The Drowned Woods (21)

It was not a perfect likeness, but it was close enough.

Mer crumpled the parchment. “I hate it when they call me a witch,” she said.

Renfrew let out a small breath. “There is a price on your head, dear child. I dare not stay with you. If the prince has any sense, he will have told his soldiers to be looking for a middle-aged man and a young woman. But the two of you should have more luck in slipping into the city unseen.”

“You never did tell me how you planned to sneak us into Caer Wyddno,” said Mer.

“I assumed you would not need my help,” said Renfrew serenely. “After all, you have managed quite well on your own for the last four years.” He took a step back, his fingers tightening on the mare’s bridle. “Go to a house on Spicer’s Row. The second one from the corner, with a red door and periwinkles in the garden.” He patted the horse’s shoulder. “I have another person to collect. I’ll meet you there in two days’ time.”

Mer frowned. “Another mercenary?”

“Something of the like.” Renfrew pulled himself astride the horse, settling easily into the saddle. He smiled thinly, then nudged the horse into a trot.

Mer watched Renfrew’s back as he rode away. “Second house from the corner on Spicer’s Row,” she murmured. “Red door. All right. All right.” She straightened, then pulled her hood back into place. “This is your last chance to escape this venture,” she said, turning toward Fane. Her mouth pulled to one side in a mocking smile. “There’s only little old me to stop you.”

Fane inclined his head. “If what that bounty said was true, then you’d have no trouble stopping me.”

Water witch, the notice had called her.

True diviners were rare. They were supposed to be the other-touched, the ones with innate magic. Some of them went to the otherfolk for answers and training, trading years of service so as to better understand their power. In his time in the Annwvyn forest, Fane had met two. There was an old man who’d warded away storms with a whistling song and a child who’d been found at the heart of a fire utterly unburned.

Fane regarded her.

Mer was a woman born with magic. And he was a man who’d traded seven years of his life for it.

Perhaps between the two of them, they could do the impossible.





CHAPTER 6


A STOLEN BOAT cut through the ocean waves.

It moved swiftly, unhindered by tides or wind. Mer sat with one hand trailing through the water, her fingers catching in sea-foam.

Ocean waters were not so easily manipulated as fresh ones. It was the salt, she’d come to understand. Salt did not negate magic as iron did, but it made the power sluggish. She reached out with her magic, letting it trickle into the ocean. The waves pushed back; the ocean was not fond of meddling. It was like trying to shove a mountain, throwing herself bodily against solid rock. A headache began to throb in her jaw, around her nose and eyes. But Mer didn’t release the power.

She was the last living water diviner.

It was time to remind the ocean of that.

They approached Caer Wyddno by sea. It was the only way—the walls of Gwaelod were impenetrable and guarded by the prince’s men. But no one could guard an entire shoreline.

It was late afternoon by the time their boat reached the shores of Gwaelod. Much of the coast was jagged, a rough beauty as greenery gave way to cliffs and mossy rocks. Mer guided the boat onto a pebbled beach. Trefor leapt from the boat, barking wildly at the gulls.

Gwaelod was an expanse of lowland country. From the city of Caer Wyddno, the kingdom looked like a green tapestry threaded by woods. There were isles that could only be reached at low tide, the ocean stealing those paths twice a day. It was not a lush country—the winds coming off the oceans twisted the trees, scoured the rocks, and made the wildflowers sweep back and forth. Anything that grew along the shore had strong roots.

It was beautiful.

Mer breathed in the scents of sweet wildflowers and the tang of sea salt. It was a smell she hadn’t found on any other part of the isles, and despite herself, a tight knot unwound within her.

Home. The thought was a siren song, even as she tried to quash it. This was the place she’d been taken to after being dragged from her father’s farm. It was not her home—and yet it was her home.

She hated it.

And she loved it.

Most of all, she hated that she still loved it.





They walked in silence for a good while. There was a scattering of homes on the rugged shore, lines of clothing blowing in the wind and smoke drifting from chimneys. It was evening when Mer knew they would have to find somewhere to spend the night. The misty winds and sea salt cut through her warm clothing and her belly grumbled like an angry cat.

There was another house up ahead and Mer could see figures through a lone window. The interior was bright and cozy, and Mer smelled roasted onions and potatoes. “How about this,” she said. “You knock at the door to ask how far it is to the nearest village. I can slip in through that window.”

Fane raised both brows. “And steal our dinner?”

“It’s not stealing if I leave coin,” she said.

“I think it probably is.”

She glowered at him. “Well, unless you’re secretly hiding a wheel of cheese under your cloak, we’re going to need food.”