Sea Witch Rising

by Sarah Henning

  He sneers in my direction, where I clutch his failing mother to my chest. “Fifty years later, and you still don’t know your boundaries, do you, girl?”

  The sea king’s eyes flick to his mother. “Not that I should be surprised: more than two hundred years old, and she never learned her boundaries either.” He raises a hand.

  “No!” I scream, and try to cover Ragn, turning her pale face into my chest.

  “Ykkarr dau∂adar, mó∂ir—mor∂vig!” The spell blasts out of him with the force of a meteor on impact, engulfing Ragn in a haze as dark as a starless night.

  Around us, the new merpeople swirl, spinning in a ghastly churn, sharks smelling new blood. The sea king’s eyes are pinned on the shadowy mass.

  Love and pain for her oma Ragn is etched plainly in the sadness of Alia’s eyes. Her hands flutter out, as if trying to stop what’s already been done. Sadness envelops Anna too. She was once close with Ragn, but behind the grief in her eyes, I know that fear is brewing. If the sea king will do that to his own mother, what will he do to her?

  When the darkness fades, Ragn’s body appears encased in ash, fragile as an eggshell. Gone are her fierce eyes and wild hair. Her heartbeat is silent against my own.

  “I didn’t need my mother,” the sea king says, as if he really was born the god of the sea. “She’s been a traitor to me as long as the sea witch has been in this place.” His lips quirk up with righteousness. “Oh, I know about your little notes, Evie. Your visits. How she admired you for what you did to protect us—her words, never mine.”

  He tosses around what I did with sweeping hands. “Repair the plague you created. Kill Annemette when she threatened to take us down with the young prince. But it was never about us; it was always about you, and it was wrongheaded for Mother to think otherwise, let alone admire you for it.” His teeth flash in disgust. “Still, I kept her around because every little note and visit got me closer to the root of your magic.”

  Magic—his voice lowers in disgust as he says the word. But it’s tinged with something else: jealousy. His fingers trail along the rim of my cauldron, the potion all but finished.

  He doesn’t know what it is. He can’t. But there’s a sharp tilt to his shoulders, and I see it happen before he completes the movement—my cauldron toppled over, the most important spell I’ve created in fifty years spilling, golden and promising into the dead water of my cove.

  My last chance, diluted. Gone.

  My life is the next to go.

  “I needed you to bring Runa back—surely you know that was the only reason you survived this long.” Yes. I know. “But now, there is no return for her. So, you must take her place. Grow me ríkifjor and spare your life.”

  “No.”

  “No hesitation?” He nearly laughs, mirth flashing in the blue depths of his eyes. “Has your life been so horrible here? Do you miss home that much that you’d gamble with Urda’s graces on the afterlife to see all those you’ve left in your wake? Your mother, dead because of you. Your father, dead because of you. Your aunt, your Øldenburg loves, suffering under the weight of that day until they left this earth.”

  Gently, I place Ragn’s body in the sand, laying her down for a final rest until I can properly bury her, do my best to honor her as she deserves. Then, I square my shoulders and reveal myself to him fully, defiantly. Every inch of my years, my power, my penance, stated in the tip of my chin and the smooth presence of my tentacles, black, shining, regal.

  “Me?” I spit. “You would question me? The man who just murdered his own mother?”

  This seems to take his shoulders down a tick. I smile, gaining steam. “The man who feels so betrayed by the two humans he saved that he’s willing to risk literally his entire species and the lives of thousands of humans to satisfy his own greed?”

  He seems to shrink and shrivel a bit more. Good. I inch closer to him, not letting him escape my stare. My wrath.

  “Trust me, Your Highness: revenge doesn’t mend a broken heart.”

  The sea king doesn’t let his gaze stray. Doesn’t look to his mother, or to his girls, horrified over his shoulder.

  “Oh, but it does feel good,” he tells himself. His jaw hardens and he regains every lost inch, chest puffed out. Chin out. Decision made. I just need him to say it. “Goodbye, Sea Witch.”

  36

  Runa

  A DOZEN MORE GUARDS ARRIVE THROUGH THE KITCHEN door.

