The Drowned Woods (86)

There was a body in the water. Caught in the waves, tossed about like a piece of driftwood.

Fane waded in before he made the decision to do so. The world felt dreamlike—time fragmented into heartbeats. One moment, the waves were splashing against his ankles and then the next, he was up to his waist. The current tugged at his trousers, rough rocks and grass against his bare feet. This place was not meant to be a shore, but it would be one nonetheless. Nothing could remain unchanged.

Another wave broke across his forearms as he leaned down. Honey-blond hair spilled through the water like sunlight. Fane managed to hook both arms beneath the figure and lifted. It took most of the strength he had; the figure’s clothes were soaked through with seawater.

The one mercy was that the cold ocean had kept death’s grasp at bay. Rot and bloat had yet to set into the flesh.

Fane carried her from the water, placing her beneath one of the gnarled trees. Her face had gone pale, her lips still. If it were not for the unnatural pallor, he might have thought her sleeping.

“Fallen kings.”

There came a sharp intake of breath behind him.

Ifanna stood an arm’s length away, her feet and ankles bare, her hair unbound. Her eyes were on the still figure that had once been the last living water diviner. Ifanna took half a faltering step, then sank into an unsteady crouch, wrapping her arms around her own head as if she could not bear to look any longer. Trefor had come with her; he looked at Mer and gave a low, questioning whine.

Fane reached down, brushed a strand of sodden hair from Mer’s face. The brand was there, still visible against her pale skin. His thumb ran across it.

His grief felt distant, like the rumblings of a storm that had yet to reach shore. It had been the iron in her blood that had called to him. He had sensed it when she’d been injured in the caves, and that iron-sense of his had latched on without his knowing. It had led him to her, just like it had led him to—

His breath snagged in his throat.

Seven years of service for seven human lives.

He had killed six people. Those two robbers on the road when he was sixteen, the Blaidd, and the three guards in the castell.

He was still owed one life.

Surely the otherfolk would allow him this.

It was a risk. The folk had told him to return the cauldron to their lands. But then again, they had never told him not to use it.

He pulled her close again, then rose to his feet. Ifanna looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face gone blotchy. “You want to bury her?”

“No,” said Fane, then hesitated. The cauldron was still tied to his belt. He pulled the cauldron free, setting it on the ground. Ifanna watched him, confusion written across her face.

“Make a fire,” he said. “Please.”

“You want to burn her?” asked Ifanna.

He shook his head. “You wish to know what that cauldron does?” he said. “I cannot tell you—they bound me to silence. But I can show you.”

Ifanna regarded him with that confused frown. But she shrugged and rose to look for dry wood.

It took the better part of an hour. Once the fire was burning, Fane filled the cauldron with what little fresh water he could find. The water boiled, then cooled. Fane tipped some of it into Mer’s mouth. Ifanna made a soft noise of protest, but she let him. She must have thought him mad, but Fane did it a second time. And then he waited.

For several long minutes, nothing happened. Fane thought that perhaps he must have done this wrong, or that the otherfolk had been wrong about this cauldron.

The color returned to her cheeks first. A soft flush, like the pink light of dawn creeping over a horizon. Then she drew in a shattered little breath, gagged, and vomited hard. It was all Fane could do to roll Mer onto her side. He barely heard Ifanna cursing or Trefor barking and then sneezing so hard he fell back onto his haunches.

Mer coughed raggedly.

Ifanna squatted down beside Mer, gaping at Fane as if she’d never seen him before.

Mer’s hand came up, rubbed blearily at her eyes. Like she was awakening from a night of bad sleep.

“Fallen kings,” said Ifanna faintly. “Oh. That’s—that’s what the otherfolk wanted?”

Fane nodded.

“No wonder they couldn’t let it stay in human lands,” said Ifanna. “I mean, imagine what I could do with that—”

“No,” said Fane.

“Unkillable thieves—”

“No,” said Fane again, but he was smiling.

Mer groaned and tried to sit up.

“Mer.” Ifanna took her hand and squeezed. “Are you all right? Do you remember what happened? Who we are?”

Mer blinked at them both. She looked as though she’d been dunked in a river; she kept shivering and Ifanna tugged off her cloak, wrapping it around Mer’s shoulders. Fane helped her nearer the fire. For a few long moments, Mer did not speak. Her gaze darted between Fane and Ifanna, uncomprehending. Fane’s heart fell. What if the magic had gone awry?

Mer held up a hand, gesturing at Ifanna. Her voice was rusted as old iron. “Lady thief.” Her hand twitched toward Fane. “Ring fighter.” A wave at Trefor. “Otherfolk spy?”

Ifanna made a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. She reached forward and tugged Mer into a hug. When they parted, Ifanna’s cheeks were damp with more than seawater.