The Drowned Woods (70)

“Mererid,” said Renfrew, and his voice was soft. Pleading. It would have been better if he’d shouted, if he’d matched her anger with his own. “You know what Garanhir has done. You’ve seen it. He used you to poison countless innocents—and he’ll do much worse if he’s allowed to invade Annwvyn. If he joins forces with other diviners, if his kingdom grows, there will be no stopping him. It has to end here.” He took a step toward her. “We are the makers of order. And there will be no order, no peace, no safety if we don’t take Gwaelod now.”

“You’re not talking about taking Gwaelod,” said Mer. “You’re talking about drowning it.” She flung her arm out, gesturing at the Wellspring. “You knew what this did. You came here knowing. This was never about taking magical treasures from Garanhir or making ourselves rich. You’re going to kill more innocents than the prince ever did.”

“There is always a cost,” said Renfrew urgently, as if he needed her to understand. “I wish I could pay it all myself, but I can’t. We have to—”

“No.” Mer gave a hard shake of her head. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Renfrew blew out a breath, and for a moment, his face was heavy with sadness. “All right, then. If you will not help, I ask you to at least step away.”

Mer opened her mouth to retort that she would do no such thing, but then there came a rustle of bushes behind her. Mer whirled and saw Ifanna.

The thief was pressed up against Gryf’s broad chest; he had one arm wrapped around her stomach and the other held a knife against her neck. Her eyes were sparking with anger, but she dared not move. One flick of Gryf’s wrist would open up her throat.

“No,” said Mer, stepping forward.

Gryf’s fingers tightened around the blade. “You took my family,” he said quietly. “I’ll take yours, if you move another step.”

She believed him.

“Fane,” said Renfrew, his voice only slightly winded. “Please retrieve the jars. Stack them behind me.”

Fane.

Mer had utterly forgotten about him. He’d been silent and not involved himself in the fighting. She cast her gaze about until she saw him. Fane stood beneath the shadow of the yew tree, Trefor by his side. His expression was remote, untouched by the violence.

Mer threw him a desperate glance that she wasn’t sure he saw. She didn’t know how he would react—part of her thought that he couldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t hurt her, but he had sworn to Renfrew.

“Fane,” she said softly. It was as close as she would ever come to pleading.

He didn’t look at her.

There was no sound, none at all. It felt as though the small forest had taken a breath and held it. Mer knew they stood balanced on the edge of another fight; all that mattered was knowing which side Fane would take.

“Fane,” said Renfrew again, more sharply. “You will do as I say. I hired you. You swore to my service. You said you were bound by your word.”

Fane did not move toward Renfrew. But nor did he step toward Mer. Rather, he did something that no one expected.

He stepped into the Wellspring.

Mer’s mouth fell open; she began to cry out a warning, but then she saw there was no need. The water did not pull him under.

Fane stood in the Wellspring like he belonged there.

“And I would be,” said Fane, “if I’d sworn to you first.”





THERE WAS A BOY.

He had once been the son of a locksmith—but now, he was something else. Something with bloodstained hands and senses attuned to iron. He worked for creatures who were long-lived and magical, who wore garments woven of forest moss and crowns of poplar leaves. He had wanted to kill seven men—so he had pledged the otherfolk seven years.

But now the thought of taking seven lives made his stomach clench. So he hid himself in the forest and sifted through fallen leaves to find scraps of iron. He made himself into the perfect fetch, because it was preferable to being a murderer.

But a person could only hide for so long.

Two of the otherfolk came to him. Both women, hair woven with wildflowers and lips stained with late summer berries. They smiled at him, and he bowed his head in respect.

“We have need of your services elsewhere,” the first one said.

The fetch stood straighter. “Why do you need me?”

“Because you have the best chance,” the second one replied. “Because your gifts will make you valuable to the kind of people seeking what must be found.”

“Who are they?” asked the fetch.

“Thieves,” said the first one.

“Murderers,” said the second.

“So that is why you wish to send me,” said the fetch, with no small amount of bitterness. “And what must be found?”

“A piece of iron,” said the first one.

“Dark iron, stained with blood,” said the other.

“Some weapons cannot be allowed to remain in mortal lands,” said the first one. “They know naught of its power, but that ignorance will not protect us.”

“If ignorance is no protection,” said the fetch, “then tell me what this weapon is for.”

The otherfolk exchanged a look.

“He should know,” said the second one. “If only so he will take care.”