Into the Hourglass

by King, Emily R.

  “Where is everyone?” Laverick asks.

  “Probably gone home,” Osric says. “Dawn is coming soon. Merrows sleep during the day and come out at night. The king should be waiting up for his daughter.”

  I straighten my pearl crown. Maybe I should have let Osric play the princess.

  A whistling noise sends us all jumping. Suddenly, we’re surrounded. A dozen finfolk riding upon armored sea turtles encircle us and point tridents at our chests.

  Although my experience with the hanged finperson was excruciatingly intimate and repulsive, the corpse was nowhere near as frightening as these robust soldiers. They are positively revolting. Their bony legs and feet are emaciated, the skin transitioning to scales around their thighs. Though they are shaped like humans, their webbed hands and underarms and the spiky fins standing atop their heads are aberrant. Open mouths bearing fangs and flat, dead-looking gazes lock their expressions in perpetual sneers.

  The largest finperson, twice the width of my merrow body, lifts his staff for light; the ball at the top is filled with squirming glowworms. With his strapping chest, gnarled fish face, and razor teeth, he is the most intimidating of the bunch.

  Markham rides with the armed group. A close-fitting bubble surrounds the prince like a second skin floating above his clothed body. The bubble’s exterior is as slimy as a snail’s trail, yet the opaqueness lets outsiders view him clearly. It is almost as though he’s been swallowed by a jellyfish.

  “Princess Nerina,” says the large finperson, his coarse voice small compared to his hulking size, “we’ve come to escort you home. King Dorian will give much to have his beloved firstborn returned to him.”

  Webbed hands lock around me, and rope binds my wrists and tail. They use the line to drag me behind one of the turtles and tie me to its armor. I quell my shaking while Osric and Laverick are also bound and tethered.

  “The princess is less ill-tempered than her reputation implied,” the big finperson says.

  Markham floats over the seafloor to me, sets his feet on the ground, and bends down, staring into my eyes. “She’s just shocked to see us, aren’t you, Princess?” He leans in and says more quietly, “You suit your scaly tail, Evie.”

  I flinch away. “How did you know it’s me? Do the finfolk know?”

  “Tell them who you are, and I will say you’re trying to trick them.” Markham smirks as he takes in my changed form. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you? These tides could never rule your spirit, Everley Donovan.”

  “Don’t waste your flattery on me.”

  “No? Then I must compliment your flaws. Your obstinance and strong will. Nay, your preoccupation with my sword. Truly, your obsession knows no bounds. Reminds me how very alike we are.”

  I growl low in my throat and snap my teeth at him, an instinctual response that comes from my merrow form. Markham chuckles loudly with the finfolk. He wanted me to lash out at him, to perpetuate the lie that I am the temperamental princess.

  “Do you still wish to kill me?” he asks softly.

  “You still deserve to die. I would settle for turning you over to Queen Aislinn so she can burn you on a pyre.”

  Markham grabs my chin and lifts it. I repress a growl, refusing to give him the satisfaction again. “How does it feel to have a heart of flesh and blood? You think of me as a great deceiver, but look at yourself. You stole a merrow’s form.”

  “I borrowed it,” I counter.

  He grips my chin harder and speaks more loudly so his companions can hear. “You, Princess Nerina, are the key to unlocking the past and awaking our future.” His grip on my face lessens as he bends closer to whisper. “I had intended to catch the princess myself, but why do the work when you could do it for me? You should be more careful who you trust.”

  He shoves a huge kelp ball in my mouth, gagging me, and then floats over to Osric. The prince speaks in the first mate’s ear too, more obnoxious gloating, I am sure. Osric snarls at him, and then a finperson gags him and Laverick while Markham mounts his sea turtle.

  Unable to stomach his smirk any longer, I shut my eyes. My heartbeat thunders in my chest, a roar rising to my head. The inner beat of dread grows as our captors take off and drag us by our tails into the merrows’ stronghold.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  My hair flies in my face, disrupting my view of the city. The lampposts stuffed with glowworms brighten the night to day, yet I feel stuck in a never-ending nightmare.

