The Drowned Woods (78)

He had meant what he said. Fane had never had a problem with heights. But then again, he had never crouched on the edge of a sea cliff before. The world fell away beneath him. Distant waves crashed into the rocks below. His heart thumped unsteadily and sweat broke out across his neck.

He had always thought his death would arrive on the point of a knife or tip of a sword. Gazing down at the jagged rocks, the wind tugging at his shirt and whispering through his hair—it was a stark reminder that a fall could kill him just as easily. He swallowed—his throat suddenly parched—and forced himself not to look down. Mer was ahead of him, moving slowly but steadily. He crawled after.

It felt as though the journey took an hour, but it was likely only five minutes. Fane was aware of every passing moment until Mer reached up and grabbed another window. It did not budge. With a scowl, Mer reached into her belt and withdrew a knife. She cracked the hilt hard against the glass, sending a spiderweb of cracks across it. Another strike and—

Mer wobbled dangerously. Without thinking, Fane grabbed her ankle. It was all he could seize, and he knew that if she did fall, she would pull them both down.

He held on, nonetheless.

Steadying herself, Mer lifted her arm a third time and smashed her knife into the glass. Then she fumbled about, found the latch, and swung the frame open. Mer scrambled inside. Fane followed, a throb of relief accompanying every heartbeat. Glass crunched beneath his boots as he followed Mer to the door. They had entered what seemed to be an old study—there was a desk, wrought of heavy oak, and stacks of books were piled atop it.

For a moment, Mer went utterly still. Her gaze went elsewhere—a memory he could not follow.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

Mer blinked, then shook her head. “This was Renfrew’s study. Where—where he taught me. I thought the prince would have cleared it all out.” Taking a shaky breath, she said, “We have to keep moving. The prince’s room is at the end of this hallway. If we can reach it before he does…” She trailed off, as if this was where her plans had ended. Her brows pulled together and she gave a sharp jerk of her head, like a dog shaking off water. “We need to keep moving.”

She put her hand on the door’s latch, then she tilted her head. It took Fane a moment to realize why.

The bells had stopped. A silence had swelled up to fill their place—and that silence chilled him far more than the sounds of alarm. It was the kind of quiet that felt like a drawn breath, like the moment of stillness before everything fell apart.

Mer tried the latch, but it snagged. “Locked,” she murmured. “Of course he locked it. Probably threw the key into the ocean.”

“We’re locked in Renfrew’s office?” said Fane. The door had the heavy, solid appearance of a well-made barrier. But he could still try to break it.

“Give me a moment.” Mer reached into her boot and withdrew two slips of metal. He recognized one as the lockpick’s wrench. She knelt before the door and slid both tools into the lock.

A restless shiver ran through Fane; part of him yearned to spend that energy on pacing. But that might distract Mer. Instead, he tried to focus his attention on the study. It was a small room, but even so, it held all the luxurious splendor of the rest of the castell. Caer Wyddno was by no means a poor city; the markets were bustling and trade was brisk. Fane had seen the cities bordering the edge of Gwaelod and Gwynedd, where the fields had been burned and farmers driven out.

Fane gazed about the study, untouched by poverty and strife. It had rows of books and expensive glass inkwells. Feather quills and rolls of parchment had been left to molder, when a family could have sold such valuables and eaten for a month. There was a map on the wall, marked by colored pins.

Fane felt disgust rise in his throat like bile. Renfrew had worked and plotted and studied here. And it was no wonder he’d seen the lives of so many people as disposable—he was so far removed from suffering that it was a theoretical concept. From a high tower, he could have counted lives the way a banker counted coin.

A click came from the locked door. “There we go,” muttered Mer. She shoved the tools back into her boot, reached for the latch and—

Fane heard it too late.

There was iron in the door, on the window ledge, in the wrench, in the heavy keys hanging off a bookshelf. There was iron all around him, which was his only excuse for not noticing the iron just beyond the door.

“Wait,” he began to say. Mer had the door half-open as she glanced over one shoulder. It only meant she didn’t see the guard’s heavy gauntlet reach for her.

The man seized Mer around the throat. She made a choked sound, moving with admirable speed as she grabbed for the man’s wrist. A knife was in her fingers, and she shoved it between the joints of his armor. The guard bellowed with pain, releasing her at once and stumbling away.

A second guard struck her across the face, then seized her by the hair. Her face was forced up, her brand bared for all to see.

Fane rushed forward, every instinct screaming to help, but then he halted.

He had killed three times: those two robbers on the road and then the Blaidd. The first two had been an accident and the latter was at the behest of the otherfolk. He’d sworn never to use his magic for his own gain. He wouldn’t be like those mercenaries who had slain his family. He wouldn’t kill because it was easy or simple. He wouldn’t be the reason a child grew up an orphan. That was what he told himself every time he avoided a conflict, cringed away from physical contact, and spent his nights alone.