The Drowned Woods (34)

The darkness was absolute. Mer heard something skitter to her left, but she didn’t flinch away. Instead, she delved into one of her pockets and came up with a small candle. Her firesteel was in another pocket, and it took a few tries to set the candle alight. The wick caught, and the tiny flame flickered. Mer cupped her fingers around it, glancing at their surroundings.

“I should have known,” she murmured. “A criminal fence would have a trapdoor to the sewers.”

The tunnel was carved into a perfect circle. Mer took a moment to orient herself, then began walking to her left. Fane followed. “Why would a criminal want access to the sewers?” he asked quietly. His voice echoed from the stone walls.

“The sewers are one of the highlights of Caer Wyddno,” she said.

She could almost feel his frown. “You’re jesting.”

“I’m not,” she said, grinning despite herself. It was the warm glow of escape, the flush of victory still high on her cheeks. “When the city was built, diviners were brought in. They carved these sewers out of the cliffs, so that people wouldn’t just throw muck and worse out into the streets. It all flows out into the ocean.” She took a small breath through her mouth, trying not to smell the stuff clinging to her boots. “It’s a… less than ideal way to travel. But criminals will use it, if they have need. Just don’t look at what’s flowing around your boots.”

For a few moments, they walked in silence. Mer kept going left until she found what she was looking for: a mark carved into one of the stone walls. The guild had gone to great lengths to map the sewers and etched the corresponding street names below. She could find the way out from here—and now that she knew she had her escape, she could turn her mind to other things.

“Why didn’t you want to fight?” she said.

“Because I would have killed them all,” Fane replied.

She squinted at him through the flickering candlelight. “What?”

“I told you. My magic—it’s death.” His gaze was distant, as if these memories were so old they could not touch him. “I was young, caught up in fantasies of avenging my family. I didn’t understand what I was asking for. The otherfolk used their magic to give me what I wanted—to kill the seven men who slew my family.” He continued ahead, water sloshing around his ankles. “Now—now I cannot throw a single punch without the magic waking up. And once it does, the fight will not end until my opponent is dead—or I am. It also makes me quite a good fighter, so no one has bested me yet.”

Mer frowned. “That doesn’t sound so bad.” Her magic was strong but could be turned aside with the smallest scrap of iron. And while Renfrew had taught her to fight, it was mostly evasion and quick strikes meant to disable an enemy before they noticed her. She had learned how to be a deadly shadow, but Fane had the power to walk where he liked without fear. She didn’t understand why he sounded so haunted.

Fane laughed but it came out hollow. “Then I haven’t explained well.” He extended a hand, hovering over Mer’s shoulder. Then he pulled it back, clearly measuring the distance between them. “I have to be aware of my every movement,” he said. “Were I to accidentally strike you with my elbow, it might summon the magic.”

Mer sucked in a breath. “You mean—you don’t choose when to use it?”

“No,” said Fane. “The magic takes control. I am merely a vessel for death—seven deaths, to be precise.”

While she’d never chosen to be a diviner, Mer’s magic had always been the one thing she had power over. She chose when to call on it, not the other way around. And while there were always people who tried to control her, the magic itself was blameless. She had never resented it. But Fane didn’t have that kind of choice. Suddenly it all made more sense—why he stood apart from the others, why he had never touched her without prompting. He couldn’t trust his own body.

That sounded nightmarish.

Fane said, “Do you understand why I couldn’t fight? Because I wouldn’t be able to stop. And I won’t be responsible for a death that I didn’t choose.”

She did understand. Perhaps far too well. All of the envy she’d felt for his power dried up in a matter of moments.

“And this is why Renfrew hired me,” he said, a vein of bitterness in his voice. “Because I am a killer. Because he wishes me to kill—and even if it is just a boar, it’s yet another life. I am sick to death of killing, of only ever being a weapon in another’s hand. But I shall do so, because we all have our parts to play.”

“Do you think your magic will work on the boar?” she asked.

He waggled one hand around in an uncertain gesture. “I don’t know. The boar is supposed to be magic—as is my gift.” He gave the last word a bitter little twist. “Maybe I can slay the monster. Or maybe I’ll be eaten alive. It’s not quite the future I envisioned for myself as a child, but these things happen.”

A flicker of shame went through her. She had thought of him as a vessel for his abilities, rather than as a person. It made her no different than the people who’d used her, and the revelation made her feel a little ill. An apology was warranted, but she did not know how to phrase it without making herself all the more guilty.

Perhaps a trade.

A truth for a truth.