The Drowned Woods (83)
Fane sidestepped so that he stood before her. A terrible, creeping realization stole through him. “Mer. Where are you going?”
She would not meet his eyes.
“Tell Ifanna she was right,” she said. “One life for thirty—it’s not a bad bargain.”
Abruptly, he understood. Part of him wished he hadn’t.
“Mer,” he said again.
Neither spoke for a few moments. Mer kept her gaze averted, but he saw the exhaustion and pain hang heavy on her shoulders.
He could not go with her. He was bound to bring the cauldron back to the otherfolk. He could not break his oaths.
For a moment, he was overwhelmed by helplessness. All this blood—all this iron singing around him—and he still couldn’t save her.
“Can I do anything?” he asked.
She finally met his eyes. “Just—tell me you’ll remember this. Everything that’s happened. Someone should, and Ifanna will embellish the details.”
“I will,” he said, and she smiled again. This time it was smaller and sadder, but more honest.
Silence fell between them. Fane did not know what to say. He considered and discarded several meaningless comforts; he knew she wouldn’t appreciate them. If he’d learned one thing about her, it was that she valued the truth. “I wanted to say yes,” he said. “When you asked me to go with you, after the heist.”
“But you couldn’t,” she said. Her gaze flicked down to the pot tied to his belt.
“No,” he agreed. “I couldn’t.”
His hand came up—slowly, ever so slowly—and brushed her jaw. His thumb swept across her cheek, his eyes on hers, trying to drink in every detail. He tilted her face up and her hair fell back, away from the brand. This was how he wanted to remember her: brilliant and angry and so very alive.
She leaned into the touch. He watched her lips part, a breath dragged against her teeth.
“Can I ask one thing?” she said.
He nodded.
“If you hadn’t sworn to the otherfolk,” she said, “if you’d been free to choose. Who would it have been?”
He knew of what she spoke. That moment in the grove, magic at his feet and blades scattered in the grass, and those quiet heartbeats when Fane had been balanced between Renfrew and Mer.
“When I met you,” he said, “you and Renfrew—only one of you bent down to greet my dog.” It felt as though there were a snare around his throat. He had to swallow a few times. “I would’ve chosen that woman, if I could.”
She smiled. And then she fisted her hand in his shirt, hesitated, then drew him down.
Her mouth pressed against his, lightly, and then with more ferocity. She kissed him hard, pouring every bit of fear and longing into that kiss. And he drank it down, welcomed all of it, because he knew this was his only chance.
She had stopped running.
And for a moment, everything was still.
She pulled away quickly, as if she needed to. “Live well, fetch,” she said.
It took a few tries for him to muster a reply. “Farewell, diviner,” he said.
She took a step back, then another, her eyes on his. Then she turned and slipped through a doorway. The wind caught in her hair—and that was the last Fane saw of her.
CHAPTER 28
IFANNA’S LEGS WERE leaden with exhaustion.
She stood at the top of a hill, gesturing others on. The wagons were too slow for her tastes, but there was no other way to get everyone out. There were those who could not run—children, the elderly, and those with injuries from the war. Everyone who owned a horse, goat, cow, or sheep was currently herding them up the road, sheepdogs barking madly at anyone who strayed from the path. Trefor was among them, seemingly having taken on the role of honorary herd dog.
People streamed out of the city like ants escaping a collapsing hill. The roads were clogged, but at least Ifanna and the guild had managed some kind of order. One of the guild’s riders had gone on ahead, warning nearby travelers not to approach the coastline.
The people left Caer Wyddno with only what they could carry. Ifanna knew how much people would lose. Fortunes, family heirlooms, homes. The guild had left behind its manor house with all its treasures, save for a few trinkets that could be shoved into pockets. Ifanna knew that all she’d worked for, all the power and the coin she had spent years accumulating, was gone.
But still—at least people would live.
Ifanna stood by the road, watching people pass by: families, beggars, merchants, cartwrights, bakers, members of the guild, those who worked for the guards, the old and the young. Ifanna searched their faces—and finally, she found one she recognized.
It was Fane. She called out to him, but he didn’t hear her above the din of rolling wagons and bleating sheep. It was Trefor who met him, his tail wagging so hard that he nearly toppled over. Fane picked him up, holding the wriggling dog to his chest. He caught sight of Ifanna and approached, putting Trefor down along the way. The dog leapt around his ankles.
“How many did we save?” he asked, his eyes drifting over the line of people.
Ifanna grimaced. “I don’t know. I saw riders—I assume that Mer got to Garanhir?”
He nodded.
“Where’s Mer?” she asked. She turned to glance behind him, as if Mer would be there.