They ate a cold meal of dried meats, rolls, and leftover pies. Dusk drained all the warmth from the forest, and Pryderi was glad for the wool of his cloak. He wondered if his father was settling into his tent, back in the comfort and safety of the royal camp. Perhapshe would share a meal with King Arawn and the two would discuss whatever it was that kings talked about.
They fell quiet as night closed in around them. Gwydion settled up on his side, bundled up in his fur-lined cloak. Palug curled against his stomach, and Gwydion lifted the cloak, letting the cat snuggle in. Palug purred loudly.
Pryderi shifted, trying to get comfortable. It felt a little like sitting in an overlarge hammock crafted of woven pine branches. Needles kept jabbing his bare skin.
Branwen did not share his unease. She lay on her stomach, her arms braced on the edge of their makeshift camp, gazing at the forest below. She seemed to be watching for something.
“What’s down there?” Pryderi asked quietly.
“Game going home for the night,” she replied, equally soft. She reached for her bow, pulling a single arrow free. She fitted arrow to string, drawing it tight.
Pryderi took a deep breath, then chanced a look down. At once, his belly swooped. But he forced himself not to react, to look where Branwen looked.
Something was moving through the grasses.
Branwen inhaled deeply. Her gaze seemed to unfocus, her lips parted slightly, and as she exhaled, her fingers released the bowstring. The arrow cut through the evening, thudding into something far below.
A dead rabbit fell into the game trail, an arrow through its throat.
“That was a good shot,” said Pryderi. Looking down at the dead rabbit, he said, “Should I fetch it?”
“No.” Branwen tapped a finger against her bow. “You don’t eat raw rabbit unless you’re truly desperate. And we can’t make a fire up here.”
“Then why did you—”
“Because,” said Branwen, picking up a length of thin rope, “something will always come for the scent of fresh blood.”
CHAPTER 22
IT WAS NOT a monster that woke her. It was the quiet.
Branwen sat up, her cloak slipping away. Pryderi had fallen asleep with his back to the tree trunk, his head slumped and chin upon his chest. Gwydion was sprawled on his side, one arm still slung around Palug.
Branwen crawled to the edge of the woven branches, peering into the woods. She had set two snares near the dead rabbit. The first she hid near a clump of ferns and the second within the grass. The small knives the folk provided were unfamiliar. The metal was lighter than iron, and when she cut the second length of rope, she had yanked too hard and sliced a thin line down her finger. It was a thankfully small wound, and she’d bound it with a bit of clean cloth.
Now, she peered down at the dead rabbit. The quiet was deafening. Almost as if—
Fear burned through her. The shadows of the tall trees swayed as an unheard wind tugged at their branches.
And then one of those shadows moved.
Branwen’s breath caught. It was not a shadow but a large hound. She recognized the pale fur and red-tipped ears. Breath misted around its muzzle, fogging in the cool night. The ci annwn picked its way along the game trail.
It came upon the dead rabbit and snuffled the creature. Then the ci annwn lifted its head and howled silently.
Another hound stepped from the shadows, trotting up to its companion. Then another—and another. An entire hunting pack encircled the rabbit.
Something soft brushed Branwen’s arm, and she nearly fell from the tree. A hand seized her arm, steadying her. She looked up sharply. Gwydion was awake, his dark eyes focused on the hunting hounds below. Palug came up on Branwen’s other side. The cat glared down at the cwn annwn, his tail three times its normal size.
Fearful that he might leap at the pack, Branwen scooped him into her arms, caging the cat in place. She felt the vibration of his growl, even as she could not hear it.
The pack shifted and swayed, each of them sniffing at the rabbit. One hound snapped at another, then backed away with lowered ears. Its hind leg snagged in a snare. The hound leapt up in surprise, yanking at the rope. But Rhain had taught her well, and Branwen’s snare would only tighten the more the creature thrashed. The hound bit at its own leg, trying to free itself.
A sleek black horse glided from the shadows, cutting through undergrowth without stirring a single leaf. Atop the horse sat anarmored figure. He was tall, with a cloak like blood and a crown of bone. He cast a monstrous shadow in the moonlight—some ancient thing arisen from an age before mortals. He did not bow to the laws of this world; gravity did not seem to weigh upon him, and time slid past without ever touching his features.
King Arawn.
Looking at him was like staring into the sun. Branwen’s right eye ached, pupil drawn tight while her left eye tried to compensate. He glowed, lit from within by some invisible power. She had seen otherfolk with her sight, but it had never been like this.
