These Barren Lands

Chapter 4

Magnus lets me use magic to push the pinnace forward. He keeps rubbing his chest absentmindedly while he surveys the waters. Papa's guards are down there, but they're not visible. They lurk like sharks, circling and waiting for one of us to make a mistake. I keep one hand on the trident, my stomach twisted in anxiety.

He's my father. He won't be that mad at me.

A man doesn't starve a kingdom because he's angry, right?

Before the mist started, winter had already begun to show its face. Now, it caresses our face with its icy fingers and makes us all shiver. I dip my fingers into the steel blue water, watching it curl up and around my wrist. Eero's knee touches mine, and the water jumps up to my elbow.

The king leans over and whispers to me, "I've got the men on high alert."

"Papa won't try to hurt us," I tell him.

"I know," he says. "It's not your father I'm worried about."

With that, the riptide in my stomach starts pulling.

Zula.

Why hadn't I even considered Zula?

My right hand—the one in the water—tenses into a fist, and the boat rocks sideways. Finn's head spins towards me, but I look away. Towards the water, the approaching trees, the mounds of sand... Anything but him and Eero.

I am enough.

I am a warrior princess. Divine Blessed.

I am not alone.

I can do this.

But what if I can't?

That one thought swims laps in my brain, flinging itself against my skull over and over again so that it begins to spread in the space between my eyes, behind my nose. My entire body tenses, and the water beneath us shivers.

A hand lands on my knee, and I look up at Finn. It's not him, though; it's Eero.

"I've got you," he whispers, still leaning into me. Still there. My harbor. "I won't let anyone hurt you or him. I promise."

I want his words to make me feel better. Want to take a deep breath and relax and let him protect me. When it comes down to it, though, Eero doesn't stand a chance against my father or uncle. If either of them lash out, we're done.

I'm the only one in this boat who has faced the wrath of a god-chosen merfolk and lived to tell the tale.

Now that's a comforting thought.

I did it once; I can do it again.

I was enough then. I'm enough now.

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and let my hand rest on top of his. He flips it over, and our fingers twine together. His skin has darkened from sun exposure, marked with various lengths of scars. Those too familiar calluses scratch against my palms. I tighten my grip, trying to transfer some of my anxiety.

It doesn't really work, but I can pretend.

The island closest to us looms overhead. There's a tree on its shoreline, broad and tall. As I study it, four figures rise out of the surf and walk across the sand.

Walk.

Not swim. Not float.

They walk to the tree.

More proof that changing forms is a simple task—if you know how. The ancient warriors knew this was possible, and they kept it away from me. Not just me—they kept it away from all the youth. Was it my father's command? Because of Mama's death? What else are they hiding, then?