The apprentice tightened the clasps on his satchel. "Come," he said. "I will give you two answers."
"Two?" she said as she followed him up the spiral stairs.
"One to the question you asked, and one to the question you should have asked."
"What question is that?" She realized he was leading her back to the room of strange objects.
"Why you are not like the others."
Ulla felt the cold settle in her bones, the night rushing in, vaster than the sea. Still she followed.
When the apprentice opened the door of the glass cabinet beside the trick mirror, she thought he would reach for the sykurn knife. Instead he held up a bell that she hadn't even noticed, the size of an apple and tarnished from neglect.
As he lifted it, the clapper struck, a high silvery sound, and Ulla released a cry clutching at her chest. Her muscles seized. It felt as if a fist had squeezed itself tight around her heart.
"I remember you," he said, watching her, the same words he'd spoken when he'd approached her at the first night's feast.
"That can't be," she gasped, breathless from the pain, the ache receding only as the sound of the bell faded.
"Do you know why your voice is so strong?" the apprentice asked. "Because you were born on land. Because you took you first breath above the surface and bawled your first infant cry here. Then my mother, our mother, took up the bell your father had given her, the bell he'd placed in her hand when he realized she carried a child. She went down to the shore and knelt at the waters and held the bell beneath the waves. She rang it once, twice, and a few moments later your father emerged in the shallows, his silver tail like a sickle moon behind him, and took you away."
She shook her head. It cannot be.
"Look into the mirror," he commanded, "and try to deny it."
Ulla thought of her mother's long fingers combing through her hair tentatively, then grudgingly, as if she could not quite bear to touch her. She thought of her father who had raged and warned her against the temptations of the shore. It must not be.
"I remember you," he repeated. "You were born with a tail. Every summer I've come here to study and watch the sea folk, wondering if you might return."
"No," said Ulla. "No. The sildroher cannot breed with humans. I cannot have a mortal mother."
He gave a slight shrug. "Not entirely mortal. The people of this country would call her drüsje, witch. They would call me one too. They play at magic, read the stars, throw bones. But it's best not to show them real power. Your people know this well."
Impossible, insisted a shrill, frightened voice inside her. Impossible. But another voice, a voice sly with knowing, whispered, You have never been like the others and you never will be. Her black hair. Her black eyes. The strength of her song.
It cannot be true. But if it was... If it was true, then she and this boy shared a mother. Had Ulla's father known the girl he'd laid down with was a witch? That there might be a price for his dalliance, one he would be forced to look upon every day? And what of Ulla's sildroher mother? Had she been able to bear no child of her own? Was that why she had made a cradle for some unnatural thing, fed her, tried to love her? She does love me. That voice again, wheedling now, feeble. She does.
Ulla felt the hurt inside her winnow to a hard point. "And did your witch mother care at all for the child she abandoned to the sea?"
But the apprentice did not look troubled by her harsh words. "She isn't one for sentiment."
"Where is she?" Ulla asked. A mother should be here to greet her daughter, to explain herself, to make amends.
"Far to the south, traveling with the Suli. I'll meet with her before the weather turns. Come with me. Ask her your questions, if you think the answers will bring you comfort."
Ulla shook her head again, as if such a gesture might erase this knowledge. Her limbs had gone weak. She grasped the lip of the table, tried to stay standing, but it was as if with the ringing of that bell, her legs had forgotten what they were meant to do. Ulla slid to the floor and watched the girl in the glass do the same.
"You claimed you were hunting," she said, a flimsy kind of protest.
"They say the sea whip roams these waters. I want to see the ice dragon for myself. Knowledge. Magic. A chance to forge the world anew. I came seeking all those things. I came seeking you." The apprentice knelt beside her. "Come with me," he said. "You needn't return with them. You needn't belong to them."
Ulla could taste the salt of her tears on her lips. It reminded her of the sea. Was she crying then? What a human thing to do. She could feel herself splitting, dissolving, as if the apprentice's words had been a spell. It was like the cut of the sykurn knife, being torn apart all over again, knowing that she would never be wholly one thing or another, that the sea would always be strange upon her, that she would always carry the taint of land. Nothing could transform her. Nothing could make her right. If the sildroher ever learned what she was, that the rumors were not just rumors but true, she would be banished, maybe killed.
Unless she was too powerful to abandon. If Roffe became king, if Ulla found a way to give him what he wanted, he could protect her. She could make herself unassailable, indispensable. There was still time.
