The Drowned Woods (19)

She stroked the hair back from his face. “Dear boy. Those men…” Her gaze drifted to the fire. “They work for the barwn.”

The words struck him like a blow. He turned toward his nook of a bedroom, and the woman let him go.

But he did not return to bed. Instead, he slipped from the house and away from the village. He could not stay—not in a land where its ruler employed murderers, where his family would never be avenged, where he was powerless to save them.

The Annwvyn mountains loomed in the distance, the forest only half a day’s walk away. Fane turned toward the shadow and began to run. He was barefoot, his toes smeared with mud, his cloak worn thin with age. But none of that mattered. A fury as he had never known bore him on. He ran until his lungs were raw, until all he could taste was the mist of the night air and the greenery of the forest.

He knew the tales. He’d heard mention of changeling children, of monsters, of creatures immortal and terrible. But he also had heard tales in which bowls of milk and trinkets were traded for favors. Of heroes who had gone to the otherfolk and been given magical swords. So he went—because there was nothing else he could do.

Fane wandered for two days before they found him.

He fell to his knees, stomach hollow with hunger and feet bleeding. Later, he would understand it had been the blood that drew the otherfolk to him. Iron sapped magic—and the folk could sense its poisonous presence.

The ones he met were the tylwyth teg of the forest. They wore crowns of white bryony, necklaces of rowanberries, and clothing spun from moss.

If Fane had been afraid, things would have gone differently. He might have been hunted or caged within the roots of a tree. But the otherfolk seemed charmed by his recklessness.

One of them stepped forward. She wore bracelets of juniper branches and her face was lovely, but her eyes were wrong. They were dark where the whites should have been. They were the eyes of a deer—of something wild and inhuman.

Fane gaped at her, too startled to be afraid. “Please,” he rasped. “Please.”

The lady of the folk knelt before him, offering a smile. She reached out and pushed some of the dirty hair from his eyes. It might have been a comforting touch, if not for the coolness of her fingers. “Why have you come here, mortal child?”

Fane’s breaths were ragged. “Seven men,” he said. “They killed my family. I want—I want to kill them.” It had been a reckless bravery that bid him to say the words, those damning words.

The lady nodded, her strange dark eyes glittering. “And what do you have to offer?”

Only the lost or the desperate went to the forest empty-handed. Fane had nothing to give the otherfolk, not bowls of milk nor trinkets of gold; however, he had heard of humans being taken into service.

“Myself,” said Fane. “Whatever you need of me—I’ll do it. Please.”

He should have bargained; he should have measured his words the way merchants measured silver. But he had been a child, his feet stinging and belly empty, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw the smoking remnants of his home.

Fane could not let his family go unavenged.

The lady nodded. “Seven years of service for seven human lives.” She held out a hand—long-fingered and graceful. Fane touched it.

And the magic had kindled within him.





The morning after he fought the Blaidd, Fane woke to aching ribs and a corgi across his chest.

Trefor panted happily in his face. “Good morning to you, too,” Fane murmured sleepily, fingers tangling in the corgi’s fur. The dog groaned and lolled to one side, his weight enough to push some of the breath from Fane’s lungs. “You’re half the size of a pony. Get off.”

The dog rolled off, tail wagging ceaselessly. At least one of them always woke in a good mood.

They had all slept in the abandoned home rather than risk one of the inns. The Blaidd’s company would be looking for Fane, their ire stoked by the late hour and drink. And Fane had no desire to fight more of them. Which was how he had gone from fighter to hired thief in a matter of hours. Fane had been many things: a son, a brother, a young apprentice locksmith, an ironfetch, a fighter. And now—now he was a killer whose only true companion liked to steal boots and lick his own unmentionables.

Loss had a way of eroding one’s sense of self.

The only thing Fane had left was his word, and he’d never broken that. He wouldn’t start now. Which meant he would accompany two criminals on their journey to steal from a prince.

The sound of a door being forced open made Fane look up. He reached out with his senses, trying to focus on the iron. There wasn’t much metal in the room—a few scattered nails and the bits from a door hinge. The house had been ransacked for valuables, and those included metals that could be sold to a blacksmith.

But just beyond the door, fresh iron sang its sharp song. This metal was edged—knives, then. And a small slip that might have been a wrench. He relaxed just as Mererid stepped into the house. Her hood was drawn so that her face was mostly jaw and a tumble of honey-dark hair.

“Mererid, right?” he said.

She gave him a tolerant look. “Mer is fine.” She picked her way across the room. “Renfrew is out, but he rose early and brought back these.” She crouched beside him. Wrapped in a cloth were three tarts. He sniffed, catching the scents of goat cheese and leeks.