The Drowned Woods (47)

“Guards,” said Fane. “They’re surrounding the house as we speak.”

If he were surprised, Renfrew didn’t show it. His cold blue eyes flickered toward the stairs. “Change of plans,” he said to Mer. “We’re leaving now.”

Emrick stumbled out of his room, his face blurry with sleep. “How did this happen?” he said, sounding more offended than afraid.

Renfrew did not answer, but Fane saw his gaze settle on Mer’s. The two exchanged a wordless glance that seemed to contain an entire conversation.

“If it was her…,” said Renfrew.

“I’ll slide the knife in myself,” said Mer. “But I don’t think Ifanna—”

Something crashed downstairs. Fane heard the creak of straining wood, then a snarl from outside. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to reach out with his other-touched senses. “Battering ram,” he murmured. “They’re trying to break down the front door.”

Emrick sputtered in protest. “That door is over a hundred years old—”

Renfrew ignored him, jerking his chin at Mer. “Go, dear child. We’ll meet at the sewer gate.”

Fane looked to Renfrew for orders. He said, “Stay with Mer. Keep her alive—we need her, if this venture is to succeed. Get the sewer key from the thief, even if she doesn’t wish to give it up.”

Fane snapped his fingers; Trefor had been idling into Emrick’s room like a child toward a jar of sweets. The corgi looked up, his face all innocence. “Come,” said Fane, and followed Mer downstairs.

The house was cast in shadow, the lanterns having been doused for the night. To Fane’s surprise, Mer turned toward the front door. She knelt in the hallway, her fingers splayed on the wooden floor.

Swirls of frost spun out from where Mer knelt. The ice was beautiful, glowing like a winter’s night. Mer rose, pulled a flask from her belt, and tossed a handful of water to the floor. Holding out her hand a second time, she gave a sharp jerk, like a weaver breaking a thread. Water snapped up from the puddle, freezing into sharp icicles angled at the door.

Whoever came in here would likely slip on the ice, then fall onto the sharp spikes. It was a brutal defense, one devised in a matter of moments.

Something slammed into the door. Mer turned to him. “We’re leaving,” she said quietly. She breathed hard through her nose. “Two escape routes. Always two.”

There came the shatter of breaking glass from the dining room. Fane tensed.

A door opened to their left. Mer whirled, her fingers extended, but it was no soldier. The cook stood there, dressed in her nightclothes and holding a lit candle. “What’s going on?” she asked. In the quiet, her voice sounded like a shout.

Fane opened his mouth to warn her, but he never got the chance.

He felt the arrow before he heard it. Iron-tipped. It sliced so close to his shoulder that he heard the whisper of air. A second arrow slammed into the wall behind him. The sharp thud of metal cutting into wood made his breath catch.

The iron of human blood was different from that of a weapon. It was softer, warmer, the song like the steady beat of a drum. He heard the rhythmic pulses—until the heartbeat went quiet.

Fane choked back a cry; he turned toward Mer, half expecting to see her on the floor. But she had her back pressed to the wall, gaze fixed on something behind him.

It was the cook. The first arrow had struck her through the throat.

He hadn’t known her—he hadn’t even asked her name. And now, seeing her bleeding out felt like a terrible kind of intimacy without that knowledge. He should have asked for her name; he should have shouted a warning. But there was nothing he could do now. He wondered if the cook had any family—and if so, who would tell them about her death.

Mer lowered herself to a crouch and darted down the hallway. Heart racing, Fane followed. Trefor bounded along beside them, his tail tucked hard up against his belly. Mer pressed her ear to the cellar door.

Fane shook his head. “No one down there,” he murmured.

She looked at him sharply. “You’re sure?”

“No moving iron,” he said.

She nodded and eased the door open.

The cellar smelled as it had that first time—all damp wood and the musty tang of wine. Fane drew the door shut behind them, wishing he could lock it. They’d have to hope that none of the intruders would think to search the cellar yet.

With the door closed, there was no light. None at all. The darkness was all-consuming—the kind that seemed to close around a person, to fill their every breath.

He took the stairs one step at a time, moving as silently as he could. Mer was somewhere ahead of him, her breaths soft and quick. Trefor’s nails clicked lightly against the wooden steps.

Overhead, a floorboard creaked and a bit of dust fell to the floor.

As Fane stepped down, he bumped into Mer. It was light—just a gentle thud of his shoulder against her back—but it set his heart to racing. He had spent far too many years avoiding physical contact, fearful of hurting another.

“Sorry.” Her words were barely a breath. “Trying to remember where the door is.”

He nodded, then realized she wouldn’t see it. Instead, he closed his eyes.

He could hear the iron song of the nails in the wine barrels, in the hinges of the door, and in the rusted lock outside. The old iron sang of mountains, of breathtakingly cold streams, of fallen snows.