Osric enters the tavern and stops to speak to the bartender. The bartender points to us, and the first mate marches over.
“We have to go. Right now.” He prods Jamison and me over to Radella and Laverick and drops a handful of coins with clamshells engraved on them onto the table.
“Osric, what’s happening?” I say.
“The elven guard is coming.”
Radella flies into my pocket, her wings trembling. Osric leads us across the dance floor, past the stage, and to the rear door.
“Who are the elven guard?” Jamison asks.
“They serve my queen. She must have received word that her brother is here.”
My neck stretches in alarm. Markham is in Eventide?
Outside the back door of the tavern, Osric glances at the moon and then creeps around the tavern. There, he crouches low to the rocky ground, and we all hunch in the shadows.
Silence settles between us.
And then I hear it over the wind—thud, thud, thud.
A unit of five persons runs down the road from up the mountain, clad in all-black garments with light chain mail vests overtop. The group moves as one, purposeful and controlled, as dangerous as a pack of wolves. Moonlight reveals their pointed ears and chins and glints of the swords at their hips. Osric sinks lower, so the rest of us also flatten our bodies to the ground.
Following the guard, roaming from one side of the road to the next, pads a large black dog. The canine is the size of a small bear, with a rangier build and shaggier coat. The beast weaves down the road behind the elven guard and pauses periodically to sniff the ground.
I hold still as the elves march swiftly past. The dog lags behind and then trots toward us. It roves up to the front of the tavern and sniffs about. The guard rounds the bend in the road, and the big canine tears off after them.
“What was that?” Jamison whispers.
“A barghest,” answers Osric. “A hound trained to hunt elves, or any other creature they’ve been directed to track down.”
I start to get up, but Osric waves for me to stay low and quietly draws his short sword. Laverick gazes up at the roof of the tavern without lifting her chin and readies her wooden stake.
Someone is up there.
Osric rises and steps out into the open. “Come down from there, Killian, you coward.”
At first, no one responds, and then two people hang down from the second floor and drop, landing on their feet before us. I push to standing, my gut bunching. Since we last saw them tearing off with the finfolk, Markham and Harlow have acquired breastplates and swords.
“You haven’t lost your touch, Osric,” says Markham.
“Why are you here?” The first mate paces out onto the road, and Markham follows.
“We needed something that would help us dive to Everblue. We’re having a race, and as you know, I don’t like to lose.”
A banging noise draws my notice to a broken shutter on the second floor of the tavern. Markham and Harlow must have been above us while we were inside. Jamison confronts Harlow, both of their blades extended. My wooden stake feels ridiculous against their sharpened steel.
“The elven guard is after you,” Osric says. “Your sister must have heard of your misdeeds. Surrender to them, Killian, or I’ll whistle and the barghest will be on you faster than a bolt of lightning.”
Markham laughs at him and then addresses me. “You must be desperate to have aligned with this simpleton. His threats alone are torment.”
“You double-crossed me,” I snap.
“I can see you’re angry about that,” he says, arching a brow to mock the wooden weapon in my grasp. “No hard feelings, my dear. But, truly, you made it impossible to align with you. Did you think I was unaware of what you intended? You hoped to turn me in to Queen Aislinn and clear your name. I knew better than to trust you, what with your awful temper.”
“You’re bold to mention untrustworthiness,” Osric cuts in.
Markham speaks right over him. “Everley, you must admit you do hold a grudge.” While I stammer at his astonishing thickheadedness, he asks, “Have you found a way to Everblue?”
“Do you truly expect me to give away my secrets?” I reply.
“You are a dreadful liar, Evie. It’s the only thing I dislike about you.” Markham pats the sack at his side. “We traded for our way there. You must use that pretty head of yours to find your means of travel, or this race will be mighty dull.”
“How did you afford to trade for bubble tonic?” Osric asks, all color seeping out of his face.
“We didn’t trade anything we couldn’t spare.”
Harlow grimaces and touches the bare base of her throat.
“Where’s your mother’s necklace?” I ask her.
