The Drowned Woods (8)

A voice rang out. “It is lovely.”

Mer’s heart lurched with fear. She turned so swiftly that she nearly fell over, preparing to rush for the door before someone caught her. But a hand snagged in her dress and she found herself pumping her short legs and getting nowhere, caught like a rabbit in a snare.

She looked up and saw him.

It was the man who’d brought her to the castell, who’d taken her from her family. Renfrew. The prince’s spymaster.

He did not look like a spymaster. He had rather plain features and big ears. But his eyes were sharp and keen as a hawk, and his mouth was upturned in a smile.

“That door was locked, was it not?” he asked.

Mer considered lying, but her mother had told her never to lie. She gave a decisive nod.

“Ah,” said Renfrew thoughtfully, but not as if he spoke to her. “I thought so.” He cleared his throat, and this time he was most definitely speaking to Mer. “You found your way in—but how were you planning to escape?” He released her and Mer stood there, arms at her sides, cheeks flushed with defeat.

“Same door,” she said.

He tsked a few times. “That was your one mistake. Never leave the same way you came in. You should have at least two points of escape.”

Mer looked at him in confusion; she’d expected to be punished for sneaking into the war room. But Renfrew seemed to approve of her boldness. He squatted down before her, so that their eyes were nearly at the same height. “I wanted to see what was in here,” she said, lifting her chin stubbornly.

“Do you know what those maps mean?” he asked. “Or those notes? Can you read?”

She shook her head.

“Do you wish to learn?” he asked.

Mer squirmed, unsure of herself. She didn’t care about the maps or notes—but Renfrew was offering her something. And even if she was too young to understand what his teaching would entail, she had wanted to belong to someone. Her parents had given her up and the prince did not care for her. This spymaster was the only one who had taken notice.

“Yes,” she said.

And that was how Mer’s education had begun.





Water dripped from the bars of the prison wagon.

Mer listened to the rhythm of the soft plunk-plunk. If not for the manacles around her wrists, she could have used that water—forcing it into the planks of the wagon, cracking the wood.

But pure iron rendered her just as helpless as everyone else.

There were many words for what Mer could do.

The nobility called such people diviners. Mer had always scoffed a little at that term; she could do much more than simply divine the presence of water. City men and traders preferred to call people like Mer dowsers. Which was slightly more accurate. She could dowse a person if she wanted to—in both senses of the word.

But then there were those who lived nearest the wilds. Who still kept the old ways and the old tales. When they heard of someone like Mer, they would cast a look in the direction of the eastern mountains.

Other-touched.

Magic was not a human trait. It was other; it was something to be feared and wondered at. Anyone who found themselves with the gift was viewed with equal parts distrust and avarice. It was said that some of the otherfolk walked through human lands and when the mood struck them, they would touch the swollen belly of a pregnant mother—gifting that child with magic. Or perhaps it was simply a bit of luck, a slip of fate that certain people found themselves with the gift.

Mer leaned back against the side of the wagon, trying to keep her breathing steady. They’d be leaving in the morning. Mer had overheard the soldiers. They wanted a good night’s rest, so only one of them stayed behind to guard the wagon. But one was enough. None would be enough, as her talent was negated by the presence of iron against her skin.

She had to get free. She couldn’t let herself be taken back to Prince Garanhir—she hadn’t lied to Renfrew when she said she would rather die.

Mer’s fingernails bit into her palms.

The night was a cold one. Summer was only for the afternoon hours, when the sun would break through the gray clouds. Autumn was damp and cold and hers—but it was beyond her reach.

She tried to call for her power. All she got was a sharp pain through her skull. She winced, glared down at the manacles, and then exhaled hard. It could be worse. The first time she had escaped Garanhir, it had been much worse. Despair had dragged at her every step and she hadn’t slept a single night without dreaming of—

Bodies strewn about a well, soldiers feeding the corpses down into the water.

—all that she’d been responsible for.

There had been days she’d considered not rising from her bed, to just let the exhaustion have her. Let the winds and the rain and the ache in her belly lull her into a dreamless sleep.

In the end, it was not bravery that saved her. It was sheer stubbornness.

People wanted her dead.

And in her contrary heart, that made her want to live.

Grimacing, Mer tugged on the chains again. If she had a piece of metal, she might be able to pick the cuffs—

There was a soft sound outside.

She never would have heard it if she had not been trained to listen. There was a footfall that did not belong to a soldier—there was no telltale clank of armor nor a whisper of chain-mail links rubbing against one another.