The aftermath was jumbled in her memories: She recalled walking unsteadily to the village, the story spilling out of her like the lake water she vomited outside of the inn. A blanket was pulled around her shoulders, and several men went to the lake to study the monster.
The missing boy had not been near the lake. He had wandered toward the road and was found unharmed by a passing traveler. Even so, the lad’s parents fervently thanked Branwen for killing the monster.
Only Rhain had disapproved. “Foolish girl,” he had said, his warm hand steady as he pressed a bandage against her injured shoulder. “One day, your luck will run out.”
The worldsharpened.
It was a unique sensation, one Branwen had only ever found on a hunt. All her thoughts fell away, banished to some distant corner of her mind. There were no people to complicate matters, no lies, no niceties, no worries for her home or mother. It was almost a relief to leave all that behind.
She was a huntress. This was where she thrived.
She and Gwydion rode toward the Davieses’ farm. Branwen had little experience with horses, but Gwydion nudged his mare into a canter. The rolling gait made Branwen clutch at his waist for balance. She had stuffed Palug into her pack—much to his indignation—and the cat growled in protest with every step.
The horse’s strides ate up the road, and Branwen was grateful for the swift pace. The Davieses’ farm was only a short walk from Rhain’s.
That snare, she thought.That missing snare.She had thought it must have been torn free by some unruly sheep—but it had been something else. A wolf or a hound. And it had attacked her neighbor.
She heard the bleating first. Rounding a bend in a narrow path, she saw the Davieses’ small home. The goats were pressed to one sideof their pen. The sheep had picked up on the panic and were calling out to one another.
Branwen did not need her magicked sight to see what had panicked the livestock. There was a splash of crimson across the hard earth, and two goats lay unmoving amid the grass.
“Stop,” she said, grabbing at Gwydion’s elbow.
The mare slowed to a trot, then a walk. Without waiting for her to halt, Branwen slid from the horse. She held out her pack to Gwydion. Palug yowled from inside.
Gwydion looked as though she were offering him a bag of black powder that might explode at any moment.
“My house is farther down the road,” she said. “Take my cat, go there. Wait for me. In exchange, I’ll hear you out.”
The confusion vanished from his expression. He took the pack. Palug’s growls grew louder, and claws appeared in the cloth, flexing threateningly.
“Be careful,” Gwydion said.
Branwen did not answer; she was striding toward the goat pen. Behind her, the sound of hoofbeats became distant.
She grimaced, took a breath, and stepped over the low fence. One goat fainted at the sight of her, flopping over with its legs stiff and eyes rolled back. The others gazed at her with terror.
“It’s all right,” Branwen said, in what she hoped was a soothing voice. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The goats did not look reassured. Branwen turned her attention to the dead.
The goats had been mauled and left to die. Not wolves, then. In Branwen’s experience, wolves would take stragglers from a field, butthey would never come into a pen nor attack a farmer in the middle of the day.
Which left only one option, and it was the one Branwen liked the least: that pack of escaped war hounds. She had known it was only a matter of time until they grew bold. A wolf would fear a human; a monster would fear iron. But a hound had no fear of either.
There were four sets of dog prints she could see. The prints overlapped one another, claws long enough to have torn some of the dirt as they sprinted away. They had been running—all but one, it seemed. Beside those tracks was trampled grass, as though a heavy load had been dragged.
Davies, Branwen thought, her mouth a little dry.
The trail led south into the fields. With a soft breath, she reached up and yanked her blindfold free. She wanted both eyes for this hunt, even if it was not magical in nature. She needed to find Davies and deal with those hounds before any more blood was spilled. She hastened into the long grasses of the fields, searching.
She found him. Or rather, she tripped over him.
Branwen hissed in surprise, sidestepping so quickly she nearly fell into the dead grasses.
She saw the familiar silver of his hair first. Davies lay face down, his arm outstretched as though reaching for home.
Swallowing hard, Branwen knelt beside him.