  Our captors parade us through the narrow streets, their ugly heads high and proud. Voices cry out, and the merrows swim in the opposite direction or disappear inside buildings, fleeing from us, or, more specifically, the finfolk. Our captors’ sneers are ugly and wide; they relish the fright of their enemies.

  Muriel deceived us. She’s the only one who could have alerted Markham about our plan to transfer spirits with the merrows, and it was she who recommended that we fish for them off the spit. Did she know Princess Nerina would be there?

  Markham knew where we would be. He never intended to race me to the sword. He needed a bargaining tool against the king, and we gave him the perfect treasure to hold for ransom.

  Our captors halt before the castle gates, and I bounce against the ground again. Two merrow guards swim out to meet us, armed with tridents.

  “We’ve come for King Dorian,” the lead finperson says.

  The high doorways of the castle radiate pale-bluish light, like the color of someone’s lips when they’re cold. Or dead.

  The guards must have been notified that we were coming, because they open the gates without a word, and the finfolk enter the bare castle grounds. An oval of iridescent water swirls over the royal towers like a halo. That must be the undersea portal, the one Dorcha brought us through.

  The finfolk untether Osric, Laverick, and me from the back of the sea turtles and haul us by rope through the main door. We enter directly into the throne room. The bumpy walls are made of coral, and light glows from plankton suspended near the arched ceiling. The finfolk haul us down a center aisle through crowds of onlookers. Word must have spread that we were coming.

  The male merrows are huge, bulky in the chest, their noses lumpy, chins long, and eyebrows bushy. They are twice as intimidating as the merrow females, though both genders growl lowly at the finfolk as we pass. A few also whisper to each other about the prince. Even leagues under the sea, Markham’s reputation precedes him.

  All the patrons of the castle seem to have gathered, including servants kneeling off to the side. From the corner of my eye, I spot Claret among them. Laverick hiccups in surprise. Our friend has a transparent skin around her much like Markham’s, only hers is thinner, like a bubble stretched too far. As we pass her, Claret stares straight ahead and pays us no notice.

  The finfolk dump us on the unlevel ground at the end of the aisle. I gaze upward at the dais high above the floor. Unlike a human throne room, no steps lead up to the royal perch, which is set at least fifteen hands above my head. On the dais, two stone thrones face the rest of the room, and a huge pipe organ covers the wall behind them.

  It is the largest organ I’ve ever seen. Its dozens of pipes are layered from one wall to the next and extend to the ceiling. Oddly, the instrument is covered with daisy designs. Is this a sign of the kingdom’s allegiance to our deities or merely decoration?

  A merrow, thin as a reed through his chest and lean tailed, occupies one of the thrones. His pale skin sags over the sharp angles of his ribs, shoulder blades, cheekbones, and chin. The merrow’s sheer tail fin swishes side to side like a hunting cat’s, and his onyx eyes are empty of feeling. Behind him, between the pipes of the organ, two sets of round yellow eyes glare out at us.

  The finfolk still hold most of the audience’s interest, but King Dorian commits the full force of his attention on Markham.

  “Leave us,” says the king.

  The attendees abruptly swim out, disappearing behind the archways that fringe the room. Claret follows a set of female mer
rows—princesses, judging by their pearl-encrusted tiaras. A handful of guards armed with tridents linger and form a half circle behind us, blocking the way out.

  Once it is quiet, the king speaks again. “Killian, I heard rumor that you had returned to my seas. Captain Redmond was eager to assure me that he had disposed of you. He seems to have overinflated his effectiveness.” The king clutches his armrests, his black-nailed fingers tense. “I suppose you expect my thanks for bringing home my daughter.”

  “Muriel had her, my liege.”

  The king’s voice takes on a purr. “How is the old hag?”

  “You know Muriel. Insatiable as always.”

  “Hmm,” replies King Dorian. “What do you want, Killian?”

  “We’ve come to deliver your daughter . . . for a price.”