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"It cannot be true."
"Two?" she said as she followed him up the spiral stairs.
"One to the question you asked, and one to the question you should have asked."
"What question is that?" She realized he was leading her back to the room of strange objects.
"Why you are not like the others."
Ulla felt the cold settle in her bones, the night rushing in, vaster than the sea. Still she followed.
When the apprentice opened the door of the glass cabinet beside the trick mirror, she thought he would reach for the sykurn knife. Instead he held up a bell that she hadn't even noticed, the size of an apple and tarnished from neglect.
As he lifted it, the clapper struck, a high silvery sound, and Ulla released a cry clutching at her chest. Her muscles seized. It felt as if a fist had squeezed itself tight around her heart.
"I remember you," he said, watching her, the same words he'd spoken when he'd approached her at the first night's feast.
"That can't be," she gasped, breathless from the pain, the ache receding only as the sound of the bell faded.
"Do you know why your voice is so strong?" the apprentice asked. "Because you were born on land. Because you took you first breath above the surface and bawled your first infant cry here. Then my mother, our mother, took up the bell your father had given her, the bell he'd placed in her hand when he realized she carried a child. She went down to the shore and knelt at the waters and held the bell beneath the waves. She rang it once, twice, and a few moments later your father emerged in the shallows, his silver tail like a sickle moon behind him, and took you away."
She shook her head. It cannot be.
"Look into the mirror," he commanded, "and try to deny it."
Ulla thought of her mother's long fingers combing through her hair tentatively, then grudgingly, as if she could not quite bear to touch her. She thought of her father who had raged and warned her against the temptations of the shore. It must not be.
"I remember you," he repeated. "You were born with a tail. Every summer I've come here to study and watch the sea folk, wondering if you might return."
"No," said Ulla. "No. The sildroher cannot breed with humans. I cannot have a mortal mother."
He gave a slight shrug. "Not entirely mortal. The people of this country would call her drüsje, witch. They would call me one too. They play at magic, read the stars, throw bones. But it's best not to show them real power. Your people know this well."
Impossible, insisted a shrill, frightened voice inside her. Impossible. But another voice, a voice sly with knowing, whispered, You have never been like the others and you never will be. Her black hair. Her black eyes. The strength of her song.
It cannot be true. But if it was... If it was true, then she and this boy shared a mother. Had Ulla's father known the girl he'd laid down with was a witch? That there might be a price for his dalliance, one he would be forced to look upon every day? And what of Ulla's sildroher mother? Had she been able to bear no child of her own? Was that why she had made a cradle for some unnatural thing, fed her, tried to love her? She does love me. That voice again, wheedling now, feeble. She does.
Ulla felt the hurt inside her winnow to a hard point. "And did your witch mother care at all for the child she abandoned to the sea?"
But the apprentice did not look troubled by her harsh words. "She isn't one for sentiment."
"Where is she?" Ulla asked. A mother should be here to greet her daughter, to explain herself, to make amends.
"Far to the south, traveling with the Suli. I'll meet with her before the weather turns. Come with me. Ask her your questions, if you think the answers will bring you comfort."
Ulla shook her head again, as if such a gesture might erase this knowledge. Her limbs had gone weak. She grasped the lip of the table, tried to stay standing, but it was as if with the ringing of that bell, her legs had forgotten what they were meant to do. Ulla slid to the floor and watched the girl in the glass do the same.
"You claimed you were hunting," she said, a flimsy kind of protest.
"They say the sea whip roams these waters. I want to see the ice dragon for myself. Knowledge. Magic. A chance to forge the world anew. I came seeking all those things. I came seeking you." The apprentice knelt beside her. "Come with me," he said. "You needn't return with them. You needn't belong to them."
Ulla could taste the salt of her tears on her lips. It reminded her of the sea. Was she crying then? What a human thing to do. She could feel herself splitting, dissolving, as if the apprentice's words had been a spell. It was like the cut of the sykurn knife, being torn apart all over again, knowing that she would never be wholly one thing or another, that the sea would always be strange upon her, that she would always carry the taint of land. Nothing could transform her. Nothing could make her right. If the sildroher ever learned what she was, that the rumors were not just rumors but true, she would be banished, maybe killed.
Unless she was too powerful to abandon. If Roffe became king, if Ulla found a way to give him what he wanted, he could protect her. She could make herself unassailable, indispensable. There was still time.
"The flame," she said. "Tell me how it's done."