But what the boy never told his mother was that in his dreams,hewas the monster.
When the boy was fifteen, all those in the nearby village knew the lad as a tall, handsome young man. A passing nobleman saw the boy and recognized his resemblance to the king. When he heard rumors that the farmer had rescued the lad from an afanc, he carried word back to the castell.
The king did not believe the story until the nobleman convinced him to look at the boy. The moment his eyes landed on the lad, the king realized his mistake.There was his son, dressed in the garb of a commoner and feeding chickens. Torn between joy and regret, the king paid the farmer and his wife a royal sum for their good deeds and told the lad of his true heritage.
Perhaps the boy should have been glad to know the truth, but he did not wish to leave his home. The farm was familiar and safe—but his adopted mother bundled him in a cloak, hugged him close, and whispered that he could be whoever he wished. A prince had that power.
Wishing to be brave, the boy decided to go with the king. He returned to the castell as a legend, a story, and he was welcomed by his birth father and mother alike.
It should have been a tale with the happiest of endings.
The boy tried to learn how to be a prince. He learned dances and diplomacy, manners and courtesy. But he never quite managed to fit into the royal court. The nobles were uneasy around a prince who had been monster-raised.
When challenged by other young nobles of the court, the prince tried to ignore the taunts. But when the boy was eighteen, he was ambushed by a noble’s son. The prince fought back—but not as a prince should. He fought like a monster, all instinct and brutality.
Unease turned to fear.
So when his father asked if he would like to take part in the Wild Hunt, he agreed. There would be danger, but he did not care. This would be his moment, he decided. He would hunt the monstrous and the magical. He would prove himself.
For he heard what the court whispered.
That the monster had taken him because it had seen something of itself in the boy.
CHAPTER 13
AS LONG AS Pryderi could remember, Nos Calan Gaeaf began with fire.
People spent days gathering wood for the bonfires. Pigs, cows, and chickens were prepared for a feast, and the smells of cooking meats, breads, and sweets would send village children into a frenzy. At least one would try to steal a cake only to be rewarded with a stern glare.
There were old traditions. Some villagers threw marked stones into the bonfires, hoping to find them in the morn. It was considered good luck… although if one’s stone could not be found, then the thrower would have ill luck for the rest of the winter. Children ran screaming around the bonfires, testing their courage to see who would brave the sparks. Hedgewitches brought apples and nuts to the fires, divining what they could from their burnt remnants. Older villagers brought chairs to sit near the warmth with a cup of ale.
Everyone looked forward to the festival, but there was always an undercurrent of tension. For the last day of autumn was when monsters roamed the mortal lands. There were rumors of a tree that would crack open to reveal a spiteful woman, a great hog would eat stray travelers, wraiths and ghosts wandered the fields, and even the tylwyth teg would walk among humans in mortal guise. The feast was as much a gathering for protection as it was a celebration.
As night fell within the mountains of Annwvyn, Pryderi felt the thrum of anticipation. Nobles and their chosen hunters were chatting among themselves, greeting friends old and new alike. Pryderi stayed in the shadows; he knew very few, and it felt far too awkward to join a conversation uninvited. So he smiled and fidgeted and tried to look as though he were having a good time.
When a messenger brought a summons from his father, Pryderi breathed a sigh of relief. It was an excuse to slip away. He found King Pwyll in the royal tent, tying a note to the collar of a corgi.
The small dog trotted toward the door, then looked at Pryderi. Pryderi stared back at the dog. It seemed to be waiting for something. Pryderi reached for the tent’s cloth door and held it open. The corgi woofed a soft thanks and ran outside.
“They’re spies and messengers, you know,” said Pwyll, watching the dog go. “Strange little things, but Arawn favors them.”
The thought of the formidable Otherking surrounded by a clutch of corgis was enough to make Pryderi laugh. “I like them, too.” He could feel his father’s eyes upon him, and he tried to stand straighter. “What do you need of me, Father?”
“Nothing,” said Pwyll. “I simply wished for you to join me.” He walked to the tent’s door and gestured for Pryderi to follow.
Pryderi tried to look eager instead of uneasy. It was not his father’s fault that Pryderi disliked celebrations. There were too many eyes upon him, too many whispers. “I was not sure what to expect from the festival tonight,” said Pryderi. “I’ve only experienced Nos Calan Gaeaf with humans.”
“The otherfolk celebrate the changing of the seasons as much as any mortal,” said Pwyll as they walked toward the unlit bonfires. Night fell quickly in the forest, and the cool evening air nipped at Pryderi’s bare neck. “More so, even. Tonight is a night of magic for them. They will have their own foretelling, their own dances. And you should take part, so long as you’re comfortable. More alliances are forged with a shared drink than through formal meetings.”
“Is that a command?” asked Pryderi, only half joking.
Pwyll’s hand fell on Pryderi’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Make some friends, son. But do not drink yourself into a stupor. You’ll need your wits this night.”
Pryderi managed not to flinch from the touch. “I will try not to disappoint you,” he said, and he meant it. Hewouldtry. He always tried to follow his father’s word even if his best efforts yielded few results.
What his father did not understand was that Pryderi was not raised for parties and court intrigue. He knew how to navigate the sinews of a winter-barren forest. He knew the taste of fear on a midnight mist. He knew a wounded animal cry—or the imitation of one—would bring forth prey. He knew how to survive.
His foster family had taught him far gentler lessons: how to ask for and accept help, how to slip a hand beneath a nesting hen for eggs, how to bake bread, how to be human. He missed them dearly.When he had lived with his family on the farm, it had been easier to put aside his monstrous upbringing. There had been no dangers to guard against, save for foxes and hawks that might prey on the hens.
