,” said Pryderi flatly. “As did you.”
And before Branwen could utter a protest, Pryderi yanked the ring free of the roebuck’s antler. Gwydion cried out, lunging forward with his hand outstretched, the lapwing gently cradled to his chest.
Branwen drew in a sharp breath. She waited for his ring of roots to spring to life, for it to grow across Gwydion’s fingers and up his arm.
It never did.
“Why aren’t you out of the Hunt?” asked Pryderi, his voice frozen over. “I captured your ring. Why didn’t the spell awaken?”
“Because that’s not his ring,” said Branwen. She picked up the copper tree ring. “I—I saw his signet ring before the Hunt. It’s the dragon of Gwynedd. He hid it before we came here, so no one would recognize it at the revel. I thought he dug it out for the Hunt, but…”
He had not.
“Is this why you did not care if we hunted for the deer?” said Branwen. “Because you knew that it did not matter?”
The blood had drained from Gwydion’s face. His gaze jerked from Branwen to Pryderi. “I—”
