Sea Witch Rising

by Sarah Henning

  The knife. It’s chipped. But its magic held—Øldenburg blood still clinging to the blade despite the ocean waters’ relentless churn and pull over the last day and more. Exactly as I’d hoped.

  I turn my back to Anna and clean my cauldron for the most important spell of my life.

  26

  Runa

  I STAY ON THE BEACH LONGER THAN I SHOULD, STARING down the waves and praying to Urda to spare the lives of my remaining sisters. It’s early morning but still dark when I return, sodden.

  I creep in quietly, the ring safely in my pocket, and bed down in the kitchen, away from the fire, away from all their unsleeping eyes. I don’t even change into anything dry—wanting to rest with the comfort of the sea’s embrace, even as the salt scratches at my skin.

  When we rise I let their unanswered questions hang. Let them pile up one by one onto each other like rays of the sun until they’re blinding and only shining on me. But even if they ask again, I’m not sure I will answer. Or how. What happened last night just feels too close, too important to trust someone else with.

  Without a word among us, we gather ’round Katrine’s table for bread and butter served with a pot of steaming tea. Sofie and Agnata glower at me across the long end of the table, frowning into their tea, eyes untrusting. Will sits closer, but there’s still a distance between us, as if he’s put up the shield spell he’s recently mastered.

  Katrine silently refills my tea, Tandsmør snaking around her ankles.

  Though it’s daylight now, the night’s fire is still going, and even the shutters are pulled back. The rain has returned, slanting down in an utter pour, surely flooding the unpaved country roads. No one is likely to be out in this weather looking for us.

  I would thank Urda for this, but I have doubts that this weather is her doing. Ever since the night Niklas died, each storm has been stranger than the last, the clouds coming from the Øresund Strait, a weather pattern moving in the opposite direction of what is typical for this time of year. I’ve tried to ignore it, but today’s angry gale has Father’s fingerprints all over it. I want to believe it’s his sadness or his grief, but more likely, it’s part of the plan my sisters relayed. The first step is testing his ability to call upon the weather to do his bidding.

  The sea gives life in the Kingdom of Havnestad as easily as it can steal it away. When Father wages war here, it won’t be with soldiers, bombs, or shotguns. No, he’ll use the fury of the sea first. Turning everyday life on its head, making his opponent weak while using his strengths.

  I have to tell the coven. They have to know Father’s plans so they can prepare. So we can prepare. It’s my duty. My fault. My responsibility to help. And once I do, I must try my best to go home and stop Father from coming at all.

  Another impossible task. My sisters’ optimism, so reassuring last night, is beginning to wane inside me, but I need to hold tight to what’s left. Niklas’s ring sits heavily in the pocket of my ruined dress, right next to the remaining twenty or so ríkifjor seeds I removed from Alia’s garden. Somewhere in this house is Sofie’s nightgown from her wedding night, and unlike my feet, it was splattered in Niklas’s blood. It’s dried now, but if I’m able to draw the liquid out and onto my toes before dawn, along with the right spell, I might be able to regain my tail fin and stave off a war. Yet this task and any preparations for Father’s surge must wait. We have a mission to complete. It’s the one thing we can control.

  After the plates are put away and the mugs of tea cold, Will’s eyes find mine. It’s time to begin. I stand and he follows. The girls stay put, pretending to ignore me. Katrine tamps down the fire. The rain has finally calmed—perhaps Father is tired—and the sun is peeking through the clouds. The smoke will make us too conspicuous.

  “We have approximately twenty-four hours,” I say as a start, though no one really needs a reminder. “Let’s finalize our plan and run through it.”

  “Who put you in charge?” Sofie’s eyes flash though the rest of her is still, hunched back in her chair, her knees pulled to her chest.

  “Yeah, who?” Agnata parrots, as expected.

  “Lest you forget, it was Runa’s idea to expand our mission and destroy not just the U-boats but the whole operation,” Will says, from over by the rocking chair. He pulls a roll of paper out from behind it and returns to the table, eyes pinned on his cousin. “There’s no time to be petty about this, so let’s start.”

