It felt as though the world had twisted sideways, as though she were scrambling for her feet. Gwydion had given the Hunt a false ring. He had never been in danger of losing his freedom, his fealty.
How had he known—
And a terrible dread swelled in her chest. She knew. She knew even before she snapped at Pryderi. “Give me the rings,” she said, holding out her hand.
Pryderi blinked, but he did as she asked. He unbound the pouch from his belt and handed it over.
Kneeling on the ground, Branwen untied the pouch and upended it.
No rings fell out.
Instead, small pebbles and river rocks tumbled to the ground. Branwen stared at them, unable to understand. Her mind simply would not accept it. Perhaps she had grabbed the wrong pouch.
It could not be true.
Please, let it not be true.
She looked up at Gwydion.
“I’d rather hoped,” he said quietly, “you wouldn’t open that.”
LONG AGO, INthe kingdom of Gwynedd, there was a woman who should have been queen. Her name was Dôn.
When she walked, flowers followed in her wake. When she spoke, it was with a gentleness. And when she listened, others felt understood. She should have ruled a kingdom, but her brother was chosen instead. Her brother was colder, cruelly efficient, and he knew the inner workings of a kingdom. So he was given a crown.
Dôn bore five children—each of them with their own gifts. Her twin eldest were born with power over metal; the third forged his own path with cruelty; the fourth found his joy in fire; and the youngest was born to the trees.
The youngest was a tiny little thing, with dark hair and eyes. Dôn had been in a carriage with her ladies when her labor pains began. They took refuge in a warm summer’s meadow, and with the help of a royal healer, she bore her youngest child. At first, they thought he would not survive. Butthen he drew air into his lungs and howled. At the sound, the trees all bent down to meet him.
“There’s my boy,” Dôn murmured, holding him close. “You will bring down kingdoms with that voice, won’t you?”
The lad grew up much like his mother: with a passion for greenery, for open skies and the softness of forests. He loved going out to the gardens and would toddle about the apple orchards for hours. He delighted in his mother’s magic, how she could capture a dandelion’s seed in her palm and then be holding a flower.
But for every gift came a price. Dôn used her powers freely in the kingdom, keeping the farms fruitful and her own gardens brimming with herbs for the healers. The magic drained her, made her succumb to sickness far too easily.
One of those illnesses took her when the lad was still young.
For a time, he wandered the fields and the gardens, yearning for a connection with his mother. He missed her desperately, and part of him resented her for leaving, for using her magic, knowing what it would cost.
“I don’t know why she used her power so much,” said the lad’s older brother as he toyed with a burning flame. “It is not as though one can win a kingdom with flowers and herbs.”
As the years passed, the lad took those harsh words to heart. After all, what good were fields and meadows? Apple orchards and herbs? They had not saved his mother. They did not protect him from his uncle’s cruel games nor his brother’s violence.
If kindness and greenery would not serve him, then the lad would deny both. He would not be a boy of the forests and fields—he would keep to the cities and become a trickster.
The trickster caged his own heart, ignoring the offers of friendship or love. He became skilled with sleight of hand, with secrets, with power. Soon, the kingdom did not even need a spymaster—it had him. But history had an unfortunate tendency to repeat itself.
When it came time for the king to choose an heir, he ignored the woman who should have been queen. And he chose a fire diviner instead.
The trickster would not let it happen.
He schemed and plotted, and he found his opportunity when the aged king threw out a casual remark: He would only change his heir if a champion from his kingdom won the Wild Hunt.
It was a fool’s challenge, a boast that would never come to pass. But the trickster saw the lure of the impossible and rose to meet it.
He went into the city to visit his garden of spies and informants.
For in the tavern there was an old drunk from Dyfed. A man who drowned himself in ale and talked about the time he won the Hunt. He had been there for years, mumbling about his time of glory. The trickster had never paid him much attention—but now, he paid for the man’s drinks and asked for details.
