The Drowned Woods (57)

“Tide’s starting to come in,” she said. “We need to go faster.”

She took her own advice, picking up the pace. She banged her knee against a rock and hissed, but she didn’t slow down. From here, it would only get more dangerous. They had to make it to the island before the ocean reclaimed these underground caverns.

She remembered those bodies—those rotted clothes and discolored skulls, teeth broken. If they didn’t find a way to the surface soon, she would be just another corpse—left to bloat and rot, and lie as a warning to those who came after. A thrill of defiance rose hot within her chest, burning away the ocean’s chill. She was the last living water diviner, and she would not drown.

The tunnel widened, curving upward. The waves were coming faster now, flowing down the tunnel like a small river. With every wave, Mer braced herself for the icy slap and then pushed on. The third time a wave hit them, Ifanna’s lantern went out.

They were plunged into darkness, and suddenly the cave felt too close. Mer forced herself to breathe. She did not need light to see by—she could sense her surroundings through the droplets of water. “Keep going up,” she said to the others. “Follow my voice.”

She was aware of every passing moment. Her mouth was dry, although whether it was from overuse of her powers or her own nerves, she did not know.

Something slick and slimy touched her cheek—seaweed, hopefully. She shook it off and climbed on.

She came to the edge of the steep tunnel, where it leveled out. She hauled herself up and over, breathing hard. There was sunlight ahead—the distant, wavering glow of dawn. Mussels were clumped around the walls of the cavern, and seaweed snagged on several protruding rocks.

They were so close. The waves were gathering strength, pushing against the land with ever-growing eagerness.

“Almost there,” she shouted, but her voice was swallowed up by the roar of the surf.

She forced her legs through the churning water, fighting against the ocean as it sought to push her back into the cave. She wasn’t sure where they would be emerging—probably the shore. She could only hope that she’d led them right, that they would come out on the island where the Well was hidden.

Mer’s skin burned with the cold. Her fingers dragged through swirling sea-foam as another wave swelled into the tunnel. No matter how hard she pushed her legs, the end of the cavern grew no closer.

Salt stung her eyes, crusted into her hair. The world was being swallowed up by the spray of waves crashing against rocks.

Another swell slammed into her, far stronger than before. She slid back a few strides, and someone grabbed her by the arm. She never saw who it was that kept her upright.

The water was up to her hips. And the next wave rose up, driving the breath from her lungs. “Keep moving,” she yelled.

The waves came even faster. The drag of water over land, the inevitable pull—she could feel it. Renfrew had chosen a spring tide because it had the greatest difference between the low and high waters. Which was only comforting during the low tide—now, the waves raged against the shore.

She grasped for the wall, tried to hold on while the wave surged up to her chest and neck. She rose to the tips of her feet, sucking in lungfuls of air.

It was becoming too much, even for her. They had mere moments before the force of the waves would push them all back under, down into the cavern’s depths.

Gritting her teeth, Mer reached for her magic. With a snarl of contempt, she matched her will to that of the ocean.

It was a losing war—no ordinary human could stand against the ocean for long.

But she was not ordinary.

The waves stilled, retreating.

Her fingers closed around the rough edges of the wall and she pulled herself forward. Oceans were greedy, reluctant to give up their belongings; with the weight of the water in her clothes and boots, it was a struggle to lift herself up and out of the waves. She dragged herself over the rocks, scraping her forearms and knees, gasping greedily at the air. And then she was out of the cave, dragging her body onto the shore.

Ifanna came up next, bedraggled and spluttering as a half-drowned fox. Fane and Gryf pulled themselves free, and finally, Renfrew followed after. Trefor was bound up in Fane’s cloak, his ears pressed low in discomfort.

They stood on a rocky shore, at the sharp edge of a cliff. With a soft groan, Mer turned and set her numb, sore fingers to the rocks. The sooner they climbed up, the sooner she could rest.

It took about ten more minutes to climb to dry land. It wasn’t high, but the cliffs were treacherous and slick, with all of them exhausted. Finally, Mer sat on wind-worn yellow grasses. She dragged breath after breath into her chest, so tired that she could have simply curled up and drifted off. But instead, she forced herself to strip out of her sopping cloak and boots. She hung them over the branch of a gnarled, bent juniper. Then she sat with her back to the tree, glad for a few moments to rest.

Fane sat on the ground, Trefor panting beside him. Ifanna was wringing water from her hair while Gryf checked the contents of his pack. Renfrew alone stood on his feet, his sharp eyes sweeping their surroundings.

“Did we make it?” Ifanna said, when she could speak. “Is this the island? Because if we took the wrong tunnel and looped back around, I’m going to murder all of you. Except the dog.”

Renfrew did not answer right away. He strode back toward the ledge, peering through the mists. “We’re on the island,” he said quietly. “I can see the shore from here.” He turned to Mer. “Good work, dear child.”