  “It’s not pettiness, it’s about trust,” Sofie spits, not looking his way, only at me. “I want my ring back.” Her voice catches on the last syllable. Tears spark in a rush in her green eyes, and she lets them come as her words strike out, each one cutting. “You gave it to me like it was the least you could do, and then you stole it away like it was never mine. What is there to trust about that?” Her eyes narrow. “What do you need it for, Runa? What? So you can wear it around like some sick memento of the life you took?”

  She wants to hurt me, but there’s nothing she can say that I don’t already feel. Her dagger stabs a wound that will never heal. I’m a murderer. Despite my intentions to save my sister, a man died. Good, bad, I don’t know. I don’t deny it. But she can’t have the ring. It could save more lives than she will ever know.

  “I need it for a spell,” I say finally, so we can move on. We don’t have time for this.

  “What spell?” Sofie pushes.

  “She answered your question, Sofie. Drop it,” Will snaps, a vein I’ve never seen flickering down the middle of his forehead. He frowns it away, rolling the scroll of paper across the table—a map of the kingdom’s port city.

  “I will not.” She sniffs like the komtesse she is, or at least was until suspicion fell at her feet.

  “Sofie, the second those boats go up in a fireball, I will gladly buy you any damn ring you please. Now, let’s focus,” Will says calmly, more himself, but still with an air of authority that commands both respect and action. Determination solidifies in his eyes as he pins them on her handmaiden. “Agnata, where is the sale going to take place?”

  Agnata glances at Sofie, who nods her okay. “A warehouse where they are fabricating and sheltering the boats.”

  Will nods and glances my way. “They must assume the spies who infiltrated the castle are also looking for the U-boats.”

  “They’re not wrong,” I deadpan. That earns me a smirk from Will.

  “No, they’re not,” he agrees. “Agnata, the warehouse is located here, correct?” He points to a spot on the map not far from the docks.

  Pencil in hand, Will circles the warehouse. It sits fat and heavy on a dead-end street shaped like a mushroom. Katrine draws a finger around the wide portion, telling us that her oma had a house on that street long ago. There’d been three cottages there, all bulldozed in the name of industrial progress under the reign of Niklas’s father, who had the same name as his son and his father but had been colloquially referred to as King Bryn.

  “What are the entrances and exits of this warehouse like? Is there more than one? Will they be guarded? What can we expect?” I ask, looking from the map to Agnata.

  Her face is blank and unsure as she tugs at the ends of last night’s braid.

  Will is drawing in a breath to ask the question in his own way when Sofie cuts him off with the first truly helpful thing she’s had to say all morning.

  “I toured the warehouse with Father—it’s where they housed the prototype for him to inspect when we confirmed our engagement.”

  Oh—oh.

  Will shuffles the map on the table, pulling out a notebook, from which he rips a blank page. “Do you think you can draw it?”

  Sofie takes the pencil, tentative. Then the paper. “Yes.”

  As she draws, Will turns his attention back to the map and dots a meandering course from the building through the streets, picking the ones with the fewest shops before winding his way up to Lille Bjerg Pass.

  “What about a water route?” I lean in and cut a course with my index finger from ou
r likely position, through the Øresund Strait and up to the beach just beyond the public one. “The mines are an obstacle, yes, but with the right magic, we might be able to navigate them and hit land while saving time and without being spotted overland.”

  Will’s eyes light up. “Oh, how the world opens up when a mermaid teaches you the right spells.”

  Sofie rolls her eyes. “Will, stop flattering her. Her head’s already big enough to float a zeppelin after teaching us how to burst into flames.”

  A flush climbs Will’s cheeks. He still hasn’t shaved, and the combination is striking enough that I really need to stop looking.

  We work until what’s left of the sun begins to settle again, the light shifting from slate to smoke. The rain returns, pattering against the windows, not as harsh as before, but still there. Maybe this time Father’s grown hungry, letting the magic cease long enough for a few bites of shark fin and a pull of hvidtøl from his secret stash.

