The Drowned Woods (85)

They hadn’t spoken much since Fane found her amidst the other refugees. Ifanna and her mothers had been rounding up members of the guild, trying to keep things organized. The two noblewomen leading the guild were nothing like Fane expected—one of them was fair-haired and short, her hands heavy with rings. The other was willowy and stern-faced, but she still took a moment to clasp Fane’s hands and thank him for getting Ifanna safely home. Then they marched into the crowds like generals, sifting order from the chaos.

Fane didn’t know what story Ifanna had given them, only that he’d played a far more heroic role than he deserved. But Ifanna had waved off his skeptical glance and told him there was a blanket and a bowl of cawl awaiting him.

The fire sent sparks into the dark night sky. He watched them billow upward, caught on a warm updraft. The sound of the ocean lapping at rocks kept drawing his attention. They had made camp on high ground, but even now, he could hear the waves.

He wasn’t sure there would ever be a time he would forget that sound.

“Bae Ceredigion,” said Fane. “That’s what they’re calling it.” He nodded down at the waters.

“A new bay,” murmured Ifanna. She was chewing on a piece of dried apple. “I don’t envy any mapmakers right now. Imagine having to correct every map you came across.”

“I imagine those killed by the floods are probably having a worse time of it,” said Fane.

There were so many dead. Even with the warnings, Fane knew they hadn’t managed to evacuate all of the city. And then there were all those who’d lived along the shore that the riders hadn’t managed to warn.

But rather than look chastened, Ifanna snorted. “Doubt that. The dead have very few worries, far as I can tell. The living, though. We’ll be the ones with starving children come winter.” She looked away from the water. “My mothers and I are planning on taking our people south.”

“Start a new guild?” asked Fane.

Ifanna shrugged. “We’ve no coin, not at the moment. Our legacy is underwater. We’ll have to rebuild from scratch—and it takes generations to establish a guild as deeply as the one in Caer Wyddno. I’ll likely be working as a regular thief for many years to come. No infamy, no glory.”

“Yet you chose to leave the coin behind,” said Fane. “I saw those wagons you used to cart out some of the sick—you might have used them for gold.”

“Don’t remind me.” She stretched, rolling her shoulders. “And what about you?”

He looked down at his hip. He’d tied the cauldron to his belt; the folk had told him never to let it leave his sight. While other iron objects hummed to him, this one seemed to wail. It was beautiful and unsettling, and he yearned to be rid of it. He gazed down at the dark iron. It was smudged with something that might have been rust, but he knew must be blood.

“What is that thing?” asked Ifanna. “You never did tell us.”

Fane exhaled. “A weapon. One that the otherfolk could not allow to be used against them.”

“Does it make magic soup or something?” asked Ifanna, smiling incredulously. “Or perhaps you just hit your enemies over the head with it?”

Fane shook his head. “Trust me. It’s best you not know. You’ll sleep better.”

“Now I have to know,” she wheedled. “Does it vomit boiling water at advancing armies? Mayhap make a terrible poison? Or maybe a very awkward battle helmet?”

A startled laugh rolled up and out of him. It was the first time he’d uttered such a noise since they’d found the Wellspring—and he realized, with a glance at Ifanna’s satisfied expression, that was her intent all along.

And abruptly, the loss seemed to well up anew. The grief between them was different—Ifanna mourned something she’d once had and Fane mourned something that had never begun. Ifanna had lost a former thief, a young woman who’d helped her smuggle goods and run with criminals. And Fane had lost a young woman who greeted dogs with a wide smile, who’d been angry and a little lost, and had understood Fane in a way he’d never found in anyone else.

“Mer thought of you at the end,” he said.

Ifanna laughed, but it sounded forced. “Of course, she did. I’m unforgettable.” She leaned forward, her fingers touching her mouth as she gazed into the fire. “I’ll miss her.”

Fane did not reply. His own pain was a numb throbbing somewhere in his chest. He hadn’t examined the extent of it yet, not truly, for fear of what he’d find when he did.





When Fane woke, it was an hour before dawn.

And somewhere nearby, iron was singing. It was a drumbeat of human blood, a soft song that reminded Fane of a crooning lullaby.

It wouldn’t have woken him, but it was an iron that his body knew, thus, the magic within him prodded and poked until he lifted his head. Trefor was asleep under his arm; Ifanna had curled up beside the waning coals of the fire.

Fane sat up, his blanket falling away. Early morning mist dewed upon the wool, catching on his fingers as he gently placed the blanket over Trefor. Fane stood, silent amidst the sleeping figures, then made his way out of the camp.

The iron was like a siren’s call that drew him to the sea. Fog hung heavy along the shore and part of him regretted not taking that blanket, draping it across his shoulders to ward off the chill. He picked his way toward the shore, where the waves were lapping grasses and small, gnarled trees.