“How did you find us?”
“I followed you,” the assassin said, when he could speak. “Saw the signet ring on the cat the girl was carrying. It’s yours, isn’t it? Royal signet and all. It might win me the Hunt. I have to win, don’t you understand? I’m dying—there’s no cure. Not without magic.”
“Then you should have offered yourself up as an ironfetch,” said Pryderi. “Traded services for magic. Not killed your countrymen for it.” There was a deep contempt in his eyes.
“Be a servant?” gasped the assassin. “I’d rather die.”
“All right, then,” Pryderi replied, and yanked the spear free.
The noise the hunter made nearly cracked Gwydion’s eardrums.
Pryderi leveled the spear at the assassin’s chest, resting the tip against his breastbone. “You should never have hurt them,” he said quietly. “You should never have hurt her.”
“Pryderi,” said Branwen. She struggled to sit up. “You don’t—you’re not this. Pryderi—”
But he was beyond listening.
Branwen panted with pain, and her voice was high and thready as she said, “Gwri!”
It was like snapping a thread on a puppet. The spear lowered, and there was a terrible despair to Pryderi’s face. He looked over his shoulder, gaze locking onto Gwydion and Branwen.
“You’re only a monster if you choose to be,” she said. It cost her to say the words; sweat broke out across her brow, and Gwydion felt a fresh surge of blood against his hand.
There was a long silence, only broken by the hunter’s ragged breathing. Then Pryderi stepped away from him.
“Run,” he said quietly, “and pray the forest is merciful.”
CHAPTER 30
PRYDERI REMEMBERED LITTLE of the aftermath of the fight.
He remembered seeing Branwen fall, hearing that hunter admit he’d killed those he promised to protect, and the last thread of Pryderi’s self-restraint had snapped. Falling into that cold rage was almost a relief; he did not have to think. His world had narrowed to blood and bone.
It had taken Branwen saying his old name to call him back.
Names have power, she had told him in the cave. He should have believed her.
Part of him wished she had not managed to draw him back. Because when he returned to himself, he had to face the truth.
He did not know what he was. And the future held nothing but questions.
Gwydion worked over Branwen. “Hold her down,” he said to Pryderi.
Pryderi was grateful for the order; it gave him something to do. Branwen made a choked noise as Gwydion pulled away her tunic. Finally, the wound was visible. The arrow had deflected from the hilt of her dagger, sinking perhaps a finger’s width into the skin of her stomach.
Painful, yes. But it would only kill her if the wound was not tended to.
Once the arrow was removed and the wound cleaned and bandaged, Gwydion sat back on his heels. He met Pryderi’s eyes. “I am going to give her a little tincture of poppy,” he said quietly, “and then we’ll find shelter for the night.”
Pryderi nodded.
They walked with Branwen’s arm slung around Gwydion’s shoulder. He murmured quiet encouragements as they stumbled along. Her gait was unsteady from pain and the poppy. Pryderi wondered if he should offer to carry her, but the offer felt like an intrusion. Branwen needed a healer—not a monster or a prince.
Palug meowed. The cat had vanished during the fight, reappearing a few minutes later. Perhaps he had gone to hunt for field mice, for he kept licking his whiskers. Pryderi bent down and offered his shoulder to the cat. Palug considered, then leapt atop him and curled against Pryderi’s neck, purring. It was a small comfort.
They walked until Gwydion chose an old ash tree. He called to his magic and wove the branches tightly. Then he made a bed of his cloak. The branches lifted Branwen high, as gently as Pryderi couldhave lifted Palug. When he was certain she was settled, Gwydion turned to Pryderi.
“I’m going to refill our flasks,” he said quietly. “She’ll need plenty of water tonight. Keep her still and don’t let her fuss with the bandage. All right?”
