A flicker of sadness touched Rhain’s face. “Oh. I’m sorry.” He brushed some of the dirt from his hands. “I was in the village last night. When I looked in on her beforehand, she was at home.”
Rhain had promised to do his best to keep an eye on Mam when Branwen was hunting. But she could not expect him to be there at all hours of the day. “It’s not your fault,” she said. She leaned against the barrel, letting some of her exhaustion creep into her shoulders. There were very few people she allowed to see her weakness, but Rhain was one of them. He would never hold it against her.
“I cannot keep leaving her,” said Branwen. “One of these days, she will wander someplace dangerous.”
Rhain’s face was grave. “You need to hire someone,” he said, with a blunt honesty that Branwen appreciated. “I’m not spry enough to follow her at all hours of the day. And I have my own home to tend to. Find a young servant or one of the farmhands.”
“As though I could pay them.”
“You need more coin,” said Rhain.
Branwen snorted. “Truly an inspiring insight.”
Rhain gave her a tolerant look. “You need to take that pride of yours and put it aside.” He crossed his arms; he had rolled his sleeves to his elbows, showing off old scars. “Monster hunting is all well and good, but you need steady work.”
“I have tried other work,” said Branwen. “Hunting is the only skill I have. I thought perhaps working for nobles would help, but all the barwn paid me was this.” She touched the bruise at her cheek.
Rhain shook his head, grizzled gray hair falling across his eyes. “Girl, the nobility are as temperamental as cats and twice as likely to bite you. I’d find a wealthy merchant or those newly come into coin. They’d pay well for the taste of a hunt… even if you’re merely chasing foxes.”
Branwen bit her lip. Her gaze fell on Palug, who had begun grooming himself in the morning light. She thought of the warm place above the hearth where she slept, the familiar smells and tastes of home. If she did as Rhain advised, she would have to leave them. There were no wealthy merchants near the village of Argoed; she would have to venture into one of Gwynedd’s cities. She feared her mother would take a turn for the worse in Branwen’s absence. Mam thrived in the familiar. An upset in her day would unbalance her. But if leaving was the only way to pay for Mam’s herbs…
“I will think on it,” she said finally.
Rhain nodded. “Call on me, if you need help,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you,” said Branwen.
They remained in comfortable silence for a few moments before he said, “Whatdidhappen to the barwn’s son?”
Branwen made a sour face. “I found a few bones in a cyhyraeth’s lair.”
Rhain’s battle-scarred hands froze on a weed. “That’s a fate I’d wish on no one. I thought they didn’t come this way?”
“The iron’s driving them into Annwvyn.” Branwen reached down to pick up Palug. She wanted the warmth and softness of him. Palug meowed in annoyance, but he allowed it. “With all the kingdoms trying to grow their territory, iron is leaking into the rivers now. Soon, I fear we’ll have monsters from all the isles retreating into those mountains. And crossing our fields to get there.”
“It’s too early for that kind of talk,” said Rhain. He shook his head. “Someone will have to send word to Caer Dathyl if this keeps up. King Math is bound by duty to protect all of Gwynedd’s people from Annwvyn. Even a village like ours.”
Branwen raised a brow. “Would you go to the royal court yourself?”
He shuddered. “I’d rather walk into Annwvyn blindfolded and naked.”
“That would be a sight,” she said teasingly. “Might be enough to make all the monsters flee.”
“Jest all you want, girl,” replied Rhain, “but royals are far more bloodthirsty than any water wraith or magicked cat. Mark my words. Stay away from the lot of them.”
Branwen laughed. Rhain spoke as though he expected a king to ride over the hillside at any moment. “What kind of royal would have anything to do with me?”
CHAPTER 4
EVERY FIFTH YEAR, King Arawn of Annwvyn summoned the Wild Hunt.
It began at autumn’s end, on the night of Nos Calan Gaeaf when the boundaries between magical and mortal were thinnest. In bardsong, the Hunt simply appeared from nothing. The immortal hunters of Annwvyn and the mortal hunters of the kingdom of Dyfed met deep within the forest. And then they took to the Hunt in a revel of blood and magic and madness.
Those bards would have been rather disappointed to see precisely how muchworkwent into the Hunt’s preparations.
Hunting camps took time to assemble, and this was no exception. Tents were constructed, tables and chairs hauled by wagon, weapons unpacked, food prepared, and barrels of drink rolled into place. The servants were sent ahead first, followed by the hunt master and those that tended the hounds. King Pwyll of Dyfed and ahandful of chosen nobles arrived a week before the Hunt, to settle into their tents and see friends that had made the journey. And it was rumored that King Arawn and King Pwyll took those seven days to reaffirm their friendship.
The otherfolk welcomed the nobles of Dyfed. They moved among the humans with a wild grace, their mortal guises discarded. They had hair braided into flowers and eyes the delicate shade of violets; there were shape-changers that flickered from form to form, singing tales of long-dead heroes; corgis trotted among the camp, carrying messages attached to their collars; a handful of mortal ironfetches drifted among the folk.
