Between the Sea and Stars

by Chantal Gadoury

  “Have you told anyone? Soren?”

  “Soren Emil is your only ally, lass. There’s a reason I sent you to the Bror Boghandel. A reason I wished for you to find him.”

  “His mother . . .” Her words drifted into silence. She took a step closer to Edwin and accepted his cold, outstretched hand. “She was like me.”

  “His mother was a beautiful merrow. I still remember her moon-silver hair. And her eyes, wide and green. The color of a stormy sea.”

  “I’ve seen her.” She bit her lip. Perhaps she was revealing too much. “I saw her portrait in Soren’s shop.”

  Edwin pressed his eyes shut. Dampness beaded over his lashes. “She was my friend.” He blinked, and a solitary tear rolled free. “A dear friend. Now she’s gone. One after another, all my friends are lost to me.”

  “That’s not true. You have Soren. You have me. You’ll always have me.”

  He drew in a ragged breath. “The cards, lass. The cards disagree.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lord Jarl knows what you are,” he whispered urgently.

  Lena knew it was true. Even so, she couldn’t prevent herself sinking to her knees.

  “He killed the merrow queen, Lena. He drank her blood, hoping to obtain some of her magic. He’ll do the same to you. He’ll take the merrow queen’s shell, and his wickedness will contaminate the seas. It’s only a matter of time.”

  His words seemed so final. Too final.

  “Could the cards be wrong?” Lena asked him. “Could there be a way to save . . . everything?” Jace. Carrick. The surface. The sea.

  Herself.

  Edwin’s shoulders collapsed, and although he didn’t speak, she knew what his answer would likely be. Behind her, someone knocked—a quick rap, and the doorknob creaked. Lena released Edwin’s hands and bounded to her feet.

  “Lena.” Mrs. Wyatt hovered just behind the threshold. Her eyes were swollen, her face pale and drawn. Lena had overhead the prideful woman, weeping deep into the night, crying herself to sleep. “Would you mind giving me a hand in the kitchen? The midday meals are being served, and with Jace gone . . .”

  “Of course,” Lena interrupted, noting a tearful shine in Mrs. Wyatt’s eyes. “Whatever you need.”

  Mrs. Wyatt nodded gratefully and disappeared into the dimly lit hall.

  Lena glanced at Edwin.

  “Go,” he said, waving his hand.

  She was halfway to the door when he cleared his throat.

  She peered over her shoulder. Edwin’s sightless eyes were grave.

  “The day Lord Jarl returns to this inn, lass . . . you must run for the Bror Boghandel. Run as fast as you can, and don’t look back. You won’t like what you see.”

  28

  One thing was for certain: the Magiske skal needed to be destroyed.

  Lena wasn’t quite sure how to do it. Wasn’t sure she wanted to do it. The shell was the only piece of Javelin she had left.

  Days passed without incident. No visits from Lord Jarl or Jace. Lena earned her keep taking orders from Mrs. Wyatt, dressing beds and serving guests and scrubbing dishes. Every spare moment, she spent with Edwin, sharing stories of the merrows and her home.

  Though they spoke in low voices, it was a relief to finally share the truth of her past, of her brother and father. What she’d done, what she’d lost, and all that she’d discovered since coming ashore.

  “And so you came to the surface because of the shell . . .” Edwin said one afternoon, pressing his fingers against his chin. “And without it, you’d be forced to return to the sea as a merrow.”

  “If I return, I’m sure to meet a dire fate at the hands of the king and the Fosse-Søfolk. Not to mention Poseidon.”

  “And your friend . . . Asger was it? Would he not help deter the Fosse-Søfolk?”

  Lena bit her lip as she thought of Asger; his strong arms scattered with the many markings of lost human lives. What would his brethren think of her? A merrow who’d lived so long as a human? A fugitive of the sea?

  “Your silence says not, lass . . .”

  “Asger is a true Fosse-Søfolk,” she explained softly.

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” Edwin decided with a small, clever smile. “Neither does my grandson.”

  Lena’s cheeks warmed at the mention of Jace. She’d told Edwin of Samhain, of the kiss Jace had given her.

  “He’s a fool, lass,” Edwin murmured just as the door of his room cracked ajar.

