“Good,” said King Pwyll. “Now, a few announcements—first, weapons have been delivered to your tents. I know most of you had to leave your iron swords and arrows behind, so replacements have been provided.”
Arawn held one hand up, then deliberately and slowly removed the signet ring from his index finger. At this distance, Pryderi could not make out the details, but he knew what the ring entailed: a sun and moon, balanced against each other. A ring for an eternal being, for whom time had little consequence.
Pwyll did the same, holding his own signet ring aloft. It bore the dragon and seahorse of Dyfed.
“These are the rules of the Hunt,” said Pwyll. “Listen well.”
The quiet drew into a taut silence. Pryderi’s heartbeat quickened, and he strained to listen. He did not wish to miss a word.
“Capture an animal,” said the Otherking. “Bind your signet ring to it. Then, you will hunt those animals that have been chosen to bear rings. Gather as many rings of value as you can. Bring them to your king. Hunters may work together in groups of no more than three—and those who bring the most fealty to their king will winthe Hunt.” Arawn smiled, the candlelight glittering in his golden eyes. “And those hunters will each receive a boon from myself.”
A quiet rumble went through the crowds. While there were always whispers of the boon, even Pryderi had not been sure he believed in it. A boon from the Otherking would be magic few could ever dream of. It could change the course of a person’s life.
Pryderi wondered fleetingly what he would ask for, if he were to win.
To go home, part of him whispered.
To be a good prince, he thought, trying to quash the first impulse.
“Any animal?” called one of the hunters from Annwvyn.
“Any animal,” replied Arawn, with a knife-edged smile. “Be it mortal or immortal, so long as its heart beats and you can capture it—it may carry your fealty. I suggest you choose well, lest it be too easily slain. You may send the animal away or keep it with you, but the moment your own ring is captured by another, your time in the Hunt is ended. If you fail to bind your ring to an animal, you will not be allowed within the Hunt.”
“How would we know if our ring is captured?” called one of the folk hunters.
Arawn’s eyes gleamed gold. “You will know.”
“And when we hunt?” said a huntress from Dyfed. “Must we bring the animal back alive?”
Arawn shook his head. “The ring is all that matters. As for your prey… in the Wild Hunt, all are fair game.”
“We capture our animal at dawn?” asked another.
“No,” said Pwyll. Even in the crowd, Pryderi felt his father’s gaze fall on him. “You haveuntildawn to capture an animal.”
Cries of protest rang out, but Arawn silenced them with a look. Folk and mortals alike had spent the last few hours drinking, feasting, and dancing. They wore finery and shoes unsuited to a hunt in the woods. And then there were the woods themselves. Outside the circle of torchlight, the world seemed to fall away. Trying to find an animal in the dark was an impossibility.
But this was the Wild Hunt. No one had ever promised it would be easy. This was why Pwyll had warned him against imbibing too readily. The medd in Pryderi’s belly burned like a small honeyed fire. But at least he was on his feet.
Arawn raised one hand. His fingers were long, casting spidery shadows. His face held a gentle, wicked amusement.
“Good hunting,” the Otherking said, and then he dropped his arm.
CHAPTER 16
BEFORE GWYDION COULD so much as draw a breath, he felt Branwen’s hand close around his left wrist. She half dragged him toward their tent.
Moving through the crowd was akin to being caught in a stampede of panicked deer—everyone was fleeing in every direction, and it was all Gwydion could do not to let go of Branwen. Palug darted between the trampling feet with the ease of a fish navigating white waters. Finally, their tent came into view. Branwen pushed the flap door open, then yanked it shut behind them. It quieted a little of the clamor.
Someone had left an assortment of weapons resting on a bedroll. There was a crossbow, a short bow, bolts and arrows alike, a slender knife, and a longer spear. There were other tools: a lantern, rope, and a flask of water. “Good,” said Gwydion. He yanked off his formal tunic and reached into his pack for more practical clothing.“We should hurry, get as far out into the woods as we can before the other hunters can manage.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Branwen hastily untying her dress’s bodice. Her fingers slipped on the laces, and she let out a curse. “This is why I never bothered with gowns. They’re impossible.”
Gwydion considered reaching out to help, but laces required both hands, and his right hand throbbed after the fight. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He hummed a soft little melody, drawing from his internal well of magic.
Branwen made a startled noise. “Gwydion!” The dress shifted of its own accord—cloth rippled away from her shoulders, her bodice loosening and laces giving way. The gown almost slid from her, but she clutched at the front. Her bare shoulders gleamed in the torchlight.
“I thought you divined trees,” she hissed.
