The Drowned Woods (81)

Red spilled across his face in a furious flush. “Gwynedd? Those damned—”

“Everyone is going to die,” she snarled. She slammed her hand against the wall and he flinched. “Stop thinking about your damned wars. Gwaelod will be flooded. The Lowland Hundred will be no more, do you understand me? Everyone in the farmlands is going to die unless you send out riders right now to warn them. Tell them to get to high ground, now. This city will be little more than an underwater ruin in ten hours.”

“That’s why you came here?” said Garanhir with an incredulous bark of laughter. “You came to warn me?”

“Not you,” she said. “I’d not lose a moment’s sleep if you were to drown. But the city—I couldn’t watch it happen to them.”

He gazed at her, several expressions crossing his face in quick succession. “You were Renfrew’s diviner,” he said. “Why should I believe you?”

It was disconcerting to speak to him like this. To her, Garanhir had always been an impressive figure—Renfrew’s master, a prince, and then later, a terror that loomed over her every nightmare. But now she saw a man. Fallible, graying, and his breath smelling of wine.

“Because all I want,” she said, “is for you to save as many as you can. For once in your life, act as a ruler should.”

A bit of hardness returned to his face. “And if this is a lie? What if you’re trying to spread my forces thin?”

She shook her head. She was too weary to argue. “Look out your window.” She stepped back and released her grip on the magic. It was a relief; her head throbbed.

Garanhir rolled his shoulders, then pushed himself away from the wall. There was a pitcher on a small table and Mer went to it. Hands shaking, she poured herself a cup and threw it back. Now that her message had been delivered, now that all of this was out of her hands, she felt utterly exhausted. Her legs trembled beneath her and she forced herself to drink another cup, then another.

The prince did not move for a heartbeat, as if to prove that glancing out the window was his choice and not hers. Then he took a few steps and looked out.

She knew what he would be seeing. She could feel the ocean pulling away from the shore, like a person drawing in a deep breath. It could only be held so long before that breath would gust free.

“What—what is that?” said Garanhir. “The sea is—”

“Retreating,” said Mer. “Within hours, it will surge back, higher than you can imagine. Only the last remnants of Caer Wyddno’s magic is keeping it at bay. Those will fail and soon.” Legs unsteady, she sank into the tall-backed chair. All at once, everything seemed to crash down upon her: the lies and betrayals, the realization that everything she’d been fighting for had come to naught. She had returned for her freedom, and instead she’d helped destroy a kingdom.

Garanhir’s face had gone bone white. He turned to glance at her, then back at the window.

“But you—” He seemed to struggle for words. “You’ve power over water. Can’t you stop it?”

“Stop the sea?” She let out a terrible, incredulous laugh. “I may as well try to carry the moon on my back. I could not stop—”

Her voice died in her throat.

Because it was true—she could not stop the sea.

But she could delay it for a time.

He saw the change in her face. Garanhir took a step toward her. “What is it?”

The clang of armored footsteps made her tense. There were more soldiers coming—and her time had run out. She could have fought, but there was little point. Her message had been delivered.

“Another thing,” she said. “There’s a man being attacked by your guards. Dark hair and eyes, tall. He helped me. You need to call off your soldiers, right now. Those who haven’t attacked him yet may live.” She didn’t allow herself to consider that Fane might have already fallen.

Garanhir’s mouth tightened, but his reply was swallowed up by a man bursting through the door. He wore armor that was unbuckled, pulled on in haste. He looked wildly about the room, likely expecting to see a battle.

But there was just the prince, standing in the middle of the room unharmed. Two guards knocked senseless. And a young woman dressed in dark clothing, sitting quietly. The guard’s gaze lingered on Mer, and she couldn’t quite decipher his expression. It was not precisely fear, not confusion, but some mingling of both.

Garanhir stepped forward and spoke to the guard. Mer could have listened, but she did not. If the prince was taking her advice, then good. And if he was not, she would prefer not to know. Garanhir’s choices were not her responsibility.

Mer thought of Ifanna. Dear, pragmatic Ifanna, who had sold Mer to save the lives of thirty people.

Mer had forgiven Ifanna for that—and part of her regretted not telling Ifanna so. Because this was the one thing about herself she could not escape, the one lesson that Renfrew had managed to impress upon her: Not everyone had choices. Mer’s magic had cost her family and her chance at a normal life. Her decision to run had cost her freedom. And her decision to trust Renfrew might have cost the people of Gwaelod everything.

Choices and cost. It felt like the weighing of scales, trying to balance it all.

Mer closed her eyes, her fingers tight on the arms of the chair. The magic of the city was dwindled to near nothing; there was no pulse of warmth, of life and heat. Everything she had loved and hated about this place would soon be underwater—the markets brimming with caught fish and mussels, the bathhouse with its sweet drinks, the noble houses and the poor districts. Stray dogs and orphaned children. High-born ladies and servants alike.