Branwen wrapped her arms around her knees. “A meadow?”
“It was my mother’s favorite place,” he said softly. “A day’s ride from Caer Dathyl. She used to take me there when I was young. She had tended it for years, used her magic to grow herbs and flowers. It was a hidden little meadow—and only she could come and go as she pleased. The trees would welcome her.” He cleared his throat. “I inherited my power from her.”
“That sounds lovely.”
The softness fell away from Gwydion’s face. He inhaled, straightening his shoulders. “It’s likely gone now. I don’t know what became of it after she died.”
“What happened?” asked Branwen.
“Illness,” he said. “Dôn’s power was like mine. Divining takes something from the diviner, you know. Fire diviners lose heat, water diviners are parched, metal diviners drain the metals in their blood. But as for plant diviners… no one truly knows what the magic costs. Mother used the power freely, spending her life with little care for herself. She grew slow to heal and quick to exhaustion. My uncle might have healed her with his magic, but he did not. So she slipped away.” His right hand flexed. “The healers tried experimenting on me for a while, trying to find out where my magic came from, but I stopped them. They never helped. So I don’t overtax myself. I decidewhen and where to spend my power. But I still wonder if I will end up the same.”
Branwen shivered. Her body had been a reliable thing for as long as she could remember. It was not perfect. She was scarred; her magicked eye gave her painful headaches if used for too long; her once-broken cheekbone ached in cold weather. But she could not imagine living a life where every decision had to be weighed against the cost. “That must frighten you. It would frighten me.”
Gwydion shook his head. “It does not. I’ve known no other life.”
It seemed a night for truths. Perhaps the silence of the hounds had left them both hungry for sound of any kind. “Then what do you fear?” she asked.
He looked down at his hands. No, she realized. Not both of his hands—just the right one. The one protected in a leather-and-wood brace.
“Being at the mercy of another,” he said softly.
Because he did not trust others. The last time he had allowed himself to be powerless, he had been hurt. He might as well have spoken the words aloud. All of his jests and his wit, all of his charm and his intelligence—it was his armor. He had made himself a trickster because he would never be a knight.
She pointed to the scar along her cheekbone. “You couldn’t stop looking at this scar when we met.”
His gaze focused on the old mark. “You said it was a wolf hunt.”
She exhaled. “It was a man,” she said. “Not a wolf. Although he liked to call himself that. He… he slew one of my family. And I could not stop it. Nor avenge it.”
His hand came up, fingers brushing over the old scar. His thumb stroked back and forth, as though he were committing it to memory. His brows hung low over his dark eyes; anger embrittled the corners of his mouth. She knew that anger was not aimed at her. His hand fell away, and she felt his fingertips graze her lips.
She said, “Powerlessness. That is what I fear most.”
Something flickered through his eyes. It might have been shame; it might have been understanding. He gazed at her as though she were a knot that had just unraveled in his hands.
“Perhaps that’s why we’re all here,” said Branwen. “Because the boon is power. It’s a choice we can make for ourselves. Noble or common, hunter or hunted, we all want that.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “We do.”
CHAPTER 23
THE MORNING BEGAN with rain.
It dripped from the trees, spattering across Gwydion’s hood and dripping down his cloak. The cold made his right hand stiff, and when he tried to stretch the fingers, they throbbed in answer. Palug’s ears were pressed to his head, and he glared at the woods as though the rain were a personal betrayal. The rain dampened all of their moods: Branwen muttered about how tracks would be washed away, and even Pryderi looked a little bedraggled. Had this been a royal hunt of Gwynedd, they would have retreated to camp to indulge in mulled wine, game roasted over a fire, and conversation. But in the Wild Hunt, the stakes were too high for indulgences.
“What are you looking for?” asked Gwydion as Branwen led them down a muddied trail.
She shot an irritated glance over her shoulder. “You think you could do better?”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, holding both hands out. “I am not a hunter.”
“I would never have guessed,” said Pryderi dryly.
“I don’t know what signs you’re looking for,” continued Gwydion, “and if I did know… I might be of more use. I can sense the forest. It might not be like listening at a door for human talk, but I can discern some things.”
Branwen halted. “You make a good point,” she said. “Sorry.”
“No apologies needed.” He could see the taut line between her brows, the clench of her jaw. Pain was written across her face as clearly as if it had been scrawled on parchment. Gwydion had felt enough pain in his life to recognize it in another.
