The Drowned Woods (68)

“He’s not alone,” said Renfrew. “There is a sorcerer by the name of Gwydion. His brothers. There are those who have always wished for more magic, to push into the borders of the Otherworld. Garanhir yearns for more than Gwaelod—to make himself a king like the isles have not had in centuries.” He took half a step forward. “Do you understand what that means? The lives that will be lost? It will make the border skirmishes look like a tavern brawl.”

Mer took half a step back. It felt as though she could not draw enough breath into her lungs.

“I protested his plan,” said Renfrew. “And when I told him it was folly, he threatened to imprison me.”

“So you cut off the finger bearing his signet ring,” said Mer incredulously. “And then you decided to kill him?”

“No,” said Renfrew. “If it were merely about killing him, I could have done that myself. Fallen kings, I could’ve had you do it, if I wanted to keep my own hands clean.”

Mer’s jaw clenched. Part of her wanted to protest, but truthfully, she did not know if she could. If Renfrew had come to her, coaxed her into this with kind words and poisoned promises, she might have killed Garanhir for him.

Or she might have done it for herself.

“But there are others who share his vision,” said Renfrew. “They dream of a world where the otherfolk’s magic is bent to their will, where diviners can be made and not simply found. They desire Garanhir’s kingdom and armies to aid their cause. We must destroy all that makes him powerful—or else risk humanity going to war with the otherfolk. Humanity would not survive such a war, dear child.”

“Stop calling me that,” snapped Mer. “It’s as much a lie as anything you’ve ever said.”

Of all the words she’d hurled at him, these were the only ones that seemed to hurt him. His lips pulled taut for a brief moment. “Is it?”

The question made her flinch.

“If you cared about me, you wouldn’t have lied to me,” she said. “You wouldn’t have used me.”

“This is the price to be paid,” said Renfrew. “For order. For survival. And if that means we die, then so be it.”

“It won’t just be us,” said Mer. “It will be Caer Wyddno. It will be every coastal village, every home near the water, every adult and child who can’t get to high ground in time.” She threw a desperate look toward Gryf. “And you agreed to this? All to destroy Garanhir’s power?”

Gryf had always seemed friendly, his posture relaxed and words easy—the kind of person Mer might have shared a drink and a laugh with. She had never paid much mind to him, because everything else seemed more important. Gryf’s smile drained away, his affable mask fractured. And beneath it was the face of a man who’d taken his grief and used it like tinder. Fury kindled behind his eyes.

“Not all,” Gryf said, and his gaze was fixed on Mer. “I came to make sure you died, too.”

Ice seemed to form in Mer’s veins. She recalled all those times she’d felt Gryf’s eyes on her. She’d mistaken it for flirtation, but it had been nothing of the sort.

Which one of you is the poisoner? He had asked the question with a lazy smile, reclining in his chair. But he’d never needed the answer.

He’d known.

Mer felt the weight of his anger and she tried not to recoil. She had always known that there were deaths after Garanhir’s men poisoned those wells; she had seen some of the bodies afterward.

She’d never had to confront the family of one of the victims before.

“Renfrew needed someone who knew how to handle the powder,” said Gryf. “Told me that if I came, I’d get to witness the death of the one who helped poison my family.”

“She didn’t know,” said Ifanna, taking half a step forward. “Fallen kings. I saw how many times she awoke from nightmares. She never meant to hurt your family.”

“So that absolves her?” said Gryf. “Feeling bad?” He rose from his crouch, the jars of black powder at his feet. He stepped back, eyes always on Mer, brushing his hands on his trousers. “No. No, it doesn’t.”

Mer’s gaze darted between Gryf and Renfrew. Renfrew had arranged all of this—he’d traded Mer’s death for Gryf’s black powder; he’d used Mer’s weaknesses to get her help in finding the Well; he’d hired Fane and Emrick; he’d framed Ifanna and, when that hadn’t worked, allowed her to accompany them.

And he’d done so knowing all of them would die here.

Mer made no attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice. “This is why Renfrew never told us the way off the island,” she said. “Because there was never to be one.”

“I told you not to bring anyone you cared for,” said Renfrew.

“As if that was a kindness,” Mer cried. “You’re no better than Garanhir—treating lives like pieces on a game board. I don’t care if it’s true—if Garanhir wants to wage war on the tylwyth teg or Gwynedd or the continent itself. You have no right to do this. Do you know how many would die if the ocean swept inland?”

“I have every right,” said Renfrew, his anger blazing to life. “I am the only one who has that right. I gave my life to this country, I gave everything—”