  We’re surrounded.

  Both exits are blocked.

  “Hell and high water,” Will curses under his breath. Then he drops my hand and steps in front of me. In front of Sofie and Agnata too. He moves with his hands up, slowly presenting himself to the guards.

  “Will, what are you doing?” Sofie whisper-screams.

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he again slaps on the grin he used while dressed in his castle finery, title to his name, the king’s newest cousin. He projects his voice, loud and clear and ready to play. “Let’s not get into it here, boys. We can talk up at the castle, eh?”

  The guards respond by drawing their pistols.

  “This isn’t a negotiation,” their leader says. “I’ll take all four of you for destruction of kingdom property, witchcraft, and the murder of our beloved king. Have I missed anything, Herr Jensen?”

  The ring in Sofie’s hand and the car outside—theft. But our crimes are not my concern. We’ll surely break a few more laws by sunrise. If they’re going to take us, let it be quick. The sooner we’re outside, the sooner we can use our magic. Our spells are utterly useless here. Fire and wind are too dangerous in close quarters. If the bullets start flying and we draw shields, we’re likely to kill a bystander with the ricochet. Even the sleeping spell is no good, because when the guards go down, at least a few of their pistols could discharge.

  “Ah, I didn’t think so,” the leader goes on. “Binds, then we march.”

  They start with Will. Three men rough him up as they remove his coat, pistols, and clean out his pockets of our extra amethysts and inks.

  “Make it as embarrassing as possible, gents. Baron Jensen would be most approving,” Will says as the guards do their best to wrench his shoulders nearly out of their sockets while stringing his arms together behind his back at a barbaric angle.

  The guards approach the three of us next. Agnata whimpers the whole time that she’s done nothing wrong, but they search her anyway. From the folds in our skirts they retrieve the amethysts Sofie and I had tucked away for safekeeping, and my little pouch of the remaining ríkifjor seeds too. Each item is tossed into a burlap sack. We are utterly disarmed. All except Sofie, who has managed to slide Niklas’s ring to the tip of her thumb, burying it so deep in her fist, the guards have yet to notice.

  Though Will works hard to keep his chin up, even in my periphery, his face falls as they double-knot our weapons away. I catch Will’s eye, trying to convey that he’s ready. That he can call magic without his stone. I firmly believe both Will and Sofie can be a vessel without aid or a crutch. Agnata, maybe not yet, thanks to her deception, but I’ll protect her anyway.

  Finished, they line us up for the door. Some guards holster their pistols, but not all. The patrons begin mumbling again, glasses scraping against tables. The shock and danger seemingly worn off—they can go back to discussing the show my father is putting on outside. Some shoulder on hoods, deciding it might be time to close up the tab and slosh home.

  “Wait, that møgkœlling took my ring.” Møller holds up his frostbitten hand, a spiderweb of blackened decay, and points a finger at Sofie.

  The leader of the Øldenburg guards seems to recognize Møller. “Retrieve it, but make it quick.”

  Møller stumbles forward toward Sofie. She fights him, but his strength pries her palms open.

  “Ah—there it is.”

  I make a whispered decision. We must act now. “Frijøsa.”

  I reach for the magic, now at the tips of my fingers, giving it no room for error. My shackles freeze and shatter.
I hold still, hoping the guard at my side notices nothing amiss.

  Møller goes to yank it off, but Sofie whirls on him, the guard slow to stop her. She clenches her fist tightly again, keeping the ring safe. Møller reaches for it again, his eyes now a bloody shade of red. His forearms bracket her waist, blindly reaching for her fists held behind her back.

  “Don’t touch me.” Sofie wrenches away and spits in his face, chin held komtesse high and dignified.

  Møller wipes a forearm across his chin before lunging for the closest guard’s pistol. He steals it with his good hand, and in a blink, he’s got it pressed to her sternum.

  I dive for the man’s arm, pushing it up and away. As the bullet bursts out of the barrel, I scream, “Skjoldr!” My shield bursts out, covering the length of my body as I try my very best to protect Sofie and anyone else in its trajectory.

