The Drowned Woods (58)

Mer considered replying, but the thought of forming words was far too daunting. She waggled her hand around, hoping it conveyed a nonchalant It was nothing.





CHAPTER 18


THE ISLAND HAD no name.

But it was quite beautiful.

The trees nearest the shore were all twisted sideways, curling around themselves like bent old crones. Amid the rocks, a few stonecrop wildflowers had managed to bloom. The grasses were yellowed, waiting for their next rainfall. The gulls were calling to one another, their wings stretched wide as they caught the morning breeze.

Mer idled beneath the foliage, enjoying the spicy scent of juniper. The ground was rocky and uneven, but succulent wildflowers had bloomed in small patches of sunlight. Trefor ambled up to Mer, sniffing at the flowers and then rolling in a patch of dried needles.

Ifanna leaned against a tree, pouring water from her boots. Fane had closed his eyes. Gryf was still rummaging through his pack. And Renfrew stood apart from the others.

Mer went to him. Despite all that had happened, he appeared unruffled. His gaze moved across the trees, ever watchful and ever calm.

“Are you well?” he asked.

She nodded, unsure if that was a lie or not. She was shaky and cold, and a headache throbbed at the base of her neck. She would have new nightmares—of drowning in the ocean or being carried away by snarling, foaming horses.

“It will be worth it,” he said.

She looked down at her hands; sunlight dappled across her bare forearms. The warmth of the morning was a comfort. “I hope so,” she said. She took a breath, steadying herself. “I know I never thanked you.”

He looked at her sharply. “Thanked me?”

“For getting me out of that prison wagon,” she said. “For convincing me to come on this job.” She gazed at the forest and its rugged beauty. Tiny birds flitted through tree branches, chirping at one another. “I spent so long running from Garanhir—I think I probably would have run until I perished from it. But now… after we get the treasure, I might have a chance at my own life.” She gave a small shrug. “Thank you for that.”

Renfrew remained silent. For a moment, Mer feared that she had been too free with her emotions. Renfrew had never been demonstrative. Perhaps she’d made him uncomfortable.

His mouth drew into a tight, even line. And while his eyes were always the blue of a frozen lake, now she thought she glimpsed a few cracks in that hardness. “Of all the shameful acts I have committed, you are the one I regret the most. And for that, dear child, I must apologize.”

His words stunned her. Renfrew did not apologize.

“You mean taking me from my family?” she said.

He exhaled through his nose. “For all of it.”

She had never thought to hear such sentiment from him. Renfrew had always told her that regrets were useless, that such thoughts only weakened a person. “It wasn’t all bad,” she said. “I mean—I could have done without being the prince’s unwitting poisoner. And teaching me rock formations when I was ten? I forgot all of it by the next week.”

That earned her the smallest of smiles, and she took pride in that. She’d always liked that she could make Renfrew smile.

“What shall you do?” she asked. “When this is all over?”

It was a question she’d never truly considered until this moment. Renfrew had always been Garanhir’s spymaster—always been a fixture within Gwaelod. But with his missing index finger, his signet ring cut away and stolen treasures on his back, he would never be able to return.

“I have not given it much thought.” His hand fell on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. Then he said, “Take a few minutes to rest. You’ll have need of your strength.” He turned and trudged away.

They could not make a fire to warm themselves. The smoke would be too visible, might alert distant watchers to the fact that people were on the island. And—although no one had said it aloud—there was the distant memory of Emrick uttering the words chief of all boars.

After all, there was still Ysgithyrwyn to think of.

Mer hoped that the boar was a myth. It might have been a myth—propaganda was as much a weapon as any blade, and she could see Garanhir boasting of having an immortal boar guarding his treasures. It would be just like him to lie about it. And even if the boar was real, Renfrew had brought a magically gifted fighter with them.

Mer’s eyes wandered toward Fane. He was shirtless, wringing his tunic out. His back bore as many scars as his hands. Unthinkingly, Mer came up to him. Her hand hovered over one long slash along his ribs, not quite touching. He seemed to sense the almost-touch, because he glanced over one shoulder. “Blade?” she said.

He nodded. “Thieves tried to rob me when I was sixteen. One of them had a knife.”

“How many have you killed?” she asked, unable to help herself.

Fane turned toward her, his expression remote. “Less than you would suppose. More than I would have liked.” He gave a little shrug. “Three, if you want to be precise about it.”

There was a ragged mark beneath one collarbone. It looked as though someone had tried to slash at him with their fingernails. “That one,” he said, “was a briar patch.”

She blinked, then looked up and met his dark eyes. “You’re jesting.”

“I’m not,” he said gravely. “A traveler had wandered into Annwvyn and perished—as most of them do. It had been a few years, and blackberries grew over the body. I had to cut them away to get him out—and I did not do the best of jobs.” He touched the old scars. “Jabbed myself rather well there. But I got the body out of Annwvyn.”