“Mind your own business.” She jabs her sword at me, revealing more bruises along her wrist than last time.
Harlow will never be my friend, but this is wrong. “Did he trade your necklace? Harlow, your father gave it to your mother.”
She touches her bare throat again. Her parents are dead, and Harlow had little left of them other than that trinket.
“Markham doesn’t care for you,” I say. “He hurts you and gives away your precious things. That isn’t love.”
“This coming from the girl with the ticker for a heart,” Markham says, tone scathing. “Everley, how does one love without a real heart?”
“You tell me,” I retort.
“There’s that temper again.”
I lift my arm to hurl my stake at him, but Laverick restrains me.
“Don’t give him the satisfaction,” she says.
Markham finally acknowledges Osric. “We’re finished here, old friend.”
“Turn yourself in, Killian. Do something right for a change.”
“Turn myself in, what an intriguing suggestion.” Markham makes eye contact with Jamison and then tosses him his sword.
Jamison catches it as a reflex and stares down at the weapon in bewilderment.
“The barghest was trained to hunt down anything that’s marked with their target’s scent,” Markham explains. “One thread of their target’s hair on your jacket would lead them to you, and even touching something that belongs to them or picking up something they just held would transfer their scent. Lieutenant Callahan, which of us do you think is the faster runner?”
Jamison drops the sword. “You bastard.”
“I’m guessing by your response you think it’s me. Shall we find out?” Markham purses his lips and whistles, a loud, piercing call.
Almost immediately, a howl, like the lonely shriek of a banshee, fills the night.
Osric’s pale face screws up in panic. “Move!”
The first mate takes off, abandoning the road for a trail that leads downhill through the houses. Jamison, Laverick, and I sprint after him into the gravelly hillside. Another howl rises as we barrel onto another road, cross it, and leap down the next slope. Radella zooms ahead of us, her glowing light speeding ahead.
A third howl sounds above us, followed by a woman’s shriek. I slow down to look up the trail. Jamison skids to a stop ahead of me.
“Everley, come on!”
“I think that was Harlow.”
“We can’t help her now.”
Radella flies from the front of the group back to Jamison and me and gestures for us to hurry. I start off again, falling into step beside Jamison. We catch up to the others and rush out into a road, just down from The Blood Moon. Osric’s pace slows and he leads us off the path. We run from shadowed hut to hut, darting across dim alleyways. Radella flies into my pocket and hides her light as we come up to the tavern.
The terrace where all the patrons were sitting has quieted. The fiddlers have stopped and gone, and all the patrons have emptied the area, except for three.
“I don’t know where they are,” Captain Redmond bellows.
Osric pauses in the alley. We tuck ourselves against the wall, relying on the night for cover. The wig-wearing elf
and the huge giant who were drinking with him earlier have pinned Captain Redmond to the ground. The burly giant has his legs locked around Mundy’s chest and holds a cord of rope tight around his throat while the elf points a dagger at the captain’s left eye. The crewmen who accompanied Mundy ashore lie strewn across the terrace, unconscious, some of them in piles of toppled chairs and overturned tables. In most cases, they’re bleeding from what must have been a raucous brawl.
Captain Redmond goes on, his strangled voice raspy. “My first mate will bring them to you. Wait until you see the girl’s ticker.”
“You don’t have a girl with a clock heart,” snarls the elf, “and now the elven guard is in the village. You called them to disrupt our deal.”
“No.” Captain Redmond pulls against the throttling rope. The larger giant yanks harder on the confines, restraining the captain again.
Osric waves us across the alley. We sprint past the tavern one by one and down another slope. Radella leaves my pocket to fly, her bluish light casting an eerie glow over the road. Once we are far away from the noises of the captain begging, I ask Osric what they’ll do to him.
“They won’t kill him, but he may not be eating solid foods for a while.”
I find myself more disappointed than I thought I would be about the captain’s survival. I doubt I will ever forgive him for turning me into a novelty.
