Sea Witch

by Sarah Henning

  Immediately, Iker joins him, and I catch Annemette’s eye as she rises from her crouch. A little chuckle bubbles from her lips, growing into a full laugh when her attention turns to Nik’s doubled-over form. I’m almost too shocked to laugh, having been holding my breath this whole time, but then I join in too.

  The only one not finding humor in all this is Malvina, embarrassment but not regret in the set of her jaw. She doesn’t apologize as she storms past Annemette—clearly her intended target—and snatches the pie plate from the sand at Nik’s feet.

  She stands to face him. Nik attempts to compose himself enough to look her in the eye but fails miserably, laughter still wryly present in his features as he lets the blueberry glop and sugar crust slide off his gold-threaded coat and onto the beach.

  “I hope you will enjoy this gift in the name of Urda,” Malvina announces, nose in the air, before pivoting on her heel as best as she can in beach sand, blond hair flying.

  When she’s gone, we gather around him and survey the damage. The shirt, coat and even his pants are all unsalvageable.

  But true to his nature, Nik just grins and presents his sopping clothes.

  “Pie, ladies? Urda does insist.”

  16

  I WAKE WITH THE SUN THE FOLLOWING MORNING, STILL warm with feelings of belonging from the night before. Yesterday was a daydream from start to end, and I wanted to never wake up. But in the white morning light, reality becomes stark and my mood shifts quickly.

  Annemette is still fast asleep, toes stretching toward the ceiling, arms thrown above her head, tangled within her waves. I lie there for a moment and listen to the gulls before I realize my opportunity. I know a way I can do some real good today.

  On silent feet, I head to the wardrobe and tug it open. The first dress on the right is one I wore two days ago when I met Annemette. I can’t believe that’s all the time that’s passed, but in the same breath, I can’t believe so much of our time has vanished. Today and tomorrow until midnight, and then it could all be over in the most horrific way possible—or it might be the happiest ending of all.

  Annemette still seems confident, and I’m obeying her request that I not intervene, at least not magically, but the thought of losing another friend to the sea is almost unbearable. First Anna, then nearly Nik, and now Annemette, who’s only been in my life for a short while, but who’s helped open my world in ways I’d never imagined. She’s the friend Anna never could be to me, that Nik can’t be, either. She’s the only one who knows my secrets. Well, most of them.

  I’ve been pushing these feelings down, telling myself this is her decision, that I should instead try to appreciate the life around me, as I’m sure she is, but I don’t know how much longer I can feel so helpless.

  At least I can still use my magic for one thing. I fish through my dress pocket. My fingers brush past the vial of ink from the other day and curl around the little amethyst, safe and sound where I left it. I can only hope that my morning away from the docks led to just one day of poor fishing, or maybe none at all—the magic is new enough that I don’t know what happens if I don’t do it.

  I dress quickly, and, minutes later, I make it to the docks without seeing a soul. The cobblestones are littered with dew-covered crumbs, orphaned the night before, and so far neglected by the Øresund birds.

  The docks are quiet too, no ships coming or going, though that will change in a few hours. Today is the favorite among the festivalgoers. The gluttony of the previous nights draws some, the final day of sailing and dancing attracts others, but not nearly as many as those lining up to participate or watch the games today.

  Our games aren’t exactly as sophisticated as the ancient Olympics Fru Seraphine taught us about in school, but they are more than enough for the people of Havnestad.

  Palm out and full, I close my eyes and run the amethyst along the docked ship hulls one by one, mumbling aloud the words that seem to work, mostly because, with no one around, I don’t have to say them in my head.

  “Knorr yfir haf, knorr yfir haf, sigla tryggr, fanga þrír.

  Knorr yfir haf, knorr yfir haf, sigla tryggr, fanga þrír.”

  The words hit my ear as childish, so much more sophisticated when spoken only in the space of my mind. I suddenly wish I’d trusted my magic enough to create a simple and strong Old Norse command—like something Annemette would do. I’d do it now but I’m afraid of what the change will bring.

  My words are like a nursery rhyme—but they will do.

