Gwydion straightened. He had practiced this speech a few times with his horse on the ride to Argoed, but now all of those words felt wrong. He was prepared for a mercenary, easily lured by coin. But Branwen had dismissed him twice now. “As I said, my name is Gwydion. You might have heard of me.”
She ate a mouthful of soup, then said, “Should I have?”
She was a commoner. A huntress. She would have no reason to be familiar with the inner workings of Caer Dathyl. Or that was what Gwydion reminded himself. “I am the youngest nephew of King Math,” he said.
Branwen’s brow scrunched in thought. Then her face brightened. “Oh. I have heard of you.” She thunked her fist against the table. “You stole pigs, right? Tried to start a war or something?”
Gwydion pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead. “No. No.No.” He repeated the word with mingled despair and irritation. Of course she would have heard that rumor.
“So there’s no truth to it?” asked Branwen.
Gwydion looked at her through his fingers. “There was an incident. When I was younger. But I have never started a war over pigs.”
“That’s a relief,” she said. “If you’re going to start a war, there should at least be a deer, hound, or bird involved.” Her face was solemn, but there was a wicked gleam in her eye.
He looked down at his soup. “May I ask you a question?”
“You have bought my attention for as long as it takes me to eat,” said Branwen, her fingers curling around the half-full tankard. “I suggest you use that time well.”
Gwydion had intended to make his offer at once, but now that he had spoken with her, he had to ask. “How did someone like you begin hunting monsters?”
She set her tankard down. “Someone like me?”
“I meant no insult,” he said. “Merely that when I heard rumors of a monster hunter, I thought I would find someone…”
“Older?” she said. “More grizzled? Stares into the distance and broods?”
“Precisely,” he agreed. “Not a friendly young woman with a cat.”
Her mouth twitched. “You consider mefriendly?”
Perhaps not with him, but he had listened to her with those children. Many would have simply walked past them, but she had taken a few minutes to speak with them, to offer a story and a little wisdom. The twins would like her, he thought, if they ever had the chance to meet. They would have climbed all over her and demanded more stories.
“Compared to those I normally deal with, yes,” he replied.
“I think that’s more a statement on the company you keep.” Branwen took a slower sip of her drink. “To answer your question, I hunt monsters because it is the only thing I’m good at. I began when I was young because in the wild country, we don’t have the luxury ofstone walls and iron everywhere. While some of the folk remain in the mountains, others will cross into our lands. Some are friendly and some are not. I’ve learned how to distinguish between the two.” She nodded at his drink. “You should try that.”
Gwydion picked up his tankard and sipped. He had expected a watery, stale drink like those he shared with Eilwen. But this tasted smoky and rich. “This is good,” he said in surprise.
“Glaw’s been brewing for years,” said Branwen. “There are rumors that some of the otherfolk will venture into Argoed wearing the guise of humans just to try it.”
“I can see why.”
Branwen picked a small piece of mutton from her soup and placed it before her cat. The cat gave the meat a sniff before using a single claw to drag it from the table, presumably to be devoured out of sight. “I assume that Caer Dathyl has a monster problem you wish for me to fix,” said Branwen.
Gwydion bit back a wry smile. “There are always monsters to be found among the royal courts. But you’re wrong as to the particulars.” He took a deep breath. This was his moment, the one he had placed so much weight upon.
“Tell me what you know of the Wild Hunt,” he said. “If you would be so kind.”
Her forehead scrunched. “Kings Arawn and Pwyll hold it every fifth year. It’s a friendly hunt between Annwvyn and Dyfed, and it’s said that the kings bring their best hunters. It’s dangerous. People die. But there’s rumors that King Arawn grants some kind of magical boon to the winners, so everyone wants to try. As to what theyhunt, I don’t know. Those from Gwynedd know better than to go near Annwvyn on a Hunt year. Too many go missing.”
Gwydion gave her a nod. “A concise explanation. And you’re right. No one from Gwynedd has ever managed to join—or win—the Hunt.” He leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “Until now.”
He waited for an intake of breath, for the flash of surprise.
But she burst into laughter.
“You?” she said, her shoulders quaking with mirth. “You’re going to win the Wild Hunt?”