  As much as I fear what he may do, I don’t let myself think that the weather’s change is a sign that he’s growing weak, his ríkifjor serum rationed. Because of me. Will’s words from the night before snake through my mind.

  There’s nothing quite as dangerous as a child who thinks he knows better than his parents and acts on those instincts.

  No, there’s not.

  Sofie and Agnata declare they need some air, braving the rain in hoods Katrine fetches them. Once they’re gone, Katrine turns to her supper tasks in the kitchen, asking Will as she chops potatoes for yet another stew—labskovs—to fetch and dry more kindling for the fire.

  As they both get to work, I have my chance. I lock eyes with Katrine so she knows where I’ll be and then retire to her bedroom, The Spliid Grimoire tucked under my arm. I set the book on the bed—one piece of the puzzle at hand. Next, I tiptoe to the wall perpendicular to the door, where three trunks sit, stuffed to the gills with clothing of various types. Katrine has been collecting for safe-house life for some time now.

  In the corner, wedged at the end of the row of trunks, is a basket containing our laundry. I kneel and begin to rummage through it, carefully piling dresses, trousers, and socks on the floor.

  Finally, at the bottom, is Sofie’s nightgown.

  It’s cut lace and new—meant to be white as snow. And it would be, save for the gaping red-black smudge of Niklas’s blood down the front.

  “Blood magic?” I startle, and there’s Katrine at the doorway, watching as I hold the nightgown up to the light. “Will it work to get you home?”

  “Yes. I think.”

  Katrine nods, and when she moves to return to her stew, Will is standing there. Staring at me, at the bloody dress in my hands, now clutched to my chest as if it’s the most precious thing in all the world.

  And maybe it is.

  “Will, let’s leave Runa be,” Katrine calls. “Come help me refresh the fire.”

  “It’s all right, Katrine,” I say. Then, to him, “Please stay.”

  “You’ve found a way,” he says once she’s shut the door behind her. It isn’t a question. His nose does its handsome little scrunch for a moment before he lifts his eyes to mine. “I knew you could do it. Literally anything, including repairing a broken spell.” He grimace-smiles and continues. “I knew it, and yet I still had this little glimmer of hope that you would be there with us tomorrow. That you’d see through the plan you made happen.”

  I weave my fingers through his, and it shocks me though his skin is so much more familiar than it was yesterday. His hands are stained from wet wood bark and octopus ink.

  “Will, I want to help. You know I do. You also know I want to try to go home. But things have changed, and now I need to be there.”

  “We need you too.” He cups a knuckle under my chin, tilting my face up to his.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, seeking just the right words to explain without saying too much. “And I need to protect you.”

  Will hesitates. “Protect me from what, Runa?”

  I open my eyes, and he’s looking right at me, trying to read the thoughts flashing behind my features. Searching for answers as directly as I search for what I can say.

  No. He deserves to know. I’ve kept it from him, from everyone all day; though I didn’t want to disrupt our plans, the timing may never be right before dawn.

  “Will, I need you to sit down.” I pull him across the room and dump him in the rocking chair.

  He sits accordingly, watching me, waiting—the listener that he is.

  My legs itch to move, and I begin to pace between the laundry basket and the bed.

  “Remember when you guessed that I knew a thing or two about royalty?”

  He nods.

  “Well . . .” I squeeze my eyes shut again and stop pacing for a moment—walking blind is not yet in my skill set. “My father is called the sea king. He presides over every mermaid and merman, and he has for more than a hundred years.”

  My eyes flash open, and Will nods, face still locked up tight without reaction. Good.

  “As you can imagine, he’s very angry about what happened to Alia. He’s angry that she left our world for this one, using magic banned long ago. He’s angry that I went after her. He’s angry that we failed to save her from the consequences of the magic. And he’s even more unhappy that if I don’t change back by dawn tomorrow, I’ll be a human forever.”

  “Why is he unhappy about that? He should be pleased that you won’t . . . return like Alia,” he says, by way of being respectful. I suppose she did return; all water goes to the sea eventually.