  When I’m finished with every ship in port, I stand on the edge of the royal dock—the longest pier in Havnestad Harbor—and face the strait.

  “Urda, if you will, bring my words to Father, wherever in the Øresund he may be. Keep him safe; leave him to me. You do not need him. Please don’t take him simply because you can.”

  Anna’s face crosses my mind, open and free with laughter before she was taken by the waves. But I push it down as far as it will go, along with my dark thoughts of the morning. I need to live like Annemette, like Iker, and enjoy the day to its fullest.

  I turn and head back to the castle.

  I don’t see him at first, my eyes on the clouds the sun has tinged pink with the rising dawn. But then I hear the soft plink of a guitaren being strummed ever so lightly in the tulip garden. That song again, from the party.

  “Nik?” His chin tilts my way, eyes swinging away from the sea. He is on the stone bench under the shade tree, the wrinkled version of his strapping statue across the garden—muslin nightclothes rumpled, unbrushed hair shoved out of his eyes with his fingertips. “Did you come out here this morning to let the birds clean the last bit of pie from behind your ears?”

  “I ran a bath last night, but thanks for noticing.”

  “Then you must have risen early to meditate on a plan to best Iker in the rock carry.”

  Nik raises an arm and pats his lean bicep. “The only plan I need, my lady.”

  I punch him on the arm, and we sit quietly for a few moments. The pink of dawn has shifted to salmon, the tone already rumbling toward the golden yellow it turns just before the classic blue sky wins out and the sun is fully over the horizon.

  Fingers scrabble Nik’s hair back again from his brow, and his face turns toward the stones at our feet. After a breath, he raises his eyes to mine, and I have a feeling I might learn the real answer to his morning meditation.

  “Evie . . . ,” he starts, and my heart sinks at the mournful tone. Oh no. “Evie, have you really kissed Iker?”

  My heart skids to a halt and I sit there, jaw tense. I don’t know what to say. I’m not ready to talk about me and Iker. Not to Nik, anyway.

  I laugh and elbow him in the ribs, hoping a joke can mend whatever is in his voice. “The real question is, have you kissed Annemette?”

  I hope he’ll turn red. Say yes. Admit to it so that maybe Annemette has a chance to stay—to live!—and fill the hole in our hearts.

  Instead, his face squishes up as if he’s smelled something spoiled. “Of course not. I’m a romantic, but I’m not a cad—I’m not, not . . .”

  “Iker?” My voice is angrier than I intended, but there’s something in the pit of my stomach. Something hot like disappointment, not only at him for his clear disdain for Iker but for anything I do with him.

  He stops and starts, and I can tell he doesn’t know where to begin. It’s rare that I ever get angry with him. Rare that he can’t bring order with a princely smile or a knowing glance, his only tools of conflict the royal formalities his mother has ingrained in him.

  “I realize it’s stupid,” he says finally. “I’m sixteen and a prince to boot—I should be having fun. Mother would never let something wrongheaded get so far along. She has plans for me, besides. It’s just . . . I like Annemette. But it’s not . . . it’s not”—he looks at me, and there’s something else in his eyes—“as it is in the storybooks.” Then he glances up at me, the change in his focus clear in the set of his jaw. “And for him to kiss you . . .”
Nik shakes his head, his posture withering. “God, I must sound a mess—”

  “No,” I say, air rushing into my lungs just enough to get the word out.

  He laughs softly under his breath. “Yes, I do. I sound crazed.”

  “You sound confused. You can find ‘crazed’ in those lovesick books we read as children. Those princes who lock girls up in a tower to get their way—those are the crazy ones.”

  Nik nods to himself. “Yes, Mette is a nice girl, lovely really, and beautiful, and I regret that she’ll have to return to Odense, but I don’t think I’ll ever love her enough to be . . . to be . . . her fairy-tale prince.”

