But there were far worse things to be.
They walked for the better part of the morning, taking a break to wash their faces in a cold stream. Branwen found fresh tracks while Gwydion unearthed a jar of poultice from his pack. His hand was aching, and he knew better than to ignore it. If he left it too long, the joints would swell and burn.
“I’m looking for where game trails meet hunter trails,” Branwen said as she refilled her water flask. She shaded her eyes against the sun, wincing. “Then we can follow the game, and hopefully those will be the animals marked with rings.”
“Are you all right?” Pryderi asked, frowning. “You keep looking away from the sun.”
Branwen’s arm fell to her side. “I’m fine.”
“I suspect you would say that, even if you were missing a limb,” said Pryderi. He shifted so that he stood between her and the sun.
Gwydion half listened to the conversation as he took the poultice, packing it around the knuckles of his right hand. It smelled of oil and fresh herbs, and he covered it with a clean cloth, trying to tie it off with his left hand. It was not his dominant hand, but he had become rather accustomed to using it for most tasks. Unfortunately,the oil of the poultice smeared across his fingers, making the bandage slippery.
Pryderi reached for the bandage, taking the edges from Gwydion. “You’re both stubborn, you know that?” He tied off the bandage so gently that Gwydion barely felt the pressure. “If you’re in pain, we’ll rest.”
“If we rested every time I was in pain,” said Gwydion. “We’d never get anywhere. We—”
A shriek of birdsong cut him off. Gwydion looked up sharply. Above them, birds took to the air, darting and whirling, crying out.
Branwen had an arrow nocked and aimed before Gwydion could blink. Her gaze narrowed on the flock, assessing. The tip of her arrow swayed as she aimed and aimed again. Then, the corner of her mouth twitched—and she released the arrow.
It cut through the misty air, felling one of the birds. She ran toward the bushes and emerged with it in hand.
It had a golden ring tied around one foot.
“How did you even see that?” said Pryderi, impressed.
She shrugged. “The sunlight reflected off the ring.”
“You know,” said Gwydion, a note of warning in his voice. “I believe we should find cover.”
The forest had gone quiet. Even the trees seemed to be holding their breath. Gwydion did not know what creature could frighten this forest. He suspected it would take something truly monstrous.
A beast.
A cloud passed across the sun. All around him, the forest fell into shadow.
“Something’s coming,” breathed Branwen.
There was a thicket of blackberries nearby. Their leaves were half gone, green growth edged with the brown of winter. A few desiccated berries clung to the brambles.
“In here,” Gwydion said, and with a hum and a gesture, he parted the blackberries. Branwen and Pryderi squeezed into the small space. Palug looked at the brambles, his tail waving uneasily. “You too,” Gwydion said, picking the cat up like a babe. Then he ducked into the foliage. With one more whisper, the thorns and half-dead leaves covered them.
They waited, hidden from view, peering through the branches. With his fear-sharpened senses, Gwydion was keenly aware of the taste of the winter mists, the smell of dying leaves, and the warm press of Pryderi and Branwen at his back. Palug shifted in his arms, but not as though he wanted to escape. The cat twisted so that he could see through the brambles. Pryderi’s signet ring bumped gently against Gwydion’s wrist.
Gwydion closed his eyes, letting his magical senses sink deep into the foliage. Something was running—no, fleeing. Footsteps crashed into the earth, crushing moss and grass, breaking branches, and tearing through ferns.
His mind raced with possibilities. If that assassin was right, then Arawn had chosen a beast to carry his signet ring. What kind of monster would carry the ring of an immortal king? An aderyn y corph? Twrch Trwyth? Or perhaps a creature that had not been named in tales.
But the creature that emerged from the woods was not a corpse-bird nor a giant boar.
It was a young man. He could not have been older than twenty-five.
“Not the monster I imagined,” murmured Pryderi. “Unless I am missing something.”
“No,” said Branwen, just as quietly. “He has no magic. He’s like us.”
But something prickled at Gwydion. It was an awareness that something was wrong, out of place.
