The Drowned Woods (10)
She thought of returning to Caer Wyddno and her stomach clenched.
“This is the moment,” said Mer, “that you will make your bargain. My release traded for my services.”
Renfrew shook his head. “No, Mererid. I will release you from those chains whether or not you choose to aid me. Should you run, I will not stop you. But if you decide to join my cause…” His eyes flashed like blue fire. “Within the Well are treasures. Come with me. We’ll steal the magic, the gold, and you will have enough coin to settle far beyond the reach of Gwaelod.”
She wanted to argue. This all seemed far-fetched, straining credulity. Prince Garanhir and his kin had ruled for over a hundred years from the safety of Caer Wyddno. It was difficult to imagine anyone ever unseating the prince from his throne.
We are the agents of order, Renfrew had always told her. We restore things to how they should be. We win wars with the least amount of spilled blood. A soldier would have to hack his way through hundreds of enemies to reach a noble, but we can do so with forged papers, a quick smile, and a dose of poison—and only one life lost.
There had been a time when she’d believed in him.
And looking into his face, she wanted to believe in him again.
“If I do this,” she said. “One last job—then it is truly the last. I will not work for you again. And I’ll need enough coin to escape.”
A fierce victory flashed through Renfrew’s eyes, but he did not smile. It looked more like a grim triumph. “Agreed,” he said quietly.
“So are we to journey to Caer Wyddno?”
“Not quite yet,” said Renfrew. “First, I intend to hire a little muscle. A former spymaster and a diviner are all well and good, but if we are to survive this, we’ll need a few strong arms.”
“Might be easier to hire the help if these were gone.” She rattled the shackles, ready to be done with the bite of iron.
Renfrew’s smile, when it finally came, had the curve of a wicked blade. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a stolen ring of keys.
CHAPTER 3
FANE’S MOUTH WAS full of blood.
One of his teeth had cut into his lower lip. He kept licking at the small cut, tongue flickering across the wound before he remembered to leave it be. He knew that if he smiled, his teeth would be smeared with crimson—which was precisely why he bared his teeth at his opponent.
The woman hesitated for all of a heartbeat, then she attacked.
Her fists slammed into his ribs with startling swiftness, driving Fane to his knees. Then one of her legs wrapped around his throat and he was on the ground, struggling for breath.
A cry rang out and the tight grip around his throat loosened. Fane drew in a breath and coughed. He spat blood on the packed earth of the floor.
“—And the round goes to Blodeuyn!” The crier standing atop an overturned crate bellowed the words with no small amount of glee. Of course he’d be cheerful; he would take a fraction of the betting coin, no matter who won. The surrounding crowds yelled and cheered in equal measure—some stood and some were sitting on makeshift benches or the dirt floor.
Blodeuyn turned to gaze at Fane. She had hair so pale it looked like mountain snow. When she held out a hand, Fane took it. She helped haul him to his feet. “Good match,” he said, nodding respectfully to her.
He rather liked her. She’d been the first one to speak to him when he arrived two weeks ago with little coin and even fewer friends. She had bought him a few meals at a local tavern, tried to pry stories of the wild country out of him. And she had been the one to suggest this match when his losing streak ensured that few would consider fighting him. He was not seen as a worthy challenge.
Blodeuyn shook her head. “You look like a hound after a fresh kill,” she said. “Come. I’ll buy you something to wash your mouth.” She pushed through the crowds, toward the wall. A decade ago, this building must have once been a meetinghouse for the city of Pentref yr Eigion—but it had been repurposed for the fights. The air was thick with the smells of damp wood and sweat. There was a man selling day-old oggies and cups of drink to spectators and fighters alike. Blodeuyn tossed the man a coin and picked up two of the cups. She handed one to Fane and he took a swig. It wasn’t ale—it was water laced with honey and mint. They found a place by the wall to stand, away from the cheering crowds. The noise was painfully loud—jeers and encouragements, curses and songs. And even above that, Fane could feel the hum of iron. Iron permeated this place: in the knives tucked away within sleeves and boots, in the studs of the walls, in rings and belts, in the scattering of counterfeit coins, and in the blood that had splattered the dirt floor. The dried blood was softer, a whisper of old injury and hurt. The fresh blood had a sharper sound, like the cry of ravens that followed soldiers into battle.
It all came together in a discordant song and Fane closed his eyes.
After years of living in a forest, he had not realized how loud the iron of a human city would be—and he would have walked away, if he could. But he needed to be here.
The next two fighters were stepping into the ring. There were always at least two fights happening at once, and coin changed hands quickly as the contestants entered and left the rings.
The fights were illegal in this cantref as any coin made from wagers was supposed to be taxed. But such fights cropped up all over the lands, despite attempts to quash them. They were a diversion for folk who yearned for the chance at a better life and did not mind risking their wages. And those who came to fight could earn a fair amount if they took to betting on themselves and did not lose.