  The bullet bounces off the shield, and with the range so close, it has nowhere to go but straight back at Møller, connecting with that puffed-out chest.

  The man stumbles backward, just as Sofie and Will call their wildfire. Their arms flare, and a thrill moves up my spine as I get to my feet. Their shackles melt off and their hands come out front and free. Agnata sinks into a crouch. Without ink or stones, she’s still stuck in her binds, her wildfire not as practiced or strong.

  For one stunning moment, the room is silent again—every face agape at the flames dancing purple across Sofie’s and Will’s arms. Jaws drop open; glasses drop, too, with a clink and crash. The guards are stunned still.

  “Run!” I screech. I grab Agnata by her bindings, freezing them off with a single word, and we make a beeline for the back door, Will and Sofie ahead of us.

  We follow them down the alley, past the backs of the other shops in the row. The water is knee-deep here and running river strong, climbing inch by inch. Father will have it rise to crest Lille Bjerg Pass before the night is out.

  “What’s the plan?” Sofie screams at me as we thunder toward the end of the row.

  “We have to get the ring to the sea witch!” Will answers over the pounding rain.

  “The sea witch?” Agnata screeches. “She’s real? You have to be kidding me!”

  “Shut up, Agnata!” Sofie yanks the ring off her thumb and hands it to me as we reach the end of the alley.

  Behind us, a set of guards bursts from the vœrtshus’s back door, spotting us. Their pistols are already out, and the shooting starts as soon as our heads snap in their direction. Agnata decides that’s the time to run—she’ll take her chances away from us, declaring her innocence to anyone who will listen.

  We don’t stop her. Instead, we send our shields up and sprint around the corner as best we can through the streaming water. Dead fish have collected against the side of the building in a silt pile, and the ground beneath our feet is growing less solid by the moment, the grass giving way to the dirt below as it turns to mud.

  Ahead, Agnata speeds into what used to be the street, shouting at the guards that she did nothing wrong. Reminding them that she worked with them after her release from the castle. Arguing that she’s unarmed.

  They bind her anyway. Two guards rush forth with new lengths of rope as she thrashes against them, kicking water and words at them.

  If only she had stayed with us.

  “I’ve got her,” Sofie says, and I’m pretty sure there’s an eye roll in it.

  We follow Sofie into the street, arms raised and shields out. There’s immediate fire, nervous fingers jumpy on ready triggers.

  The sheeting rain, howling wind, and cloud-soaked moon make it impossible to tell which guards are which. Øldenburg or Holsten, it matters not. All wish us dead for what they assume and what they’ve seen. Such is a witch’s life.

  Sofie tackles the two guards handling Agnata, wildfire igniting instantly as she plows a palm into each of their faces, leaving her handprint burned into the writhing men’s features. They fall back and away, and she grabs Agnata, setting her burning hands to her new binds. They fall off in a burst of ash.

  Although a few other guards are also down, their own bullets finding them after hitting our shields, they still outnumber us by many.

  I make eye contact with Will. “Take my lead.”

  Holding our shields with our left hands, we squat and dip our right hands into the rushing stream. “Slyngva fiskr!” I shout, and Will follows.

  Within seconds, the black-eyed carcasses of a thousand rotting fish fly through the air. Pelting, swatting, smacking the guards—cutting them off at the knees, cannonballing them in the chest, tossing them back into the water with a flying splash.

  “To your left!” Will calls as the guards who chased us down the alley appear around the side of the building, barreling straight at us with knives.

  “Frijøsa!” I scream, hands still in the water.

  A vein of ice hardens immediately where my hands have contact, spidering down the tide into the men sloshing directly at me. Their feet stop on a dime, frozen in blocks of ice.

  “Yes!” Sofie yells before casting the spell herself at two more men coming her way. They try to jump, only to slip and fall facedown into the street.

  “Let me try,” Agnata says.

  The three of us line up, placing our hands six across, and yell the spell together; it sends several more men sliding. Over my shoulder, Will has sent two guards burning, and three more are facedown in the water with other various injuries.

