Sea Witch Rising

8

Runa

TOPSIDE, THE FIRST FINGERS OF DAYLIGHT SWIPE ACROSS the horizon, a bright white light across the Øresund Strait, the promise of the sun coming fast. The morning glow touches the beaches of Havnestad, the mountains behind the town lit only at the very tops, the rest in the steely tones of the sea witch’s lair.

The play of dawn would be beautiful if it didn’t signal another day gone for Alia.

I’m coming, Alia. I’m coming.

I cling to the shadows falling from the rocks that hug the sea witch’s black cove, the draught just as heavy in one hand as the knife is in my other. I need a place to change. I believe the sea witch that it would be best to take the draught in the shallows. It’s easy to picture Alia two dawns previous, changing on the main beach, timing it just so to coincide with the morning walks in which the king likes to indulge. She’d skipped breakfast for weeks on end just to watch him wander around, tossing sticks with his dogs, surveying his kingdom.

But from where I am, my view of Havnestad’s main beach is already filled with townspeople. The docks beside the beach are alive with the sounds of men, cargo rolling along on horse-drawn carts tinkling with lantern light that won’t be needed in a few minutes’ time. Many of them carve a path straight up a skinny brick road that lines the ocean and leads up to Øldenburg Castle, carrying preparations for the wedding, I’m sure.

The rest of the beach is an ode to that occasion as well. Tiny paper lanterns are strung from poles in a regal square closer to the castle, the skeleton of a bonfire pit to one side, an altar to another. I’d once been told the Øldenburgs loved to be married at sea, on the decks of their great ships, but I suppose it would be rather disastrous if the wedding party struck a mine planted in the waters its groom believed he owned.

I don’t see the boy on his morning walk, not yet, though he will likely be there soon. And maybe with Alia, if I’m lucky. I tuck the knife and bottle safely within my bodice, tight against the beating of my heart and the ríkifjor seeds I placed there before returning to the witch’s lair. My precious cargo safe, I swim around the black cove and to the other side of Havnestad, toward the sea entrance to the castle with its marble balcony. Cliff faces meet the waters here, so different from the rest of paper-flat Denmark, this little kingdom.

Around this side, not yet to the castle’s channel, there’s a strange arch of stone, yawning over a fissure between the rocks. The water streaming under it is deep and sure, and I swim through, coming up onto a little lagoon. On a sliver of beach, between two large boulders, standing sentry at its mouth, is a tiny cave. To one side is a steep stairway of stone and switchbacks, leading up to the cliff. I strain my eyes in the low light to see exactly where it leads, but there are only trees, shading the clifftop from view of the castle above.

Yes, this will do.

But first, I’ll need clothing.

The witch gave me nothing to wear, so I must make it myself, using what is around. Which isn’t much. Sand, rocks, and water. But under the surface—that’s something I can use. And so, I spend the rest of dawn pulling seaweed from the lagoon. It’s not much, but it’s just enough for a skirt to go with my sea bodice.

My bodice is a salt-water ivory, the color of a seal tusk, spelled together with the sheen of a thousand pearls by Eydis, who won’t have any of her sisters wearing everyday canvas. Considering the silks and stays that Alia was wearing in the castle yesterday morning, it’s a good thing Eydis has such exacting standards.

Once I have enough seaweed—dark green and thrumming with the closing summer—I lay it all out on the beach and close my eyes.

“Snúa. Efni.” I command.

A cool whiff of magic settles against my skin, my confidence spiking.

My magic works here.

My eyes fly open, and I watch, repeating the spell over and over, as the magic does its job, weaving each length of seaweed upon itself, twisting and braiding, each piece drying lacquer-hard once put in its proper place.

“Snúa. Efni.”

“Snúa. Efni.”

“Snúa. Efni.”

Soon enough, the seaweed has thatched itself into a skirt that is actually quite beautiful—as deep and shiny as the best emeralds. I wind it around my waist, securing it with one last fat piece of seaweed that finishes the dress like a silken ribbon. It feels a little strange—having something besides water flowing over my tail. There’s some seaweed left over, and I set it aside on the beach as I come into the shallows—someone will surely have a use for it.

Pleased, I remove the knife and the draught—half of me above water and half of me below. The bottle catches in the light streaming over the rocks, the sun that much higher now, though the light is still blue with the receding night. The potion within glows like the moon on a clear night—so opaque as to be nearly white, shining as if it has a life of its own. Maybe it does.

I take one last look at my tail fin, sighing in the sand here beneath the hem of my new dress.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell it. “I’ll get you back.”

I pop the cork and let it fall into the water.

Bottoms up.

The liquid is cool to the touch but burns going down—fire water coating my tongue, throat, and belly. The warmth spreads across my body in the length of time that it takes for a bullet to explode from a pistol. And, suddenly, I’m the sun itself, pulsing and strobing with heat we rarely feel in the sea.

I cling to the knife in my hand, willing myself not to drop it, my fingers sweltering themselves numb, the bottle already dropped, my concentration only enough for one. I’m melting. I’m as liquid as the sea—hot, warm, steaming. Only the knife is solid; fire is what it bends to and I am fire. Fire and fury and nothing at all.

All of it is intense enough that I wonder whether, in my anger and desperation, I’ve made a huge error. If the sea witch concocted a potion to end me, not aid me. Some old grudge mingling with a new one for Father’s recent attack, killing off two of the sea king’s children in one easy swipe. But just as that thought crystallizes, the heat backs off. The warmth cools into something hard. Solid.

Legs.

Bones and muscles and tendons and arteries and veins.

Ankles and toes.

My lungs sputter in my chest, no longer suitable for both worlds. Made for only one, and it’s not my home. I gasp in as much air as my lungs can hold, suddenly in need though I haven’t been underwater for several minutes. Somehow without my mermaid body, the air temperature is much colder, and I immediately begin to shiver, the adrenaline coursing through my veins notwithstanding.

I push myself up out of the lapping tide, new legs wobbling under my weight, my toes digging into the uneven sand below. It’s almost stunning to me that I’m whole and solid. I look down past my seaweed skirt to those toes, flashing white. I am human. And now my clock is ticking right along with Alia’s.

I test out my stride, taking a few uneasy steps. The shifting nature of the sands under my feet doesn’t help before I nearly fall over. And then I realize that even if I figure out how to walk, I still won’t be right. I need shoes.

I backpedal and retrieve those extra wisps of seaweed.

“Snúa. Efni.” I say the spell, but … something’s distant about the magic I’ve called forth.

“Snúa. Efni.” I repeat, thinking it might improve things.

It does, but the distance stays, even as the seaweed begins to obey, weaving itself into one slipper and then another.

I keep reaching, reaching, reaching, for the magic as it works. It hears me, but it’s from across the room, not within my veins. After much longer than I’d expected—several minutes longer than it took the magic to create my entire skirt—my shoes are made. They aren’t durable in the least, but they should do for now.

When I’m finished, the sky has evened out into a lush blue, the warmth of dawn gone. Another day begun. Two days behind. Time to find Alia.

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