The Drowned Woods (2)

Magic.

There was magic in that girl.

Whispers traveled all the way to the nearest city and to the ears of the ruling prince. The prince of Cantre’r Gwaelod was young, come into his throne when his father took ill. But he knew what the rumors meant—diviners were rare but not unheard of. His father had kept a diviner of metal, using magic to weld signet rings to his most trusted servants. When the prince heard tales of a girl who tamed a river, he sent his spymaster for her.

One afternoon, the farmer returned from his fields with dirt-crusted nails and a sweat-dampened brow. He caught sight of a strange man in his yard, and without even speaking a word, the farmer understood. The spymaster wore clothes finer than anyone in the village, bore a signet ring welded to his left index finger, and carried several knives at his belt. The farmer could no more have challenged him than he could have shouted down a storm.

A purse of coins exchanged hands—gold to soothe the sting of the loss.

The girl kicked and struggled, but the spymaster paid her no heed. He carried her to a horse and galloped away. The girl threw one last look at her home before they rode into the forest.

The spymaster was wary, knowing that he had to get the girl to the prince’s castell, behind siege walls and iron-clad guards. He rode his steed hard, keeping off the well-worn roads. But whispers of a water diviner had spread past the borders of Cantre’r Gwaelod, to the ears of royals who would not see such a girl fall into the wrong hands. That is to say, any hands but their own.

On the second day of travel, an arrow slammed into an oak tree. The spymaster cursed and urged his horse on, racing through the thick forest foliage, hoping to lose his pursuers. The girl pressed her face into the horse’s mane, squeezing her eyes closed.

She never saw the arrow that felled the horse.

The girl and spymaster crashed into the undergrowth—the former falling harmlessly into a patch of moss while the latter cracked his head against a tree. He lay there, trying to recover his senses, while their attacker slid off his own mount. He wore the colors of a neighboring cantref and there were blade scars across both hands. He drew a hunting knife from his belt and made for the girl.

The girl saw him coming. She tripped on a tree root and fell. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she called for her father and mother, for the strange spymaster, for anyone—

But no one came.

And she realized no one would come.

Her fingers curled into the moss, into the familiar dampness of rain-soaked earth—and a thought occurred to her.

The girl had used her magic to care for plants, to amuse her siblings, and to aid her family. Water had seemed a gentle magic, a trickle of power.

Now, gazing at her attacker, the girl looked at him and saw everything. Veins flowed like rivers through him; every gusting breath carried droplets of spittle; his eyes were damp after the hard ride.

The girl raised her hand, moss still tangled around her fingers, and called to her magic.

It was more difficult than affecting a stream or puddle. The iron in his blood dragged at the magic. But she gritted her teeth and called every drop of water she could find, forcing it into his lungs.

A terrible gasping sound emerged from the man’s lips. The knife hit the dirt, falling harmlessly to the ground. He clutched at his chest, at his throat, trying to breathe.

Perhaps she should have released the magic.

But the girl was angry. No one had protected her, not like they were supposed to. Her parents had given her into the care of a spymaster and even he couldn’t protect her.

She would have to protect herself.

So she did.

It was the spymaster who found her afterward. She sat beside a corpse, her face almost as pale as the dead man’s. But she did not cry, nor did she protest when the spymaster bundled her in a cloak, murmuring quiet reassurances. She didn’t listen.

It was that day the girl learned that water could save a life—or take it.

It was a lesson she wouldn’t forget.





CHAPTER 1


THE THIRD TIME a customer grabbed her, Mer considered drowning him.

It was an idle thought—the way a gardener might have pruned a weed or a painter covered a smudge. It would be a simple thing; a twitch of her fingers could have drawn the ale from his mouth into his lungs. Everyone would say it was a shame that Rhys had choked on his own tongue.

But someone might realize how strange it was for a man to drown on dry land.

It was that chance that stayed Mer’s hand.

That and killing him would be wrong. On principle.

She yanked her arm free. “Rhys,” she said, her voice icy, “I told you to wait. I’ll have your order in a moment.”

Rhys gazed at her from across the bar. He slouched over his drink, eyes glazed. He had broken blood vessels at the corners of his nose, sunspots flecked along his cheeks, and a mean cunning in his eyes. Mer had known men like him before—dissatisfied with their lot in life, so they snarled at those who had little recourse. “’M been waitin’ for hours,” he said.

“You haven’t finished your last drink yet,” she replied, glancing down. Rhys followed her gaze, squinting at the tankard between his hands.

The Scythe and Boot was always bustling during the evening hours. Many a crop-cutter or traveler would stop by the tavern for a cup of ale and a bit of gossip before ambling home. Mer nimbly carried several drinks to a table of off-duty soldiers, keeping her head down and gaze averted. “Sorry for the wait,” she said quietly.