  “He’s very happy I’m alive, I’m sure. He’d rather not have a dead daughter. But he’s also very upset that it’s me in particular who is staying here.” I meet his eyes. “Because I’m the only one who can give him what he needs.”

  Will steadies his elbows on his knees and looks up at me, face and voice calm. “And what does he need?”

  I take a deep breath. “Power.”

  “Power? And you can give that to him?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  My answer works across his face and the roll of his broad shoulders. “And the alternative is why I need protection.”

  “Yes. You, Katrine, Sofie, Agnata, and any other witch to be had will be in danger if I don’t go back.”

  “Not power then, magic? He needs magic.”

  “Yes. And unless I can help him in my way, he’ll do anything to get it. I have to stop him, Will.”

  He nods, understanding. He gets to his feet, and in one step he’s right in front of me, smelling of the earth and wood and fresh cotton. I let him draw me in, his hands cupping my elbows, as I place my palms on his chest. The nightgown hangs off my arm between our bodies, a reminder.

  He looks deep into my eyes and again presses a finger under my chin, tipping it up. “You’ll stop him. I know you will.”

  I kiss him on the cheek. He still hasn’t shaved, but I like that he’s rough with stubble—the burn on my lips will last longer, the memory forming as clear as the scratch I feel at this moment.

  27

  Runa

  AFTER SUPPER, IT’S IMMEDIATELY OBVIOUS THAT nerves are setting in.

  A copy of Frau Jenny Treibel untouched in her lap, Sofie stares into the fire like she’s watching the day unfold within the dancing shadows and flashes of light. She’d been carrying books around the castle to pass notes to the team, but it turns out she likes to read in her spare moments. Now, the orange tabby snores softly against her feet as the book goes unread. Predictably, Agnata is by her side, trying very much to do the same thing, but she’s restless—legs crossing and uncrossing, and crossing again.

  Katrine is cleaning, scrubbing, straightening. As if we won’t return to this place and she can’t stand the idea of it being a mess when the inspectors arrive to arrest her.

  And Will, he’s in the rocking chair, eyes closed, running through the plan, the blocking, the sequence, over and over. His lips move, but he makes no sound. His hands flash
up occasionally in little movements as he runs through his spells—sleep, shield, wildfire.

  I’m bent next to a low-burning candle, paging through The Spliid Grimoire. This book’s power is undeniable. It’s a solid collection, rife with information in a scribe’s never-ending looping scrawl—it’s very easy to see why it was the one Katrine picked right away.

  Still, I’ve yet to find an overt spell that will help me go home, but my hair stands on end when I find a passage where my plight is described, nice and tidy, the balance laid plain.

  The sea is forever defined by its tide, give and take the measure of its barter. In magic, as in life, the sea does not give its subjects lightly—payment is required, the value equivalent, no matter the ask. A shell, a fish, a pearl of the greatest brilliance—none can be taken without debt to be paid.

  The directness of it all makes me grin, but the magic behind it is so much more complex. Eydis would say that my sacrifice of the king should be payment enough, but I know it’s not, no matter how much I want to believe it is. Niklas was to be Alia’s payment, his blood only useful to either of us if she completed her end of the bargain.

  Still, Urda is a fickle witch, and a sacrifice was made. Perhaps she can be convinced. She must be. I have no choice. After all, intent should matter. My deed was for Alia, to absolve Alia. I took her burden onto me. Now I just need the magic to see this and accept the exchange.

  I page through the grimoire for what feels like the hundredth time, searching for something, anything that would transfer her debt. And then the answer is so clear. It’s a transaction like any other.

  I have to buy Alia’s debt. Skipta. Exchange. The most basic of spells.

  A devastating realization punches me hard in the gut. If only I had thought of this before, Alia might still be alive. The transfer now won’t bring her back no matter what, but it may help me. If I assume her obligation, I will have fulfilled her deal, having murdered Niklas, rendering his blood usable again. I can only hope what I have to offer will be enough to cover the price of such an unfathomable deficit. In my pocket, my fingers grip a handful of ríkifjor. Seeds that blossom with magic—magic my father has been hoarding. Alia was trying to stop him. It’s time Urda is repaid.