The Drowned Woods (23)
She’d never known fear as a child; she’d run rampant through her father’s fields, her bare toes scrabbling at branches when she climbed trees. It was only when she grew older, when she learned the cruelties that people could inflict upon one another, that fear began to follow her like a shadow. It was why she hadn’t stayed in one place for too long. She thought perhaps she could outrun that fear, hide away from it. But now she knew that as long as Garanhir hunted her, she’d never manage to escape.
She hated that she was afraid; she resented the fear that had made its home within her. She reached down to her belt, pulled free a small knife. Her fingers curled around the worn hilt.
She could not slay her own fears.
But as for the men who’d made her afraid—they could bleed.
A city could be judged by three things: its food, its sewers, and its thieving guild.
And by all those measures, Caer Wyddno was not to be trifled with. The castell had been carved into the ocean cliffs. The fortress rose high above the city, a remarkable feat of stone masonry that had stood for the better part of three centuries. There were stories that said Caer Wyddno had been created when a sorcerer had been tricked into the service of a prince. He’d bet on a coin toss, the prince boasting that if he won, the sorcerer would craft a fortress like none other. Little did the sorcerer know that the coin itself was a trick—both sides the same.
The sorcerer had kept his end of the bargain, building the castell from rock and stone. But he’d uttered a curse to the prince, saying that while magic had created the fortress, it would also one day unmake it.
Mer had been ten the last time she’d heard the washerwomen telling that tale. They’d liked to bring Mer into their ranks when Renfrew didn’t have time for her; they’d feed her treats from the kitchen and ask her to make the water hot without building fires to boil it. She’d sat among them, listening to the gossip and the old stories. Now Mer thought the sorcerer in the tale had probably been a stone diviner pressed into service. It made more sense than a coin toss and a curse.
Mer and Fane arrived at Caer Wyddno around noon. The streets in and out of the city were bustling—merchants with their wagons, guards taking up their positions and eyeing newcomers with predictable wariness, beggars with broken nails and outstretched hands, and the others who could not afford to live in the city. There were always hastily assembled shacks near the edges of cities, little communities sprung up out of desperation and necessity. The guards would try to drive them off every so often, but the houses would be rebuilt.
“Put your arm around me,” said Mer quietly as they walked through the outskirts.
She sensed more than saw Fane’s surprised look.
“Do it,” said Mer. “If any guards are looking for me, they’ll be on watch for a lone woman, not a young couple and their hound.”
“Ah,” said Fane. He put his arm around Mer’s waist. His hand was large against her hip, surprisingly warm through her layers of clothing. She immediately yearned to shake the strange weight off, but she gritted her teeth and bore it.
It was the right decision; as they neared one of the streets leading into Caer Wyddno, a guard’s gaze slid over Mer and Fane. Mer knew what they looked like: a young couple, their clothing worn but not shoddy, a well-fed dog trotting at their heels. They did not have the look of the poor or the dangerous, and Mer knew those were the kinds of people the guards would try to turn away. Predictably, the guard nodded a silent greeting and then glanced beyond them.
Once they were in the city, Fane’s hand dropped and Mer breathed a little easier. Together, they stepped into the bustle of Caer Wyddno.
She felt like some old spirit, returned to haunt the home it had once loved. The city had not changed in her absence. There were the winding, circular streets; the shouts of children trying to lure customers to their employers’ stalls; the pickpockets drifting through crowds with as much grace as eels; the scents of damp stone, salt, and brine; and the sight of freshly caught cockles and mussels. She could remember every step and path of this city like she could trace the veins on the inside of her arms.
“Come,” she said, and began walking.
With her hood up and head bowed, she was just another person trying to keep the misty ocean air from her face. When a pickpocket sidled up to her, she caught his wrist before it slipped into her pocket. Not that she carried anything of value where it could be easily pilfered, but she liked the flash of surprise across the lad’s face. “Go nick some coin from a fatter purse,” she told him.
The boy—he couldn’t have been more than eleven—nodded in respect. Then he broke her grip, gave her a grin, and vanished into the crowds.
Fane watched him go. “You could’ve done more than give him a warning.”
She couldn’t tell if he was admiring or disapproving; again, his voice had that implacable neutrality. “Wasn’t about to call the guards on him, was I?” she said, keeping her voice low. “We’re supposed to stay hidden.”
“You might have broken his wrist,” he said. “I’ve seen others do that to thieves.”
She snorted. “For trying what he was trained to do? It’s not like anyone wakes up saying, ‘My, I think I’ll become a thief today. Sounds mighty thrilling.’”
“He chose to steal,” said Fane mildly.