  My stomach practically collapses. But Nik is just speaking from the heart. He doesn’t know there is no Odense for Annemette. No . . . nothing. She’s just another girl his mother has forced upon him. What if I told him the truth? Maybe that would change things. Evie, what are you talking about? Tell him she’s a mermaid? But maybe he’d see how wonderful she is and would want to save her, just like he tried to save Anna. But then this truly would all be on his shoulders. All that guilt. Can love spring from guilt? Is that true love? I don’t know . . . how should I know what true love is? No, if I told him the truth, it might ruin any further time she has to win him over. This is all my fault, for trouncing around with Iker while Nik spends precious time worrying about me, taking his mind off Annemette. I have to try something else.

  “She reminds me so much of Anna . . . ,” I say, feeling as if the words are tiptoeing out.

  “Her coloring, yes,” he admits, but doesn’t go further. Not the response I was hoping for.

  “And her features. Her singing voice.”

  He shrugs and leans back off his knees and straightens. “But you know what’s not? The way she looks at me—Anna never would’ve allowed herself to think of me as handsome.”

  “That’s so untrue! She had a huge crush on you, and you know it.” I knock his shoulder, though it feels strange to speak of Anna’s private feelings as a joke. I’m quiet for a moment, and then I say, “Give Annemette a real chance, please. For me.”

  “But what about you and Iker?”

  “Stop thinking about Iker, Nik! I’m happy, but I won’t let him ruin me, like I know you’re so afraid of. I’m smarter than that.” He blushes red for a moment, but I keep going. “The only happiness I want you to worry about is yours.”

  FOUR YEARS BEFORE

  The boy dove back in. He couldn’t just leave it to these other men to find his friend. He’d saved one; he needed to try to save the other.

  Drowning was common in Havnestad—the sea took as much as she gave—but this, this could not be.

  Immediately, the water clawed at the damp length of him, the undertow a thousand hands ripping his body toward the swirling sands below.

  His father’s constant refrain crept into his head. Do not be a hero, Iker; you are already a prince.

  He’d said it anytime Nik had done anything particularly reckless. A compliment swaddled in a reminder: You are not just a prince, you are an heir. The lone heir.

  And here was his father’s voice, nagging as fiercely as the waves.

  He crested the surface and shook it all off—the words, the water—and filled his lungs. All around him, men thrashed in the waves. Not a single one held Anna.

  The boy dove down again, forcing his eyes open against the salty sting.

  Blue. Blue everywhere.

  He blinked, letting his vision adjust.

  Shadows on the ocean floor became crops of seaweed, moving in dark time. Algae, debris, and the tiniest of sea horses floated across the blue, a mosaic rather than one solidly flowing body.

  His eyes swung left, right. His entire body spun around.

  She’s here. She’s here. She must be here.

  He surfaced again, not far from the sandbar now. No men yelling. No one sagging under the weight of a blonde in a petticoat.

  Back down again, deeper, deeper, the undertow greedily guiding him on.

  Eyes open, he scanned the bottom. Lungs burning for breath, he dove.

  And there.

  One hundred yards away. Down in a crevice. A flash of white. A foot, bare against a huge tangle of seaweed and coral.

  Eyes pinned on her location, he shot to the surface—he’d need air to get her. Eight great, heaving breaths.

  I can do this. I can get to her.

  Down he dove again, eyes open as he plunged, pinned to the sliver of white. So far away. So far down.

  The boy’s lungs burned. His ears popped. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision.

  And still the slip of white was there. But not getting closer. It never seemed to get any larger, any more attainable. It just flashed on the seafloor, so much a star he could not touch.

  His mind began to slow, as did his legs and arms, which no longer struggled against the undertow.

  You do not need to be a hero, Iker; you are already a prince.

  You are not just a prince, you are an heir.

  The lone heir.

  Breath beating against his lungs, he made his choice.

  The prince pushed himself deeper.

  His life didn’t matter more than hers. He was the one with the chance to save her, and that chance shouldn’t hinge on the blood in his veins.

  Legs burning, he kicked, no breath left in his lungs to propel him. But he was so close. He could make out actual toes now. Head pounding without air, blood spiked with pressure, he kicked again, his arms pulling against the water.

