The Drowned Woods (16)



He had hard features, as though a carver had coaxed his face forth from some ill-tempered oak. His skin bore years of sunlight, his forearms tanned. It only made his scars all the more obvious. His hands had taken the worst of it—knuckles split and healed, nails broken, and his right ring finger was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken and never set properly. Dark hair, dark eyes, and bruises shaded across one of those eyes. There was strength in his forearms and shoulders, sinewy muscles visible where his shirtsleeves were rolled up.

But all the strength in the world could not save him if Mer turned her power against him. That dampness in the air would make lovely ice, and once he couldn’t move, she could either drown him or freeze the very water in his blood and lungs.

It wasn’t very kind of her to consider how best to kill most people she met. But Mer had been undone by kindness before.

Renfrew strode into the room, shaking the mist from his cloak. “All right,” he said. “I believe it’s rather rude of me to discuss business on an empty stomach, but I’d like to finish this before I go out and locate our supper.”

“You mean ‘buy’?” asked Fane, with a slight raise of his brows.

“He means ‘steal,’” said Mer. She could feel Renfrew throw a disapproving glance her way, but she ignored him. He’d drawn her into this mess; she would needle him if she liked.

Renfrew let out a gusty breath, as if she were an unruly child. “You are in need of coin, are you not?”

Fane tilted his head. The glow of the fire cast odd shadows across his crooked nose. “Why would you think that?”

“No one fights in the rings unless they’re in need of coin or they’ve something to prove,” replied Renfrew. “You clearly have little to prove, considering how long you spent trying to talk the Blaidd out of your fight.”

Fane leaned against the wall; to Mer’s relief, the half-rotted wood didn’t collapse under his weight. She would have suggested a chair, but whoever had looted this place took all the furniture. “What kind of job is this?” asked Fane.

Mer felt Renfrew’s eyes upon her again, and this time, she returned the look. She did not know how much of their plan he intended to share, so she would remain silent for now.

“Garanhir,” said Renfrew. “What do you know of him?”

The corgi stood up from his place beside the fire and went to sit by Fane’s leg. The young man reached down to absentmindedly scratch at the dog’s ears. “Prince of Gwaelod. Rules from his fortress at the city of Caer Wyddno. Known for sending raiding parties into Gwynedd.”

It was a rather polite way of putting it. No mentions of the dead bodies or the burned farmlands or the poisoned wells.

“He’s a tyrant,” said Renfrew simply, “who came into his power too young and had too few people tell him no. He is ill content with his own lands and ill capable of ruling even those. But he does possess one great power.” He crossed his arms, leaning forward as if to whisper a secret. Even Mer, who knew all of Renfrew’s techniques, was half tempted to lean in closer. There was a power to quiet confidences that shouting could never match. “There is a well in which he has hidden magical treasures. Many have looked for it, but none have succeeded. We intend to take those treasures.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You’re common thieves,” Fane said.

“We’re uncommon thieves,” said Mer. “Trust me, you’ll not find our like again.”

Fane glanced between Mer and Renfrew, as if searching for something. “And you think I’ll agree? Just like that?”

“Well, we came here expecting to find a mercenary for whom the words ‘magical treasure’ would be enough,” said Mer. “If you were more greedy, this would have been a great deal simpler.”

“I apologize for my lack of greed,” said Fane gravely. “It must be very trying.”

Renfrew held up his hands, palms out. “I saw how you fight, lad. You could have used those skills in the armies of any kingdom, and they’d be glad to have you. That you haven’t hired on as a mercenary tells me that you’re either running from something or you wish to remain unseen.” He gazed at Fane. “Where is your home?”

“East of here,” said Fane. “Near the borders of Annwvyn. A small village—you would not have heard of it.”

“Family?” asked Renfrew.

“Dead,” said Fane simply. “Killed by mercenaries.”

No wonder he hadn’t minded killing the Blaidd.

“And after that?” asked Renfrew. “Did you join the armies?”

“I had no place to go,” said Fane. “So I wandered into the mountains and found employment working for those who dwell there.”

For a few moments, Mer was not sure she had heard him right. There were no people in the mountains. There were only—

“The tylwyth teg,” said Renfrew, and his stance shifted. It was subtle to anyone who did not know him, but Mer saw the slight flex of his fingers and the way his shoulders straightened. There were blades at both wrists. “You worked for the otherfolk?”

Fane said matter-of-factly, “Contrary to the tales, the otherfolk don’t kidnap people for their own ends. Not always,” he admitted, after a moment’s thought. “But more often, they will employ humans to do work they cannot. It is honest trade, and I only ever dealt with those in the forest—never the nobles. I’ve never seen the Otherking nor spoken with one of his court.” His shoulders rose in a shrug before a wince of pain crossed his face. He must have been aching from that fight. It was a wonder he was still standing, Mer thought.

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