Gwydion sat there, hands folded on the table, and kept his smile firmly fixed in place.
It was not the first time someone had laughed at him. But if his plan worked, it would be the last. He would make it work. And to do that, he needed this woman. This monster-hunting, beer-drinking, one-eyed woman with a cat she claimed had eaten a hundred knights.
Perhaps this had not been his best-laid plan.
“I’m sorry,” said Branwen, recovering herself. Some of his irritation must have flickered through his careful mask, because she made an effort to tamp down her laughter. “It’s just—the very idea. Have you ever been near Annwvyn on Nos Calan Gaeaf?”
He hesitated. “No.”
She pointed her spoon at him. “Well, I have. Which is why everyone in Argoed binds dried gorse to their fence posts, locks up their livestock, marks their doors with iron, and remains indoors once the sun sets. Monsters prowl the edges of the forest. If a person values their life, they don’t go near the mountains when the seasonschange.” She sat back, her gaze flicking over him. “And forgive me for saying so, but you don’t strike me as a hunter.”
He gave a small shrug. “I know. Which is precisely why I came to you. I need a champion.”
All of her amusement vanished in a heartbeat. “You wantmeto win the Wild Hunt for you.”
“I will go with you,” he said. “I have a plan to infiltrate the Hunt.”
Branwen drained her tankard and gestured for a second. “Has anyone ever told you that your plans are impossible?”
“Every day,” replied Gwydion.
Neither spoke for a few moments. To Gwydion’s surprise, the quiet felt thoughtful rather than uncomfortable.
Finally, Branwen sighed. “There are two problems.”
“Tell me,” said Gwydion.
Branwen gave him a look that was almost pitying. “First, what you’re attempting is impossible. Only a few days ago, I encountered the skull of someone who attempted precisely what you’re proposing now. He was eaten alive. And he was one of the lucky ones. He was found.”
“A minor detail,” he said. “What’s the second problem?”
That earned him a half smile. “The last time I worked for a noble, all I received was a slap and a snarl, and now no one will buy my game for fear of angering the barwn.”
“Is that why you cannot sell your rabbits?” he said, taken aback. He recalled Barwn Ifor’s fury at Math—and how it had gone unanswered. This young woman must have become the focus of his ire.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not know.”
Branwen shrugged. “It is my problem to solve, not yours.”
“But it could be,” said Gwydion. “If you become my champion, I will ensure that Barwn Ifor never threatens you again.”
If he had expected gratitude or fawning adoration, he would have been disappointed. She merely ate another spoonful of soup. “How?”
“He would not dare cross a prince,” he said.
She speared him with a glance. “You’re not a prince, though, are you?”
“My uncle is king.”
“But you’re not an heir,” she said.
He winced. “I am not,” he said. Better to admit the truth. “But I still have power.”
Branwen opened her mouth, but before she could reply, the door burst open. All heads swung toward it as a middle-aged woman staggered inside. She looked ragged and fearful, her cloak torn at one edge. But it was her eyes that drew Gwydion’s attention: They were white-edged and wild like a cornered animal. “Branwen—is she here? I asked and couldn’t find her and—”
The tavernkeeper raised a hand toward Gwydion’s table. The woman hurried over.
“Please,” she said, her voice breaking with panic. “Please—Branwen, they attacked my goats. My husband tried to fight them, but they dragged him into the fields near Rhain’s farm.”