  Lena held her breath, fearful as always that someone had overheard their whispering. She jerked her head over her shoulder. Standing at the threshold was Soren Emil.

  His blonde-white hair was disheveled from the gusty winds outside the inn. He lifted a hand in greeting, though it nearly lost him the wobbling stack of books he clutched in his arms. Lena leaped up to help him, taking several volumes into her hands.

  “Thank you,” he chuckled. His eyes met hers. Whatever fear remained in her heart drifted away. “And, good afternoon.”

  “Come, come, my boy.” Edwin called from behind them, waving Soren inside.

  “What is all this?” Lena asked, depositing her stack of books beside Soren’s on the desk.

  “A bit of light reading,” Edwin answered with a smirk.

  Lena raised her brow. It was certainly more than his usual order.

  “Edwin asked me to bring all I could when next I came,” Soren supplied. “They’re books on the merrows. Sailors’ sightings, mostly. And historical accounts.”

  Lena glanced curiously at him, and he grinned.

  “Musings, rather,” he amended, “about certain artifacts of the sea. Items that have washed ashore which defy explanation.” He ran his fingers over the gold-leafed spines. “Items of legend and folklore, too.”

  Lena’s fingers itched to fan through every book, to study every page, even as her heart ached at the idea of being separated from her necklace. If the secret of how to destroy the Magiske skal was hidden somewhere in these tomes, she would find it. Use it. She had to.

  She twisted her fingers around the chain of kelp which held the queen’s shell in place. Nerves collected in her blood, choking her veins. The shell wasn’t just her last happy memory of Javelin. It was also her only chance of ever regaining her fins and returning to the sea. To ruin it would mean . . .

  Edwin’s booming voice broke her train of thought. “Where shall we start?”

  “I’m afraid I have a shop to return to,” Soren apologized. He tugged a volume of folklore free and tucked it into Edwin’s waiting hands.

  “Nonsense.” Edwin traced the coded bumps on the cover. “I insist you stay and enjoy a dinner with me. It’s been too long.”

  “Truly, it was just Samhain that we saw each other last.”

  “Indulge an old man,” Edwin persisted. “My days grow short.”

  Soren’s eyes passed to Lena, who was trying her best not to appear too hopeful. “Alright,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”

  Edwin smacked open his book with something like satisfaction. “There’s a good lad,” he nodded. “What we don’t have in fine cooking, we make up for in exceptional company.” He lifted his unseeing eyes to Lena and winked.

  “Speaking of . . . exceptional company.” There was a gentle note of teasing in Soren’s voice. “How’s your grandson faring?”

  Edwin emitted a derisive snort and turned his page. They hadn’t heard a single word from Jace in the days since his departure. Strange, Lena thought, bordering on cruel. What sort of person left his family behind so absolutely, so abruptly? Could it be that he’d found out what she was? Was that why he was staying away?

  “My grandson is a dumme dreng,” Edwin was saying, his voice curt.

  “Weren’t we all at his age?”

  “I’m sure I was a delight.”

  “How old are you?” Lena asked with peaked interest.

  “As old as time,” Edwin declared, and she blushed.

  “I meant—” She flicked her eyes t
o Soren, heart quickening as she was caught by his steady emerald gaze.

  “Five and twenty,” he chuckled. “And you?”

  “Nineteen . . .” The flush of her cheeks strayed to her throat and warmed her chest.

  “Young like Jace, then.” He straightened slightly, and the twinkle of amusement dimmed in his eyes.

  “Aye,” Edwin interrupted. “But the lass is no dumme dreng. Not like him.”

  “That she is not,” Soren agreed. “She’s something else entirely.”

  Edwin grinned, and gestured into the open air. “Best let the kitchen know you’ll be joining us, Soren. Take the lass with you. I’m sure my daughter-in-law could use a few extra hands at the stove. After supper, we’ll delve into these.” He patted the tomes at his elbow, and Lena’s stomach flopped. She might get by in private on sketches and illustrations and the handful of human words she’d begun to recognize, but what if Edwin expected her to read?

  “Of course.” Soren crossed to the door and waited for Lena to join him. She glanced at Edwin. The haze over his eyes seemed to have thickened, and his fingers were gliding over the textured text of his book more hastily.

