“We were all raised by monsters,” said Gwydion. Then added, “No, not you, Branwen, your mother is wonderful. But we did not choose our parents.”
Pryderi shrugged. “I mean, I sort of did. I helped kill the afanc and chose a foster family instead.”
Gwydion aimed a finger at him. “Stop poking holes in my speech.”
Pryderi held up both hands in surrender.
Gwydion continued, “You’re not a monster. You’re a little irritating, too handsome for your own good, and you will be the best king Dyfed has ever had.”
Pryderi went bright scarlet. “I don’t know which part of that to object to.”
“Then don’t,” said Branwen. “I agree with all of it, except for the irritating part.”
Pryderi laughed. “Well, thank you, both. For everything.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Gwydion. He reached down to stroke Palug’s belly. The cat purred louder.
“You allied with me,” said Pryderi. He hesitated. “I am going to ask my father about sending a diplomatic envoy to Gwynedd.”
That made Gwydion freeze, fingers stilled in Palug’s fur. “What?”
“Even if we lose the Hunt,” said Pryderi, “I will ask that of him. You’ve proven that there are good people in the royal family of Gwynedd. My father won’t be happy about it, but I will encourage him to reopen diplomacy. And we will support whoever you think should take Gwynedd’s throne.”
Gwydion swallowed hard. “That’s… more than I ever hoped for.”
Pryderi gave him a weary smile. “You’ve more than earned it.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “And what of you, Branwen? What dark secrets will you unburden upon us?”
She snorted. “What makes you think I have dark secrets?”
“Because no perfectly balanced person would risk her life in the Wild Hunt,” he said.
She stuck her tongue out at him. “Fair point.”
“I know,” he agreed. “Is this all for your mother, then?”
Branwen hesitated. “Yes. And no.” She drew a breath, and the amusement vanished from her eyes. “My cousin Derwyn used to live near my home. He and his husband lived near the village. Derwyn was a kind soul, gentle and eager to help anyone who needed it. He had adopted a daughter.”
Oh, Gwydion thought, seeing the agony flicker through her eyes. This was her own dearly held truth, one so painful that he was sure she had not told another in years.
She continued, “There were border skirmishes along the edges of Gwynedd and Gwaelod, as I’m sure you know. Poisoned wells,little fights, and mercenaries. The mercenaries were the worst—they would come into a village, take what they pleased, and leave only ashes and tears in their wake.
“When the mercenaries came, they demanded Derwyn’s home. ‘We need a place to stay,’ the leader said. Derwyn had tried to use gentle words to fend off the company. The head mercenary was furious that Derwyn would refuse him.”
A painful lump rose in Gwydion’s throat. He had heard of those attacks, had learned of them through coded missives and reports from his uncle’s soldiers. They had been about lost mills and granaries, farmland put to torch and buildings destroyed. Not once had those reports mentioned the people who were hurt. “What happened?” he asked quietly.
Branwen shivered. “He killed Derwyn’s child to make an example. I tried to stop him, but I was outnumbered. We sent word to Caer Dathyl, but Gwynedd wouldn’t do anything. So I did.” Gwydion flinched. Her gaze was cold but without blame, full of old pain. “I tracked that mercenary for months. It wasn’t difficult, as he left a trail of mourners. And finally, when he wasn’t with his crew, I challenged him to a fight.”
“And you slew him?” asked Pryderi.
Branwen let out a bitter, breathless laugh. “No. He bested me soundly, and I returned home with this scar,” she touched her cheekbone. “He was slain by another. I know I should take comfort in that, but it still feels like I failed my family.”
“How old were you?” asked Pryderi.
“Sixteen,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Derwyn and his husband left Gwynedd after that. They were the last blood family that Mamand I had. Now it’s just the two of us.” Her jaw clenched, and unspent tears shone in her eye. “The week after he left, Mam had her first forgetful night.”
Gwydion gazed at her. There it was—the moment that had defined her. Branwen was fierce, unbending, and practical because she had learned that no one would save her. She hated helplessness because she had tasted it.
“I’m sorry,” Gwydion said. He winced—an apology with nothing else attached was merely empty words. He reached down, covering her hand with his. “Things will be different if Arianrhod is queen. She would take care of Gwynedd, I know it.”
