The Drowned Woods (84)

Fane did not answer. A shaky breath escaped him, and he pressed a hand to his eyes.

And she understood.

Ifanna looked out to the ocean. It had begun to come in, the waves pushing up against the rocks. It should have come in—but it hadn’t. Because, she realized, someone was holding it back.

“She said you were right,” he said. “One life for thirty. It was the right choice.”

Ifanna watched the ocean. She didn’t know if she hoped to see a lone figure there or not. Grief and frustration roiled within her and she clenched her hands so hard her nails bit deep into her skin.

Ifanna had always loved risk and reward, danger and beauty. But a person couldn’t win every coin toss, succeed in every job, take every stolen treasure. And she had always known that, one day, it might be her turn to lose.

She just hadn’t considered that Mer would be the one to pay the price.

“All the times she could’ve listened to me,” Ifanna said, “and she chose now.” Her smile ached at the edges.

She turned back to the people. Her people, the ones she had sworn to protect. She had to keep looking at them, to remind herself what could be protected with one life.

Trefor whined softly and Fane reached for the dog, stroking his ears.

And the roar of the sea grew louder.





CHAPTER 29


THE LAST LIVING water diviner stood on a rocky outcropping.

Her feet were bare, boots discarded. The sharp crags bit into her skin, but she was so cold that she hardly felt the discomfort. Ocean mist blew against her legs and arms, whipped her hair into her face. Her arms were held out, fingers spread and muscles straining.

The power of the ocean welled up beneath her like the deep thrum of thunder. She felt it tremble through her bones, but she did not let it frighten her.

The sea yearned to take that lowland country.

Mer wouldn’t let it. She closed her eyes, dug deep into that well of power she carried, and held the sea back. The ocean raged at her, trying to escape the boundaries of her magic.

She thought of her family. Of her mam and da, her sisters and brother. Perhaps the story of Gwaelod’s diviner would reach them. Perhaps they’d be proud of her.

And she thought of Renfrew. Renfrew, who was both family and not family, who had taught Mer that they were the agents of order. That it was their job to do the terrible things, if it meant others would be safe. But he had been wrong.

One could not save a land by destroying its people.

She held on for hours. Past the point where her mouth had gone dry and her temples ached. She felt blood trickle from her nose, felt the dryness behind her own eyes. Her magic sapped the water from her own body. Standing against the ocean was folly; it was like trying to hold the moon in place. Her power had granted her far more sway than anyone else, but even she had her limits.

Her magic faltered for a heartbeat. A wave spattered against the rocks, spray misting into the wind. Long had magic held it at bay—first the Wellspring and now a diviner.

But oceans were patient things, and they would not be denied.

Mer staggered to one knee, every breath scraping in and out of her. There was salt on her lips, on her cheeks, all around her. Blood spilled from her nose and stained her shirt. Her eyes blurred and her whole body ached. She did not even have the water to cry. Surely, she had held the ocean back long enough for the others to escape. She hoped so, because she had nothing left.

She lifted her face to the waves. She was a water diviner, an unwitting poisoner, a former spy, and a thief. She’d almost forgotten that little farm girl who had made puddles dance for her siblings.

All those parts of herself—and she chose that one.

She chose the little girl who had waded into a river to save a child.

“Well,” she rasped, “come on, then.”

And the sea swept in.





CHAPTER 30


THE NEW SHORELINE was illuminated by flecks of fire.

The camps were scattered across the cliffs. Some were larger than others—noble houses had banded together with their stewards and servants and a few private soldiers. However, even the nobles’ tents were simple canvas and rope, pulled taut across wind-gnarled trees. Those who had made it out of the city were people who’d known better than to linger for their valuables.

Smaller camps had sprung up; families huddled together around fires and ate handfuls of hard cheese and freshly caught fish. A few traveling merchants had seen opportunity and halted their wagons to sell the survivors blankets and provisions at painfully high prices… that was until a young woman from the thieves’ guild spoke to one of them. Word swiftly spread that those who tried to gouge the refugees for coin would swiftly find themselves an enemy of the infamous thief who’d once ransomed a nobleman’s son.

“I thought he wasn’t a ransom,” said Fane.

Ifanna shrugged. The firelight caught in her tawny-brown hair. “Sometimes one has to bow to rumor. It sounds better than truth.”

They sat around a small fire. Night had fallen some time ago, and a chill settled into the air. Fane gave Trefor his cloak and the dog curled up beneath it. His ears twitched in dreams.

Ifanna had a fresh bruise along one cheek and what appeared to be a bandaged wound along her forearm. When asked, she had simply shrugged and said, “A few people got in my way.”