“Trades must be fair,” said the girl. “If the Otherking’s fealty is what you desire, then your sacrifice will be of equal value.”
“I don’t think I have anything worth a throne,” said Branwen tightly.
The woman held out her hand expectantly. “Name yourself.”
Gwydion took half a step back. “What?”
“Name yourself,” repeated the woman.
Horror rose hot in Branwen’s throat. Of all the things they might have asked for, this was the truth she was least inclined to give.
“Name ourselves?” asked Pryderi in confusion. “That’s it? How is that a fair trade for the fealty of a king?”
All the women smiled. It was precisely the same smile stretched across three lifetimes.
Branwen swallowed. There was a reason she had forsaken her birth name the moment the tylwyth teg had taken notice of her. The folk could do terrible things with names. There were tales of humans bound by enchantments, lost to their own memories, even vanishing and reappearing decades afterward.
Names were a door. The moment that door was opened, monsters could walk through.
“Wait,” said Branwen, a note of warning in her voice. “I think we should leave.”
Gwydion looked at her sharply. “What?”
Arawn’s ring was not worth this. “Names are powerful,” she said softly. “If we give these women—whatever they are—our names, we don’t know what will happen to us. Or to our families.”
Pryderi raised his voice. “What do you intend to do with our names? Will you use them to hurt us?”
The woman delicately picked up her teacup. “We have never needed a name to harm a mortal.”
“How reassuring,” said Gwydion dryly. He took a deep breath, turning his head so that he spoke into Branwen’s ear. “Perhaps two names will be enough.”
It would not be. Branwen knew that as surely as she knew that these creatures were not human. Magical trades required balance. For three hunters to find the Otherking’s ring, they would need three names.
“Who are you?” said the girl, crossing her arms. “Tell us before I tire of you.”
It was Gwydion who stepped forward, placing a hand across his heart. “I am Gwydion, son of Dôn.”
The three women gazed at him, implacable and unmoving as stone. “Who are you?” asked the girl.
“What?” said Gwydion, nerves edging into his voice. “Do you want me to go back further in my lineage?”
The crone shook her head, and her hair drifted like old cobwebs. “We did not ask for your parents’ names, boy. Who are you?”
“Gwydion,” said Gwydion, sounding out each syllable.
“Who are you?” said the woman.
“My name didn’t change in the last moment,” said Gwydion, growing frustrated. “I am Gwydion.”
“Who are you?” said the girl.
“I’m Gwydion,” he cried, “son of Dôn. Of Caer Dathyl. I’m Gwynedd’s trickster. Anything else you care to know?”
The three women exhaled in unison. A glance passed between them, and then the crone said, “You have told us all that we need.”
“Finally,” said Gwydion. He turned, twisting a hand at Pryderi. “See if you can do better.”
Haltingly, Pryderi stepped forward. He fidgeted with his hands.
