On her belt, those severed hands swayed sickeningly.
Each hand bore a signet ring.
Cigfa had not bothered to take the rings; she had simply taken their hands.
And with a nauseating twist of his belly, Gwydion thought of Arawn’s finger-bone crown.
“Fallen kings,” Branwen whispered. “Any animal. That’s what he said—any animal, mortal or immortal.” She seized Gwydion’s right wrist, squeezing hard. As though she might make him understand through pressure alone. “Any animal.”
He gazed at her, uncomprehending.
She said urgently, “This is why people go missing on a Hunt year. There were rumors. I thought—after I heard the rules, I thought it was just a tale. But it’s true. If the barwn’s son hadn’t been eaten…”
It took Gwydion a moment to recall who she was talking about. Barwn Ifor—his missing son. Gone into Annwvyn and never returned. It was true that a few people vanished every year. Gwydion had heard the same rumors, but he’d never wanted to believe them. It was easier to blame the disappearances on human mistakes.
He felt abruptly cold. His gaze sought the man’s hand—and true enough, he bore a dark signet ring.
“What is it?” asked Pryderi.
“The otherfolk,” Gwydion said hoarsely. “They’re using captured humans as their game animals.”
CHAPTER 24
PEOPLE ALWAYS VANISHED on a Hunt year.
It was simply expected, the way snow arrived in winter and wildflowers with the spring. Every fifth year, when the autumn was waning, those who ventured too near Annwvyn would disappear. Some reappeared… and others never did. There were always whispers about the Wild Hunt, about humans being chased through the woods. But at the revel of Nos Calan Gaeaf, Branwen had seen the celebration of mingled mortals and immortals. Surely those of Dyfed would not take part in hunting their own kind.
Of course they would, part of her whispered.Humans have never hesitated to harm their own.
Branwen thought of the barwn’s missing son. Being devoured down to the bone by a water wraith might have been preferable to this. This man had been stolen, given a folk signet ring, and set loose in the forest like a deer. He was to be hunted and bested—andjudging from the bloat of those severed hands, the others Cigfa hunted had not lasted very long.
That might have been Branwen, if not for her magicked sight. How many times had she walked the outskirts of Annwvyn? She had avoided countless folk traps, slipped by the snares, walked freely without fear of illusion.
This poor man had not been so lucky.
“Cigfa can’t be,” said Pryderi. “She isn’t…” His face was bone white, stark against the dark green of the blackberry brambles. “Iknowher.”
Gwydion blinked. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”
“Not like that,” said Pryderi. “I came with my father and the others to set up camp. She was given the task of keeping me out of trouble, introducing me to folk nobles, and showing me around. She made me laugh. She was never cruel.”
“The tylwyth teg aren’t human,” said Branwen. “I’ve spoken with an ironfetch about them. The folk are not cruel, but nor are they merciful. Is a hawk cruel for hunting rabbits? Or a storm merciful for passing by a house?”
“They’re not monsters,” said Pryderi.
“I believe the woman with a belt of severed hands might qualify,” said Gwydion.
Cigfa walked toward the fallen man with calm certainty. She held a terribly serrated knife—the kind used for sawing through sinew and bone. There was no chance of escape for that human. He could not run, not with an arrow through his knee.
Branwen could not simply watch. She had seen too much needless cruelty in her eighteen years; she would not bear witness toanother death while she stood by. Fury set fire to her blood, giving her a strength she knew she would need.
“Gwydion,” whispered Branwen, “let me go.”
Gwydion shook his head. “Fallen kings, Branwen. I don’t think you can—”
But Branwen was moving before Gwydion could finish his sentence. Heedless of the thick vines, of the dying leaves, of the thorns that looked sharp enough to skewer, she rose from her crouch, yanked the dagger from her hip, and cut her way free. Briars snagged on her sleeve. Gwydion cursed, but he did so in a singsong. With the tune, the briars melted away before her.
The moment Branwen had an arrow drawn, all her disgust and fear and anger seemed to melt away. There was only the hunt.
