The Drowned Woods (75)

“You said you have to return to the otherfolk.” She threw her gaze northeast, toward Caer Wyddno. “But you didn’t say when. You mind making a stop first?”

Fane smiled—and nodded.





CHAPTER 23


THREE STOLEN HORSES pounded up the road that led to Caer Wyddno. Early afternoon sunlight shone bright overhead and the horses panted, their sweat working into a lather around the saddles. Mer knew she should have slowed down, to let the horses cool off—but she did not have the time. They cantered past the gates, past the guards that called after them, and then Mer leapt from the saddle.

Every step felt too slow. Her fear sharpened every sense, made time feel like it dragged across her skin. Her throat and mouth were dry but not from use of her magic. It was simple terror. Part of her wanted to run, to turn and ride from the city. She could do it—she probably should do it. She could feel the magic leeching out of the city, leaving it unprotected. It was only a matter of time before the sea came to reclaim that which it had long been denied.

Ifanna tossed her reins to a passerby and said, “Hey, you want a horse?”

The passerby happened to be a young woman, who looked as though Ifanna had handed her a live snake.

“Take your family and valuables and ride east,” said Ifanna. “City’s about to be flooded.”

Ignoring the gaping woman, Ifanna and Mer strode ahead. Fane swung one long leg over his own horse, taking Trefor down from where he’d been tucked into Fane’s cloak. The dog had enjoyed the ride, his tongue lolling in a dog grin.

The three of them hastened farther into the city before anyone could stop them.

Ifanna’s gaze kept flicking toward home; Mer knew that the thief’s thoughts would be of her parents, of her friends, of all her allies in the city. Ifanna had the most to lose—which was why Mer had to let her go first.

“Hurry,” she said.

Ifanna threw a glance over her shoulder. “What of you?”

Mer tried for a smile; it was more of a grimace. “You get the word out to the people. Tell everyone that they must leave the city now—that they should go east, make for higher ground. But for those outside the city, riders must be sent.”

And there was only one person who could send them.

For a moment, Ifanna seemed torn. “What if he won’t listen to you?”

“I won’t give him a choice,” said Mer.

Trefor sneezed hard, staggering back onto his hind legs. He shook his head, ears flapping.

“Wait,” said Fane. He knelt beside the dog and placed a hand on his back before looking at Ifanna. “Take him with you. Take him from the city.”

“Are you sure?” asked Ifanna.

“Your people will keep him safe,” said Fane. “Won’t they?”

Determination hardened Ifanna’s face. “They will,” she said. Then she turned and sprinted, light-footed and nimble, through the afternoon markets.

Trefor looked from her, then back to Fane. He whined. “Go on,” said Fane softly, patting his rump. The corgi licked his hand, then ran after Ifanna and vanished from sight. Fane watched him go, his mouth tight.

“You could go with them,” said Mer. “Save people with Ifanna. Where I’m going—I may not come back.”

Fane rose to his full height. “I know that. Where are we going?”

It was the answer she’d both dreaded and hoped for.

She took a deep breath. It felt too tight in her lungs.

“This way,” she said, and turned to the west.

The castell loomed over Caer Wyddno. It was probably by design, so the royal family could gaze down on the common people. Mer hurried toward the fortress. She dared not run, not without drawing the attention of those guarding the markets. Her hood was drawn up, her face angled down. The stakes were too high to be recognized. They had lost two hours getting back to the city—which meant perhaps only ten more to save all of Caer Wyddno.

The ocean was immortal and patient. For decades, it had waited for the magical wards to be stripped away. And now—now, it would greedily surge up, take back what rightfully belonged to the tides.

Mer hurried up a winding set of stone stairs. She did not take the main road up to the castell, instead choosing one of the routes servants used for laundry. She nearly crashed into a washerwoman who snarled and cursed at her, but Mer paid her no attention. The only thing that mattered was reaching the prince.

The sea salt seemed to catch in her throat, tickling every time she swallowed. Gritting her teeth, Mer pushed her legs even harder, taking the stairs at an all-out run once she was out of sight of the guards.

Finally, they reached the top of the stairs. The path veered left, into the servants’ courtyard. There was a small sitting place, with a fountain and herb garden. Mer remembered spending a few hours with other children here, when the servants couldn’t keep them out of the water. It was a calm place, where many of the seamstresses would take advantage of the sunlight to finish delicate needlework.

But now the fountain was dry. There was no water trickling down the carved stone, no children running about. There were a few servants hauling baskets of laundry to the stairs and they gave Mer and Fane startled glances.

Mer darted toward one of the doors and opened it, hastening into the kitchens.

All at once, memory slammed into her. It was not so much the sight but the smell: tea and cooking fires, steam and roasting meats. She remembered sneaking into the kitchens for sweets, lingering when the cooks asked if she could heat pots of water with a touch.