The Drowned Woods (36)

“You courted?” asked Fane.

That color deepened. “‘Courted’ seems too dignified a word for it. We were young and foolish and utterly smitten with each other. It was unwise, as she was the leader of our thieving crew.”

“And the second problem?” he asked.

“She betrayed me the last time we worked together,” said Mer. “That abruptly put an end to the aforementioned courtship.”

Fane’s forehead scrunched. “And yet you wish to work with her again?”

“It’s less about want and more about running out of options,” replied Mer grimly.

“And what is the third problem?”

Mer let out a breath. “I did some asking. She’s in prison.”





THE MANOR OF the noble house of ap Madyn remained locked at all times.

There was a twofold reason for this—first, it was to ensure that uninvited guests could not approach without stealing a key or bribing a guard. And if an enemy managed such a theft, then they would often find themselves in the employ of the ap Madyn family. As for the bribery, that helped weed out untrustworthy guards.

The second reason was only ever uttered in whispers, in shadowed corners and under one’s breath.

The manor was the court for a guild of thieves.

The house overlooked a sheer drop into the sea and on stormy days, the windows were flecked with salt and ocean spray. Someone had cut—or magicked—stone steps that led down the cliff, toward the froth and foam of the water. There were rumors that some boats risked the approach, rowing toward the manorhouse laden with ill-gotten treasures.

One such boat sailed toward the house.

But it did not bear gold nor silver. Rather, a fourteen-year-old girl lay with a cloth around her head and wrists bound with iron. The thieves bore her weight, half carried and half dragged her up the stone steps. She was taken through the house, her stolen clothes dripping seawater onto the fine wooden floors.

When the bag was yanked from her head, she found herself in a sitting room.

“We caught her running from the guards,” said one of her captors. He was a middle-aged man with cold hands. She knew that because he pressed one of those hands to the nape of her bare neck and shoved her down before two women.

They did not sit on a throne. The girl had seen a throne before and it was nothing like the comfortable settee that these women lounged upon. One of them was rather short, with golden hair bound into braids around her head, and the other tall, with crimson hair that tumbled in waves down her shoulders. Both regarded the girl with less-than-pleased stares.

There were others in the room—two armed guards, a servant pouring tea, and another girl—this one with dark hair and fingers that moved ceaselessly, trailing the embroidery in her chair.

“Good evening,” the first woman said. “I understand you found something of value for us.”

“Show them your face,” the man said, and gave a yank on the girl’s hair. She had no choice but to lift her chin, her hair falling back to reveal the fresh brand at the corner of her eye.

It shone red, the wound still raw and healing. It burned like a small sun had kissed her flesh. The girl hadn’t managed more than a few hours’ worth of sleep without the pain rousing her.

The taller woman drew a sharp breath through her teeth. “That’s the prince’s mark.”

“Aye,” said the man. “He’d likely pay a pretty bounty to have her back.” He retreated a step, bowing as he did so. The girl realized what she was: tribute, paid to these two women.

And abruptly, she knew who they were.

These were the noblewomen of ap Madyn—the two ladies who ran the thieves’ guild. The spymaster had taught her a little of the guild, outlined how they worked and how they paid enough into the royal coffers that the prince allowed them to operate within the city’s walls.

The two women regarded her with mingled curiosity and doubt. “Branding children now,” murmured the second woman. She touched a finger to her painted mouth. “To whom do you belong, child?”

The girl swallowed. Her throat was dry; her tongue clicked against her teeth when she spoke. “No one.”

The second woman let out a soft breath. “Answer the question. It won’t be asked again.”

The girl shifted in her crouch, the iron creaking against her wrists. It was so cold it hurt—everything hurt, ached, or burned. The girl bit her lip and did not answer.

“Put her in the cellar,” the first woman said. “We’ll decide what to do with her in the morning. Mayhap the prince will let us only send half of this month’s taxes if she’s valuable.”

A flutter of fear beat within the girl’s chest. She staggered up to one knee before the man slammed his hand upon her shoulder and shoved her back down.

The girl tore herself from the man’s grip and lunged forward. Every person in the room jerked in surprise; guards pulled knives from belts and the first woman went very still. But the girl merely clutched at the woman’s gown, like a much younger child pleading for a sweet.

“Please,” said the girl. “Don’t send me back.”

The second woman seized the girl and threw her to the floor. She flicked her fingers at the man. “The cellar.”

It was useless to protest so the girl did not try. She allowed herself to be yanked to her feet and marched out of the sitting room. The girl’s head tipped forward, hair falling across the healing brand and her tear-stained cheeks.