The Drowned Woods (60)
“Oh, I would, if I had to,” she said. “But I’d hesitate.”
She turned and walked away. Ifanna was rummaging in her pack with one hand and using the other to deftly twist her hair up into a knot. She fixed it in place with a lockpick’s wrench. Gryf was sitting with his back to a tree, his eyes on Mer. She gave him a forced nod of acknowledgment. Renfrew was checking his own supplies. He waved to Mer. “We should rest a little—perhaps an hour or two, at the most. But first, we need to refill the flasks,” he said. “Is there fresh water nearby?”
Mer lowered herself to a crouch. This was among the first tricks she’d ever taught herself, back on the farm when she was a child. She pressed her fingers into the soil and, with a small effort of will, called her magic into the earth.
It felt like fumbling for a candle in an unlit room; everything was unknown and unseen—until it wasn’t. Her magic alighted on a small trickle of moisture, even as her own tongue grew a little more parched.
There was a stream nearby. Mer could sense the fresh water moving over rock and grass.
“I’ll get us some water,” she said, taking Renfrew’s empty flask. She walked through the trees, along the uneven ground. Sunlight was burning away the morning mist. She pushed through the prickly branches of juniper trees bent low by the ocean winds.
Small birds chirped overhead, fluttering through the branches. One of the birds alighted on a nearby branch, cocking its head back and forth as it studied Mer. It looked a little like a finch with its sharp beak and rounded body. Light glinted from its golden feathers. “Hello, there,” said Mer.
The finch startled at the sound of Mer’s voice and darted away. A feather fluttered to the ground and Mer stooped to pick it up. The feather was oddly cold and heavy in her hand and she turned it over and over before she understood.
It was gold. The birds were spun from magic and gold.
Mer gazed up at the trees, her heart pounding. For the first time, she felt like a trespasser into lands that were not her own. This island had once belonged to the otherfolk; it still belonged to them, for all it was guarded by mortals. Mer slid the feather into her pocket and turned toward the sound of water.
The stream was small; it twined over a bed of rocks, burbling quietly. Mer knelt beside the water. One of her earliest lessons had been how to know when water was safe to drink. When she was young, she had drunk from the wrong stream and was sick for several days. After that, she’d learned the feel of still water—how it festered with dead things, and the way algae could grow, what minerals could make a person ill. It was how she’d sensed the poison in the wells that Garanhir had sabotaged.
She placed her fingers in the water and closed her eyes. The water was cool to the touch, but not unpleasantly so. Fresh water, welling up from one of the island’s underground streams. Which, now that she considered it, seemed rather unlikely. They stood upon a small island; surely all of the water would have at least some traces of salt.
The water tingled against her fingers. She brought a finger to her lips and tasted a droplet. A flush of something hot ran through her, like she had swallowed a mouthful of strong drink. But it wasn’t drink, it was merely water and—
A sound came from behind her. Mer whirled, a knife in hand.
Trefor stood behind her. The corgi had his head tilted, as if in question. He walked up to the stream and sniffed it. Mer slid the knife back into her belt and said, “You followed me?”
Trefor lapped at the stream. Then he let out such a sneeze that he fell onto his haunches. Perhaps he sensed it, too.
The water thrummed with quiet power. More of it than Mer had ever encountered.
“Let’s see where this goes,” she said, and rose to her feet.
CHAPTER 19
MER TRAILED ALONGSIDE the stream.
Perhaps she should have gone back for the others, but she did not. The presence of their stomping feet, quiet conversations, their eyes upon her—all of it would be intrusive. Mer could move more swiftly alone. Well, mostly alone. Trefor trotted alongside her, his tail waving back and forth. He smelled a little like seawater and his feet were still damp, but he was undemanding company and she found herself grateful for his presence. When this was all over, maybe she would go back for that abandoned dog at Hedd’s farm.
The water twined through the forest, leading Mer farther from shore. The woods became thicker, the foliage overhead joining into a green canopy. The roar and crash of the ocean receded, giving way to birdsong and sun-warmed grasses. The small stream cascaded over rocks and curled beneath tree roots.
They journeyed in comfortable silence for perhaps a quarter of an hour. She ascended a steep hill, crossed a few large boulders, and then found herself walking into an idyllic grove. The trees parted, leaving enough sunlight for flowers to flourish—and at the center of the grove was a pool of water framed by mossy rocks. Towering over the stream was an old yew tree. The water flowed up and out of a spring—it was gloriously clear, its depths almost impossible to judge. Mer’s heartbeat quickened, a strange sensation fluttering in her belly.
This place was magical. It was too pristine, too symmetrical to be anything but enchanted. Mer glanced around, every breath coming a little too fast. She was keenly aware of her solitude, that if any threat came, she would have to deal with it herself. But there was no sense of danger.
Mer held her hand over the water, not daring to touch it; even so, she felt the pulse of the magic. Her own magic rose in answer, like a hound hearing a call. This magic was alive, the water brimming with sheer, unadulterated power.