The Drowned Woods (3)

“Think nothing of it, lass.” The one who spoke was a woman; she had the calloused hands of someone who’d spent years holding a sword. “You look as though you could use a cup yourself.”

Mer wiped the sweat from her brow with a forearm, then touched her fingers to her hair to make sure it was still in place. She kept her hair long, carefully arranged so that it covered the corner of her left eye.

The air was thick with steam and the scent of lamb cawl. It was served in chipped bowls, most of them scavenged from abandoned homes. More and more of those who lived near the borders of Gwaelod were fleeing, leaving behind that which they could not carry. More for us, Carys had once said. She was a sturdy woman with thick forearms and hair cropped short. No one quite knew how she had managed to take ownership of the tavern, but none dared question her.

Mer had arrived three months ago with only a few coins in her purse and blisters on her heel. She came to the Scythe and Boot looking to rent one of the upstairs rooms for a night. She’d stayed for three before Carys asked her if she had naught elsewhere to go—and when Mer couldn’t answer, Carys pushed two full tankards of ale into Mer’s hands and said, “Table in the far right corner.”

Mer had stayed. She served drinks and swept floors. Her pay wasn’t much, but she was given an upstairs room as compensation. The Scythe and Boot had once been a barn, and the rough wooden walls were still studded with metal hooks for tack and hinges where stall doors had penned in animals. The place smelled of damp hay, and when the wind howled in from the west, the building made odd whistling sounds. But Mer liked it. The tavern felt like the closest thing she’d had to a home in years.

Or it would have felt like a home, if not for the drunkards.

Rhys reached for her a fourth time and Mer ducked out of his grasp, resisting the urge to seize his wrist and bend it back.

“All right, all right,” she said, taking his tankard and carrying it to one of the full casks. She refilled it, then slid it back to him.

Rhys gave her a watery glare. “’Bout time. You’re paid to serve this swill.”

“Don’t let Carys hear you say that,” said Mer. She grabbed an old cloth rag and began wiping down the bar, her gaze sweeping across the tavern. There were the soldiers, a group of merchants, and two men dicing in the far corner. Everyone had food and drinks, and they looked content. She had a moment to catch her breath.

Mer walked into the kitchens. At once, the smell of fat on the griddle made her stomach ache with hunger. A young man stood in the small kitchen, sleeves rolled up around his elbows and dark hair gone curly in the steam. Elgar was quiet and kept to himself, but he could throw together a meal out of nothing but a handful of flour and leftover vegetables.

“What are you making?” Mer said, setting her tray down.

“Leek and oat cakes,” said Elgar. He picked up a bowl, full of batter, and began to pour dollops onto the hot griddle stone. “You think they’ll sell?”

“I think we’ll have customers starting fights over them,” she said.

Elgar threw her a shy smile over his shoulder.

“Shall I bring them out now?” asked Mer.

Elgar nodded. “They’re best warm. Oh, and I left you a plate on the table—over there. A few of the cakes, and some of the lamb bones I used for the cawl. I thought you might want them.”

“You think I like to gnaw bones?” asked Mer, leaning against the counter.

“I saw you feeding that dog near Hedd’s farm,” said Elgar, flushing.

It was true—she had been bringing scraps to an old sheepdog that lived in the barn nearby. The family that used to live there had been taken by illness, and no one seemed to remember the sweet sheepdog. Mer had seen the hound wandering the fields, and the next time she had taken a walk, Mer brought scraps of meat too gristly for the stew. The dog would only take the food if Mer put it on the ground and backed away. Since then, Mer had visited every day to bring more. Every time, the dog had become a little friendlier, and Mer hoped that soon the sheepdog might allow her close.

Mer liked animals. There was a simplicity to them, an innocence she never found in people.

“Why not take the hound for yourself?” asked Elgar. “No one would mind. Even Carys would agree, although she’d probably spend a good fortnight blustering on about it.”

Mer let out a breath. “I—I am not suited to take care of a dog.”

“You are taking care of her,” said Elgar, pointing a wooden spoon at her.

“Not forever,” said Mer. “Just until…” She had to run again. “… someone else takes a liking to her.”

Elgar shrugged. This was something she liked about him: He didn’t ask too many questions. Maybe because he was afraid of people prying into his own life.

Mer carried a tray of the fresh oat cakes into the dining room. At once, a few of the regulars turned their heads toward the smell of warm food. She walked to one of the tables, prepared to tell the customers the cost and how delicious the cakes would be—

The tavern door opened. Mer felt it, even if she couldn’t hear the creak of old hinges above the din of chatter. There was a gust of cold air that carried the scents of mist and rain. Mer put the tray down as she glanced up to see where the newcomer would sit.

Her heart gave a horrible lurch.

The man who stood in the doorway had dark blond hair fading to a pale gray. His ears were too large and his mouth was all in his lower lip. Even so, he had a sharp focus and confidence that drew people to him. He wasn’t handsome but he didn’t need to be.