  “Who taught him to read that way?” she asked when they were in the hall, out of earshot.

  “A villager whose mother lost her sight. It is she who transcribes Edwin’s special books for me. Reading is a simple pleasure, but when the world goes dark, it can mean . . . everything. A story. An hour of escape. Words that teach and inspire and fascinate. It’s a true gift,” he murmured, “to regain something so precious, something that might have been forever lost, if not for the kindness of friends.”

  He paused, and found Lena’s hand in the shadows. He twined their fingers together and squeezed.

  Heat blossomed in Lena’s skin. Slowly, she lifted her eyes to his. “Soren,” she began, releasing his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know how to read. I cannot help Edwin with those books.” She dropped her gaze, embarrassed. He was a bookkeeper. Would he think less of her? Laugh at her?

  Soren perched a careful finger beneath her chin. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lena. Most women don’t learn how to read unless the men in their life are generous enough to show them.”

  Lena winced. If reading existed in the merrow world, her brother and father never would have withheld it from her. She searched for the words to explain her situation.

  “Reading was never . . . I never needed to know . . .”

  “I could teach you if you’d like. It’s not all that hard. It’ll take some time and patience, but with a good teacher, you could be reading all the books in the Bror Boghandel.”

  “You’d teach me?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Soren shrugged, his shy smile stretching wide. “If I’m honest, Lena,” he said, his voice dipping low, “I find myself searching for ways to spend more time with you.”

  “I couldn’t pay you,” Lena admitted, and he arced a curious brow. “But I . . . I could help you, in exchange for lessons.”

  “With?”

  “The merrows,” she whispered, leaning in to keep the conversation between them.

  Soren inched closer, eyes shining bright. “Ah, I see. A fair exchange then?”

  Lena nodded. “You’ll help me to read, and I’ll help you find your proof.”

  “And how do you expect to find proof that I haven’t already discovered?”

  Lena’s heart was racing. He doesn’t know, she realized. Edwin kept my secret.

  A part of her wished he hadn’t. Wished Soren would gaze at her, smile at her, even knowing her completely. She chewed her lip and pressed her hands into her pockets to keep herself from fidgeting.

  “I suppose, Soren Emil, you’ll have to wait and see.”

  29

  Lena tossed and turned in her bed. The heavy rain falling outside sounded as though there were hundreds of dancers swirling and stomping upon the roof of the inn. Blankets tangled around her legs, confining her like a fish in a sailor’s net.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and a torrent of images wracked her brain. She saw Jace—frowning, glaring, turning on his heel and marching out of the inn. Then Soren—the curve of his lips as he smiled; his piercing eyes, the same green as a stormy sea.

  Then, with startling clarity, the old merrow woman drifted into Lena’s mind. Soren’s mother, grabbing her hair, croaking the story of Mette, sucking the white meat from a crab with her sharp, rotting teeth.

  The pink conch hummed to life and began to warm. Lena gasped and clutched it away from her throat as it scalded her skin. She’d only felt it burn so viciously once before. Asger, she thought. He must be nearby.

  A familiar yearning rippled through her, dragging her upright. She kicked away her heavy quilts and pushed herself to her feet.

  She wrapped a warm shawl around her shoulders and ventured into the hallway, wincing at the soft thud of her feet. She tiptoed down the stairs and would have proceeded straight to the shore—reeled to Asger like a fish on a line—if a sliver of flickering light emanating from Edwin’s chambers hadn’t caught her eye.

  Muffled voices sounded behind his heavy wooden door, nearly incomprehensible, smothered by rain and thunder. Lena lowered her brow. It was late. Outside, the skies were black. No stars shone through the storm, though occasionally a bolt of white-hot light speared out of the thick obsidian clouds. The house was asleep; all of Mrs. Wyatt’s guests had gone to bed hours ago. Who would come to visit Edwin so late? What news could be worth braving this violent weather?

  Her stomach pitched, sensing something amiss. Perhaps . . . perhaps it was only Soren bringing Edwin a new book.

  “Edwin?” she whispered, creeping up the hall on the balls of her feet. His door was a hairsbreadth ajar. “Is everything alright?” She kept her voice low, not wanting to wake the house.

