The Drowned Woods

by Emily Lloyd-Jones

Genres: YA Dark Fantasy; Science Fiction Fantasy; Science Fiction

Synopsis

Finalist for the 2023 AUDIE AWARDS® for Young Adult

The right cause can topple a kingdom . . .

Once upon a time, the kingdoms of Wales were rife with magic and conflict - and eighteen-year-old Mererid 'Mer' is well-acquainted with both. As the last living water diviner, she can manipulate water with magic - a unique elemental power many would kill to possess.

For years, Mer has been running from the prince who bound her into his service - and forced her to kill thousands with her magic. Now, all Mer truly wants is a safe, quiet life, far from power and politics.

But then Mer's old handler - the king's spymaster - returns with a proposition: use her powers to bring down the very prince that abused them both.

Part heist novel, part dark fairy tale, and rich with Welsh legends, The Drowned Woods is an ethereal fantasy, perfect for fans of Kristin Cashore and Maria V. Snyder.

(P) 2022 Hachette Audio

Release date: August 16, 2022

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 352

Sample

THE FARMER HAD four ordinary children, which was why the magic of the fifth came as a surprise.

The daughter was born with hair too dark to be golden but too light to be brown. She was a clear-eyed little thing who sat quietly in her mam’s arms. That night, the farmer brought the child outside. Omen-seeking was unpredictable and the results often vague—putting snails beneath a basin in hopes the trails of slime would spell out a beloved’s name; grass taken from beneath holly trees; knotted yarn trailing from windows to see what might be caught.

There were more certain ways to test for magic, but the farmer could not afford a hedgewitch.

It was said that in the cities magic had been tamped out. The tylwyth teg had been banished by iron on every street corner, by roads made of rock instead of packed earth, and by the sheer prevalence of humans. But in the wild country, the expanse of rolling hills and old forests seemed to invite the unexpected. Parents brought their babes out to meet the night—and see what awaited them. The farmer had heard tales of a neighboring village where a newborn had been visited by a flock of ravens. That lad had grown up to sow such death upon the battlefield that several princes sought his services—until a poisoner slipped something into the lad’s cup of ale.

The farmer waited with his newborn daughter, but there were no flocks of birds nor strange colors in the sunset. He was about to take the babe indoors when a friendly call stopped him. A weaver from the village had come to deliver a gift of a blanket for the new babe. She cooed over the small child, and in those moments before the farmer could ask her inside, rain began to fall.

It was the thick, misty rains that often sank upon the lands. The farmer raised his arm to shield his daughter, but then he realized there was no need.

The rain did not touch him. It fell—and then seemed to hit some invisible roof, sloughing away without splashing upon him or the babe. The weaver, who stood an arm’s length away, was flecked with rainwater. Her gaze fell on the babe and she drew in a sharp breath. “Take her inside,” she told the farmer, her voice low. “Take her inside and do not tell anyone.”

The farmer was startled. “What?”

“If the prince finds out what she is,” said the weaver, her face drawn tight, “he will want her.”

“Why?” asked the farmer.

The weaver shook her head. “Do not let her swim. Keep her away from rivers and creeks.”

The farmer was frightened by the weaver’s sharp words, so he agreed. He never spoke of the encounter with the weaver, instead treating the babe as if nothing had happened.

And for a time, all was well.

At first glance, the farmer’s fifth daughter looked an ordinary child: She played with her siblings, helped herd the chickens into the barn, threw clods of dirt at passing foxes, and chatted with those who came to buy crops from her father. The farmer could not afford to keep a strong child indoors and unseen—he had need of another pair of hands.

But as time wore on, it became clear why the weaver had been so troubled.

Rain never touched the girl. She could stand in a thunderstorm and remain utterly dry. She found small streams in the woods, tracing them to their sources with as little thought as finding her way home. She charmed her siblings with dancing mud puddles. She froze small pools of water so that they could slide across the ice. She played in creeks, directing the ebb and flow of the water to her whims. When the summer became overlong, she brought water up through the soil to the dry crops. Her father tried to stop her, told her that such magics were dangerous, but the girl reveled in her power.

