The red-haired assassin shook his head and held up his bare arm. His wooden ring was still intact. “I’m escorting them back to camp.”
“Is that necessary?” asked Pryderi.
The assassin gave him a sharp smile. “There are hunters attacking those returning to camp. There is only one rule at this point. Be hunter or hunted. As this group cannot defend themselves, I will keep the scavengers at bay.”
“That’s kind of you,” said Pryderi.
He shrugged. “Any decent sort would.”
Gwydion wouldn’t. But then again, he’d never claimed to be decent. “How many rings did you collect?” he asked.
One hunter shrugged. “Likely not enough for the boon. Seven rings, mostly found on rabbits and grouse near the camp.”
“Impressive,” said Pryderi.
“Have you seen the beast yet?” asked one of the women.
Gwydion blinked. “The beast?”
“There’s something in the wood,” said the other woman. “We never saw it. But… we heard screaming last night. And this morning, we found…”
“Corpses without hands,” said another hunter. “They were bound by root and bush, so we couldn’t return their bodies to camp. Mayhap that’s what happens when you die in the Hunt—you belong to the forest forever.”
“Where did you find the bodies?” asked Branwen. Her gaze was hard as the winter sky.
The woman pointed northeast. “An hour in that direction. Take care, if you choose to hunt it.”
“Why would we hunt it?” asked Pryderi.
“Because,” said the assassin, with a gleaming smile, “what kind of hunter could manage to attach his ring to a beast?”
It was Branwen who figured it out first. “A king of beasts.”
“Precisely,” said the assassin. “I suspect that a royal signet ring would carry more weight in this competition than ten of lesser value.” He shifted restlessly, using his left hand to check the dagger strapped to his other wrist. As he did so, Gwydion saw the rings upon the man’s hands. There were five signet rings. This man had captured or killed five animals all on his own.
Dangerous, indeed.
Branwen nodded. “Good hunting.”
The assassin returned the nod politely. “You as well.”
But as they walked away, the assassin’s gaze remained onBranwen. The look made Gwydion’s stomach tighten. It was a gaze of pure hunger, of a starving man a few strides from a feast. Gwydion had the wild impulse to step forward and put himself between Branwen and that man. That was foolish. For one thing, Branwen was a far better fighter. For another, it would reveal his own impulsive loyalties.
He had no loyalty to her, Gwydion told himself silently. He had other loyalties—and those had to come first.
He had little patience for others. His friendships were transactional, like the alliance he shared with Eilwen. True trust, warmth, and companionship were too costly. To let someone near was too great a risk.
There were only four people he was sure loved him: his mother, Arianrhod, Dylan, and Lleu. He was here for them.
As the assassin walked by Branwen, dread filled Gwydion. For the man was not looking atherwith that naked desire.
He was looking at the ring around Palug’s neck. He had seen the prince’s signet ring.
When the two groups parted ways, Gwydion’s steps slowed. Years of living at the Gwynedd royal court had taught him how to plot and scheme. He could never beat that assassin in a fair fight, so he would not fight fair. He could double back. He could entrap that assassin in a cage of blackberry briars, capture him in the roots of an oak, or simply knock him in the back of the head with a rock. Then that assassin would pose no more threat.
But Gwydion knew that Branwen and Pryderi would disapprove. They had admired the assassin’s decency in escorting those others back to camp. They were both good people, wanting to believe inthe goodness of others. They hadn’t seen the look of hunger on the assassin’s face. If Gwydion suggested ambushing him, he knew they would regard him as a selfish, unscrupulous trickster.
Which he was. He very much was.
