“No, of course not,” said Pryderi, smiling faintly. “You’re also in charge of ensuring we don’t walk into briars.”
Gwydion snorted and turned toward the cat. With a sigh, he reached down and picked up Palug. Then he turned the cat onto his back, cradling him in the crook of his arm like he’d held Dylan and Lleu when they were babes. Palug looked up at him, his feet in the air.
“You’ve never held a cat before, have you?” said Branwen, choking back a laugh.
“He likes it,” said Gwydion, scratching the cat’s chest.
Palug began to purr.
“He’s a little trickster himself,” said Branwen. “No wonder the two of you get on so well.” Carefully, she reached for the ferns. She twitched them aside.
Within the thicket was a sleeping deer. A silver signet ring was tied around its neck.
Branwen exhaled. She whispered something to Pryderi, and he nodded, reaching into his pack. He pulled out a small net.
Ah, Gwydion thought. They would try and catch the deer, rather than kill it. Personally, he would have slain the creature; it would have made matters simpler. But he would aid Branwen as best he could. Humming under his breath, he reached for his magic. It trickled through the roots of the trees, delving into the ground. If the deer woke, he would entrap it.
Branwen and Pryderi each took hold of the net, creeping into the thicket.
But as Gwydion’s magic sang through the trees, something made him pause. There was a hollowness, an ache through the ground. He had felt that only a few times before, when visiting the mines. Plants would sense when a tunnel had come too near, when their roots met only empty air.
“Wait,” he said, suddenly alarmed.
And then the ground collapsed.
CHAPTER 21
PRYDERI HATED THE sensation of falling.
Even as a child, he had disliked heights. He had been wary of trees and the hayloft, and his foster siblings used to tease him about it. For a moment, he was weightless. Then the ground rushed up, and he slammed into damp earth. He lay on his back, every muscle throbbing and his lungs disconcertingly hollow. He needed to move; he had to move. But his body came back to him with frustrating slowness. Finally, he managed to roll onto his side.
“Branwen,” he wheezed. He blinked again and again, trying to clear his vision. Branwen was on her hands and knees, her pale hair wrenched from its braided crown. Dirt stained her face, and she had a bleeding cut across her forehead.
“The deer,” she said tightly. Her hand landed on the deer’s neck. It lay stiffly between Pryderi and Branwen. “It’s dead.”
“Did it die in the fall?” asked Pryderi.
Branwen winced. “Too cold and stiff. It died hours ago.” She reached down for the signet ring tied to its neck. When she held it up, Pryderi saw it was a bit of wire curved to look like a ring.
Panic tore through him. This was no natural occurrence, no sinkhole. He could see the places where roots had been broken, where rocks were hauled away. Mortal hands had carved this pit.
A trap.
He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the protest of his sore muscles. “We need to get out of here. Right—”
Above them, someone screamed.
It was not a cry of fear. The sound simmered with challenge.
Gwydion answered with a shout. He was alone in the thicket, his companions trapped in a pit.
This was an ambush. And Pryderi had fallen into it. The sound of weapons being drawn made his breath catch. There was a clash of metal upon metal, a grunt, and then the battle yowl of a cat.
Pryderi’s first instinct was to leap for the top of the pit and heave himself out. To take apart anyone who dared challenge him. But he could not rush into danger and leave Branwen trapped down here.
He did not know her, not truly. But he wanted to. Perhaps it was because she had a way about her, a wry humor and confidence. Perhaps it was the way she looked at him, not like he was a prince but someone she might share a drink with.
Or perhaps it was because she could see monsters—and she had still chosen him as a companion.
