The Drowned Woods (48)

Before he could stop himself, Fane reached out. His fingers clumsily bumped into Mer’s side, then skimmed until he found her arm. He traced downward, until he had hold of her sleeve. Just her sleeve—it wasn’t her, so it shouldn’t be dangerous. “Follow,” he whispered.

He half expected her to protest that she could find the door herself. Perhaps it was the taut silence, the painful waiting, the knowledge that there were enemies above—whatever the reason, she did not pull away. He stepped forward, gently tugging on her sleeve to guide her alongside him. Every movement was half memory, half instinct. It was perhaps ten strides to the stairs leading out of the cellar, but it felt like a hundred.

As they walked, her thumb stroked across the soft skin of his inner wrist. He felt the contact run up his arm, like lightning cracking apart a struck tree. A shudder tore through him. It felt too good, a taste of something forbidden and not his to enjoy. Touch was one of those things he had denied himself.

His foot stubbed against the bottom stair and he dropped Mer’s sleeve. The sound of his boots and his breath were loud in his ears. His fingers met the cellar door. He waited a few breaths, then he pushed.

The trapdoor came open quietly. Fane breathed in the scents of periwinkles and damp stone, distant horses and the ever-present tang of iron. City smells.

He hastened up and out of the cellar, his eyes roaming over the small courtyard. Mer followed silently, dropping into a crouch. Trefor whined softly behind them.

There was someone moving in the courtyard. Fane sensed the iron a mere moment before he saw the soldier. The figure was armored, a blade unsheathed in their hand. They were peering through a window.

Mer reached down and took Fane’s arm. Pale moonlight gave her face an unearthly cast; she could have been one of the otherfolk, if not for her human eyes.

She tilted her head toward the armored figure—and Fane read the silent question.

He shook his own head. He would not attack, not unless there was no other choice.

Her mouth tightened, but she gave him a nod of understanding. Then she reached to the clasp at her throat, unbound her cloak, and crept toward the figure. She couldn’t use her magic, Fane realized, because the soldier was clad in iron. But that didn’t deter her.

She moved like a cat, keeping low to the ground. A predator stalking prey. Then, when she was two steps away, the guard heard her.

The figure whirled around—and Fane saw a beard and hard jaw. The man gaped at Mer, fumbling for his sword, but the young woman was faster.

Mer threw a jab into his throat, cutting off the cry before it could leave his lips.

She didn’t move like the fighters Fane had observed in the rings. There was no grandiose posturing, no smirks or flourishes. Mer fought like she was taking something apart—piece by methodical piece. She dealt with the sword by grabbing the man’s arm and slamming the back of his wrist into her knee. Then she seized his armor, dragging him forward, keeping him off balance, before sweeping a leg around the back of his ankle. He stumbled, crashing to the ground.

The man exhaled a startled grunt, but before he could shake her off, Mer fitted her arm around his neck and pulled tight. Fane counted his breaths—one, two, three—and then the man seemed to go limp. Mer held on another moment longer, then released him. The guard slumped to the ground.

It had taken all of half a minute.

And Fane appreciated for the first time that Mer had been raised not as a child, but as a weapon. As something to be sharpened and honed and then turned against the prince’s enemies. She was a diviner trained to spy, to kill, to slip behind enemy lines.

She could have brought kingdoms to their knees.

Maybe she would yet.

“Is he alive?” Fane asked quietly.

“Likely,” said Mer. “He’ll awaken at any moment, though. We can’t linger.” She inhaled sharply, raised her hand. And then mist swirled around her fingers. Mer’s lips were parted, her shoulders heaving as though she were running. This magic was not without cost.

Fog filled the spaces between her fingers. Mer closed her hand into a fist, her arm shaking with the strain, then she flung out her fingers like she was tossing something into the air.

A heavy, impenetrable mist flooded the night. It swept like a wave through the courtyard, across the houses, swirling into tree branches and between homes.

Cover, Fane realized. She had just created a thick fog for cover—to aid the others in escaping the house and to hide their own retreat.

And the three of them—the diviner, the ironfetch, and the corgi—all fled from the house that had been their only sanctuary in an enemy’s city.





CHAPTER 14


MER’S KNUCKLES THROBBED with every heartbeat.

Her body was all instinct—weaving through the city like a mouse through old hollowed walls. There was a brothel three streets down, and even at this late hour, its lanterns were lit. Mer used the light to examine her hand; her skin was unbroken, but the deep ache meant she’d be bruised for several days. At least the guard hadn’t been wearing a gorget—then she’d have broken her hand when she struck him.

And she was thinking of her hand because otherwise she’d be contemplating other things. Like the cook falling, an arrow through her throat, her eyes wide and unbelieving. She hadn’t been involved in any of this, but her ignorance hadn’t saved her. Her mere proximity to this job had gotten her killed.