She was a headstrong girl whose fingers were gentle when taking eggs from beneath the warm hens—but if she saw cruelty, her temper flared to life. When she found a handful of older children kicking a stray dog, she picked up a stick and tried to drive them off. They laughed and tossed her to the ground, and she committed their faces to memory. For a month afterward, the dirt outside of their front doors was churning, sucking mud that stained their boots.

And when she was eight years old, she saved a child.

The winter rains had lashed the lands for weeks on end, leaving the river a churning, muddied mess. The child was little more than a babe, toddling too far out of his mother’s grip. He slipped on the mud, slid into greedy waters that pulled him away too quickly for his parents to save him. The boy was yanked downstream, too frightened to utter a cry.

It was the farmer’s daughter who heard the shouting of the parents. She ran barefoot to the river. She felt the raw power of the seething water up through the soles of her feet as she raced toward the overrun banks. Ignoring the warnings of the other villagers, the girl stepped into the river. The froth and foam calmed around her, going unnaturally still. The girl hastened to the boy, pulling him into her arms. She was barely old enough to carry him to safety, but she did it. And the moment her feet left the river, it returned to rushing and pushing at its banks.

The boy’s parents were grateful and thanked her again and again, but those who had seen began to whisper among themselves.

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.

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.

“Think nothing of it, lass.” The one who spoke was a woman; she had the calloused hands of someone who’d spent years holding a sword. “You look as though you could use a cup yourself.”

Mer wiped the sweat from her brow with a forearm, then touched her fingers to her hair to make sure it was still in place. She kept her hair long, carefully arranged so that it covered the corner of her left eye.

The air was thick with steam and the scent of lamb cawl. It was served in chipped bowls, most of them scavenged from abandoned homes. More and more of those who lived near the borders of Gwaelod were fleeing, leaving behind that which they could not carry. More for us, Carys had once said. She was a sturdy woman with thick forearms and hair cropped short. No one quite knew how she had managed to take ownership of the tavern, but none dared question her.

Mer had arrived three months ago with only a few coins in her purse and blisters on her heel. She came to the Scythe and Boot looking to rent one of the upstairs rooms for a night. She’d stayed for three before Carys asked her if she had naught elsewhere to go—and when Mer couldn’t answer, Carys pushed two full tankards of ale into Mer’s hands and said, “Table in the far right corner.”

Mer had stayed. She served drinks and swept floors. Her pay wasn’t much, but she was given an upstairs room as compensation. The Scythe and Boot had once been a barn, and the rough wooden walls were still studded with metal hooks for tack and hinges where stall doors had penned in animals. The place smelled of damp hay, and when the wind howled in from the west, the building made odd whistling sounds. But Mer liked it. The tavern felt like the closest thing she’d had to a home in years.

Or it would have felt like a home, if not for the drunkards.

Rhys reached for her a fourth time and Mer ducked out of his grasp, resisting the urge to seize his wrist and bend it back.

“All right, all right,” she said, taking his tankard and carrying it to one of the full casks. She refilled it, then slid it back to him.

Rhys gave her a watery glare. “’Bout time. You’re paid to serve this swill.”

“Don’t let Carys hear you say that,” said Mer. She grabbed an old cloth rag and began wiping down the bar, her gaze sweeping across the tavern. There were the soldiers, a group of merchants, and two men dicing in the far corner. Everyone had food and drinks, and they looked content. She had a moment to catch her breath.

Mer walked into the kitchens. At once, the smell of fat on the griddle made her stomach ache with hunger. A young man stood in the small kitchen, sleeves rolled up around his elbows and dark hair gone curly in the steam. Elgar was quiet and kept to himself, but he could throw together a meal out of nothing but a handful of flour and leftover vegetables.

“What are you making?” Mer said, setting her tray down.

“Leek and oat cakes,” said Elgar. He picked up a bowl, full of batter, and began to pour dollops onto the hot griddle stone. “You think they’ll sell?”

