Gwydion’s throat jerked in a swallow. “Would you?”
For a heartbeat, Branwen considered letting him take this risk. It was true that he had drawn her into the Wild Hunt. He had risked her freedom, even if he had done so unknowingly. If she was bound to one of the kings for a year and a day…
If she was bound into magical servitude, then she knew that he would come for her. He would try to find a way to free her.
He was a trickster. He had little love for his enemies, and he would use any means at hand to defeat those who opposed him. But for all his ambition and practiced wit, she had observed the way he treated the helpless. He had seen to Rhain when the older man was dying; he had saved Penbras without so much as hesitating; he carried Palug as though the cat were an infant; he protected his nephews fiercely.
Branwen trusted only a few—but in that moment, she realized that she trusted him.
If he knew her name, he would never use it against her. Nor would Pryderi.
Branwen put her hand on Gwydion’s back. With gentle pressure,she pushed him aside. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “I appreciate your effort, but it’s all right.”
Gwydion’s mouth was set in a hard line. “It’s not,” he said, his voice similarly quiet. “I’ve taken too much of you.”
“You’ve taken nothing I wouldn’t give,” she replied.
And she spoke a name she had not said aloud in years.
The three women smiled together. It was a smile of satiation. “You have all been very pleasant guests,” said the woman. “We try to be gracious hosts.”
“Tea?” asked the girl, her eyes agleam. “We could give them a drop each.”
“Not again,” said the woman. “The last mortal who had three drops became such a nuisance afterward.”
The crone snorted. “Truth, then,” she said, in that dry and crow-like voice. “We will give you each a truth.”
“I am not sure that is such a kind gift,” murmured the woman.
“Well, you will not let me give them tea,” said the girl, pouting.
The women all rose in one movement.
The girl looked at Pryderi. “You will never be a king.”
A flicker of shock crossed Pryderi’s face.
The middle-aged woman looked at Gwydion and said, “You will break a throne.”
Gwydion took half a step back.
Then those terribly ancient eyes focused on Branwen. She felt like a mouse before a cat—waiting for the blow that would shatter her.
The crone said, “You will hunt that which you love.”
And with that, the three of them simply vanished.
It was like watching steam evaporate—they dissolved into golden motes, as though they had never been there at all. The cavern’s furnishings vanished with them: the table, the chairs, the rugs, even the candles. The door melted away, revealing a passage. Sunlight spilled through it.
Branwen swallowed. They had come this far. There was no turning back. Slowly, she walked toward the light.
The passage led upward, stone giving way to earth, and Branwen climbed out into a meadow. It was beautiful—perfectly green grass, wildflowers in bloom, and a warm breeze. It was a meadow of summer, surrounded by a forest that bowed its head to winter. Behind her, she heard Gwydion and Pryderi make small sounds of surprise. All of the meadow, from the earth to the trees to the water—it was all magic. The golden glow made Branwen’s eyes ache.
At the edge of a small pond stood the creature—the one to whom Arawn had given his ring.
It was not an afanc, nor a llamhigyn y dwr.
It was a fallow deer. The buck had enormous antlers and a spotted red-brown coat. The animal was lovely—the curving antlers elegant and full, coat soft as dandelion seeds, eyes large and dark. Tied to the base of one antler was a gleaming gold ring. Branwen slowly reached for her bow, hoping the deer would not run.