  “Runa! Go! We’ve got this!” he yells.

  I believe him, but I won’t leave until I check the numbers—the guards have dwindled to just a handful. With Agnata’s confidence back, we’ve added another fighter and she and Sofie are working side by side to bring down those remaining in the street, while Will works the side yard.

  He’s right: it’s time.

  Shields up, I let a crack of lightning orient me to the beach and the sea witch’s cove just beyond. I begin to run but get only a few steps before a pinch of anxiety stops me cold. My eyes immediately find Will—who’s face-to-face with a guard, fighting hand-to-hand, rolling on the ground, through the water. Slash, punch, splash.

  And though he’s fought several times before, both this night and others, there’s something in my heart that makes me hesitate and watch, every sense trained on the altercation below. The rolling stops, and the guard has Will stumbling up, his hands pressing into the siding of the shop row.

  “Show me your hands, Witch!” the guard screams at Will, pistol trained straight at his chest.

  Will smiles, straightens—and presents the man with a daisy made from thin air. “Wizard, actually.”

  The man gasps and overreacts, batting at Will’s hands with his pistol. Will tosses the daisy in the man’s face and gets a hand on the barrel of the gun.

  But then it goes off.

  This time, the blast doesn’t ricochet. There’s no shield.

  Will stumbles backward into the building and falls in a heap in the water.

  “No!” The wind steals my voice as I scream. I change course and sprint straight for him.

  The guard gets to his feet and cocks the hammer again. Aiming at Will as his back is turned and he struggles to his feet.

  Oh no you don’t.

  “Fœra!” With laser focus, light bursts forth from my hands and plows the man backward, stunned and landing hard on the cobblestones, the gun sliding away as water splashes around him.

  Will’s on his side when I get to him, face in the water. He’s trying to get up, but one arm isn’t working and he’s inhaling water. I wrap my arms around him and get him sitting up. “Will, I’m here. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

  “You need . . . to be . . . over . . . there . . .”

  “I know, but I can’t. . . . Hold still.” The bullet didn’t pass through. It’s in his shoulder, and the damn thing needs to come out as soon as possible or he’ll get lead poisoning. The sea kingdom has seen this a million times with what hooks and harpoons can do to merpeople who come too clo
se to the surface.

  Face blanched, Will tries to smile. “Still. No problem.”

  His body shivers and so does mine. With shaking fingers, I tear open the remains of his shirt, exposing his shoulder, stained with blood that not even this water can fade. I place my hand over his wound as lightly as possible. “Slita.”

  Will immediately cries out, his legs sloshing and kicking in the water as pain wrenches through him. His head slams back against my shoulder, every cord, tendon, and vein in his neck tense.

  But the bullet and all its fragments come out, dropping right into my hand.

  Will breathes hard, trying to gather enough force in his lungs to say something. Before he does, Sofie sloshes through the water toward us, blood rolling down her cheek from a cut above her eye.

  “I’ve got him,” she says, sucking in air. Behind her is Agnata, looming over three dispatched guards who are tied in their own rope, propped up together so as not to fall over and drown. Their feet are blocks of ice. “Go, Runa! Go!”

  “Not yet. Hold him.”

  “But you have to get to her, the whole harbor is going to wash away in—”

  “I know!” I scream. Sofie drops to her knees, and without another hint of protest, takes my place at Will’s back, and I scoot in front of him.

  I toss the pieces of his bullet into the water and place both hands gently over every inch of ruptured skin. Then I meet his eyes, holding the blue there, trying to calm him. “Ley∂ra. Sauma.”

  Will’s gasping slows as my palms warm, the magic sterilizing his wound before sealing it right up. Only when the skin is smooth and beginning to cool do I move my hand.

  And then I take the last moment I need.

  I cup his face with my hands and bend down to give him the kiss I’ve been aching to share with him for more than a day now. This boy who picked me up at my very lowest and trusted me with his life and his fight. Will’s body melts, all the tension flooding with the water rushing against where we are, solid against the tide.

  His eyes flit open, stark blue in the low light as color returns to his cheeks. “Runa . . . ,” he whispers.