The Drowned Woods (65)
Gryf sat in that chair, a bundle of cloth in his arms. There was a tiny hand in his—a babe’s hand. His head was bowed, lips moving silently as if in prayer.
A twinge of unease shivered through Mer. If touching his cheek felt too intimate, then this was far beyond what she was comfortable with. Seeing Ifanna’s memories was one thing—they’d once been close—but seeing Gryf’s was too much. She wanted to retreat, to leave this place, so she turned. But as she did so, she saw the bedroom. There was no door, merely a cloth curtain that had been pulled aside.
Her stomach tightened. There was a figure lying in the bed, woven linen placed over their face. A fly landed on the white cloth, wings flickering.
Mer swallowed thickly; her throat felt too dry. She glanced back at Gryf. His expression was carved out by grief—there was a terrible emptiness in his eyes. As if he were beyond tears, beyond weeping.
The babe in his arms wasn’t moving.
Mer forced herself to breathe through her mouth. She had smelled death before, knew the sickly stench of decay. This was Gryf’s nightmare, the worst of his memories. A tiny, well-loved home full of corpses.
“How did they die?” she asked gently. “Sickness?”
Gryf looked up at her. The chasm of his grief seemed to crack open; his voice was unsteady when he spoke. “They drank,” he said, “from a poisoned well.”
For a few moments, Mer felt as if she were the one drowning.
Fallen kings.
Gwynedd. Gryf was from Gwynedd. Mer had known from his accent but she hadn’t realized. He must have lived in one of those villages in the borderlands, one of those forsaken villages that Mer still visited in her nightmares.
With a panicked yank of her magic, Mer pulled the water from his lungs.
It wasn’t gentle. But it did the trick. Both of them came out of the nightmare gasping. Mer recoiled, pushing herself back on heels and hands, as if Gryf might bite her.
He’d never said. Nothing about a poisoned family. No wonder he was so willing to risk his life to steal from Prince Garanhir. Anything to hurt the prince that had ordered corpses and poisonous berries dropped into wells and weakened his enemies by killing those who couldn’t fight back.
Did he know that Mer had been the one to find those wells? That she had been part of the force sent into Gwynedd? No, he couldn’t know. Not unless he had pieced things together, and if he had, then why was he here? Renfrew wouldn’t have brought someone like that along on purpose, would he?
There were too many questions and no time for answers. Mer staggered upright, stumbling away from Gryf and those achingly painful memories.
Mer dropped to Renfrew’s side. One more. Just one more person and she could be done with this terrible task. They would find a way to take the treasures, to remove the magic that kept the walls of Gwaelod impenetrable, and leave wealthy. All of this would be worth it. All of it had to be.
She touched Renfrew’s mouth and reached into his chest with her magic.
This time she was prepared for the nightmare. She blinked and—
Renfrew stood before a map.
They were in the prince’s war room, she realized. She recognized that fine oaken table, the tapestries and the smell of the ocean mists. Renfrew stood alone, dressed in the simple finery of the royal spymaster. His index finger was intact, the ring with the twisted knot upon it. His head was bowed and shoulders set in a hard line. A goblet of water sat at the edge of the map.
“We can’t,” Renfrew said. “I can’t.”
A shadowed figure stepped closer to the table. The memory came into focus and Mer recognized the broad shoulders and sleek dark hair. Garanhir gazed at Renfrew with a benevolent smile—one that set Mer’s teeth on edge. “I know it will require more spies,” he said. “Gwydion has promised to lend us several of his diviners. You may take them into your service. And there was a sighting of your old apprentice in a village down south. Surely you could convince her to return, given the right incentives.”
Renfrew shook his head. “It’s not a matter of resources.”
“Then what is it?” said Garanhir, with a spark of irritation.
“There are some treaties that are too costly to break,” said Renfrew. He stepped closer to the prince. “Your father understood that. Your grandfather understood. It is why he made the bargain with the Otherking in the first place. If we begin this war, I fear it will be all of humanity that pays the price.”
That spark brightened into a small flame. “I am not my father,” snapped Garanhir. “Nor my grandfather. I shall make my own treaties and break them when I see fit. And Gwydion has a point. The isles belong to humanity now. Why shouldn’t we take what is ours?”
“Because this is a war we cannot win,” replied Renfrew. “Because my spies are trained to watch and fight other humans, not to wage war against magic and myth.”
“Don’t tell me what we can and cannot win.” Garanhir’s soft voice sharpened and Renfrew bowed his head in respect. The prince gave his spymaster a hard look. “You will put together a plan and have it on my desk within the fortnight. Or I’ll find someone who will follow orders. Do you understand?”
A long silence followed those words. Renfrew kept his head bowed, eyes on the stone floor. “Yes, my prince.”
Garanhir straightened, his gaze sweeping over the table one last time before he turned and strode from the room. Mer watched as the humility drained out of Renfrew’s posture. The moment he was alone, the spymaster’s jaw tensed and his hands curled into fists.