Pryderi had not feared he would become a monster, for monsters needed enemies.
In the court of Dyfed, there were nothing but enemies. Even here, among Dyfed’s allies, Pryderi could feel eyes upon him—weighing, judging, regarding.
He did not want to be a monster. He did not even truly want to be a prince.
But he had little choice in the matter.
A dais of gnarled roots had been constructed by magic. Upon it sat two chairs—one wrought of velvet and oak and the second of moss and yew. Two thrones for two kingdoms united in friendship. And beside each throne was a lit torch.
King Arawn and King Pwyll approached the dais from different directions. Arawn was the taller of the two. He looked as ageless as the moon. Pwyll was well into his fifth decade, and while his shoulders were still broad, he had a lined face and silvering hair. As the two kings clasped hands, Pryderi thought he saw a glimpse of how his father must have looked all those years ago when he first met Arawn. For the briefest heartbeat, Pwyll looked buoyant and young.
“My friend,” said Pwyll.
“My friend,” replied Arawn.
At the sound of their voices, the camp fell silent. All eyes were upon the two kings.
They turned to look at the hunting camp. “Welcome, all,” said Arawn, placing a hand over his heart. “To my court, thank you foraccompanying me. To my mortal friends, thank you for making the journey. I know it is not a short one.”
“You’ll find no arguments here,” called out one of the Dyfed nobles.
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Even Arawn allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his mouth. “The Wild Hunt is one of our dearest traditions,” he said. “It is to reaffirm our kingdoms’ friendship. It is to remember how I met one of my dearest friends.” His hand fell on Pwyll’s shoulder. “We met on a hunt. Or rather, he intruded on my hunt.”
“I did not know the stag was yours,” Pwyll said good-naturedly. “And it’s not my fault your hunting hounds were so much slower than mine.”
Arawn waved away another bout of laughter. “I am very glad to welcome you all. Especially Pryderi, first and only son of Pwyll.”
Cold nausea swam in Pryderi’s stomach as all eyes turned toward him.
Every noble, every hunter, every servant—they were all gazing at him. Taking his measure. It was Pwyll who gestured to Pryderi, beckoning him toward the dais. To turn away or even to hesitate would be a display of weakness.
As he walked, Pryderi tried to glance at the crowds without seeing them, tried to let them become part of the landscape. It was the only way he could stand in front of them without feeling utterly self-conscious. He saw a middle-aged man from Dyfed who frowned and whispered to his companion. Cigfa wore a gown of feathers and velvet. She beamed at him, and Pryderi felt a small bit of relief. At least there was one person here who liked him. As his gaze driftedover the hunters, he saw a woman that made him blink. She had long, pale hair braided into a crown, and her eyes were a pale blue. A black-and-white cat perched atop her shoulder. The cat was such a surprise that Pryderi found himself looking at her longer than he should.
She met his gaze unflinchingly. Most did not. The servants bowed and averted their gaze around royalty; the nobles looked over him, through him, but never at him. But this woman regarded him without fear.
Pryderi was the one to look away first.
He stepped up to the dais. Feeling awkward, Pryderi turned to face the crowd. “This Hunt is particularly important to me,” said Pwyll, and there was no mistaking the undercurrent of emotion in his voice. “For it is the first one since I found my son again.”
A cheer rose up from the crowd. Pryderi did not know if he should join in it, wave, or simply stand there with his arms at his sides. The choice was made for him when Pwyll picked up the torch beside his throne. “Here,” he said. “As my heir, you will light the first of the bonfires.”
Pryderi took the torch, fervently hoping he wouldn’t drop it. Wouldn’t that be a tale to tell? He could imagine how the gossip would reach all corners of the isles.
Gripping the torch, he stepped down. Arawn was beside him, his own torch in hand. The Otherking’s face was harsher in the torchlight, the gold of his eyes all the brighter and his smile like that of a wolf.
As one, Pryderi and Arawn tossed their torches into the bonfire. The dry tinder caught, and flames blazed. A cheer rose up from thecrowd, and then hunters were thumping Pryderi on the back. It was welcoming, joyous, and he should have reveled in it. But the press of people and the closeness made his jaw clench.
Among the cheers, Pryderi heard drums and fiddles, crwth and song. With the first of the bonfires lit, other nobles were carrying torches to the smaller ones at the edges of camp. The festival of Nos Calan Gaeaf had truly begun.
Pryderi looked around, hoping that in the chaos and bustle he might see that flash of pale blue eyes.
But the huntress was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 14
GWYDION HAD SEEN his fair share of feasts, but even he was unprepared.
There must have been at least two hundred people in the camp. They were all dressed in finery—the human nobles wore wool and fur, while the otherfolk wore garments of silk and oak leaves, cloaks of spun lichen, feathers, and scales. He saw a man wearing a necklace of branches, his fingers tipped with elegant claws, chatting with a woman in a wool gown, a cup of wine in her hand. Dancers whirled and spun. Music slithered through the trees, but Gwydion could not pinpoint its source. He understood little, save for a wordless wail. The smell of roasted lamb made Gwydion’s stomach lurch. He had eaten naught but dried meat and bread since leaving Branwen’s house.
