Short Story - Beneath the Brine

[lady_mab]

Sella emerges from the depths of the palace grounds, catching herself on the outcropping of rock before she tumbles over the ledge. The stinging wind catches her hair, tugging at the strands of it like a child eager for her attention. She turns her face into the wind, and lets it learn her features, mapping the ridge of her cheekbones and the crest of her brow.

Lets it learn the way she's changed since she was young and the wind knew her well. The kiss of scales along the lines of her throat and down her arms, the way her hair hangs heavier than it used to. The way that her skin is damp as if with a fever, clammy and ashen.

How she feels more alive standing in the reach of the salt spray than she has all year trapped in her father's stone walls.

Sella picks her way down the craggy face of the bluffs. Over her shoulder, the palace looms a tired monolith — fires flickering in and out of windows like a many-eyed face winking at the stars.

The sands are dark from the surf, and they sigh beneath the soles of her feet as she lands. She takes only a moment to kick off her slippers, letting her toes wriggle happily in the silt as the waves reach for her ankles.

The tug of the wind seems to die down with that first touch, the roar of the surf becoming a content murmur. The next wave rolls up the shore, and she can hear the question in its pull.

Now, my pet? Now will you come home?

"Not yet," she tells it, though she hopes she means, not at all. Not in the way the ocean wants to lay claim to her. The way it is slowly pulling her apart and reshaping her into a beast from the depths.

Sella reaches for her dagger in the sheath at the small of her back, fingers gripping the bone handle for a moment to reassure her of its presence. Then she strides forward, her slippers forgotten behind her like discarded halves of shells.

The river is not a considerable distance from the palace, but it is a ride to be made on horse, not on foot. It takes half an hour, perhaps more, for her to even begin to sense the clean waters spilling out into the ocean.

The tips of it poke at her as she walks, prodding fingers trying to uncover her secrets. They become stronger the closer she gets, curious and delighted at this new find. This new thing wading towards the waterfall.

Steadying her breathing, Sella slows as the dark mouth of the cave yawns into her line of sight. The witch, daughter of the ocean or not, will have the advantage over her. She can feel the magic in the river water, more direct than the tug of the ocean.

Sand turns to stone beneath her feet, and finally, Sella hesitates. It's a sharp incline on slick rocks, but that's not what gives her pause.

There is a woman standing on the ridge looking down who had not been there before. She watches Sella's progress with amusement.

"The little siren's song has finally found her way to me," the woman calls down, and Sella knows without a doubt that this is the witch. She looks younger than expected, skin smooth in the way a river rock's surface is. The image of her shifts and wavers in the wind, no more than a reflection in moonlight.

Sella's fingers tighten around the fabrics of her skirts, one foot poised on the first stone to begin the climb up. She doesn't say anything, just watches the way the witch watches her.

Until the witch smiles and gestures and suddenly Sella stumbles as the terrain shifts. She looks up and, jaw clenched tight, surveys her new surroundings — careful to not let the surprise show on her face. She stands just inside the mouth of the cave, standing in the middle of the rushing river with the impatient hum of the ocean at her back. Caught between the two.

The witch stands across from her, further into the darkness of the cave. The waters seem to spring forth from her, like she is the font instead of some deeper well. "I hear you have come looking for me?"

"How could you know?" Sella asks before she can stop herself, immediately feeling foolish for such a childish question.

"You called my name," the witch says with an indifferent tilt of her head. Her eyes are dull in the darkness, not even reflecting the palest sliver of moonlight. "I am curious to know why Paseisa is so eager to snare you in her net."

Sella pulls back her shoulders, and stands her ground. "I have come to you to remove the ocean's curse."

The witch studies her without speaking. When she takes a step forward, it's all Sella can do to keep her footing against the surge of the river water. "What imperious bearing for one asking a tremendous favor."

"I am not asking."

She approaches another step, then a third, and then they are practically toe to toe. "Are all princesses as rude as you are?"

The dagger is in her hand in a flash of steel, and she presses the tip of it against the spot just beneath the witch's chin. "You will remove the curse."

The witch's eyes dance, suddenly alive, and her grin is wicked sharp. "Oh," she says, delighted. "She bites."

"Yes," the princess agrees through gritted teeth. "She does."

"I will require payment."

