His brows drew tighter. “No.” Then with dawning comprehension, “Can you?”
She nodded.
And those who cannot hunt nor slay
Belong to your king for a year and a day.
“You still want to do this?” asked Branwen.
Gwydion squared his shoulders. “A little late for doubts.”
Something moved in the trees. Gwydion seized Branwen’s hand, as though to draw her behind him. They gazed into the trees, and a few heartbeats later, a flock of birds flitted through the branches. Palug chittered at them, tail lashing.
“We’ll be fine,” said Gwydion. It sounded as though he were telling himself that. His hand was still in hers. Perhaps she should have shaken him off. But it felt good to grip something human, something mortal. Palug trotted ahead, standing between the gates like he belonged there. He glanced back, as if to convey impatience.
With the othersong in her ears and a trickster’s hand in her own, Branwen stepped through the yew-tree gates of Annwvyn.
Kings and beggars, trust to your aim—
For in the Wild Hunt, all are fair game.
SOME MONSTERS WILLtake children—not to eat but to raise. For not all monsters are born with claws and fangs. Others must be forged with cruelty.
In the kingdom of Dyfed, monsters lingered in the old places, in the shadows untouched by humans. One night, a monster crept into the king’s castell. The king’s wife was recovering from the birth of her firstborn son. She slept deeply, her son safe with her maids. But the maids were distracted, and when one of them left the lad unattended, a monster—an ancient afanc—crept into the bedchamber and stole the babe.
It left behind only an empty cradle.
Screams rang out; cries resounded; soldiers and servants alike searched every room, every hidden place. But the child was nowhere to be found. The king turned his wrath upon his wife’s maids. Desperate to save themselves, one maid used chicken’s blood to mark the cradle while the otherclaimed to have seen the queen murder her own child. Enraged with grief, the king locked the queen in her rooms and refused to listen to her denials.
Meanwhile, the afanc raced through the night, carrying the babe and leaving a kingdom to mourn.
The afanc raised the boy, teaching him the way of monsters. The boy learned to stalk and hide, learned the taste of fresh lake water and the touch of moonlight. He learned how to fight, how to return every blow with his own.
When the boy was seven, the afanc took him to a farm. It was time for the boy’s first hunt—and so the monster decided to make the kill an easy one. There was a sleeping mare in the barn.
“Slay it,” said the afanc, in a voice like brackish water.
The boy looked at the mare. She was impossibly soft and peaceful, and the boy yearned to reach out and stroke her nose.
“I don’t want to,” said the boy.
The afanc hissed and struck him. “Do as you are told.”
The boy stumbled back, his shoulder slamming into the stable door. The sound woke the mare, and when she saw the afanc, the horse began to kick and scream.
The commotion woke the farmer. Armed with iron and more foolishness than bravery, the farmer snuck up on the monster. The afanc heard the farmer’s footfall and began to turn. The fight would surely end with the farmer’s death.
Desperate, the boy looked about, and he saw a comb hanging from the stable wall. It was meant to groom the mare, and the teeth were too short and blunt to do real injury. But it was made of iron. With a scream, the boy seized the comb and drove it into the afanc’s side. It whirled on the boy, distracted by the kiss of deadly iron. That moment was all the farmer needed.
The afanc screamed as the farmer’s pitchfork pierced its back. It writhed, digging claws into the loose hay and packed earth. But the farmer held on, driving the blades deeper until the monster went still.
And finally, the monster died.
The farmer stood there, chest heaving. His wife came out of their home, kitchen knife in one hand and lantern in the other. When she lifted the light, illumination spilled over the dead form of the afanc. She opened her mouth to berate her husband for risking his life—and then she saw the boy.
He had pressed himself into a corner of the stall, trying to hide, for all he knew was cruelty, and he expected more of the same. The farmer’s wife scooped up the boy, comforting him with practice. They had three daughters and one son of their own, all born to work the lands. Another healthy child was a blessing the farmer and his wife would not turn away. And so they raised the lad as their own.
The boy grew up with golden hair and a quiet demeanor. He tended the sheep, the chickens, and the pigs, and worked alongside his adopted siblings. During the day, all was well. But at night, the boy woke in tears. He dreamed of blood, of scales slick with lake water, of something hollow and hungry that dwelled within him. His mother soothed his fears, whispering that all was well, that no monster would ever touch the boy.