“I think we’ll have customers starting fights over them,” she said.

Elgar threw her a shy smile over his shoulder.

“Shall I bring them out now?” asked Mer.

Elgar nodded. “They’re best warm. Oh, and I left you a plate on the table—over there. A few of the cakes, and some of the lamb bones I used for the cawl. I thought you might want them.”

“You think I like to gnaw bones?” asked Mer, leaning against the counter.

“I saw you feeding that dog near Hedd’s farm,” said Elgar, flushing.

It was true—she had been bringing scraps to an old sheepdog that lived in the barn nearby. The family that used to live there had been taken by illness, and no one seemed to remember the sweet sheepdog. Mer had seen the hound wandering the fields, and the next time she had taken a walk, Mer brought scraps of meat too gristly for the stew. The dog would only take the food if Mer put it on the ground and backed away. Since then, Mer had visited every day to bring more. Every time, the dog had become a little friendlier, and Mer hoped that soon the sheepdog might allow her close.

Mer liked animals. There was a simplicity to them, an innocence she never found in people.

“Why not take the hound for yourself?” asked Elgar. “No one would mind. Even Carys would agree, although she’d probably spend a good fortnight blustering on about it.”

Mer let out a breath. “I—I am not suited to take care of a dog.”

“You are taking care of her,” said Elgar, pointing a wooden spoon at her.

“Not forever,” said Mer. “Just until…” She had to run again. “… someone else takes a liking to her.”

Elgar shrugged. This was something she liked about him: He didn’t ask too many questions. Maybe because he was afraid of people prying into his own life.

Mer carried a tray of the fresh oat cakes into the dining room. At once, a few of the regulars turned their heads toward the smell of warm food. She walked to one of the tables, prepared to tell the customers the cost and how delicious the cakes would be—

The tavern door opened. Mer felt it, even if she couldn’t hear the creak of old hinges above the din of chatter. There was a gust of cold air that carried the scents of mist and rain. Mer put the tray down as she glanced up to see where the newcomer would sit.

Her heart gave a horrible lurch.

The man who stood in the doorway had dark blond hair fading to a pale gray. His ears were too large and his mouth was all in his lower lip. Even so, he had a sharp focus and confidence that drew people to him. He wasn’t handsome but he didn’t need to be.

It was a face she had not seen in four years.

Renfrew.

Keeping her gaze averted, Mer murmured to the table, “Enjoy the cakes, compliments of the Scythe and Boot.” She set the oat cakes down, and before any of them could comment, she turned so that her back was to the door and hastily made for the stairs. The hayloft had been divided into rooms for rent. She kept a key tied to her wrist and she used it to unlock her door, peering inside.

Her room was empty. No soldiers awaited her. Shoulders sagging with relief, Mer stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

It was a simple room: an old bed frame with a straw mattress suspended on ropes, a single candle, and a sack with the rest of her belongings. She had never unpacked it; unpacking was a luxury Mer could not afford. She swung her pack over one shoulder.

She couldn’t go back downstairs—she would have to leave through the window. She took a steadying breath. Outside was a rain-slick roof and a cloud-heavy sky. The drop from the roof to the ground would be a steep one, but she could make it. The windows weren’t glass—merely a wooden panel that could be opened on sunny days.

Mer unlatched the window and began to push it open.

But it wouldn’t budge.

Mer rammed her shoulder against the wood. It hurt, but the window still wouldn’t open. As if it had been jammed shut from the outside. Which meant—

A clicking sound came from the door behind her. She whirled, heart hammering against her ribs. Renfrew had planned this. He had known she would try to flee out a window, so he must have scaled the roof and jammed every single window shut before he allowed himself to be seen. It was the methodical attention to detail that made the old spymaster so good at his work.

And she’d played right into his hands.

The door swung open and Renfrew stood there, a lockpick’s wrench between his fingers.

“I thought I taught you better than this,” he said, gently chiding. “Always have at least two methods of escape.”

Before he had finished the sentence, Mer’s hand was at the back of her belt. Her fingers found the hilt of a knife—she’d spent months training with them, learning the heft and balance of the steel. She threw it as hard as she could.

