The Drowned Woods (66)

Mer stepped closer to the map, glancing over its familiar lines. It contained all the isles, all the cantrefs sketched out. Carved metal and stone pieces were scattered on its surface. The figurines were all of Gwaelod, its armies and forces.

And they all converged on Annwvyn.

Renfrew slammed his fist into the table, knocking his goblet over. Water rolled across the map, flooding it. The parchment soaked up the water, ink bleeding forth from the lines that made up the mortal lands. Renfrew went very still, his eyes on one of the fallen figures.

It was the prince of Gwaelod. The tiny iron figure had been upended. Renfrew picked it up, held it between thumb and forefinger, his gaze darting between the soaked map and the small figure.

His fingers wrapped around it, squeezing the metal in his palm. He looked at Mer and the blue of his eyes had never seemed more cold.

“You know why we’re here, do you not?” he said. It was the same measured tone he’d used when he taught her history or letters. He was patient as a cat waiting for the prey to come to him.

Mer looked down at the soggy map. She traced one of the bleeding lines—the impenetrable walls of Gwaelod. She shook her head.

“Look again, dear child,” he said gently.

Mer looked down at the spilled water. She ran her fingers through it, and with that gesture, she opened herself up to the magic of the Wellspring. She allowed her consciousness to sink farther into the water of the Well, into the memories of the magic.

And she saw everything. She saw the way the water had welled up from its source, descending throughout the island, flowing into the sea. Mer divined the tendrils of magic, like the roots of a tree sunk deep beneath the earth. There was power, so much power that it made her dizzy trying to comprehend it. She saw the walls of Gwaelod, impenetrable and old, standing guard against the kingdom’s enemies. She saw how the magic fed into those walls—but that was not the magic’s only purpose.

The magic of the Wellspring whispered to the ocean waves, sang sweetly even through the din of salt and brine. The power was not a trap—it was a wall. It was holding back the very ocean, keeping it from the lowland country.

She saw it in a flash, and for one heartbeat, it was all within her grasp. Gwaelod suddenly seemed very small. It was a kingdom built upon another kingdom, a vulture feasting upon the bones of a picked-over carcass. The land did not belong to the mortals, it had merely been borrowed. All of that fertile lowland soil, that city carved from sea cliffs, they were small and fragile as children’s toys, just waiting to be swept away at a moment’s notice. The tylwyth teg had coaxed the ocean back, pinned the water away from the shore with the magic of the Wellspring.

Mer opened her eyes.

She glanced up at Renfrew, at her not-father. He looked as though he were waiting for her to understand a lesson.

And she did.

She knew why they had come here—and it wasn’t for treasure.

With a gasp, she reached into Renfrew’s lungs and pulled the magicked waters free. They ascended the nightmarish memories together, rising up into the grove.

When Mer opened her eyes, she knelt upon the grass. Sunlight warmed her bare forearms, and the misted water was drying from her hair.

A glance at the Wellspring and she saw that it looked as though nothing had touched it. The water had returned to the pool, waiting for the next person to try and take its treasures. A golden bird chirped from the branches of the yew tree and wind whispered through the grass. All was disarmingly peaceful—but Mer knew better than to trust it.

Gryf stood ten paces away, his gaze averted. Mer wanted to say something, to apologize or explain—but she couldn’t. Not now.

“What—what was that?” Ifanna said. Trefor whined softly, nudging at her ankle. She patted him, her gaze fixed on the Wellspring. “Did it…?”

“Another defense,” said Mer. Her voice rasped and she tried to wet her tongue against her lips. “Anyone who tries to get at the treasures with magical means will be drowned in terrible memories and magicked water.”

“All right, then how are we to get at the treasures?” said Ifanna.

Mer gazed at the water. All of those little pieces, those puzzles scattered along this journey—they had finally begun to make sense. “We aren’t,” she said.

Ifanna looked at her sharply.

Mer said, “The magic—it’s very deep, woven through the very land itself. It’s—it’s not just a Wellspring.” She looked up, her eyes seeking the unseen coastline through the trees. “Cantre’r Gwaelod—it’s lowland country. The Lowland Hundred.” She swallowed, unable to stop a slight shake in her voice. “But it wasn’t always ours. It used to belong to the sea before the otherfolk worked their spells.”

“What?” said Ifanna.

“The magic of the Well,” said Mer, leaning forward. She saw her reflection in the glass-clear water—her face was colorless. “It protects Gwaelod—that’s why no one can invade the kingdom. But that’s not the Well’s only purpose.” She breathed raggedly. “It’s holding back the ocean. Without it, all of Gwaelod would be flooded.”

A shocked silence stretched between them. Ifanna looked sharply at the Wellspring, her brows drawn together. Fane gazed at the water, frowning. Only Trefor took the news without concern; he sat on his haunches watching the golden birds overhead.