Branwen reacted at once, yanking a dagger from her belt.
But the attacker was too swift. It knocked an elbow into Branwen’s shoulder with almost inhuman speed, then hooked her leg with his own, yanking her to the ground. Gwydion seized the only weapon he could reach: a long-handled spear. It was a terribly awkward weapon for a close-quarters fight, but it was better thannothing. Gwydion swung it round, hoping it would not snag on the tent wall.
The attacker ducked beneath the spear, one leg slamming into Gwydion’s left arm. His elbow went numb, and he dropped the spear, dizzy with the sudden pain. Pain was nothing new to him—he lived with it nearly every day. But this was startling and sudden, and he could not guard against it.
Disarmed and gasping, both Gwydion and Branwen gazed at the monster that had invaded their tent. It wore a dark cloak, and when it rose, it stood taller than Gwydion.
They all went very still.
“Who are you?” said Gwydion, once he could speak. His heart hammered, and his mind was coming up with a thousand lies with every beat.
Their attacker pulled back his hood.
And there stood Pryderi, prince of Dyfed. “I should ask you the same question.”
CHAPTER 17
BRANWEN WAS TIRED of being tossed to the ground.
It had happened twice in as many hours. Which was just insulting. She gazed up at Pryderi. He looked menacing standing there with candlelight in his golden hair and eyes flashing like a sea storm.
Palug hissed at Pryderi, his body fluffing so that he looked twice his size. The sound drew Pryderi’s attention—which was his mistake.
Branwen bucked upward, locking both of her legs around Pryderi’s knee. Then she yanked herself back with all her strength, pulling his knee out from under him. Using that momentum, she flipped them, so that Pryderi lay with his back to the ground, her knee upon his chest and her afanc-fang dagger at his throat.
“I’m Branwen,” she said, baring her teeth. “Or did you forget?”
Pryderi’s eyes narrowed. His throat bobbed against the tip ofthe dagger. “You called him Gwydion. I know of only one Gwydion, and he does not hail from Emlyn.”
She heard Gwydion sigh behind her. “You did, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Branwen defensively. “You—you magically undressed me without warning.”
“You practically tied your laces into knots,” said Gwydion.
“Then perhaps next time, you should hire a true spy instead of a huntress,” she retorted. She scowled down at Pryderi. “You followed us here. You were listening. You knew he wasn’t from Dyfed, didn’t you?”
He met her gaze. “I can recognize dangerous people.”
“We’re not dangerous,” said Branwen.
“You have a knife to his throat,” said Gwydion reasonably.
She glared at him. This was his fault; she had known that infiltrating the Hunt would never be as simple as taking a dead man’s name. And now she was holding a prince hostage, and they were surrounded by enemies. All Pryderi had to do was scream, and they would be dead.
Determination was written into every line of Pryderi’s face. The prince was not unafraid, but he would not be cowed. Even if Branwen cut his throat, he would never surrender. She did not know much of princes nor nobles. But she knew how to face down a foe with only her wits for weapons and stubbornness for armor. Pryderi was no pampered creature; she had seen the calluses worn deep into his hands and the sun-burnished freckles. He reminded her of the young farmers and shepherds from Argoed.
Perhaps she could still salvage this.
“We’re not here to harm anyone,” she said. “We’re here to win the Hunt—like I said. And you’re right… we’re not from Emlyn.”
Gwydion made a strangled noise, as though he disapproved of her honesty.
“Gwynedd,” said Pryderi. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” she said. “The rest is true, though. Gwydion is here to win some family argument.”
“Well,” said Gwydion. “It’s slightly more complicated than that.”