  Behind the door, the voices ceased. Then, a shuffling sound erupted, quick, like the swish of a skirt over sand. Someone gasped, a sharp inhalation of breath. Lena tipped the door open.

  “Edwin!”

  “Lass, go!” Edwin was in his armchair, a book clutched against his chest. His wide, unblinking eyes searched the room blindly. His head jerked back and forth as he tried desperately to place her. His gnarled, blue-freckled fingers jabbed into the empty air.

  At his side, looming over him, was Lord Jarl. Lena froze.

  “Get out of here!” Edwin pleaded.

  Lord Jarl’s black eyes narrowed with delight. “How sweet of you to join us, little merrow,” he purred.

  “Quickly, lass!” Edwin’s voice broke. “Remember what I told you! Don’t look back!”

  “Tsk, tsk, Edwin. Certainly not the way to treat a guest in my inn, now is it?”

  Lena’s fingers flew automatically to her throat.

  “Ah, yes. The Magiske skal.” Lord Jarl’s black eyes shone bright, almost seeming to glow. “Do what’s best and hand it over to me, dear.” He glanced meaningfully at Edwin. “Quickly now. Or your friend will never see another day. Poor choice of words,” he chuckled darkly. “Come, come.”

  “I can’t.” Lena swallowed. “I won’t.” But perhaps she should. Edwin’s complexion was drained of color, his chin stiff and resigned. He should have been glaring, or cowering, or scoffing at Lord Jarl’s threats. Instead, he merely sat, as if he were waiting for those syrupy-slick warnings to come true.

  Her eyes snapped to Edwin’s desk, where his little sack of cards was kept. She tightened her fingers around the shell. She would give it to Lord Jarl. She would save Edwin, then . . . then they would find a way to get the queen’s shell back. Together.

  “Don’t,” Edwin murmured, as if he’d sensed her resolve. “He’ll end me either way.” His voice was thick. “I’ve seen it.”

  “No!” Lena insisted. “The cards can’t know everything!”

  “It’s my fate.”

  Her voice wavered violently. “Then change it.”

  “I can’t. Do as I told you, girl, an
d run.”

  “You’ve only just arrived,” Lord Jarl crooned. “And I promise I’m faster than you, little pearl. I’ve had feet longer than you had fins. The shell, Lena. It belongs to me.”

  “It doesn’t,” she said, shaking her head. “My brother . . .”

  “Is dead. Shipwrecked, I hear,” he sneered. “Or at least that’s what my young apprentice told me . . .”

  “He gave me this.” She stroked the curve of the conch possessively. “It’s mine.”

  “And yet, you wish to destroy it?” Lord Jarl flicked a finger against the text still bound by Edwin’s hands. Then he yanked the book away and tossed it onto the floor.

  Lena jolted as a hollow clatter echoed through the room.

  “It was my idea,” Edwin gasped. He reached forward and bunched Lord Jarl’s billowy blouse in his fists. “I was going to destroy the queen’s shell, not Lena. I told her nothing of my plans, I swear!”

  A growl rumbled in Lord Jarl’s throat. He plucked each of Edwin’s arthritic fingers away from his shirt. Then he snatched the fur-lined quilt from Edwin’s lap and shoved it roughly against the old man’s mouth.

  “No! Edwin!” Lena dashed across the room.

  “I should have put an end to you long ago you old fool.” A deranged light seeped from Lord Jarl’s eyes as he pressed his full weight against Edwin’s face. Lena latched onto his arm and he bucked her away.

  Edwin pawed at Lord Jarl’s wrists, at his clothes, at the air. Groping for some way to save himself. He wasn’t ready to die, in spite of his words moments ago. Was anyone ever really ready?

  Javelin had been a boy, a child compared to Edwin. His death had come too soon.

  Edwin was frail, blind, unable to walk. Perhaps he was older than Carrick. Still, it was too soon. Too soon.

  Lena’s mind whirled with panic and fury. She leaped forth again and clamped on to Lord Jarl’s shoulders, loped her arms around his neck, yanked and scratched and bit and screamed.

  Again, he shoved her away, belting his forearm against her jaw.