The Drowned Woods (6)

Which meant she was all the more valuable. She would be hunted by Garanhir and his rivals alike, because if she were to side with another kingdom, it could change the balance of power. She would never be safe here, never be safe anywhere. Even if Renfrew was right about this job paying well, there wasn’t time to take it.

She had to run. Tonight.

“I can’t,” she said. “Renfrew—I’m sorry, but—”

“Mererid,” he said. Her name rolled off his tongue, soft and familiar. “Do not apologize. That’s the one thing I wish I could have taught you. Never apologize for what you have to do.”

She looked at him. He was father and not-father, friend and enemy, and the one person in the world she’d most wanted to please.

“I have to run,” she said. “If Garanhir is truly as desperate as you say, I can’t stay. I wish you well, but I cannot help you.”

Renfrew inclined his head in a nod. “I understand, dear child.” Then he took a step back, so the way through the door was clear. “Take care.”

She was taken aback for a heartbeat; she half expected him to argue further. But he merely stood there, accepting her choice.

Gratitude tangled up with resentment—she didn’t want to be thankful toward him nor owe him in any way. Chin held high, her pack slung over her shoulder, she walked past him and into the narrow stairway. She hurried, taking them two at a time, not daring to look over her shoulder. If she looked, her heart might soften. Her steps might slow. She could not afford that. The only reason she’d survived this long was that she’d left sentiment behind.

She pushed through the old canvas cloth that hung at the bottom of the stairs. Keeping her head down, she strode for the front door. Maybe if she was quick about it, she could slip out with only a few of the regulars seeing.

A hand caught her around the elbow.

Mer’s pack slipped from her shoulder, thudded against her hip. She turned her head, fully expecting to see Renfrew behind her.

It was Rhys. His face was red with drink and anger, and he looked about as friendly as a wild boar. “Where’ve you been?” he snarled. The words rubbed against one another, barely distinguishable. “Needed a drink.”

“Get off of me, Rhys,” said Mer, trying to yank her arm free.

“S’posed to serve.” The man was surprisingly strong and he gave a hard pull. She stumbled back, caught off balance. She couldn’t break his grip, not while holding on to her pack. She twisted her arm, craning his wrist at a painful angle. Any other man would have cried out and released her, but the drink must have dulled Rhys’s senses.

“Leave off!” There was a yank, and then Mer found herself freed. Elgar had come up behind them both, holding a rolling pin.

Rhys blinked a few times, touching the back of his head, then glared at Elgar. “Cheeky little—” He fumbled at his belt and came up with a knife. All the folk carried knives around here. One never knew when they might need to whittle or pry open a bottle. This knife looked old, sharpened to a thin edge.

Rhys was drunk and furious—and Mer knew those two things never boded well. There had been a few brawls in the tavern, but not one involving blades.

Elgar brandished the rolling pin like a sword. “Get out, Rhys, or—”

“I’ll not have a cook speaking to me like that.” Rhys’s face reddened with anger. He lunged forward.

A knife like that could slide up between Elgar’s ribs. He was a good sort, a kind friend who’d given Mer table scraps for that dog and always asked after her.

Old instincts flared to life.

Mer dropped to a crouch to duck beneath the knife, slammed her fist into Rhys’s elbow, and then drove her shoulder into his gut.

Disarm, disable, escape.

It had been her first lesson in fighting, and it came back as easily as breathing.

Rhys fell to the floor, wheezing. The knife skittered away and another patron picked it up. Mer pushed the hair from her eyes as she sat back, grinning. She turned to glance at Elgar, to make sure he was all right.

But the smile died on her lips.

Because the tavern had gone utterly silent. It was the kind of heavy quiet that hung around graveyards. And then Mer realized what she had done. She had pushed her hair back from her left cheek.

She knew what they saw: the ugly kiss of hot iron against the corner of her left eye. The brand bore the same emblem that had marked Renfrew’s signet ring—that of the royal family of Gwaelod.

She felt as though she had been the one encased in ice this time. Cold stole through her belly, up into her arms. There were too many people in here, too many obstacles. She’d been taught to slip in and out of danger the way a needle threaded cloth—she was a tool, not a blunt instrument.

She kicked a chair at the nearest soldier. It hit him at the knees and he fell into the man behind him, causing both to stagger against the bar. It drew the eyes of the other patrons, made them look at the new commotion rather than the young woman crouching on the floor. Mer used the distraction to scurry to her feet and dart toward the front door.

She made it three steps before someone grabbed for her.

Mer tried to break free, but then lightning cracked through her skull. She was on the floor again, staring up at the ceiling. She’d been struck from behind, she realized belatedly. The thought was distant, coming to her as if through thick water. One of the soldiers had struck her with the pommel of his sword, brought her down before she could fight back. Before she could summon even the smallest bit of power.