Sea Witch Rising

by Sarah Henning

  “There you are,” Will says, appearing in the hall. “Niklas said you seemed ill. Are you all right, Alia? He’s been so worried about you.”

  Alia is gripping my hand so tightly that I can’t even pretend to be affable. “So nice of the king to spare a thought about how Alia is feeling.”

  I expect Will to snap back. To stand up for his friend. His cousin. But instead of flat platitudes, he takes my sister’s hand. “A broken heart is a burden unlike any other.” I’m so shocked my lips drop open—meaningful balm for her pain is the last thing I was expecting from one of Niklas’s cronies. “I’m sorry, Alia. If you’d like, just give me a nod and I will help you to your room. I’ll see to it that dinner is brought to you, too.” He smiles. “I can throw in two slices of that ridiculous cake as well.”

  I wait for Alia to respond. Though I’m the one who made her attend the wedding, somehow after surviving that, this justification suddenly feels okay. She sat and smiled through that broken heart of hers, and the weight of what we must do, and suffering through one final party isn’t necessary. We can retire with this alibi and prepare, completely excused by one of the king’s closest confidants.

  Maybe her illness, the heartbreak that even the bride herself has noticed, coupled with a note from me, the girl who arrived to fetch her home, will be enough that we can leave the palace with no good-bye more than a simple note of thanks. No one thinking twice about us in the chaos that is sure to happen in the minutes and hours after the king is found dead.

  Will and I wait, both our eyes left watching Alia. Allowing it to be her decision alone.

  Alia shakes her head—I’m fine—and takes Will’s arm.

  Alia is strong. Alia loves pageantry. These are the reasons I tell myself that she said yes.

  Not that she believes we will fail. Not that this dance might literally be her last.

  Inside the ballroom, men and women whirl in time, their movements all tightly choreographed. The pieces of modern society depicted in a churning metaphor of hand touches and elbow hooks, curtsies and twirls.

  “Ah, les lanciers,” Will says. “You will be magnificent at this, Alia.”

  Her eyes shift, watching the happy couple twirl by. Sofie is a cloud of ruffles and glistening skin, and the sapphires in Niklas’s crown catch the chandelier light with every twist and step. Again, he’s encrusted with pretty things he’s collected—the sea witch’s red ring on his right hand, more eye-catching than the new slim band of gold on his left; yet another gilded brooch; a pocket watch.

  The dance floor is padded with onlookers several people deep, cups aloft. Summer wine, fleeting as it is, coveted at this final hurrah before autumn. Hvidtøl—white ale, like Father prefers—flows freely to mugs as big as my head.

  Food—so much food. If there’s something that needs mending in our lessons on human culture, it is the fact that food has an unparalleled role. An entire whale filleted and presented on a spit, roasting low and slow until the meat and blubber is falling off the bone, caught before plummeting into the flames below. The last of summer’s fruits, ripe and glittering with sugar and syrup.

  And, in the corner, as Will hinted, is a massive cake, the icing the requisite Havnestad blue, one side of the cake emblazoned with a sugar-made depiction of the Øldenburg coat of arms, and a red-and-white nettle-leaf coat I assume is the coat of Holsten.

  The song ends, and the dancers line up again, switching partners. Niklas’s gaze finds Alia in the crowd. I expect him to call to her. To ask her to perform, even though he knows she’s ill, his pleasure at watching her dance greater than his concern for her physical struggle.

  I’m about to yank her ear to my lips and inform her if she goes to him like his pet, I will end him myself right here. But then Will pipes up again.

  “Alia, if you’d like to try it, I’ll be your partner.”

  Another kindness from this boy.

  Alia glances to the dancers, lining up again. Behind them, the musicians reset. Niklas and Sofie exchange sparkling glasses of summer wine. My sister nods, and Will extends his arm.

  Alia’s arrival on the dance floor is something grand, the revelers parting for her like water around a ship’s bow. All eyes go to her, knowing that they’re about to see something truly special.

