Barwn Ifor stood before her, hands clenched and mouth drawn tight. Grief radiated from every quiver in his voice. “My son can’t be dead.”
Branwen reached into her cloak and withdrew the heavy signet ring. “This was all I could bring back.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Ifor. He was well past middle age, with silver hair and a brittleness about his eyes. “My son is alive. You’re—you’re wrong.”
“No,” she replied, keeping her voice soft. “I’m not.” She set the ring down on the barwn’s table.
“I paid you to find him!” snarled Ifor.
“And I did,” said Branwen. “What was left of him.”
It was the wrong thing to say. She knew it the moment the words left her tongue.
Ifor’s grief crystallized into anger. And before Branwen could so much as blink, he struck her across the face. The shock had her staggering, and instinctively, her hand rose up to protect her cheek. Her fingers came away bloodied. His own signet ring had scratched a shallow cut across her face.
“Get out,” Ifor snarled.
He did not have to ask her again. Branwen turned on her heel and strode from the room. To her surprise, the servant appeared as though she’d been waiting. “This way,” said the servant, putting a hand on Branwen’s shoulder.
It was not in Branwen’s nature to take orders, but the gentle weight of the older woman’s hand and the warmth of her voice were irresistible. She could not recall the last time anyone had taken care of her. She found herself being guided into a well-kept kitchen. A cook was tending to a cawl simmering above the fire, and when she saw Branwen, sympathy flashed across her face.
“Come here,” said the servant. She picked up a cloth, dampenedit with cool water, and pressed it against Branwen’s cheek. “You’re lucky he missed your eye. It’s not as though you have one to spare.”
Branwen snorted. Most people were under the impression she had lost her right eye in a childhood accident. It was a safer explanation than the truth.
“Did you find the barwn’s son?” asked the cook.
Branwen nodded. She did not have to explain; both the cook and the servant grimaced.
“I heard the lad before he left,” said the cook. “He was blathering on about joining the Wild Hunt.”
Branwen jerked in surprise. “What?” She thought the son had simply wandered too near Annwvyn, not that he had been fool enough to try and enter the Hunt.
The Wild Hunt was held on the last day of autumn every fifth year. It was a hunt for the immortal King Arawn and the mortal King Pwyll, in celebration of their friendship between their two kingdoms—Annwvyn and Dyfed.
No one knew what they hunted, but there were rumors aplenty: monsters, legends, even mortals. Those who lived near the village of Argoed knew better than to trespass into the woods on a Hunt year, lest they go missing.
“Why?” asked Branwen. “He must have known that was certain death.”
“He was saying that the winner of the Hunt was granted a boon,” said the cook. “And he wanted to be the greatest fighter in all the lands.”
The servant snorted. “As if a noble from Gwynedd would be allowed two steps into Annwvyn.”
“I know,” said the cook, with a long-suffering sigh. “He’s a daft one.”
“Was,” said the servant quietly. “Hewasa daft one.”
They all went silent for a moment, bowing their heads in acknowledgment.
Branwen shifted on her feet. “I should be going,” she said, pulling the damp cloth from her cheek. “It’s an hour’s walk home.”
“You give your mam these from me,” said the cook. She hurriedly bundled up an assortment of hard cheeses, salted fish, and a loaf of bread. “She helped deliver my niece a few years back. Tell her Olwenna still thinks well of her.”
Branwen took the food gladly. “I will.”
The gift meant she would not spend what little coin she had on food. While she could hunt for her meals, there were other necessities: cloth for mending and sewing, tools, and medicinal herbs. So many herbs. She had meant to visit the village apothecary, but without the barwn’s payment, Branwen could not afford it.
She left the village, ducking between houses until she was in the familiar countryside.
