“Willowbark?” Gwydion asked, opening his own pack. “Or poppy?”
Branwen cracked one eye open. “What?”
“How bad is the pain?” he said. He gestured at her eye. “Don’t lie. That is my talent.”
The corner of Branwen’s mouth twitched. “When did Gwynedd’s trickster become such an accomplished healer?”
“Probably about the time he realized healers knew nothing about his own maladies,” he answered. “They could do little for me, so I learned on my own.” He shrugged. “If anyone asked, I told them I was growing and learning about poisons—which is not entirely a lie. Most remedies can be used to harm, if one knows how.”
“Comforting,” said Branwen. “But I’m not sure if herbs will help.” She touched the corner of her right eye. “Iron is the only cure I’ve found.”
“Then let’s make something of iron.” Pryderi reached down to the pouch at his belt. Gwydion’s heart leapt as he saw the jumble of signet rings in Pryderi’s palm. There were several of Dyfed nobility. The rings of the tylwyth teg were unknown to him but no less powerful. It was the heavy golden ring that drew Gwydion’s attention. The heavy signet ring of King Pwyll was beautiful. Part of him yearned to slip the ring into his own pocket, so that he could be sure it would not be taken.
“I think this is iron,” said Pryderi, picking up a small, unadorned ring. “It must have come from a hunter—there’s no signet. A wedding ring. Maybe it was the one that woman tied to an otter.” He grimaced, likely remembering this ring had come from one of the severed hands. “I hope not.”
Gwydion took the iron ring. He folded it into one of his clean bandages, then folded it again. “Here,” he said, gesturing Branwen closer. He bound the cloth in place around her head, ensuring theiron ring gently rested against her eye. “It isn’t very secure, but as long as you don’t thrash around in your sleep, it shouldn’t come off. How does it feel?”
Branwen kept her eyes closed for a moment. There were flickers of movement beneath the one visible lid, and a tensing in her jaw as though she was waiting for a blow. Then her shoulders slumped. “Better. It’s—better. I’ll need a few hours to rest, but after that I can use the eye again.”
The relief stripped all the defenses from Branwen’s face. Gwydion had never seen her look so vulnerable. With her eyes closed and tension unspooling from her body, she looked less a fierce huntress and more the eighteen-year-old girl.
Gwydion looked away before she could open her eyes and see him staring. He looked at Pryderi instead.
It was a mistake. Pryderi had pulled off his tunic. Shirtless, he was all sun-burnished muscle and sinew. Gwydion gazed at him perhaps a moment too long to be casual, then shook his head and glanced at Branwen. She had seen him gawping at the prince. She winked with her one visible eye. He tossed a bandage at her, and she batted it away, laughing quietly.
“What?” said Pryderi.
“Nothing,” said Branwen.
“Then I am going to stand under the waterfall,” Pryderi said. “See if it can’t wash away what feels like half a mountain’s worth of dirt in my hair and clothes. Either of you wish to join me?”
A bath might have been nice, but the thought of undressing sounded like too much work. “Tomorrow,” Gwydion said.
Branwen frowned. “We can’t stay here that long. We need—”
“Rest,” Gwydion said firmly. “Trust me. No one will get to the ring before us. No one even knows where to look.”
Branwen arched a brow.
“Well, Cigfa knows where to look,” said Gwydion. “But you bound her to silence. I think we can afford a night’s rest.”
“I, for one, welcome a night when I will not be sleeping in a tree,” said Pryderi. He bundled up his dirty clothes, yanked off his boots, and walked out of the stone cottage. Palug curled up in a patch of sunlight where the cottage’s roof had given way.
“You know, I’m beginning to think my tree houses are underappreciated,” remarked Gwydion.
Branwen laughed, and there was an adorable snort in it. “He appreciates them. He just doesn’t enjoy them.”
“All right, I’ll accept that,” said Gwydion.
They fell into quiet as Gwydion unbound his hand brace. The poultice had helped, but he wanted to wash away the slick oil and herbs and replace them. Branwen watched as he worked. “Do you want help?”
“I have it,” he said. He was rather good at tying and untying knots with his teeth and left hand.
“I didn’t ask if you needed help,” said Branwen. “I asked if you wanted it.”
His left hand froze. He had spent so much of his life learning self-sufficiency, ensuring that he relied on no one but himself.
“If you like,” he said quietly.