  Of course, Niklas notices too, looking up too quickly from his pull of wine. He gulps and sputters, coughing. Sofie jumps back, pressing the ruffles of her dress into the curve of her body, hoping to keep the fabric clear. Someone pats him on his back and a handkerchief is produced. He holds up a hand—I’m okay—while pressing the handkerchief to his mouth with the other. The music starts up again, and he waves off anyone who descends on him, watching the next round of dancing with watering eyes.

  Serves you right.

  There’s an odd number of male suitors, and Sofie is drawn into the fray. She goes without a second glance at her husband, melting into the song.

  Almost immediately, her father takes the bride’s place next to Niklas. The older man leans into the king’s ear. Niklas keeps the handkerchief up to his face but is clearly saying something to the man. Sofie’s father points his chin toward the French doors and the marble balcony. It’s almost imperceptible, but the king nods.

  And then something strange happens.

  They break apart.

  The king going one way, his father-in-law going another.

  I check on Alia and Will—mid-song, and pink-cheeked—and shoulder through the crowd bordering the dance floor. As I pass, I snag a plate of cake from a waiter’s platter, hoping that my movements appear natural. I smile and gesture to the confection as I pick my way across the room. There are a few small round tables pushed up against the wall, and I am able to land my plate on one that looks out the open door to the balcony.

  There, as expected, is the king, leaning against the railing, breeze off the water testing the hold of the pomade in his hair.

  I take a forkful of cake . . . and immediately gag.

  How in the name of Urda can these humans eat something as sweet as this and still have their teeth?

  When the foul bite is safely spit into my napkin, I wrench my eyes back to the balcony.

  Niklas is still there, facing the water. Another man comes to him—not Sofie’s father, but someone dressed as a palace guard. Placing a hand inside his jacket, the guard fishes out an envelope and presses it into the king’s waiting palm. Niklas says nothing to the guard, who, duty done, turns and heads for the ballroom.

  As the song comes to an end, I search the room for Baron Gerhard. He’s right where Niklas left him, clapping politely as the song ends.

  The king comes in, smiling and clapping as if he never left. And, for once, instead of seeing Alia first as he enters the room, he zeroes in on Sofie, all smiles.

  13

  Runa

  THE RECEPTION ROARS UNTIL MIDNIGHT. THE KING and his bride retire, but Alia and I make sure to stay a few minutes longer. The more people who see us here—happy, smiling, and dancing—the better.

  Alia is exhausted when we make it back to the gilded confines of our room. She’s failing now, the fabric of the spell that keeps her in this body fraying at the edges and growing weaker with each moment. I help her into bed, shooing away the maids who have come to help us undress. She needs all the rest she can get.

  Yet, somehow, her fatigue energizes me. I can’t let her fade, the weariness building upon itself until she can do nothing but wait for her bones to dissolve into sea foam. I can’t. And so, though it’s minutes until morning, I stay awake, preparing.

  I summon a maid, asking her to gather parchment, an ink pot, and pen. When she returns with my items, I request that she find another home for the gowns, undergarments, stockings, and slippers that have been gifted to us during our stay. All of this is an alibi—hopefully enough to buy us time before they come looking for us.

  When she leaves, I sit at the vanity.

  Thank you for your kindness, King Niklas.

&nbs
p; I will never forget you.

  Alia of Helsingør

  Our alibi fortified in ink, I test my magic again, standing in front of the long mirror.

  “Blakkr,” I whisper to my reflection.

  Again, the magic, once so forcefully present, streams in from a distant place. Listening, but having to journey to answer the call. I reach for it, begging it to stay close. I’ll need it tonight. Still, the spell does its work, darkening the blue of my gown to the deepest black of the night outside.

  I repeat it, hoping to change my hair. The short cut makes it far more recognizable than I’d like, but the spell won’t change it. I repeat it once more, but still, nothing.

  “Damn witch.”

  My eyes snag on the ink pot on the desk. I dip the pen tip into the pot until ink beads and drips off the point, and then run it in a streak through my hair. A ribbon of black immediately appears, the witch’s magic not immune to the powers of ink.

  Excellent.

  When I’m finished with my hair, I decide to test out my magic on Alia—her hair wasn’t affected by the same stubborn spell as mine. “Blakkr.”

