Not yet.
Gwydion made a sound of frustration. Behind them, the forest began to change. Branches wove together, roots sprang up, and the undergrowth thickened. Moss rose up to meet their every step, muffling the sound of their escape.
They ran until Pryderi’s lungs burned, and Branwen finally slowed. Gwydion was wheezing, and when they finally stopped, he sank to the ground. “Just—let—me—die,” he managed to say.
Branwen’s hair stuck to her forehead, and her tunic was soaked through with sweat. She looked as shaken as Pryderi felt; she stepped from side to side, as though she could not remain still. She had killed that man. It had been in defense of Gwydion, but she had still slain another human.
Gwydion had picked up the obsidian sword. It was beautiful: the bone hilt curved and the blade glittered in the sunlight. It was a weapon that should have been in the hands of an immortal. Perhaps those scavengers had killed one of the folk for it.
“Are you all right?” Pryderi said quietly to Branwen.
She gave him a curt nod. “Fine.”
“Well, I’m done hunting for the rest of the day,” said Gwydion hoarsely. “We should find a place to set up camp.”
Branwen blew out a frustrated breath. “We can’t rest now. We still—we have nothing. No rings, no—”
Gwydion reached into a hidden pocket of his tunic and withdrew a small velvet pouch. He tossed it at Branwen. She caught it, despite her surprise, then fumbled with the drawstring.
“The old hunter had that on him,” said Gwydion. He finallyheaved himself into a sitting position. “I heard a bit of jingling and thought, ‘Who brings coin to a royal hunt?’ So I cut it from his belt when he was trying to strangle me.”
Within the pouch were three signet rings. Pryderi recognized the heraldry as two from Rhos and one from Gwarthaf. “They’re from Dyfed,” he murmured. “Are we… allowed to take them?”
“All’s fair,” said Branwen bitterly. Shame was written into every line of her body.
Looking at her was like gazing into a mirror. Pryderi’s own instincts had betrayed him more than once—a bruise against his foster sister’s cheek when she woke him from a nightmare, a cup smashed in a moment of anger, harsh words that he did not truly mean. He knew what it felt like to be haunted.He’s young, he once heard his mam murmur to his da.He went through something none of us understand, and he is still trying to sort himself out. Give him time.
Gwydion reached down, picking up their flasks. “I can hear water nearby,” he said. “I’ll refill these. Come on, cat.”
Palug had settled on a sunlit patch of fallen leaves. But at Gwydion’s words, he stretched and trotted after the diviner. Together, they vanished into the trees.
“Branwen,” Pryderi said quietly. Branwen looked at Pryderi, her face smoothing into a mask. “It’s all right.”
At his words, her mouth twisted. “It’s not,” she said.
“Have you ever killed before? A person, I mean. Not a monster.”
She shook her head. “I tried, once. But I couldn’t manage it.”
“There are shameful reasons people kill,” he replied. “Out of anger or greed or cruelty. But there was none of that in you. You did it to protect a friend. There’s no shame in that.”
A breeze drifted through the trees. It smelled of pine trees and damp rocks. Branwen lifted her face to it, closing her eyes for a heartbeat. She seemed to drink in the wind, and when she spoke, her voice was calm. “I didn’t just do it for Gwydion. I can’t… I can’t lose this hunt.”
He nodded in understanding. “Your mam.”
“My mam,” she agreed.
And there was truly nothing else to say. Pryderi did not know what he would have done to protect his foster mother.
They sat in quiet for a few moments, simply catching their breath.
“May I ask you a question?” Branwen said.
“We’re allies,” he replied. “Ask what you will.”
“About that.” She gestured at him. “Why did you ally with us, instead of turning us over to the kings?”
It was a fair question. Discovering spies and delivering them to his father would have been a fine way to prove his worth.
