The Drowned Woods (5)

“You see,” said Renfrew, voice still soft, “you are not the only person who has cut ties.”

It could not be true. Renfrew had served the royals of Gwaelod all his life. He had been shadow and knife, poison and steel. He would be sent into the field by the prince, only to return with bruised knuckles and dark hollows beneath his eyes. Entire wars had been averted because the right throat had been cut or the correct sheaf of parchment stolen.

There were those who said that Renfrew did not have a heart. That only someone who did not care could commit such atrocities. The truth was simpler and more frightening: He did such things because he cared.

A person with a knife was one thing. A person with a knife and a cause could topple kingdoms.

“You’re lying to me,” she said.

Renfrew shook his head. “I have never lied to you.”

And that was true. There were times when Mer had wished he would lie, to smooth over the harsher edges of their lives. But that did not mean he told her everything. “If you’re telling the truth,” Mer said, “then tell me this. Did you know?” The words came out low and harsh.

Renfrew tilted his head in silent question.

“What the prince was using my power for,” Mer said, unable to keep the throb of hurt from her voice. “When I was sent into the field. Did you know?”

There was a long pause. Renfrew suddenly looked ten years older. “No,” he said. “I did not know.”

All the air left her lungs. Something deep within her unclenched—a muscle she’d been holding tight for years. If he hadn’t known—

She still couldn’t trust him. But she could probably let him go.

Mer released her grip on the magic. The ice crusting his boots melted, water draining into the cracks of the floor. Renfrew lifted his foot, shaking the last of the water away.

“If you didn’t come to drag me back to the prince,” said Mer, “then why are you here?”

One corner of Renfrew’s mouth twitched. “I missed you.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And I need someone with your abilities,” he said.

She crossed her arms, felt her expression hardening. She should have known this wasn’t solely about seeing her—Renfrew never did anything without at least two motives.

“I have a job,” said Renfrew. “One last job. It will pay handsomely enough for you to do what you could not manage here.”

“Serve drinks?”

“Disappear,” he said. “With enough coin, you could go anywhere in the isles, build yourself a fortress if you liked. Sail to the continent.”

“How do you know I’m running?” she asked.

“Because it is the only thing you can do,” he said. “Run or die. Garanhir made sure of that when he—” His fingers reached out, but Mer took a step back before he could touch her hair.

She wanted to deny his words, but they rang true. The prince had all but ensured she would live the life of a hunted rabbit.

Mer had small dreams. She dreamed of a house, of a place that could be wholly hers. A place where she could grow things, tend to things. Maybe it would be a short walk from a village, so she could buy what she needed on her own. When she couldn’t sleep, she would spend hours imagining what the cottage would look like and what she would do with it.

Even as she craved that home, she knew it wasn’t a place she was looking for.

She wanted safety. She wanted to wrap it around herself like a warm cloak.

“One last job,” Renfrew repeated softly. “And you can buy your way to freedom.”

Mer considered him. “I don’t use my powers, not anymore.”

It was mostly true—charming the dampness from her socks didn’t count.

“You managed to capture me rather handily,” said Renfrew.

“Yes, well,” said Mer, “you’re the exception.” She licked her lips; she tasted the salt of her own sweat. If she closed her eyes, she could sense all the water in this room—not only here but below in the tavern: the ale sloshing in tankards, the brine of sweat, the slight droplets in the air, the fog of the windows.

Water was everywhere, if one knew how to find it.

“Why me?” she said quietly, leaning forward. “There’s another up north. I heard he was offering his services to—”

“Dead,” said Renfrew. “Found with both his purse strings and throat cut.”

She hadn’t heard that. “Then what about the woman south of—”

“Also dead,” said Renfrew, without even waiting for a name. “An illness—or that was how the poison made it look. A cough that wouldn’t leave her. And before you suggest the elderly man living near the docks down south, he suffered what appeared to be an attack of the heart.”

It felt as though someone had wrapped an iron band around her chest. There were only three others like her.

“Garanhir has been busy in your absence,” Renfrew murmured. “If he could not have a water diviner, he wished to ensure that no one else would.”

That band around Mer’s lungs seemed to cinch even tighter. “He’s been hunting them?”

The look that Renfrew gave her was calm and unwavering. “You’re the last.”

She had to put her hand against the wall to steady herself. The last—she was the last living water diviner in the isles.