He attacked again, this time spinning the afanc-fang dagger so that she was on the defensive. She caught every slash on her blade, meeting him blow for blow. She was no great soldier, but then again, neither was he. A trickster and a huntress were evenly matched.
But tricksters fought with little honor.
He slammed his elbow into her side, right into her still-healing wound. The pain jolted through her, a spike of unexpected agony that drove her to her knees.
He seized the hilt of her sword, his left hand around her right. She tried to shake him off, the sword dangerously near his face. A few strands of his dark hair were sliced, and they fluttered to the earth. He shoved her sword downward, slamming hand and hilt against the ground and pinning her in place.
She cracked her forehead into his.
Lightning flashed through her skull.
He fell over backward, blood spilling from a wound above his brow. She crawled after, her sword still in hand. In a flash, she was atop him, knee against his breastbone and sword at his throat.
“Give them to me, now,” she said. It was not an order but a plea. For whatever had happened between them, she did not want to do this. If she cut his throat, she would never be able to rid herself of this day. She would never be able to look in a mirror, live within her bones, nor forget what she had done.
“I can’t,” gasped Gwydion.
“Damn it,” she whispered. And then she pushed the blade down.
The edge of the blade brushed his throat. Blood welled up, staining the metal.
“Give me the rings,” she pleaded.
The resolve in his eyes seemed to shatter. Lips parted, a flush on his cheeks, he looked like who he had been before—her companion. Her friend. And possibly something more.
She sobbed, her fingers tightening around the sword’s hilt. The magic of the Wild Hunt pulsed through her, impossible to deny. She was an instrument of the Otherking.
She pressed the blade down.
“Please!” The word ripped out of Gwydion. “Blodeuyn!”
Branwen froze.
That name—the sound of her birth name in his mouth—fractured the magic. For a heartbeat,just a heartbeat, she felt herself again. She was no longer Branwen of the Wild Hunt.
She was Blodeuyn.
And then Gwydion was twisting beneath her.
She never saw the knife. She never felt the blow.
All she heard was “I’m sorry.”
CHAPTER 39
BRANWEN LAY UNCONSCIOUS on top of him.
It was a tricky thing to knock her out. Gwydion had slammed the hilt of the afanc-fang dagger to the back of her jaw. The blow had struck true, and she went limp. He rolled Branwen off of him, settling her gently on her side.
Gwydion pressed his hand to her throat, making sure she had a pulse. It was there, steady against his fingertips. He breathed, sagging in relief. He was bleeding and exhausted, but alive. She was alive. He would figure out the rest.
He had won. He had bested Arawn’s champion.
But victory tasted worse than defeat.
He tried to catch his breath. Palug stood a few strides away, glaring at him. “I’m sorry,” said Gwydion hoarsely. The cat ignored him; he scurried over to Branwen and climbed atop her chest, as though guarding her.
“I’m not going to hurt her,” said Gwydion. “You can—”
