But she had forgotten Palug.
The cat meowed plaintively and sidled up to the deer. The buck looked down at the cat with mingled confusion and curiosity. He made a soft, questioning sound. The buck leaned down to sniff him. Branwen stepped closer, trying to keep silent and seem unthreatening.
Gently, she broke the small branch that tied the ring to the antler. The ring fell into her palm. It was far heavier than it looked. Etched into the gold were the sun and moon in perfect balance, circling each other. This was the signet ring of Arawn, Otherking of Annwvyn.
She wondered if the king had given himself a wooden ring. If at this very moment, tree branches were creeping up Arawn’s left arm.
The buck stepped away from her. Then, without a backward look, he bounded out of sight.
His leaving seemed to break the spell that had fallen across the meadow. Branwen breathed again and again, feeling the weight of the ring. She had the wild impulse to slip it on, to see if it would fit any of her fingers. A power vibrated through the metal, sending a tingle through her palm. No matter how long she held it, the gold never warmed.
She hoped the ring was worth the price it had cost her.
You will hunt that which you love.
The memory made her flinch.
She would not. No matter what happened, she would never hunt anyone she cared for. Not her mother, not her cat, not—
She thought of the gentle weight of Gwydion’s hand in hers. Of Pryderi’s warmth and friendship.
No. She would hunt nothing that she loved.
Trying to distract herself from the crone’s words, Branwen’s gaze fell to the shallow pond. Its surface was clear and still as a mirror.
The woman that stared back had pale hair and sharp features. Her eyes were large and wide-set, and her mouth was set in a line. But that was not what drew Branwen’s attention to her own reflection.
It was her eyes. The left was a familiar blue. But the right—
Her right eye was gold.
Branwen blinked. She had seen her reflection before, but always with her iron-stitched blindfold. That woman had been Branwen of Argoed.
The woman reflected in the pond had wild, pale hair and an eye gold with magic. She carried the ring of an immortal king. She was Branwen of the Wild Hunt.
CHAPTER 28
YOU WILL NEVERbe a king.
Those words might as well have been a knife. They had carved out a hope that Pryderi had cradled near to his heart. He had been afraid of the throne and crown—but amid that fear had been a fragile hope.
He had wanted to do well. He had wanted to be a king that would make a difference. He had wanted to return home and see his foster family beaming with pride.
But he would never be a king.
Which meant—
Which meant there was only one thing Pryderi could be.
Kings and monsters are grown from the same soil.
Pryderi had come to the Wild Hunt to prove himself. And now he knew that he would fail. He almost wished they had never found that cavern; he might have pretended his fate was yet undecided.Now that he knew, it felt as though an unescapable weight settled upon him.
They returned through the now-empty cavern. All the trappings were gone—vanished with the magic that had conjured those three women. They walked in silence, each lost to their own thoughts. Gwydion’s expression was distant; Branwen would not meet anyone’s eye. The camaraderie of the night and morning had vanished. A sense of distance had opened up between them all.
You will never be a king.
You will break a throne.
