The scribe led them toward the wood. “You cannot take any iron with you,” said the scribe, with a glance at Gwydion’s sword.“Weapons will be provided at the hunting camp. If your signet rings are made of iron, those are permitted. But nothing else.”
“Of course,” said Gwydion smoothly. “Give us a moment?”
The scribe nodded. She seemed used to taking orders from entitled nobles; she retreated out of earshot.
Unbidden, Branwen’s hand rose to her iron-stitched blindfold. She had not realized until this moment that she could not take it with her. The same iron that kept her from seeing magic would be forbidden in Annwvyn. With shaky fingers, she unbound the cloth. She felt vulnerable and bare without it.
Even on the fringes of the wood, Annwvyn seemed to pulse and throb with enchantment. A bird cried out, and Branwen looked up. At first, it looked to be a normal swallow—but as her sight adjusted, she saw the bird glitter with gold. Its eyes were oddly human.
“Branwen,” said Gwydion. “Are you all right?”
She glanced at him. He knelt a few paces away, unbinding his belt. There was an iron clasp, she realized. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s just… disconcerting, at first. I’ll end up with headaches, but that will take a few days.”
Gwydion’s lips pressed into a sympathetic line. “I have herbs, if you need them. Willowbark, for pain. Others for swelling and infection. A tincture of poppy, if things become unbearable.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. She would endure the pain. For her mother.
Once they were finished discarding their iron, the scribe returned. “Come with me.”
They followed her from the outskirts of the forest, toward anarrow path. It looked as though many people had come this way recently; Branwen saw footprints etched into the dirt, and the nearby grasses were broken. She and Gwydion must have been among the last to arrive. The forest was ancient, the trees worn by wind and time. Roots dipped and curved through the earth like fish through streams. Late-harvest blackberries gleamed in the sunlight.
As they approached, Branwen heard song. It was not birdsong, nor did it sound human. It had the slow cadence of a song sung around simmering embers, when the fire had all but gone out and the stars were bright overhead. She shivered.
The trail rounded a bend, and then Branwen saw a strange sight. At first, she thought someone had planted silver flowers alongside the path. Then her eyes settled on a sword hilt. Someone had plunged the blade deep into the earth and left the weapon to rust. There were others: shields, spears, arrows, a few crossbows, and scattered caltrops.
“What are these?” said Branwen.
The scribe said, “Not all hunters return to claim their weapons.”
Branwen’s heart lurched.
It was a graveyard.
There might have been no bodies, but these weapons were unspoken grave markers. Her gaze darted across all those rusted swords, those rotting arrows, the blades and the armor. Every single piece had belonged to a hunter who had not survived.
Gwydion drew in a breath as they passed by. His right hand twitched, then he slipped both hands beneath his cloak. Palug trotted along, pausing to sharpen his claws on a tree.
The scribe led them to where the sunlight ended and wood began. The canopy cast the world into shadow.
Two old yew trees stood at the entrance of Annwvyn. Their branches were woven together to form an arch. Branwen’s mouth went dry. She had never before glimpsed the gates of Annwvyn. The two ancient trees were spoken of in whispers and bardsong. It was said that King Arawn himself had planted and tended to them. They were bound to him, and he to them. All of this forest was his.
“I leave you here,” said the scribe, with a small bow. “Follow the path to the hunting camp. It will take a few hours. The folk have left lanterns to mark your way. Do not leave the path, no matter what you see.”
“Thank you,” said Gwydion, touching a hand to his heart. Then Branwen realized that he had drawn a gold coin from the purse that hung around his neck. He tossed the coin to the scribe, who caught it easily. The woman gave Gwydion a more earnest smile.
“I hope you return, Lord Nisien,” she said, then turned and hastened from the gates. She looked as though she wished to be out of sight of them. Branwen had the feeling the woman would sleep with iron in her pockets tonight.
Gwydion and Branwen gazed at the yew trees. An inhuman song rose in her ears without any true source to pinpoint. It rose and fell, wordless and beautiful, and Branwen found herself straining to listen. Without iron to shield her, that song crystallized into words.
Every fifth year as harvests wane,
Two kingdoms meet in wooded domain.
“Can you hear that?” whispered Branwen.
Gwydion gave her a sharp glance. “The song? Of course.”
“Can you understand it?”
