The Drowned Woods (20)
“Thanks,” he said, and took one. Trefor whined and Fane broke the tart in two, giving the corgi half.
Mer eyed him over her own tart. “You’re rather softhearted, for a killer,” she said.
The crust was dry in Fane’s mouth. It took a few swallows for him to gather enough saliva so his voice wouldn’t break. “Where is Renfrew?”
“Renfrew is out finding us a way to Caer Wyddno,” said Mer. She squatted beside the fireplace, her free hand hovering over what was left of the coals. She kept her face angled away from him. “Word of your fight has gotten out. We’ll leave as soon as we can, lest we draw even more attention. We’re lucky the Blaidd’s friends were too soused last night to search for you properly.” She flicked a few crumbs from her fingers. In the same movement, her hood fell back. As she finished eating her tart, he took a few moments to look at her properly. Her hair was that darkened honey and her eyes a warm brown.
“Finished staring?” asked Mer. She pulled a small paring knife from her belt and began gently prying something out from beneath her thumbnail.
“I could stare longer, if that pleases you,” said Fane.
Mer continued working the knife. “You never say what I think you will.”
“It comes of living in the woods,” he said. “Human manners become a little rusty.”
“You say that like you aren’t human.” She grimaced and set the knife down. Her eyes were intent on him. “Renfrew thinks we need you, but I’m not so certain.”
Fane did the only thing he could think of: He rose to his feet and walked closer. She didn’t move; rather, her body went still. It was the way a cat might freeze when it saw something larger than itself—muscles taut and body poised to attack or flee. Fane reached down, keeping every movement slow and easy, and gestured for her knife. “May I see that for a moment?”
She hesitated. Fane did not blame her; she had watched him kill a man only a few scant hours ago.
With an expert little flick, she turned the knife so she held the blade by two fingers, extending the hilt toward him.
He took it. “Thank you.” He straightened, running one finger across the flat of the blade. He heard the iron like the hum of a plucked harp string. The iron of your magicked blood, one of the folk had tried to explain, trying to call out to the iron in the world. Some of the fetches saw the metal as a glow, while others felt it like cold against their skin. Fane always heard music. This knife’s song was crisp and unwavering.
“High quality. Likely mined from the south. And if I were one of the otherfolk, the touch of this iron would burn me.” He offered it back to Mer and she took it, tucking the knife into a leather sheath at her wrist. “I’m as human as you are.”
“Are you a metal expert?” she asked.
“I could sense it from across the room,” he said simply.
Unease flickered behind her eyes. “You’re a diviner? Of metal?”
“Not truly,” he said. “The otherfolk magic their fetches to sense iron. It’s a temporary thing—the spell has to be woven every year at the solstice. And I cannot affect iron, not the way a true diviner could. I just needed to be able to find it, to do my work.” He smiled with the corners of his mouth. “Which is how I know you have four other blades on you, as well as a wire tucked into your boot and possibly a wrench at your belt.”
She hid her surprise well, he’d give her that.
“You don’t need me,” he said. “But you might be glad of my presence before this is over.” He picked up his pack and walked toward the open door. Trefor followed at his heels, trotting along as Fane stepped outside.
Dawn was making itself known to the east, brightening beyond the mountains. Fane took stock of his surroundings—the abandoned homes and distant rumble of the ocean. At this hour, those who’d been at the fighting ring would be asleep or so bleary-eyed they likely wouldn’t recognize Fane. Trefor woofed softly and Fane looked up, gaze snagging on a man striding toward them.
Renfrew walked through the dawn light, his fingers twined around the leather bridle of a horse. The horse plodded alongside him.
“I see you’ve been busy,” said Mer. She leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. “Making friends?”
Renfrew’s mouth quirked. “I borrowed the mare from a passing soldier. He won’t notice for some hours yet—he was sleeping rather heavily.”
“I’m sure he was,” replied Mer. “After your hand slipped over his drink.”
It was moments like these that made Fane certain these two were more than criminals drawn together for one job. There was a past—shared experiences, memories, and perhaps a home. They were family, even if there was no shared blood.
Renfrew said, “I also found this in the soldier’s pocket.” He held out a slip of stained and creased parchment. Mer took it, her eyes flicking over the handwritten note. All the color leeched out of her face. Fane leaned forward so that he could just make out the words on the page.
By order of the prince: reward in gold for the water witch.
Poisoner and killer.
Beneath the words was a sketch of a woman. Her hair was long, a few strands obscuring one eye and cheek. A straight nose and high cheekbones. She was lovely as a briar patch in bloom—the kind of beauty best admired at a distance.