Sella doesn't pull back. "All fair transactions have a price." Neither agreeing or disagreeing. She would have to watch her words in this space.

The witch hums, a burble of sound deep in her throat. "We shall play a game before I decide what I will take as payment."

"A game?" She almost drops her guard then. "I will not play a game. Remove my curse, and you shall have anything you ask for."

"Anything?" The witch taps a finger to her lips.

A foolish thing to have said, but she's getting desperate. "Within reason. Gold? Resources? Land? I will ensure you have it."

The witch is the first to withdraw, putting space back between them. "Don't be too hasty, Princess. My questions first, as they are the safer life line for you to cling to."

Sella's grip tightens on the dagger's hilt, and she takes a single, steadying breath before letting her arm drop back to her side. The weapon does not get returned to its sheath at the small of her back.

"A start," the witch says. "Now, my first question: What is your name?"

Sella must make some sort of face, because the witch laughs. "I can keep calling you my mother's future pet, if that's what you would prefer. She has you so tightly in her claws, I wouldn't be surprised if you turn into an eel mid-conversation."

"You may call me Your Highness—"

She laughs again. "So formal. I must know you in a very personal sense if I am to remove a curse so deep in your bones that you are half-coral already. I must know every aspect of you."

"Sella," the princess finally admits.

"And mine?"

"You don't know your own name?"

There it is again, the dark and wicked grin. "I would like to hear you say it, Sella. An exchange, of sorts."

Sella hesitates. She has said the name of the river many times, as it borders the palace's western flank and runs through the orchards. It is a matter of geography and politics and it is a familiar name to yer, yet here, in the mouth of the cave with the waters charging past her ankles and the woman standing across from her, it's heavier on her tongue. "Melydea."

"It is nice to meet you, Your Highness," Melydea says and, to Sella's surprise, she curtsies.

The motion catches her so off guard that Sella returns the motion.

Melydea claps her hands, and the spell of the moment breaks. "Now, to the nature of Paseisa's curse. The ocean is a vast and deadly woman to piss off. What did you do to her?"

Sella bristles at this, because what indeed has been a question she's asked herself over the years. "Not me," she says quickly, almost too quickly.

The smile that Melydea gives her says that she already knows the truth. "Who, then?"

When the princess doesn't answer, the witch shakes her head and sighs. "It will do you no good to protect the root of the problem. And even I, Paseisa's daughter, cannot begin to unravel this knot around you if we do not have some honesty between us."

The answer sits at the tip of her tongue. Sella keeps it there, safe inside her mouth like the way a clam would hold onto one of her mother’s pearls. “I don’t know for certain,” she says instead, because that is the safest answer.

Disappointment flickers in the darkness of Melydea’s eyes, and Sella wonders if she could be twice cursed. “A truth, then, given so that you may answer in kind: I know the answer. At least from my mother’s point of view.”

Sella’s fingers wrap tighter around the hilt of her dagger, though she doesn’t lift it. “Stop playing games, Witch. You know the answer, you know my name. I do not have the time for this.”

“I told you that my price would be based on what answers you give me, Princess.”

She flinches back from the title, hurled like a blade sharper than the one she holds.

Melydea doesn’t give her a chance to retort, carrying on as the river waters surge and dance at her feet. “You can blame whoever it is you wish — your mother, who left, who has never stayed when asked — your father, who takes, who does not know how to give back. The curse was given by Paseisa because both of your parents: You mother, who left, and your father, who took.”

“The ocean is so capricious a woman that she would punish two people who fell in love?” Sella demands. She doesn’t give in to the urge to stomp her foot against the floor. The current threatens to knock her off balance the moment it can, and she refuses to fall in a fit of childish pique.

“Yes,” Melydea says, so simply and easily that Sella still feels like she was knocked over by the river. “King Enryn fell in love with a simple pearl diver.”

“Paseisa’s favorite.”

Melydea lifts a brow. “You’ve heard the stories?”

“I wasn’t too young when my mother died that I can’t remember what she told me.”

“And yet you act like you don’t know why you were cursed.”

She bristles beneath this. Tired of trying to keep her balance, Sella moves towards the shore and clambers free of the waters. “I had hoped it wouldn’t have been something so base.”

“An ocean scorned is not ‘base’.”

