“That’s a good thing,” said Branwen. “I always thought princes would be more… finicky. Like cats.” Her gaze went to the black-and-white cat in her lap.
“What is the cat’s name?” asked Pryderi. He offered his fingers for the cat to sniff.
Branwen took her own drink of the medd, then made a sound of pleasure. “He’s called Palug.” She took another sip. “Where did you find this?”
“The medd is from my father’s stores,” replied Pryderi. “He brings a few bottles to every Hunt, or so I’ve heard.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small hard cheese he’d wrapped in a cloth. He broke off a bit and offered it to the cat. “I took a little forthe corgis,” he said, when Branwen raised her brows. “I don’t normally carry cheese around with me.”
Palug sniffed the cheese, then delicately took it from Pryderi’s fingers. He devoured it in a matter of moments. When Pryderi held out his hand a second time, Palug rubbed his cheek against his fingers. Perhaps it was the medd in his belly or the cat’s acceptance, but Pryderi finally felt at ease. Surely anyone that kept a cat could not be so bad.
“Do you know what the Hunt consists of?” asked Branwen. “No one’s told us yet what we’ll be hunting.”
“No,” said Pryderi. “No one knows. The Wild Hunt… well, there are certain traditions. Once you join the Hunt, you never do so again.”
Branwen swallowed. Nisien blinked.
“Not that everyone dies,” said Pryderi, seeing where he’d gone awry. “I mean, some people do die. But a person can only join the Wild Hunt once. After that, they are magicked never to speak of what happened. I think it’s to keep hunters from passing along secrets to their children, giving them an unfair advantage. Only my father and Arawn attend every Hunt.”
“So no one knows,” said Branwen, her lips pursing. “Not even a prince?”
Pryderi shook his head. “My father would not tell me.” He looked at the others. “And why did you join the Hunt?”
“It’s an honor to be invited,” said Nisien.
“A true honor,” agreed Branwen.
Pryderi raised his brows. He was not one of the folk, but someuntruths were so blatant one did not need magic to hear them. “Try again,” he said.
The line of Branwen’s mouth fractured into a smile. “Because he’s paying me. And I want the boon.”
“Fair enough,” said Pryderi. He suspected most of the other hunters would have said the same. He glanced at Nisien. “And you?”
“To win a family argument,” said Nisien.
Pryderi was startled into a laugh. Those answers had the ring of truth. “I appreciate your honesty.”
Nisien returned the smile with his own. There was something about that smile—it was too practiced, too perfect. “We do strive to be honest.”
That was the moment Pryderi finally understood why his instincts were clamoring at him. It was Nisien’s accent. The more he drank, the more his accent shifted. His words softened and became melodic.
That was not the accent of a man from Dyfed.
But before Pryderi could say a word, a loud horn rang out.
All of them looked toward the heart of the revel. “Listen well, all hunters!” came the call of a crier. “Listen well!”
“I should probably return,” Pryderi said, rising. He gave Nisien and Branwen a polite bow.
“Perhaps we’ll see you in the Hunt,” said Nisien. His dark gaze rested on Pryderi, as though he were fixing the prince in his mind.
“Perhaps,” replied Pryderi. Something in Nisien’s face gave him pause, but he pushed aside his own hesitation. He would worry about those two later.
He made his way through the crowds, past humans and folkalike. Everyone was gathering around the daises. As Pryderi watched, Kings Arawn and Pwyll ascended the steps for the second time that evening.
A hush fell over the crowd.
“A moment, if you please,” said Arawn. He had donned his finger-bone crown and bare-bladed sword. His crimson cloak trailed behind him like spilled blood. “I hope you are enjoying the feast.”
Cries of agreement broke out; there were cheers and raised cups. A few corgis even took up a howl.