  In less than a minute, her hair is as black as night—and we’re suddenly much less recognizable. Satisfied, I wake her—and she’s not happy about it, eyes blinking open heavily. Alia holds up a single pointer finger.

  One more hour.

  “No. There’s less than five hours until dawn. We can’t wait any longer. I’m sorry.”

  Alia doesn’t protest again, but she’s slow to move. Everything she does is at a reduced speed. The resistance of it all weighs on her movements as I help her swing her legs over and stand. Her eyes catch in the mirror and suddenly her half-closed eyes spring open, starfish wide.

  Her fingers fly to her dress, her face, her hair. She gasps soundlessly, her hands moving furiously as she finds more than enough energy to march over to the mirror.

  She twirls around to better see what I’ve done. Whirling to face me, her hands move again in a flurry of signs.

  I look like I’m playing the sea witch on the stage!

  I nearly laugh. “Okay, you’re right, but if you look like her, then you don’t look like yourself. See? Perfect disguise.”

  Alia grumbles soundlessly, bringing a hand to her hair once again.

  I pull the knife from where I’ve hidden it in my corset and offer it to her. Alia’s eyes fall to the serrated blade, her retort dying on her lips as she extends a hand and takes it.

  “Ready?” I ask her as she weighs the knife in her palm.

  Her eyes meet mine, her hands calm. As I’ll ever be.

  Alia has been to the royal chambers. I can tell by the lack of hesitation in her steps as we slink through the shadows of each corridor, winding our way to a part of the castle where I have not been.

  I don’t ask her why. How. When.

  Whatever the reason, it didn’t result in the love she needs. There’s no point in making things worse with questions.

  The knife hangs heavier in her dress than anticipated; even with her fluid, lithe steps, it creates a hitch in the fabric. It’s hidden, but it is undeniably there.

  We turn a corner, and there’s a guard stationed outside the outer chamber door. The man is awake, a newly shined pistol catching the weak light of a single sconce.

  We don’t need a mouthed order or hand sign between us. I know exactly what needs to be done and do it before she can inquire.

  “Ómegin. Rata,” I whisper.

  Warmed up, my magic feels closer, and the guard immediately falls asleep where he stands, his body thudding softly into the wall behind him.

  We don’t hesitate, rushing past him, careful to close the door gently behind us. Although the spell works to induce sleep, one’s slumber can still be disturbed.

  As in our own home, the king’s chambers are massive and consist of rooms upon rooms—a private library, study, meeting room, parlor. At the end of it all is the bedchamber, doors swung wide. The moon hangs heavily in the sky, its silvery light falling in from a large private balcony that takes up one side of the room, overlooking the same slip of water seen from the marble balcony. The energy of the sea charges the room, salt heavy in the air, and I almost feel that we’re about to enter the witch’s lair—steel-toned and haunted by near-ghosts.

  Alia can feel it too. She takes a single step over the threshold and freezes, her gaze locked on the bed.

  Niklas lies on his back, in a bed piled with furs of great animals that roam the topside earth far from Havnestad. Sofie is next to him, her hair splayed out across the pillow in shards of tawny, unspooling pin curls messy against glorious silk.

  They aren’t touching.

  Not that I’m surprised. It’s hard to put on a good show in the unconscious mind.

  I nudge Alia forward.

  The ring. The knife. The blood.

  She won’t move, so I do, tiptoeing to the vanity, where the king’s crown rests on a pillow, and his other shiny objects sparkle in the moonlight. The red ring is there, awaiting his finger in the morning light. I slip the ring on my thumb.

  Deed done, I turn back to my sister. She hasn’t moved. The knife is in her hand, but she’s still at the foot of the bed, her eyes pinned to the rise and fall of his chest.

  The moon is lower now, and I know we’re that much closer to dawn. We’ve got maybe four hours, but the way she is now, she might stand here all night.

  Her eyes flash to mine, the blue a stormy sea in the silken light.

  I can’t. I won’t. This is wrong.

  All of it plays across her face as she drops the knife and it clatters onto the bare marble. The parchment-thin tip chips off, marring the only thing that can keep our futures intact.

