Arawn placed his hand on Pwyll’s shoulder. “Nor shall he, my friend.” Arawn looked at Branwen.
She did not know what he wanted. She had nothing more to give—she had been broken and scraped hollow by the Wild Hunt.
“I shall put together a hunting party,” said Arawn. He noddedat Branwen. “Arm yourself,” he said. His voice was bone-dry. “My champion was ordered not to hunt mortals. I wonder who might have given such an order.”
Cigfa gave Branwen a merry little wave.
“I won’t apologize for it,” said Branwen stubbornly.
The Otherking exhaled. “You have a fighter’s spirit. Good. You shall need it.”
He drew in a breath, and in that moment, Branwen remembered the crone’s words:You will hunt that which you love.
“You,” said Arawn, “shall lead the Wild Hunt.”
CHAPTER 38
THEY PUT BRANWEN in armor.
The metal gleamed like starlight in deepest winter. Branwen did not protest as a flurry of folk dressed her. One of them fussed over her bandage, but there was no time for healing. Not with two kingdoms at stake.
“Come,” said one of the folk hunters. They had gathered as many as they could—humans, folk, soldiers, knights, and hunters. They were armed for battle and waiting expectantly. One of the folk guided Branwen to a horse. “You must lead.”
She had little experience with horses, but its saddle and bridle glittered with gold. Magicked, she realized. One of the folk heaved her into the saddle. The horse shifted uneasily beneath her, and before Branwen could steady herself, it broke into a rolling canter.
Gritting her teeth, Branwen tried to hold on to the horse’s manewith one hand and the reins with her other. The hunters followed, and hoofbeats rumbled through the woods like thunder.
Branwen tried to remember which direction she had come from and gave the reins a gentle tug. The horse responded to her touch at once, its long strides eating up the ground. It knew the forest, finding unseen paths. She rode out of the camp and deeper into the woods.
Behind her, the Wild Hunt followed.
A black streak of fur kept pace at Branwen’s side. Palug was racing alongside the horse, his ears flat against his head as he scurried through the undergrowth.
Gwydion had a head start, but the Wild Hunt had everything to lose.
She would have expected her horse to stumble or trip. The enchantment must have been to prevent that, for the horse never lost its footing. They ran across trails, over streams, through meadows. The horse leapt over a fallen log, sprinted down a game trail, and surprised two gray foxes. They darted from her in a panic. She glimpsed other creatures—deer, pwca, some of the otherfolk. More disconcertingly, some of the cwn annwn appeared to be following at a distance. She saw their red-tipped ears flashing through gaps in the trees, as they kept pace with the horses. An eerie baying made her shudder.
Finally, she rode into a horribly familiar clearing. Blood spattered the grass, and the earth was torn by magic. One of Branwen’s arrows rested amid the leaves.
Her heart lurched in recognition. This had been the place where Pryderi had died. Could it have been mere hours ago? It felt so much longer. She slipped from her horse while the others watched.
She had to look at the aftermath not as Branwen but as the leader of the Wild Hunt. So she inhaled one long breath and let her instincts take hold of her. She was a huntress—she knew how to follow prey.
She found the place where Pryderi had fallen. His body was gone. She hoped he had been found by Pwyll’s servants. He deserved a peaceful rest.
She knelt beside the dried blood. Her armlet of oak leaves rustled as she worked.
There were two lines of tracks: one was smaller, leading back toward camp. Her footprints, Branwen thought, seeing the familiar imprint of a boot sole. The other was of a longer stride. Barefoot and sure. Moss had grown up among the tracks. Only a plant diviner could have summoned that trail.
Gwydion had gone northwest. “This way,” she said, and mounted her horse a second time.
For all his magic, Gwydion still left evidence of his passing. There were light indentations in the dirt. And even a diviner could not erase every single blade of broken grass. They rode from the clearing, keeping a slower pace for fear of losing the trail.
Branwen followed Gwydion’s path. He was headed for the gates of Annwvyn. That made sense—there were few places a human without magicked sight could escape the wood without encountering magical traps or monsters.
She knew they had to be gaining. Even with his head start, he was on foot and they were on horseback. She dreaded the thought of seeing him again; she would have rather squeezed her eyes shut and ridden the horse as far as she could go. But Arawn’s orders bound her to this task.
She had to retrieve those rings at any cost.
