The Drowned Woods (87)

Fane exhaled hard. He hadn’t let himself hope it would work.

“You all right?” he said quietly.

“What did you do?” she asked. She coughed, then cleared her throat.

“Magic,” he said simply. “The otherfolk owed me seven lives for seven years of service. I had only claimed six.”

Mer shook her head ruefully. “Seven years. I hope it was worth it.”

Fane looked out across the camp—at the small fires, the sleeping figures, and the remnants of Gwaelod. The lands were forever changed, but they had saved some of its people. His gaze drifted to the west, to the place where the island had hidden a wellspring of magic. It was swept out to sea.

Cold fingers wove through his. He startled, then glanced down. Mer was smiling with one corner of her mouth and the sight made his heartbeat quicken. Ifanna was petting Trefor and the dog lolled on his back, feet waving in the air.

“Yes,” Fane said. “It was.”





THERE WAS ONCE a kingdom called Cantre’r Gwaelod. It was full of rich farmland and crowned with a city carved from sea cliffs. The lowland kingdom should have been swept out to sea, but a magical well kept the waves at bay.

According to a wandering bard, there was a girl who tended the well. But one day, she saw a lovely young lad and abandoned her responsibilities. The well was destroyed and the kingdom flooded.

That bard had a piece of rotten fruit thrown at him by a girl with tawny-brown hair and a fox’s keen eyes. He would later amend his song to say that the kingdom had actually been quite corrupt, a rogue spy had destroyed the Wellspring, and a noble water diviner, an ironfetch, and the land’s most skilled thief all banded together to save Gwaelod’s people. The diviner had been many things: a farmer’s daughter, a spymaster’s apprentice, and a server of drinks. She had fought the ocean itself and lost—but in the fighting, she saved many lives.

As far as the world was concerned, the diviner drowned. The fetch vanished into the wilds. And the thief went southward to take up her trade in a port city.

It was almost the truth.

There once was a kingdom called Gwaelod.

The kingdom drowned.

But some of its people didn’t.

Among those who survived were a young man with scarred hands and a young woman with hair that fell across her left eye. They stayed with the other refugees for a time, helping any who needed it.

The young man set up shelters and scavenged broken parts of houses that washed ashore. The young woman had a knack for finding fresh water.

One night, the two of them vanished from the camp. Their tent was empty, the dog gone. No one ever saw them again.

And to most, that is where their story ended.

Here is where another began.

A young woman, a young man, and a corgi traversed the cantrefs. They drew little attention; they were simply two more refugees from the flooded lowland kingdom. They stopped by a small farmhouse where an old sheepdog had been abandoned. The dog recognized the woman and came when she called out. Together, they crossed fields and farms, rivers and streams, forest and meadow.

They came upon the forests of Annwvyn. Waiting at the edge of the wood were the emissaries of the otherfolk. Folk crowned with poplar leaves and blackberry brambles greeted them. The sheepdog shrank back, but the corgi bounded up to meet them.

The young man pulled a small cauldron from a strap on his belt. The iron was cold to the touch and the folk who took it wore heavy gloves.

“You have succeeded,” said one of the folk. “The cauldron of rebirth has long been lost to mortal lands.” She knelt before the dog and gave him a gentle pat. The corgi grinned up at them and barked once.

“I believe I carried the cauldron, at least,” said the young man with a dry smile.

“And so you did.” The lady of the folk stepped forward. “You have done all that we asked and more.”

“A favor is owed,” said another.

The young man hesitated, then gestured the woman forward. “Can you heal a scar?” He pointed to a brand at the corner of her eye.

“We could, if that is what you wish,” said one of the folk.

The woman shook her head. “No,” she said quietly to the young man. “It’s all right.” She spoke to the folk. “I would ask two things.”

The folk nodded.

“First,” said the young woman, “this one has completed his service to you. He has served seven years and claimed seven lives, which means he no longer has need of your magic. Any of it.”

The man drew in a sharp breath.

The lady of the folk said, “There is balance in that. We shall take his magic. And what is your other favor, diviner?”

“A home,” said the young woman. “A safe place where we won’t have to hide.”

The folk smiled. And then she gave the woman an acorn and told her to plant it beside their house.

“We don’t have a house,” said the woman, confused.

“You will,” said the second of the folk.

“Follow the edge of the forest around our lands,” said the first. “Go to the east of the mountains. There is a small village—still growing. Its people would welcome you.” She placed her hand on the man’s forehead, and drew the magic from him. He shuddered and looked down at his hands.

“What of you?” said the folk, speaking to the dog. “Shall you return home?”