  I scramble for the knife, and though broken, its cool magic seems unaffected. The noise, though—it’s enough that the king stirs in his bed. I look from his fluttering eyes to my sister and dare a whisper. “It’s how it must be.”

  I’m here to save my sister. This is what I must do.

  I get behind her and wrap her in my arms, forcing her hands around the knife hilt. She’s struggling—elbows flying into my ribs, jerking away. Using every ounce of strength, I get us both to the edge of the bed. The king twists ever so slightly, and the sheet drops, exposing his chest.

  It’s now or never.

  I raise the knife above our heads. And whisper one final reminder into her ear. “It’s what you must do.”

  Then I plunge the knife toward his heart. Alia’s hands follow with mine . . . and then they’re not. My hands are left alone on the knife hilt as they break the skin, the blade straight through his heart.

  The boy’s eyes fly open, jolted by the sudden pain.

  We lock eyes, Niklas and I, and . . . the tiniest speck of remorse crumbles loose from my rage, before his eyes close for the last time.

  Alia grabs my arm in that moment, trying to yank the blade free—as if it can be undone.

  Oh, Urda, I wish it could.

  I killed him, not Alia.

  I press Alia forward, trying to shove her feet onto the square of marble where his blood will surely drip any second now. But she finds another wave of fight within her and uses my momentum to wrench us both back. The knife dislodges, more in her hand than mine.

  Alia and I both hit the marble, her full weight landing with a crunch onto my body. My head whips back and bangs off the diamond-hard floor, my vision going blurry as a hot prickle of my own blood trickles somewhere from my scalp.

  My sister scrambles off me, knife in hand—most of the blood sprayed off the knife and onto the marble when she hit. I try to find the words to tell her to wipe the blade on her feet, just in case Urda will accept my sacrifice in place of hers, but my tongue won’t obey my mind. Before me, Alia vacillates between trying to help me up and reaching for Niklas as if she can repair him.

  And then there’s a howling cry.

  Sofie.

  She’s awake and wailing, hands covered in her husband’s
blood, which she wipes furiously on her nightgown. I expect her to dive for us, believing her own life is in jeopardy, and go for the knife.

  But instead she hops from the bed, taking a book from the nightstand as she lunges to get past Alia and to the threshold.

  Alia blocks her, knife out, trying to stop her from leaving, but Sofie shoves Alia away, and they both stumble toward the balcony. Alia falls backward, slapping her wrist on a chair drenched in moonlight. Her fingers fly open, and the knife sails backward.

  Sofie grabs the book again, and rushes past where I lie, broken on the floor, working to get to my feet. As she goes, I can’t tell if the pounding in my head is from the blood leaving my body, her footfalls on the marble, or the press of guards.

  Alia gets back to her feet, rushing to the edge of the balcony, peering over the side. I know by the immediate hang of her shoulders that the knife is gone beneath the waves. Even if the sea witch can retrieve it, our fates are sealed.

  She turns around, eyes taking in Niklas, face up in bed, his blood soaking the sheets and furs.

  I get to my feet, woozy. “They’re coming.” I can’t tell how loud my voice is. It could be a scream; it could be a whisper; it could be no real sound at all.

  Alia grabs my hand. I don’t know where we’ll go, but we can’t be here.

  The footsteps are growing now. Several men running.

  Alia yanks us back out of the bedchamber and into the parlor, over to a bookcase. She pulls hard on a slim volume of dusty green leather, and the whole bookcase moves. At least I think it does—my vision is double now, a starburst of purple blotting out most anything I can see.

  Then we step into the dark and begin to run.

  14

  Evie

  I HANG OVER MY CAULDRON, FINGERS DRILLED TO THE edges, knuckles turning white. Before me, everything’s gone to hell.

  Nik’s ring is on Runa’s thumb, but the girl is wounded, bleeding from the head.

  Beyond her, Alia lunges with her knife in hand at the boy’s bride, who’s screaming her pretty little head off. There’s no sound to my picture, but I can only imagine the entire castle and half of Havnestad are blinking their eyes open to the noise.