The Drowned Woods (62)

She rose to her feet, both hands extended toward the pool. The water lay still and clear, innocently pristine. Mer pressed her palms together, then pushed them apart. In the movement, she infused the water with her will, guiding it away from the treasures.

The water began to part, but then Mer felt the magic shift. The pool quivered, like an animal waking from a deep sleep. Something was rousing. It felt as though Mer had awoken something cold and very ancient.

She drew in a sharp breath, a warning on her lips, when the water shivered.

“Mer,” said Renfrew sharply.

“That’s not me,” said Mer. She retreated a step. “Get back—”

But before they could escape, the droplets flew at them, an inescapable mist, surrounding Mer. Instinctively, she clapped a hand over her nose and mouth. Her foot snagged on a root and her knees crashed into the soft earth, one hand scored against a rock. She dragged herself forward, desperate to escape the mist, but it felt as though her every movement was slowed.

Like she was crawling through deep water.

And then—

She was sinking into it.





CHAPTER 20


MER DID NOT open her eyes.

She knew where she was, even without sight.

She had been in this nightmare a hundred times before—the smell of wet stone, the dampness of the air, the chill. Her arms chained above her head, her shoulders aching as if someone had poured coals into the joints. She could not recall the last time she’d tasted water. The guards had been instructed not to give her any, regardless of the iron chains. Mer kept her eyes squeezed shut, pretending that she was asleep. Perhaps she would go unnoticed. But her attempt at trickery failed.

Nightmares were nightmares even if one never opened their eyes.

A hand seized her chin. Her eyes sprang open of their own accord and Mer found herself gazing into the face of Prince Garanhir. With his dark hair and broad shoulders, he should have been handsome. But the sight of him made Mer’s stomach shrivel up.

His minstrel-soft voice spoke. “Why are you here?”

She did not answer and his grip on her chin tightened painfully.

“Why are you here?” he said again. “Answer me.”

She met his eyes. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, but her voice quavered when she spoke. “Because you’re a murderer.”

“No,” said Garanhir. “You’re here because you gave intelligence to the enemy.” His thumbnail bit into the soft skin beneath her jaw. “That’s treachery.”

“I told villagers that their wells were poisoned,” she said. “That’s not treachery—that’s mercy.”

Darkness churned deep behind his eyes like a storm gathering offshore. “Those were enemy infantry—”

“They were farmers,” said Mer, “and wood-carvers and children—” She could still see their bodies; she’d sensed the tainted water in their stomachs, the poisoned berries and rotted animal carcasses the soldiers had thrown into the village wells.

He gave her jaw a shake. It made her back teeth clack painfully together and she bit her tongue. Copper flooded her mouth.

“All you had to do,” he said, “was find water. That’s all I’ve ever asked of you. And I gave you a life, an education, a home. I could have asked for so much more. You know what other princes have asked of their diviners? I could have made you an assassin, sent you into my enemies’ homes and forced you to boil them alive.”

She kept her mouth shut, running her tongue along the inside of her teeth.

“Renfrew thought you would be a decent spy, but he’s soft,” said Garanhir, “where you’re concerned.” He exhaled through his nose. “You’re a disappointment, Mererid. What do you expect happens to people who disappoint me?”

Mer spat in his face. She had been working up a good gob of it, saliva streaked with blood. Garanhir staggered back, wiping frantically at his cheek. Mer felt a warm stab of satisfaction.

“Kill me,” she said. She bared her bloodied teeth at him. “I don’t care.”

When he looked at her, Garanhir was pale as an old corpse. There was a grim set to his mouth that made Mer’s breathing hitch.

“No,” he said softly. “You wouldn’t.” He straightened, walked from the cell. Mer watched him go.

Garanhir was only gone for a few minutes. And when he returned, he held a long poker. Its tip glowed orange, a small sun brought into the darkness. It smelled like hot iron, like burning metal, and something terribly like old meat.

“Hold her,” he said.

A guard stepped forward, taking hold of Mer’s face. She kicked at him, swung in her chains as she tried to push herself backward. He cursed and seized her hair, tilting her face up.

Garanhir stepped closer. “You are mine. Do you understand me? My diviner. I think it’s time you were reminded of that.” He raised the poker and she saw the shape of the brand.

A twisted knot—the same emblem on the prince’s signet ring, and on the ring that had been welded to Renfrew’s finger, on the fingers of all Garanhir’s advisers. It was a claim, a reminder of inescapable loyalties.

“No,” said Mer, her voice high and desperate. A fear like she had never known beat at the inside of her ribs and she clawed at her chains, tried to wrench free of the guard’s grip. The brand edged closer, toward her left eye, so bright that it hurt to look at. Mer drew in a sharp breath, a whimper on the last gasp, and she hated that sound, hated that Garanhir and that guard heard it, hated them both—