  The large finperson grabs me and places a stone dagger to my throat. The merrow guards shuffle in closer behind us. The blade is so close to my skin I dare not move.

  The king taps a finger against his chair. “You require use of my portal?”

  “Now, now, Dorian. Your daughter is worth more to you than that.” Markham sighs theatrically, as though he would be traumatized to see my blood spilled when he would gladly slit every throat here to get what he wants. “I’ve given this considerable thought, and I think you would agree that your heir is worth a substantial amount to you.”

  King Dorian’s eyes burn. “Again, I ask, what do you want, Killian?”

  “Give me the name of Father Time’s helmsman.”

  “I cannot. Father Time entrusted me with the name so I may know who is running the sands of time and, therefore, keeping the pace of our tides. The information was never to be used.”

  I listen intently, confused as to why Markham wants the name of the helmsman. The tale of the infinity sandglass must be true, then, like so many others that humans think are fantasy.

  “Father Time doesn’t care for your happiness or welfare,” replies Markham. “Had he cared, he would have warned you that your wife was ailing and given you more time together. It would be a shame to lose your heir too, especially so close to the passing of your wife.”

  The king snaps his fingers, and two eels shoot out from the organ pipes. The pair bare their fangs and hiss as they circle above their master defensively. In response, the finperson restraining me presses the blade closer to my throat. My gills quiver. In my side vision, Laverick and Osric have gone still.

  “You’re bold to question my allegiances,” King Dorian states coldly.

  “I question your future,” Markham corrects. “What legacy will you leave your daughters? Will you leave them these limited waters or let them rule the unclaimed seas of the Land of the Living? You can give your progeny an opportunity no one has—a future of their own making.”

  The finfolk do not protest this arrangement. Despite what Osric said about Markham promising them rulership over my world’s seas, Markham wants the merrow king and his kind to evacuate, and, in doing so, surrender this world to the finfolk.

  My blood chills as I imagine the chaos the merrows would create in Dorestand. The Skeleton Coast would be cheerful compared to the disruption they would cause in our seaside cities.

  The king stays motionless, his expression inscrutable. He makes a beckoning motion with one hand, and a moment later, a servant swims in carrying the sword of Avelyn nestled in a pillow of seagrass. The sword’s thin blade gleams starlight and its gold hilt shines.

  It takes everything inside me not to leap for my weapon.

  The king takes the sword and holds it out. “Accept the sword of Avelyn in return for my daughter.”

  “I’ve no interest in the blade.” Markham puts on a lethal smile. “I will accept only the name and location of the helmsman.”

  I should feel more shocked, but Markham said the king had something else he wanted. He came all the way to the bottom of the sea and laid this trap so he could gain something more valuable. He wants another ancient relic, and it must be the one the helmsman is responsible for: the infinity sandglass.

  The finperson pushes the blade deeper against my throat, scraping the skin. I tilt my head away to try to avoid it, and the bulbous gag slides into the back of my mouth. Any farther and I will choke.

  King Dorian taps his fingers in time with his swishing tail. “You will give me reign of the waters in your domain?”

  “You have my word, as prince of the Land of Promise, that you may possess the seas of our territory, the Land of the Living.”

  “Your sister will permit this bargain to give away a portion of her territory?”

  Markham’s voice toughens. “I am prince of the elves. My sister will honor my word.”

  “I can only give you the helmsman’s name. I know not his location.”

  “His name will suffice.”

  King Dorian stares at the sword as he answers. “His name is Holden O’Shea.”

  Markham angles sharply toward me. I hear nothing over the quickening booms of my heart.

  Uncle Holden—my uncle—is Father Time’s helmsman?

  The blade lowers from my throat. The finperson ungags me and cuts my bindings. I hover in the water as Osric and Laverick are released as well.

  “My liege, you may claim your new territory after the new moon.” Markham bows, and then, without acknowledging me, he and the finfolk swiftly depart.

  The guards file out to ensure they leave the grounds, and the king sets down my sword, leaning it against his throne with the tip of the blade scraping the floor. His eels go back to hiding in the pipe organs.