“She was not in love with my mother. She lost a favorite toy, and when she demanded my father give it back, he said that Atrin’s fate was not his to decide.” Sella wrings out her skirts, a part of her already missing the distant caress of the ocean that manages finds her with any touch of water. “If I am expected to apologize for their alleged transgressions, I won’t. Just because the ocean is cold and lonely, she should not begrudge warmth to others.”

The two women stand for a moment, studying each other in the darkness. Sella regrets not bringing a lantern, if only for something to hold that isn’t her dagger. Something warm, to pull her away from the black depths of Melydea’s unblinking gaze.

Melydea looks away first with a soft, barely audible, “hm”.

Sella breathes in deeply, surprised to find her heart racing. “You came to a conclusion just now. Was my answer not satisfactory?”

“On the contrary,” the witch says, stepping away to the other shore. Now the stretch of the river cuts between them, when before it had raced through their legs. “A final question then. You are quite nearly out of time, so tell me, Sella, what are you willing to give up?”

She is prepared for the question this time. Not anything. She would require a price range before she could answer truthfully. “What do you want?”

Melydea seems to consider this without glancing back. There is a work bench against the far wall, barely visible in the shadows. Sella wonders if the witch does all her work in the dark like this. “A first born, perhaps?”

There is a beat, and then another, before Sella scoffs. “You must be joking!”

“A common enough request for witches, or so I am told.”

A strange answer, but it was a strange request to begin with. Sella fusses with her skirts for something to do with her nervous energy. “We are to build this arrangement on trust. I would not let you ask for a payment I cannot give.”

It is Melydea’s turn to scoff, and she glances over from her tinkering. Sella cannot see what sort of expression she makes. “Come now, your father was so quick to give you up to the hands of this curse — are you saying you are so different? I have dealt with King Enryn many times over the intervening years, and I must say, you are like him in so many ways.”

She takes this as a compliment even though it is clearly meant to be an insult. Her father is a competent and level-headed king, though entirely too stubborn. Perhaps if her parents had found a way to reconcile with the ocean, it would not have resulted in a curse. Perhaps if they had been a bit more humble, Sella would not be fearing the ever-shortening timeline and the ever-growing line of suitors.

Sella lifts her chin defiantly. “It is no latent maternal instinct. I simply will not and choose not to have a child. One cursed generation is enough, and if I am not enough to break it, then so ends my line.”

“Brash. Some might say foolhardy.”

She can’t help the soft laugh that escapes her. It’s not even audible over the sound of the water, but Sella crosses her arms over her chest, expression softening as she looks away. “I love my father, but he is a king first, and a father second. It is like you said: We are very alike.”

Melydea watches her as Sella straightens her posture. She can feel the witch’s gaze, though it takes a long moment before she can return it. “I will take the birthright he denied me, instead of the one given.”

The ocean in her blood shivers, but Sella ignores the song of it at her back.

Whatever sort of story Melydea reads in her expression is satisfactory enough. The witch nods, turning back to her work. “I always did like a woman with ambition. I have figured out my price.”

“Which is?”

Melydea steps away from her work table with a bowl in her hands. “I will have a seat in your court.”

Sella lifts a brow, watching Melydea’s approach to the shore. “And if I fail to become queen?”

There is something dark and alluring about the answering grin. A ghost light on the bog, beckoning Sella towards the waters of an unseen river, promising to make her lose her footing.“You won’t.”

Melydea steps back into her namesake and holds the bowl out as an offering.

Sella doesn’t hesitate as she slips back into the water.

They move to the middle of the river, standing toe to toe in the silt.

“At this point, I will be unable to completely remove the curse from you,” Melydea says as Sella reaches for the bowl. She maintains her grip on it for a moment longer, forcing the princess to meet her gaze. The tips of her fingers tangle like river weeds with Sella’s. “I can burn it, cut it at its roots, but I cannot unearth it. Until I am able to find the seed and pluck it free, this will only buy you time.”

“For now, that is all that matters.”

The grip around her fingers tightens, no more than a brief, tense pulse, before Melydea lets her hands drop away.

Sella lifts the bowl to her lips, breathing in the brine, savoring the cool kiss of river stone, and drinks deep.

