The Drowned Woods (82)

Water did not care for rank nor wealth. It would sweep in, drown all.

Unless someone stood in its path.

She opened her eyes, her body tight as a drawn bowstring. A tremor ran through her—just the once.

She had helped drown a kingdom. She had done so without knowing she was doing it, but she bore that responsibility nonetheless. Just like those poisoned villages.

If she left now, she would live. But she did not know how she would live with herself.

Mer rose from the chair. She wished she could say her decision was easy, but things were not that simple. Her heart lurched in her chest; her fingers felt unsteady and cold; when she spoke, her voice was almost too quiet to hear.

“Evacuate the city,” she said. “I’ll give you as much time as I can.”

When she looked up, Garanhir’s gaze was on her. His face was still starkly pale, but at least his shoulders were straight. The guard gave Mer another questioning glance.

Garanhir nodded at the other man. “Do it,” he said. “Send the riders now. Tell all that they’re to leave their homes, no exceptions, and to go east.”

“Help people,” said Mer. “Those who cannot go on foot, find them wagons. Use your own horses. I don’t care what it costs.”

The guard looked at her incredulously but Garanhir held up a hand. “Do as she says,” he murmured.

The guard snapped a bow, then hastened from the room.

Garanhir exhaled hard. “I suppose I should thank—”

“Don’t,” said Mer sharply. “I don’t want your gratitude. Only your promise that you’ll get the people out.”

There was a moment of quiet. Then Garanhir inclined his head. “I will.”

Mer pressed her lips tight, to keep herself from saying more. She did not trust herself to keep silent otherwise. One last glance at the room and—

And she saw why the guard had looked at her so oddly.

The chair Mer had been sitting in was no chair at all. It was a makeshift throne, carved from dark wood. Meant for a prince holding court in his own chambers.

Mer dragged her attention from that throne, then straightened her shoulders and strode from the room.





CHAPTER 27


THE WORLD BEGAN and ended with iron.

It was in his mouth—a lucky strike, when a soldier’s fist struck Fane’s jaw—and scattered along the floor, armored figures still where they had fallen. Iron was in his hand; a sword rested in his palm like the weight was part of him. Iron was in every breath. Iron was in the cauldron still hanging from the strap at his belt.

All Fane knew was iron and magic.

He sensed more than heard the approach of more soldiers. He had killed the three that tried to stop him. He stepped over them, his breaths ragged and muscles aching.

He wanted to stop. He wanted all of this to end.

“Please,” he said, when another guard stepped around the corner and saw him. This one was a woman, her hair drawn back in a hasty knot. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, then she retreated. When another man tried to step around her, a crossbow in hand and a snarl on his face, the woman said, “No! The prince told us to leave him. We’re to round up the scholars.”

The man grimaced, but the two of them hurried on.

Leaving Fane alone in the hallway.

His chest rose and fell, rose and fell. He was the only living thing here, and as he caught his breath, the magic began to recede.

He felt it drain out of him, and his knees wobbled. He caught himself on the wall, his palm against the stone.

The sword clattered to the floor.

All around him, there was movement. Footsteps, shouts, the sounds of things being hauled away. But no one touched him; no one even went near him. Which could only mean one thing.

Mer found the prince. She had succeeded.

That thought made him breathe a little easier. All of this—it was for something.

It didn’t make him feel any less stained. He had taken lives, chosen to take them. Because the kingdom needed him to. Because countless people were going to perish. Because he couldn’t watch Mer be killed.

Fane forced himself to stand. His whole body ached and there was blood dripping down his back from some unseen wound.

“Fane!”

He turned at the familiar sound of Mer’s voice.

She was unhurt—and that realization made him relax. She hastened toward him, hands extended. Her fingers hovered over his chest without quite touching. He understood her hesitation; blood spattered most of his clothing. “You made it,” she said. “I—I wasn’t sure…”

Fane let out a breath. “I killed the three guards. Turns out my curse is good for something.”

“You saved hundreds of lives today,” she said. “Don’t ever forget that. Without you, the prince would never have gotten word.”

“No,” he said. “That was you. I just—cleared the way a little.”

He swayed on his feet and her hand came up to grasp his arm. He felt the touch even through his cloak.

“Listen,” she said. “Go with the prince’s guards. They’re taking him out a side door, through a passageway used by the royal family. It’ll be the fastest way out of the city.”

He blinked at her. “And what of you?”

She smiled, but it was forced and faltering. “You need to—go with the prince’s men. Get out of the city, Fane.” She turned to leave.