The Drowned Woods (30)

“Then we approach by boat,” said Gryf.

Mer made a derisive sound in her throat. “Not possible. This coastline is all rocks and cliffs. Fane and I took a boat from the south, but we had to make land a day’s walk from Caer Wyddno.”

“Then how are we to approach?” asked Gryf.

Renfrew said, “I have spoken to those who make their living traversing impossible borders.”

“Fancy way of saying, ‘I bribed a smuggler,’” murmured Mer.

Renfrew spread his hands, palms up. “There are sea caves. Which will flood at high tide, of course. But we have someone here who has navigated them before.” With the air of a showman unveiling a wonder, he gestured with one hand toward Mer. Which would have been more impressive if she hadn’t just bitten into a large slice of bara brith. She swallowed the sticky bread, knowing that her teeth were probably pockmarked with dried fruit, and smiled broadly. Emrick grimaced, hiding his disgust behind his teacup.

“She’s a water diviner,” said Renfrew to the others. “The last living water diviner.”

Both Gryf and Emrick turned to look at her.

“Truly,” said Gryf, with that flirtatious smile. “I’ve heard talk of diviners, ’course, but I’ve never had the pleasure.” He touched something at his collar—a heavy iron coin strung on a leather cord. It was an old-fashioned protection against enchantment.

“Were you born near Annwvyn?” asked Emrick. His gaze slid over her, evaluating. “Were there portents at your birth?”

“No, and no,” said Mer. “If any of the tylwyth teg blessed my mam, she never told anyone.”

“Did you go to the otherfolk to understand your gift?” asked Emrick. His long-fingered hands twitched, as if he longed for a quill and parchment.

“No,” she said. “Until a week ago, I was serving drinks in a tavern.”

“They can walk unnoticed among us,” said Emrick quietly, as if to himself. “Less so with all the iron in the cities—but still.” He glanced sharply at Trefor. “They have eyes everywhere.”

“The particular sea cave we need is through the sewers, behind a locked gate,” said Renfrew, gently pushing the conversation back on course. “I have a contact who deals in stolen items—and he promised me a set of guards’ keys.” Another nod toward Mer. “Mer will go to the contact and buy the key. Emrick will be reading up on the old legends concerning what traps the otherfolk might have left within the sea caves. Gryf has his own instructions.”

“What am I to do?” asked Fane quietly.

Renfrew turned his attention to Fane. “Your part will come later. For now…” He seemed to cast about for an answer, then said, “Go with Mer. You look the part of a hired sword, so you might as well play one.” He leaned back in his chair, his hands vanishing into his lap. “The moon will be full the day after tomorrow. We shall leave the day after that.”

“A spring tide,” Mer murmured, understanding.

Renfrew nodded. “When the tides are at their highest—and their lowest. We shall use that low tide to traverse the caves.”

All the pieces were falling into place. Mer could see the shape of the plan, the way she’d used to watch the prince sketch out troop movements. But one thing still nagged at her.

“It is too easy,” she said. “The sea caves are treacherous, yes. Knowledge of the Well was kept secret. And if there are magical traps, then I could see why this is dangerous. But ‘dangerous’ doesn’t mean ‘impossible.’ As you said—there have been others who attempted this.” She fixed Renfrew with a hard look. “What aren’t you telling us?”

An uncomfortable silence fell across the table. Mer could sense Emrick shifting in his seat; Gryf looked more interested than wary; Fane merely reached down to stroke Trefor’s back.

“Ysgithyrwyn,” said Renfrew.

For a moment, a shocked quiet fell across the table. Then everyone started talking at once.

“—Ysgithyrwyn,” said Emrick, aghast. “The boar from the legends? Surely not—”

Gryf frowned. “I get legends confused. Is Ysgithyrwyn that boar who is actually a cursed man and someone has to get the comb out of his hair?”

“I thought it was a pair of scissors,” said Fane. “Or a razor.”

“It was all three,” said Emrick, with a lofty irritation. “Clearly none of you have educated yourselves on the legends. And that’s not even the right boar. You’re thinking of Twrch Trwyth.” He took a breath. “Ysgithyrwyn is known as White Tusk, the chief of all boars.”

“That sounds unpleasant,” said Mer.

Emrick continued, “Ysgithyrwyn is a giant magical boar who has eaten every knight sent to defeat him. No combs involved.”

“Very unpleasant,” said Mer. She threw a look at Renfrew. “So this is your plan? And why in the name of all the fallen kings should we even have a hope of success?”

“Because,” said Renfrew, “we have the foremost expert on magical traps.” A nod at Emrick. “We have an expert in his field.” Another nod to Gryf. “We have the last water diviner.” Mer huffed when all eyes fell to her. “And a young man magicked with the ability to kill opponents far beyond his ability. He will deal with the boar.”