“To be fair, I found him in a cave,” said Branwen.
“Maybe it’s a cavern full of knight-eating cats,” said Gwydion.
“I’ll risk that.” Pryderi set his spear against the outside of the cave, rolled his shoulders, and angled himself sideways to fit into the narrow entrance. He held out his hand. “So we don’t lose one another,” he said. Branwen nodded. There was no risking a torch in this constricted space, so they would need to take care. He took hold of her left hand and Gwydion her right. It felt a little like a child’s game, walking into the unknown, their hands linked.
Daylight struggled to reach more than a few steps into the cavern, and then they were in the bleakest dark. Without torches, the air felt close and damp.
Branwen did not realize how much she relied on her eyes until they were taken from her. The dark was impenetrable, so thick it felt like a physical thing. With every breath, she tasted damp stone and earth. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them wide again, hoping her sight would adjust. But she might as well have kept them closed.
It was impossible to ignore the press of stone all around her. It felt as though the mountains could come crashing down at any moment, burying them for eternity. The thought made her shudder, and she felt Gwydion’s hand squeeze her own. Her boot struck a pebble, and the sound echoed.
No one seemed willing to speak nor break the quiet. Perhaps it was a childish notion, but Branwen was glad for the silence. It felt as though the moment one of them spoke, the darkness might wake up and notice them.
They were intruders in this land, and Branwen had never felt that more keenly. If Annwvyn wished to slay her and Gwydion, thiswould be the perfect moment. No one would ever find them; no one would even know where to look.
They went slowly. Pryderi was fumbling by touch alone, and Branwen could tell every time he bumped into a stone or tripped over a ledge. The passage was narrow, the stone sharp and unwelcoming. She felt the ridges and breaks against the soles of her leather boots. She hoped that there were no wayward dead ends or they would be lost. If they had brought a long enough rope, they might have tied it to the entrance. But the deeper they went into the mountain, the more certain she became that no rope would have stretched so far.
She was not sure how long they walked—perhaps an hour, perhaps two. Or it might have been half that time. Without sun nor stars, time became irrelevant. There was only the breath in her lungs, the hands in hers, and the darkness all around.
They rounded a corner, and light glimmered in the distance.
They all froze.
“The way out?” whispered Gwydion.
“I think so.” Branwen kept her own voice low. Again, she had that horrible sensation of being watched.
“Slowly,” murmured Pryderi. He went first, angling his tall form through a narrow bend in the cave.
As they approached the light, Branwen realized her mistake. That illumination was not the warm glow of sunlight—but the flickering of fire.
Torchlight.
Which meant someone—something—was waiting for them. Branwen licked her dry lips. It made sense; Arawn would not leavehis fealty unguarded. Her hand twitched toward her knife. As though sensing her intentions, Gwydion pulled his hand from hers and rested his fingers against her shoulder instead. She unsheathed her afanc-fang dagger. The weight was a familiar comfort.
The torchlight grew brighter. Pryderi’s shoulders tensed, and Branwen could see how he readied himself: his jaw tight, eyes focused ahead, stride smoothing out. He would go first and take whatever blows would come. Branwen would attack second.
The light spilled through a large crack in the cave. Taking a deep breath, Pryderi stepped through, and Branwen darted after him.
But it was no monster’s lair.
She had stepped into someone’s home.
There was a wooden door at the back of the cavern, rugs to soften the stone floor, candles merrily burning, and a circular table where someone had set an afternoon tea. Steam wafted from the cups, and the cakes looked fresh from a griddle stone. Branwen’s mouth watered, even as her magicked eye warned her that none of it was mortal. Everything in the cave had a glitter of unreality about it—including the occupants.
Three women sat at the table.
The first was a girl with long legs and hair unbound. The second was a woman of perhaps forty, with strong forearms and a keen sharpness to her eyes. The last was shorter than the others: an old crone with a walking stick and wicked smile. There was an eerie symmetry to them—as though a painter had captured the same woman thrice over the years. But even as Branwen gazed at them, her eyes could not seem to focus. One moment, they were beautifulbeyond comprehension. And the next, they looked as ordinary as any villager.
Palug sat in the crone’s lap. His tail was curled around his feet, eyes half-lidded as she stroked him. The little traitor.
“Look who has joined us for tea,” said the middle-aged woman. “A lapwing, a roebuck, and a hound.”
“A cat,” murmured the girl, in quiet correction.
“Oh no,” said the woman, with a glance at Pryderi. “He would make a far finer hound.”
Branwen, Pryderi, and Gwydion remained quiet. None of them seemed to know how to speak.