  But then came a pressure on his foot. Yanking him back—up. Pulling him until, for a heartbeat, the weight was gone. As soon as it disappeared, it was replaced with elbows hooking under his shoulders. A chest at his back. And force, so much force, propelling him to the surface.

  In that moment, his lungs finally sputtered for breath and he involuntarily inhaled, water still surrounding him. A deep mouthful of the sea hovered above his windpipe for a split second before he spit it back into the water.

  Out of breath, out of time, water closing in, he broke the surface. The air was so fresh it burned; as his lungs heaved, his tongue swelled from the salt he’d inhaled.

  Coughing, breathing—finally breathing—he opened his eyes again, water streaming into his eyes.

  He couldn’t see well, but he knew the face before him.

  “No! Iker—” he began, coughing. Coughing so hard. More salt water streamed out of his mouth. Dribbled down his chin. He wiped at his mouth with a sleeve so wet, it just smeared the water around with more water.

  “I’ve got you, Cousin. I’ve got you. Don’t worry. You’re safe.”

  “I—” He coughed again and took a breath, long and deep. “I have to get her.”

  With air in his lungs, he tried to shrug off his cousin.

  “She’s gone, Nik. She’s gone. And you were going to be too.”

  “No! She’s down there. I saw her. You had to have seen her too. She’s right there, right down—”

  “Don’t be a hero, Nik.” Boat-strong biceps pinned the prince in a hug—his arms stuck at his sides, his only recourse to kick, but that just propelled them closer to the beach. Farther from her.

  “Iker, please. She needs us. Anna needs us. We can rescue her. We can—”

  “We can’t.” His cousin’s newly deepened voice cracked as he said it, and there was a hitch in his kick. “We can’t.”

  “We can! We can get her!” He was yelling, even though his voice was rough and sloppy.

  His cousin only squeezed harder. His lips came to the prince’s ear, his voice smaller than seemed possible. “If you die rescuing her, it won’t give solace to your parents or your people. It will only give Havnestad another body.”

  “But she’s not a body. She’s not. She’s there. Right there.” But even as he said the words, he knew it had been too long now. Ten minutes, though it felt like a hundred.

  And then he started to cry. Salty tears running down his cheeks and into the harbor.
He didn’t wipe them. He let them run. Let them join Anna at sea.

  17

  THE ANNUAL LITHASBLOT GAMES BEGIN IN THE SWELTER of noon. Havnestad citizens and onlookers from across the Øresund Strait spill onto the main beach, ready for games of skill and sport to take place from the mountains above to the seas below.

  It’s the first time in days the boys aren’t properly gussied up in public. To be sure, they’re both clean-shaven—the easier to show off their game faces—but they are also wearing simple cotton work pants and shirts rolled at the sleeves. This change of dress is tradition too.

  Today is about demonstrating skill. I wasn’t lying when I told Iker our games were useful—they were indeed born out of utility. Rock climbing and trail running in the mountains. Log running in the stream that feeds into the harbor. Swimming in the mouth of the sea. Vital to life, every one of them. Useful—right down to the rock carry along the beach, which mimics laboring to bring cargo ashore.

  And each citizen in Havnestad has an equal shot to compete. Be you ninety-five or still flush with baby fat, if you can walk, you are allowed to have a go—with the royal family cheering you on, or possibly acting as your competition.

  After plates of samsø, rye bread, and peaches, Nik is instructed by his father to oversee the mountain events first. Those sports have the fewest competitors, and King Asger would much rather view the action on the beach.

  And King Asger gets what King Asger wants—even from his son.

  True to his nature, Nik bows—no crown atop his head—before grabbing another peach and a flask of water and tugging Annemette toward Lille Bjerg Pass.

  I side-eye Iker when he doesn’t make a move to follow.

  His strong hand gently cuffs my wrist and pulls me close. In a breath, I’m an inch away from his lips. The depths of his eyes are striking in the high sun, clear and merry after a good night’s rest in a real bed and not a ship’s dank quarters. “Let’s just stay here alone.”

  I shift my eyes to the beach. “Alone—with five thousand of our closest friends, including your aunt and uncle.”