The Drowned Woods (52)

Mer held her breath as he fitted key to lock. If this key didn’t work, all of their preparation would be for naught. They’d have to leave Caer Wyddno—or at least, she would. She didn’t dare stay in the city, not with the prince’s men hunting her.

The lock gave an audible click. Something thunked, and then Gryf heaved at the gate. It creaked, old rust flaking into the water as it came free. Fane stepped forward, and the two of them managed to open the gate just enough for a grown man to slip through.

The air smelled of muck and rust, but beneath it were notes of seaweed and brine.

“Emrick,” said Renfrew. “You and Mer take the lead.”

Emrick’s face was wan in the lantern light. “But I—”

“Was hired to look for magical traps,” said Renfrew evenly. “If any exist, you find them.”

Emrick drew himself straight. He nodded, but Mer saw the slight shake of his fingers as he fumbled a second lantern out of his pack.

There was no true threshold to step over, but Mer still felt a slight shiver when she walked through the gate.

And they left the city behind.





The only sounds were those of the ocean and the scrape of boots over jagged rocks.

It took the better part of an hour for the carved sewer to give way to natural caves. The change was a gradual one, but Mer could see the places where someone had called to the stone, smoothed it into the tunnels—and then where they had given up. Whoever had hewn the roots of the city had only reached so far.

Tendrils of dead seaweed were slick against the floor and Mer took care to step over them. Once, she heard Emrick slip on one and utter a soft curse as his bare palm scraped against a rock.

There were small animals in some of the tide pools; Mer caught sight of a darting fish and something long and slender. She would have liked to explore, but there was no time.

Emrick followed closely behind her, placing his boots where she did. Mer tried to ignore his presence; she needed all of her attention on the caves. She was aware of every passing moment—they only had a few hours to make this crossing before the tides would sweep in and drown them all.

She sent small, searching pulses of magic through the water. She could feel the webwork of caves, sense the ebb and flow of the ocean pounding against the rocks overhead. There was a weight, a heaviness to the stone all around them, and while Mer had never been afraid underground, part of her yearned to be free of this place. The salt in the water hindered her magic and she had to work harder to find her way.

The first fork in the tunnel made her pause. She stood still, gazing at the two caverns. The left was a little smaller, narrowing dangerously. And the other seemed to edge upward, but it was wider. Emrick’s lantern wavered as his gaze jerked from side to side. “Which way?” he said.

Mer closed her eyes and breathed in. The air had that heavy salt and brine smell, but now there was something a little sweet. Rot and decay. Likely dead fish—or perhaps an animal wandered into the caverns only to drown. Pushing aside that thought, she knelt and dragged her bare fingers through the cold water.

The water trickling through both tunnels was stagnant, waiting for the tides to return it to the sea. But there seemed more of it in the left tunnel, and she sensed the way it seemed to veer west.

“Left,” she said, rising from her crouch.

Emrick made an uneasy sound. “Are you certain? It looks—”

She ignored him, striding into the left cavern. She had to turn to one side, angling her body to fit through the narrow space. She heard a huff as Emrick followed, and the others trailed behind. There was a pained grunt; it sounded as if someone had bumped their elbow or knee. “Got to put him down,” said Fane, and Mer realized that he probably had to untie Trefor from his back. “Ifanna, can you…?”

“Got it,” said Ifanna brightly, and there was a wobbling from her lantern. Mer would have liked to look, but her attention was needed elsewhere. She maintained a steady hold on her magic, using it to guide her feet. The ocean had carved these tunnels, and even while the tide was out, water still clung to every surface. There were tide pools, torn bits of kelp still plump with seawater, and droplets hugging the walls and stone overhead; even the very air was saturated with moisture.

An hour passed in near silence.

Mer’s mouth became parched and the throb of a headache started at the base of her neck. She pulled out her flask and drank deeply. The cool fresh water was a balm against her dry, sticky tongue. Behind her, she could hear Trefor’s panting and the others’ footsteps. Emrick had a book in one hand and his lantern in the other, his gaze darting between the cave and his tome. “You see any traps?” she said quietly, so no one would hear.

One corner of Emrick’s mouth pulled tight. “In the other places I’ve gone,” he said, also keeping his tone low, “there was more evidence of the tylwyth teg. Runes carved into old tombs or mounds of earth that gave way to old paths. This place is… just a cave. I’ve seen no hints at traps. Perhaps they thought the princes of Gwaelod would protect the Well, keep that shoal guarded so that none would attempt to steal its treasures.”

“Or perhaps,” said Mer, as the lantern light illuminated a jagged edge of rocks, “these caves themselves are the trap. A labyrinth where anyone but a water diviner would be lost.”

“A pleasant thought,” said Emrick tightly. She had the distinct impression that he did not like to be reminded of the danger. He put his book away and stepped past her, his gaze set rigidly ahead.