The blade sank into the wood of the doorway, only a finger’s width from one of Renfrew’s ears. He did not so much as flinch. He reached over and began to pry the knife free. “You missed.”

Mer didn’t bother to reply. She hadn’t meant for the knife to hit him. A distraction, nothing more.

His heavy leather boots had been doused with rainwater. Her hand reached out—and in the same moment, she closed her eyes and called to her power.

To divine a thing, one must find it within themselves. She remembered those words from an old book in the prince’s library. It was not just rhetoric. To control water, a diviner needed to pull from that ocean within themselves. If she used too much of her magic, it left her parched and with a throbbing headache. All divining had a price, and she’d heard of how others had suffered—metal diviners weak from little iron in their blood; fire diviners chilled to the bone; wind diviners who died for lack of breath.

At least water was simple to replenish. All she had to do was drink it.

She froze Renfrew’s boots to the floor. He tried to lift one of his feet but couldn’t.

“I thought I taught you better,” Mer said coldly. “If you wish to confront me, you’d best dry your boots first.”

She reached down, picking up her pack. She didn’t have much—firesteel, a knife, a few clothes, a water flask, and coin. That was all a person needed, and the rest could be bought or stolen. She would smash her window open.

“Mer,” said Renfrew, and then he did something that made her go still. He laughed. A warm chuckle, the kind that came up through the belly and could not be forced. “I have missed you.”

Gazing into Renfrew’s face made her feel like a child again: torn between a simmering resentment and a yearning for approval. He was the only father she’d known since she was eight. And despite herself, she felt that old tether behind her ribs, a tug of memory that made her want to soften toward him. But she couldn’t afford that. Not if she wanted to keep her freedom.

“I’m not going back,” she told him, even as her heart pounded. Saying the words was a risk; part of her wanted to pretend that Renfrew’s arrival didn’t mean what she knew it did. “I’ll die before I go back to the prince’s service.”

“Will you kill me?” asked Renfrew idly.

Mer hesitated only a moment. “No. But I will hold you in place while I run.”

Renfrew exhaled. “Look at me properly before you make any hasty decisions.”

It felt like a trick, but Mer’s gaze swept over the man. He wore tattered clothing, but that was no surprise. He could not wear his spymaster finery in this small town, not if he wished to go unseen.

And that’s when she saw the missing finger. It was his left index finger, the foremost upon his dominant hand. It had always been the finger that had borne the heavy signet ring, the one that marked him as belonging to Prince Garanhir. The prince’s father had paid a hefty sum to a metal diviner to have his rings welded to the fingers of his inner circle. The only way to remove it would be to—

Remove the finger.

It made her breath catch. That finger had been cut off and cauterized recently—within the last year, at the earliest. Mer knew how slowly burn scars healed.

“You see,” said Renfrew, voice still soft, “you are not the only person who has cut ties.”

It could not be true. Renfrew had served the royals of Gwaelod all his life. He had been shadow and knife, poison and steel. He would be sent into the field by the prince, only to return with bruised knuckles and dark hollows beneath his eyes. Entire wars had been averted because the right throat had been cut or the correct sheaf of parchment stolen.

There were those who said that Renfrew did not have a heart. That only someone who did not care could commit such atrocities. The truth was simpler and more frightening: He did such things because he cared.

A person with a knife was one thing. A person with a knife and a cause could topple kingdoms.

“You’re lying to me,” she said.

Renfrew shook his head. “I have never lied to you.”

And that was true. There were times when Mer had wished he would lie, to smooth over the harsher edges of their lives. But that did not mean he told her everything. “If you’re telling the truth,” Mer said, “then tell me this. Did you know?” The words came out low and harsh.

Renfrew tilted his head in silent question.

“What the prince was using my power for,” Mer said, unable to keep the throb of hurt from her voice. “When I was sent into the field. Did you know?”

There was a long pause. Renfrew suddenly looked ten years older. “No,” he said. “I did not know.”

All the a. . .