The Drowned Woods (18)

“All right,” said Fane. “I will join you.”

Renfrew’s smile was sharp and satisfied. He held out his hand to Fane, who began to take it. But Mer rose to her feet.

“And how are we to know that you will keep your word?” asked Mer. Someone had to—she knew that. And as Renfrew was playing the part of the kindly employer, the role of the distruster fell to her.

Fane’s voice remained level. “Because when I give my word, I do not break it. And if I swear myself to an employer, I would sooner die than betray them.”

Mer considered herself a rather good judge of liars; after all, she’d been raised by a spymaster. And Fane was not lying. He spoke like a man who was laying heavy stones, building the very foundation on which he lived his life.

“All right, then,” said Renfrew. “Do you have any other questions?”

Fane seemed to consider. Then he said, “Would I have my pick of the treasures?”

“I believe,” said Renfrew, “that could be arranged.”





CHAPTER 5


THE FOOTHILLS OF the Annwvyn forest had always been rife with strangeness.

The trees were old, with twisted roots and branches that blocked out sunlight. The undergrowth was a tangle of leaves and wildflowers and berries—and only the bravest dared venture into the edges of the woods to forage. There were tales of people who went looking for game and returned ten years older, having only been gone a single night. And others vanished altogether.

When Fane was a child, his mam slipped a piece of iron onto a leather cord and told him to wear it around his neck or wrist. There were other protections: pockets of stale bread, gorse, and gifts given to the forest. But as the son of a locksmith, Fane wore iron. He liked the metal—his da promised to teach him how to shape it, how to craft the locks and keys that fascinated him.

It had been a promise that would go unfulfilled.

Because when Fane was eleven, his father was visited by a man. He offered no name, no greeting other than a thin-lipped smile. He had an interest in unlocking a certain door—a door that most certainly didn’t belong to him.

Fane had been in the room when his da refused. And when the man’s gaze had slid to the child in the corner, Da had picked up a heavy poker, its tip still glowing red from resting in the embers.

The man retreated, palms open and smile gone tight.

When Fane remembered that man, it was the smile that came back to him. It had been a silent promise, one that Fane hadn’t recognized at the time.

“Who was that?” Fane asked when the door was closed.

“Just a man,” said Da, his jaw still clenched, “with more greed than sense.” Fane had let the matter fall away, because he was too young to understand.

But a week later, when Fane was across town to buy eggs, he saw the billow of smoke.

He dropped the eggs and ran home—or rather, to what was left of it. The house had caved in upon itself, leaving smoldering embers and the terrible stench of burning meat.

And there was the man—the man who had visited Da a week earlier, striding away from the burning house. Fane cried out, wondering why no one had stopped him, why—

And then he saw the other men. There were six of them, mounted on horses and all of them bristling with weapons. The first man swung onto his horse, murmured a word to the others, and they began to trot away.

Without knowing what he was going to do, Fane started to run after them.

It had been a neighbor who had dragged him back. “They’re gone, lad,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m sorry, but your mam and da—your brother, they’re gone. Come with me now, come—”

The words stung more than the smoke. The men who’d killed his family were escaping and there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all. And so he allowed himself to be tugged away.

Fane was taken in by that kind neighbor—he was bathed and clucked over, kindly hands running through his hair and putting him to bed. He could not sleep; he could barely close his eyes. Finally, when he could bear it no longer, Fane rose from his bed and went to the woman. She sat in a rocking chair by the fireplace, mending a shirt. When she saw him, that concerned half smile flitted across her face. “Can’t sleep, lad?”

Fane shook his head.

“Why?” he said. “My family—why?”

The woman’s lips pursed and she put aside her sewing. “I don’t know. Bad things—they happen sometimes. To good people.”

The way she said it made anger roil in Fane’s belly. “It didn’t just happen,” he said. “Those men, they did it. Why?”

She sighed, reaching out a hand. He stepped closer, allowed her to touch his shoulder. She had a gentle hand, but it wasn’t familiar. She wasn’t his mam. “I know those men,” she said. “They are swords for hire—and thieves, more often than not. I suspect they wanted your da’s help, mayhap breaking into a place they should not be. And when your da refused them… they had to ensure others would not do the same.”

“Who’s going to stop them?” asked Fane. “Someone must. We—we could go to the barwn. Surely he would do something.” The noble that owned most of the nearby farmland had always been a distant figure to Fane but he seized upon the idea. “These are his lands—he can’t stand by and have people murdered on them.”