Sea Witch Rising. Sarah Henning

nearly makes me smile—her oma I am definitely not. “Runa, I already know what your father will do because he’s come and done it. And because of that, I cannot help you.”

      Behind my back, I can practically feel Anna’s soundless judgment—the knife is safe and ready to use. Though it was not plain in Alia’s bargain, surely this girl knows her history—the magic will accept the boy’s blood if her sister fails at love. I could give the knife to her now. But magic always takes an exchange, and I have done the work without promise of payment until now.

      “You cannot … ,” the girl starts, sputtering despite her clear strength. The weakness in her voice signals a sob rising, high and hard. “It’s like you’ve torn my arm from my body. She’s my twin sister. My other half. Please …”

      “Your father depleted me of my magic. I want to help you, but your request alone is not enough, Runa.”

      The girl smacks the cauldron in frustration, and the metal rings out around my polypi trees, clanging to the surface, up to the sun that barely shines here. “You changed her—endangered her—for one stupid boy who doesn’t even know her name. It should be more than enough that her twin sister wants her back. I shouldn’t need anything else. I should be enough.”

      I level my gaze at her and smile, which irritates her more. “Ah, but you have what I need.”

      The girl’s brows pull together, but she doesn’t ask, waiting instead for me to plainly state what she must do.

      “You see, I know about you, Runa. Famed gardener, are you not? Little Runa and her special flowers. Alia, yes, she’s known for the beautiful things she can make,” I say, gesturing to the red flowers the little mermaid offered me before I took her voice. “But she can’t do what her twin can do. Runa, the last-born daughter by a minute, the one who keeps her father strong with all the ríkifjor he can stomach?”

      Something in the girl’s eyes hardens—honey frozen on a winter’s day. “They’re guarded. Even I can’t go there unsupervised. I can’t—”

      “Then I can’t help you.” Runa’s jaw sets as I continue. “Your father came to me, frustrated that he doesn’t have the power to bring Alia back, and drunk on ríkifjor, attacked me. He attacked my power—undermining the only person alive who can save Alia. To have the power to save her, I need to build my strength back up. Surely thirty of those flowers would do.”

      “I can’t bring you thirty flowers. Maybe one, but thirty? They’re protected both by magic and by armed guards. There’s no way—”

      “Seeds, then.”

      “But—”

      “Runa,” I say, wrapping a tentacle around her waist, drawing her in. To her credit, the girl gives me no reaction—not a blink, no curl of revulsion, no tremble of fear. Her face is blank, hard, determined. “I cannot change my price. It is up to you to figure it out. If you want your sister to live, bring me the flowers and we will deal. Then you will have what you need.”

5

       Runa

      A WAVE OF DREAD SWEEPS OVER ME AS I LEAVE THE SEA witch’s lair. Was I really so naive as to think this creature, this slithering monster, would give me any relief?

      The whole thing almost felt rehearsed, like she had been expecting me and was prepared. She stuck to her script as the actors do in our monthly moon plays, asking for impossible things in the name of love. Alia never missed a chance to show off her dramatic skills on stage, but now, what will she do with no voice?

      No voice. No more plays. I shake my head. These are the least of Alia’s problems.

      Though I’m away from the witch’s murky waters and back in the cool blue of the open sea, I’m not any more confident that I’ll get my other half back alive. Loss already weighs heavy on my shoulders, and I fear I will carry this forever if I fail.

       No, I will fix it. I will get the antidote. I will save Alia. I won’t lose her.

      I swim on, yet I have a major problem. Father counts those flowers like he’d count gold if he were any other type of king. But to my father, gold isn’t power—magic is.

      And my flowers are magic.

      Yes, Witch, I’m the gardener. “Little Runa and her flowers”—the witch knows the common refrain. For all the beauty Alia can produce, I’m the one who can make the tough things grow. The important things. But I was telling the truth when I said that even I’m not allowed to go into the ríkifjor garden without supervision. The ríkifjor can’t be touched, not by me or anyone else, unless Father’s security—both physical and magical—deems it so on a very specific schedule.

      Though I hate losing time, if I’m to get them, I won’t be successful in the middle of the day—I need to wait for nightfall for any chance to sneak in. In fact, I won’t be successful at all if Father realizes I’ve been gone too long.

      I swim straight from the sea witch’s lair to the castle grounds. The sea kingdom can be seen from miles around, shining a brilliant cerulean blue. I sweep through the front gate and into the winding hallways as if nothing is amiss. I smile at all the right people and make proper small talk. I go about my day pretending it’s completely normal that Alia is not at my side.

      The afternoon brings my lessons—singing, dancing, the human arts—with my sisters. Alia’s absence hangs in the water between us, each drop swelling with our growing anxiety. And yet we stay silent. If Father heard us talking, it would only make it worse.

      After lessons and supper, where I looked everywhere but Alia’s empty seat, a plan begins to take shape in the shambles of my distracted mind. It’s perhaps the only way to get the witch her flowers, secure the antidote, and deliver it, though it won’t be easy. But what choice do I have? I can’t just let Alia stay there and die, even if she doesn’t want to come with me. Living with a broken heart is better than dissolving into sea foam. It has to be.

      I go to bed early, feigning illness, but none of my sisters buy it. When the castle is dark and quiet, Eydis spells on the light, but I’m already wide awake, going over the scenarios in my mind, eyes glued to the vaulted ceiling of our chambers. My other sisters—Ola and Signy—converge upon my bed, taking space among the blankets.

      Dark blue and near black—the color of the deepest part of the ocean on the cloudiest days—Eydis’s eyes fall to mine. She’s usually covered in diamond dust from brow bone to chin, but barefaced in the night, she looks more serious than she’s ever been in her life. “She went above, didn’t she? For that Øldenburg?”

      I sit up, and that’s enough of a confirmation. The sob that sat deep in my throat this morning is welling up again, fat and misshapen.

      Signy, the closest in age to Alia and me, already has it figured out, arms crossed tightly over her chest, the tips of her ink-dyed hair dusting the goose bumps on her arms. “And the sea witch did it, didn’t she?”

      I nod. Ola’s eyes grow wider as she adds another question. I may be Alia’s twin, but Ola looks the most like her—blond and ethereal in the way most humans expect mermaids to be. “Is there anything we can do?” Both her hands snag one of mine and squeeze. “Tell me what we can do. There must be something.”

      I swallow down that sob. I didn’t want to include them, because the more of us who are involved, the easier it will be for Father to know.

      Yet now I can’t leave them out of it. “There is an antidote. But Father visited the witch and weakened her enough that she can’t make it. I have to bring her something first.” The way they watch me confirms they know exactly what I must