It could all be tales, Pryderi knew. Kingdoms waged war with words as much as they did with steel. A rumor here, an insinuation there. It all tipped the balance of power. Gwydion could be as dangerous as the tales whispered, or he could simply be a young man with a penchant for trickery. Pryderi did not know—and he could not trust him.
They walked uphill, then Branwen veered from the water. She seemed to be following a trail only she could see.
An eerie cry rang out. They all went still.
“Monster?” asked Pryderi quietly, his gaze roaming the dark wood.
Branwen smiled at him. “From the sound, you’d think so. But no. That is the cry of a roe deer.”
“That was adeer?” said Gwydion.
“A roe deer,” she replied. “Something must have startled them.”
Branwen drew her bow. Her hands were steady as she strung it. Pryderi could see why Gwydion had gone to the trouble of hiringher; she walked through the forest as though the wilds were her kingdom.
Several deer had taken refuge within a small clearing. They were small, elegant creatures with reddish-brown coats. A lone buck stood by the herd with his ears pricked and stance wary.
Branwen nocked an arrow. “We can’t kill them,” she murmured. “But if we could herd them into a trap…”
In the distance echoed the eerie baying of a hound. All around them, hunts were playing out. Nobles and hunters, mortals and folk—they were all in these woods with the same ambition. Alliances were being forged, weapons sharpened, snares set. Against his will, a small fire of anticipation kindled in Pryderi’s chest. There was a part of him that wanted to win. To test himself against the best that Dyfed and Annwvyn had to offer and emerge victorious. Perhaps then he would feel worthy of a kingdom.
At the sound of the distant hounds, the deer herd jerked to awareness, shifting and moving like a living thing. They began to flee the clearing, slipping through old brambles and undergrowth. It was like watching water vanish between the cracks of a broken cup—there was no stopping them.
As Branwen stepped forward, hissing in frustration, Gwydion reached out and placed a hand on her wrist. And then he did a strange thing.
He sang. It was a soft little tune, barely audible under his breath.
And the brambles closed around one deer like a fist.
Pryderi drew in a sharp breath. Magic.
The herd was gone. Between one heartbeat and the next, theyhad all vanished. All but one. The trapped roebuck thrashed against his bramble cage. The plants moved with him, never injuring the creature, but keeping the deer secure.
The roebuck made panicked barking sounds as they approached.
“Well, that was impressive,” said Pryderi, but there was an edge of wariness to his voice. “Plants, then?” He had never heard of such a magic.
Gwydion threw him a rueful smile. “Plants,” he agreed. “Not quite as powerful as fire or metal, I’ll admit.”
Pryderi bit back his disagreement. Fire and metal were both dangerous, but neither compared to this. Plants were everywhere, and they affected everything. He had lived on a farm long enough to know how growing things could carve the very earth.
“This was your victory,” said Branwen to Gwydion. “I think you should have this one.”
Gwydion slipped a ring from his cloak. Branwen held out a bit of twine, and he took it. “Hello, friend,” Gwydion said softly as he approached the deer. Branwen and Pryderi kept back, for fear of panicking the deer further. The roebuck’s breath gusted into the night, heavy and terrified.
Gwydion knelt beside the deer. He slipped the twine through his ring, and made to tie it around the deer’s antler.
But the moment his ring touched the creature, roots sprang from the earth like skeletal fingers.
Gwydion fell back, but one of the roots took hold of him. Branwen cried out, drawing the dagger at her belt, but Pryderi seized her arm. It would not help Gwydion to rush into a trap.
Before their eyes, the roots curled through Gwydion’s ring andthe roebuck’s antler, tying it into place. And then, gently as a lover’s caress, the second root curved around Gwydion’s left hand. A small tendril wound itself around his index finger and then broke off, curving into a ring.
All around them, an eerie birdsong rang out. But before Pryderi could pinpoint its source, the roots were sliding back into the earth. They did not so much as leave a scar upon the ground.
Gwydion sat back on his haunches. He held up his left hand, eyeing the wooden ring as though he feared it might bite him. “That was not me,” he said.
“It was the Otherking’s magic,” said Branwen, her eyes on the trees. Her hand remained on her dagger. “He is Annwvyn and Annwvyn is him. These woods are his. That spell must be how he keeps track of us.”
