The Drowned Woods (71)

“What is this weapon?” asked the fetch. “A sword? A knife?”

“Something far more dangerous,” said the first.

“Life,” both said as one.

“Life,” said the fetch, surprised. “How is that a weapon?”

The first merely smiled. She held out a handkerchief woven of heavy, old wool. The fetch took it, unwrapped the cloth. Nestled within was a chip of dark iron. It was old, far older than anything the fetch had ever touched. He could feel the magic humming through it, and that startled him. Iron was not supposed to be magical; iron repelled magic. Which meant this weapon was not crafted by otherhands. It had come from elsewhere.

The first one closed the fetch’s fingers around the iron. “There is a mortal who seeks the place this iron can be found. He will try to hire a mercenary called the Blaidd. You will know him because he will travel with one bearing magic. Take the Blaidd’s place, accompany this man. Find the weapon forged from this iron and return it to us.”

The fetch bowed his head in agreement.

He had little choice—he still owed the otherfolk half a year of service. So he packed a bag with his few belongings and turned toward the west.

And he left Annwvyn for mortal lands.





CHAPTER 22


GAZING AT FANE, Mer had three realizations in quick succession.

First, only she and Ifanna—and perhaps Emrick—had come on this journey expecting a heist.

Second, Fane had not killed the Blaidd to save his friend. Or perhaps he hadn’t done it simply to save his friend. He must have known that Mer and Renfrew were looking to hire the mercenary and killed the man so that they’d need to hire someone else. Him.

And lastly, Mer remembered a conversation.

Why did you leave the otherfolk, if you enjoyed working for them so much?

They had no more need of me in the mountains.

Mer had always considered herself a decent judge of liars. But she had forgotten it was possible to lie without ever uttering an untruth.

Never once had Fane stated that he’d stopped working for the otherfolk.

“You swore to the tylwyth teg,” said Mer, feeling oddly detached about it all.

Fane inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Did you think the folk were unaware of Garanhir’s plans?” he said. “When it became apparent that his desire for power would not be slaked with mere human quarrels, they sent me.”

Several emotions flickered through Renfrew’s face—disbelief, understanding, then something far colder.

“Ah,” he said quietly. “Well, then.” He rolled his shoulders, angling himself so that he could keep both Mer and Fane in his sights. “The otherfolk shouldn’t interfere. We both wish to see Garanhir’s power destroyed.”

“No,” said Fane. “The folk care little for human power struggles. And they know a war is coming. Which is why they did not send a spy or a soldier. They sent an ironfetch.” And as Mer watched, Fane reached down into the clean water. She expected him to pick up the sword or perhaps the bridle—but instead, he chose the small, dark cooking pot.

That made her blink.

Fane tied the cooking pot to his belt, then nodded in satisfaction. “A pot?” said Renfrew with an incredulous laugh. “You came all this way for a pot?”

“You came all this way to set off a few jars of powder,” said Fane. “We all have our reasons.”

Renfrew’s gaze narrowed. “You’re safe so long as you stand in that water—none of us can touch nor enter it. But you’ll not remain there forever. So you have to decide—with whom shall you stand?”

Silence fell across the grove. Mer was keenly aware of her own breath, the painful rasp of it through her dry mouth. Ifanna was behind her, a knife at her throat. Explosives were nearby, just waiting to be set alight. And now Fane—

Fane stood at the center of the Wellspring, his gaze on Mer. He had never been easy to read, but she thought she glimpsed an apology in the set of his mouth. Her heart lurched; if he did side with Renfrew, this was all for nothing. Her fingers tightened around her small knife. She’d have to move quickly: take out Gryf before he could hurt Ifanna, then disable Renfrew. She could not fight Fane, but she could use her magic to hold him in place. That iron cooking pot hanging from his belt would hinder her powers, but she would still try. She had to try.

Her weight shifted as she prepared to step forward.

But before she could move, the water in the pool shivered. It was a small ripple, but it drew Mer’s attention.

The water quivered a second time.

There came a sound—and strangely, it reminded Mer of her childhood. She remembered the noises in the animal pens, the sound of chickens and goats and the snorting breath of pigs rustling for food.

Mer looked toward the trees. And she saw the creature rising from the undergrowth.

At first glance, she mistook it for a boulder. It was large and brown, its back rounded. It must have been asleep—or perhaps enchanted not to wake unless it was needed. Perhaps it had been the spilled blood, the iron upon the grass. Or maybe it had been Fane pulling one of the treasures from the Well.

The boar had the look of a creature from another age. An age when villagers locked their doors at night and hoped that the monsters would not find them. It could have stood shoulder to shoulder with a workhorse. Muscles rippled beneath its fur, its ears were pricked, and those eyes—those eyes were a beautiful gold, bright and intelligent.