  “You have a new pearl necklace, Nerina.”

  It takes me a moment to realize King Dorian is speaking to me. “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir?”

  I rush to correct myself. “Yes, Father. I took back the pearls the sea hag stole from us.”

  “You shouldn’t have risked yourself.” He presses a finger to his temple. “It’s late, Nerina. Go to bed. We’ll discuss your carelessness later.”

  I rip my gaze from my sword and hurry out. Osric and Laverick follow me from the throne room into an empty corridor. The castle has quieted, the other patrons having gone to sleep for the day.

  “I could kill Muriel for what she’s done,” Osric seethes.

  “Why did she betray us?” Laverick asks.

  “Time. Markham must have promised her more time, a painless thing for an immortal to pass around. The transaction costs him nothing.” Osric growls to himself and then quickly regains his decorum. “Everley, get the sword. We’ll find Claret.”

  “Holden O’Shea is my uncle,” I reply in a daze.

  Osric grabs my arms. “Does Killian know where to find your uncle?” I nod, and he lifts his gaze upward. “Mother Madrona, this is worse than I thought.”

  “Father Time said Markham isn’t after a ‘what’ but a ‘who.’ I never guessed . . .”

  Osric shakes me a little to bring me out of my stupor. “We don’t have time to discuss this now. Meet us outside the city, up on the ridge where we were before.”

  “But my uncle—”

  Laverick grips my hand. “Get the sword, Everley.”

  I nod several times to let her words sink in, and the princess’s pearl tiara slips down my forehead. Laverick readjusts it and pulls me in for a swift hug. “We’re almost finished, and then we go home.”

  The promise of an ending, and that ending being home, rekindles my determination. Osric and Laverick go one way, and I return to the throne room for my sword.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The quiet throne room is empty. Hiding behind a pillar near the outer edge, I peer out at the lofty dais and pipe organ. The king has left and appears to have taken my sword with him.

  I cautiously swim up to the dais. The stone thrones are built into the floor, so I search around and behind them. Finding nothing, I investigate the bench in front of the underwater organ. I have never seen a more curious instrument. The organ does not have keys like our pipe organs
back home. Instead, it has tiny finger holes for pressing.

  The eels dart out from two of the pipes, and King Dorian is suddenly behind me.

  “You aren’t Nerina,” he states, his tone smooth. His eels snake around me, preventing me from fleeing. “You may look like my daughter, but you are not her. The body without a spirit is an oyster without a pearl. Yours doesn’t fit right. It is too . . . loud.”

  I force calm into my voice. “But, Father, it’s me, your eldest daughter.”

  King Dorian sits at the organ and begins to play darkly rich treble chords and bass clef downbeats. The song has a sinister tone, like a death march. “If you’re my daughter, then sing.”

  “Sing what?”

  “Sing,” he says more forcefully. “Princess Nerina has a lovely voice, or didn’t Muriel tell you?”

  After the long night I’ve had, I have little patience for games. “My name is Everley Donovan. I’m a human from the Land of the Living.”

  The king pauses, his webbed fingers poised over the finger holes. “Where’s my daughter?”

  “Safe with Muriel. You’ll have Nerina back if you cooperate.” The threat slips out without a thought. He offered my sword to Markham in exchange for his daughter, so he may do the same for me.

  He starts to laugh, his thin shoulders shaking. “You, a human, threaten me?”

  “I’m presenting you with a bargain—the sword in exchange for your daughter. You offered the same to the prince just moments ago. Why did Markham ask for the name of the helmsman?”

  King Dorian begins to play the pipe organ again. “What’s stopping me from locking you in the dungeon until the transference wears off? I know the sea hag helped you switch spirits with Nerina. It’s a common trick Muriel plays. Or didn’t she tell you how she stole those pearls? She switched bodies with a selkie, swam into my wife’s chamber, and swiped them right off her table. When I asked for them back, Muriel insisted she keep them. But there is no cause to worry. The transference will lapse soon, Nerina’s spirit will come home to her body, and you will return to your weak human form.”