“Gwydion is here to win some complicated family argument,” Branwen amended. “I am here for coin. And because… because if I win the boon, then I could heal my mam.” The words came out a little jerkier than she’d intended. Pryderi gazed up at her, a line between his brows.
“Your mother is ill?” he asked.
Branwen nodded. “Memory sickness. Magic is the only thing that can save her. And Gwydion—he could use that boon to do what no royal from Gwynedd has ever managed.”
“Win a war against Dyfed?” said Pryderi dryly.
“Well, that was uncalled for,” replied Gwydion.
Branwen glanced at Gwydion and raised her brows. “Tell him why you’re here.”
Gwydion drew in a breath. “I assume you’ve learned a little of my family?”
“I have,” said Pryderi. “Wasn’t there something to do with stolen pigs?”
Gwydion closed his eyes for one long-suffering moment. “Never mind that rumor. King Math is choosing his successor from mysiblings, as he has no children of his own. He has decided upon Amaethon.”
Pryderi’s eyes flickered back and forth for a moment, as though recalling something he had once read. “He is… the one who sets fires?”
“That would be the one,” agreed Gwydion. “A fire diviner, trained for war, hungry for glory. I imagine even Dyfed would have some trouble with him.”
Pryderi appeared unimpressed.
Branwen said, “He wants his sister to be queen instead. And from everything I’ve heard, she would make a better ruler than the brother picked for the job. Mayhap if she were on the throne, Gwynedd and Dyfed could be allies instead of enemies.”
Surprise flashed across Pryderi’s face. “I—oh.” He looked toward Gwydion. “Is that true?”
“Arianrhod has two sons,” said Gwydion, and there was no mistaking the truth in his voice. “She wishes to make a safe place for her children to grow up in. She would never start a war. She favors trade, diplomacy, an exchange of craftsman and knowledge. She would be open to it, I believe.”
“But we could not enter the Hunt as ourselves,” said Branwen. “We would never have been allowed. Gwynedd isn’t welcome here. But all we want is a chance.” She pulled her knife away from Pryderi’s throat. “That’s all we’re asking for.” She rose, stepping back. Fear beat hotly inside of her.
Pryderi did not move for a few moments. Then he rolled onto his side. His eyes were not on her face but on the blade in her hand. “Your dagger,” he said. “It came from an afanc.”
Her fingers tightened around the hilt. Most people did not recognize the weapon for what it was—all they saw was a wickedly curved knife, jagged along one edge.
Pryderi stood. “Did you take it from a monster?”
Unbidden came memories of being cornered in an alley. The remembered helplessness twisted her stomach. “Yes,” she said honestly.
Pryderi said, “Have you killed before?”
“Yes,” she said again. “Monsters.”
“How old were you? The first time?”
She racked her memories, gaping at him. Of all the questions he might have asked, she had not expected this. “I—I was thirteen. There was a llamhigyn y dwr drowning children. I killed it with this.” She gave the knife a little twirl.
Pryderi nodded. “I was seven.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “When you killed a monster?”
“When I distracted the only parent I had ever known,” he said, “so that a farmer could drive a pitchfork through its back. I have not slain another since. I have tried to make myself more human. To ignore the thrill of a fight, to pretend that danger does not entice me. You want to know why I came here? It was not because my father invited me. I came to the Wild Hunt to prove that I am the son of a king, not a monster.”
Branwen looked at Gwydion. He seemed to be considering the prince, his expression torn between wariness and eagerness. “Groups of no more than three,” he said.
Branwen nodded. She had been thinking the same.
Pryderi’s gaze jerked toward Gwydion. “What?”