It is like drinking ocean water, and it burns all the way down. It is like the air is ripped from her lungs, and suddenly she cannot breathe. It is like a knife is carving new scales into her skin, and the pain is white hot.

The bowl tumbles from her fingers, and washes out to sea, to let Paseisa taste the remnants of her daughter’s actions.

Sella sees the moment in bits and pieces. She stands there, head tilted back, bowl gone. She doubles over, hair spilling over her shoulders, dangling like strands of half-dried kelp. She is tangled in it, as she collapses to her knees. Struggling to free herself, wheezing, the river water soaking her dress.

Melydea’s movements are like the current — precise and quick. She kneels alongside Sella, and her hands are steady as they turn the trembling princess onto her back.

It takes a long time for the pain to subside, for her body to remember how to breathe. The rush of the river past her ears becomes a calming hum, and she can feel her blood run as clean as the water. The salt of the ocean is a distant memory, lingering and whispering, but held at bay.

Eventually, as Sella closes her eyes and sighs, Melydea sights back with a huff. “I fear I miscalculated, Princess,” she murmurs, and there is a splash of water before a cool line is traced across her forehead.

Sella opens her eyes, and she can see the hint of dawn on the horizon. “How so?”

“There is saltwater in your veins.”

She laughs, though the sound is low and rough, and there is a dull ache like her throat had spat out fire. “Lest you failed to notice my plight, Witch, I am turning into a sea monster.”

“It’s more than that.” Another line is drawn, this one following the shape of Sella’s nose. Droplets of water sprinkle her cheeks and cool her lips after the potion. “It’s sweet, sea-foam on a breeze. Something deeper than my mother’s curse.”

“I am a daughter of this coast as much as you are, Melydea. This is my home, my land. Of course it would be in my blood.” Sella knew how to swim as long as she knew how to walk.

Growing up, her mother had always seemed more like a mermaid than a human, and perhaps Sella herself was less a fish out of water than she thought. How ironic, then, that she is so close to becoming more like a sea serpent than a human.

She pushes the memories aside, letting them scatter like a broken pearl necklace, and tilts her head to watch Melydea. “You say this is only temporary.”

“I’m afraid so, yes.” The witch traces a shape into the stone embankment with a wet fingertip. “The reassuring news is that you will not have to throw yourself into the ocean or risk ruining what I can only imagine is the finest of trappings when you turn into a giant beast from the depths.”

It is a struggle to sit upright, but Sella manages. The witch does not offer a hand. “How long of a respite have I been granted?”

Melydea shrugs. “Magic based on the tides and currents is imprecise. How long is the span of a life when measured in the push and pull of a wave against the shore?”

Sella scoffs, which earns her another flash of the witch’s sharp grin. She spends a moment trying to pull herself back together. Combing her fingers through her hair to twist it into a loose, wet braid over her shoulder. Rearranging her skirts, though she remains seated in the middle of the river. “It will be many years before I am queen.”

“I am a river. I have carved canyons with my patience,” Melydea says, affecting an aloof tone to match Sella’s.

“I do not have such a luxury.”

“You know where to find me. You know my name. You can find me again when the call of the ocean becomes too much.”

Sella pushes herself to her feet, water pouring from her as she finds her balance. It’s pointless to try and dust off her skirts, so she lets the water drip. “I expect you to begin making your appearances at court before my birthday. You will become a member of my retinue.”

Melydea watches her rise, but continues to recline against the shore. One eyebrow quirks, the hint of her smile tugging at her lips. “So demanding, Princess. You came to me for a favor.”

“And I will commence repayment by finding you a place at my side in my father’s court. It will be convenient, besides, to have you with me.” Sella turns to the mouth of the cave, watching the sky lighten from a bruising purple to pale streaks of yellow and pink.

Hidden beyond her line of vision, the palace will be waking. She does not have much time before her absence will be noticed.

Melydea stands as well, though she does it far more fluidly, and drops into a curtsey. “I will do as my queen commands.”

“I am not your queen yet,” Sella says, though she can’t deny the tinge of delight that comes at hearing those words.

When the witch laughs, it is like the burbling river stretching between them. “Not yet, true, but I have patience and you have time.”

Sella reaches up and brushes a river-wet finger against her own lips, and it tastes like a promise — clean and clear and bright.