Another howl sounds behind us, still chillingly close yet farther away than before. Osric darts between two huts and sinks against a wall to get our bearings. We are almost to the overhang leading to the lagoon.
“It isn’t safe to stay in the village,” Osric says. “I know of a place out of the way. Follow me closely. The trail there is dodgy.”
One after another, we scurry after him and out into the open. Radella sneaks into my pocket to lessen her glowing light. The cliff above the lagoon provides an unobstructed view of the harbor below. Merrows have left the blue-lit depths to lounge on rock pilings and lie out on the dock. Osric stays back from the steep edge and leads us down a gravel trail through crabgrass.
Sounds of the merrows’ gaiety rise to us. Below the surface, the lagoon is still bustling with them and other creatures swimming about.
“What are they doing down there?” Laverick asks.
“That’s their market,” Osric replies. “They come to buy and sell goods.”
I imagine their market is much like ours, with merchants and craftsmen and shoppers coming together to trade, only everyone has fins.
The farther we go, the more the lanterns of the city dim and the waves become more radiant. Lines of the soft-blue lights lead off into the open sea like underwater roadways. The Undertow is still anchored in the harbor, its stern lanterns unlit.
Our path narrows and cuts closer to the edge of the cliff. I focus my tired mind and body to prevent myself from slipping and falling. A headache gathers like a storm behind my eyes, and Jamison begins to limp. We finally reach the watchtower at the top of the cliff at the mouth of the bay. Osric pushes his way inside.
“No one else is here,” he says. “The tower guard died long ago and no one replaced him.”
All the walls of the watchtower are curved. The furniture is scant: a bedroll and a lantern on a stool. In the middle of the single room, a staircase leads to the rooftop platform where beacons are lit to warn away boats from the reef and mark the entrance to the lagoon.
Radella leaves my pocket and flies inside the cylindrical tower. She perches in a gap between two stones midway up the wall and lies down to rest. Clearly, she’s had enough of everything and everyone.
We let Laverick take the bedroll, and Jamison and I trudge up the steps to the roof. The view is unhindered in every direction, providing a panorama of land and sea. Under my feet, the platform is singed from the signal fires that were once burned here. We sit on the cold, stained stone with our backs against the hatch and face the sea.
“I think the elven guard caught Harlow,” I say. “I’ve never heard her scream like that before.”
Neither of us debates whether Markham escaped the barghest. We know he probably did, because that’s our luck.
Osric comes to sit with us on the roof. He stretches out his long legs and crosses his ankles, then he removes an apple from his pocket and stares at it as though he isn’t hungry. I should probably thank him for helping us, but I have too many questions.
“You abandoned your captain and crew to set us loose,” I state. “Do you really hate Markham so much?”
Osric rolls the apple in his lap, his expression hard. “I think of what Killian did to Brea every day. Before she ran away, I found bruises on her. She tried to convince me she had fallen, but I knew they had been inflicted by someone. I tried to get her to tell me where they came from, but she got defensive and quit talking to me. She ran away with Killian soon after. I made myself leave the matter alone. Every day I regret not trying harder to get through to her.”
I’m still queasy about the bruises on Harlow. What occurred between the prince and Brea only adds fuel to my disgust.
“Where did the elven guard come from?” I ask.
“First you must understand that Eventide is a trading outpost. The population fluctuates depending on how many ships are at port. The Undertow is the only vessel currently here, but often there are up to half a dozen. Profiteers come from all over the seas to barter.” Osric holds up his shiny red apple. “The land here is scarce and fallow. Our resources come from the sea or trade with other worlds.”
Jamison straightens beside me. “How do the traders get here?”
“You may have seen a structure at the top of the mountain. It’s a large staircase that leads to a portal in the sky.”
All three of us give our attention to the mountain. Half of its face is frosted with moonlight, the other eclipsed in shadows. The structure that I thought was a lookout stands at the top. Knowing the portal is right there, and that we have a way to return home, sends me grasping for Jamison. He slides his arm through mine and watches the distance with me.
“King Dorian appointed a boggart to regulate the comings and goings of land dwellers to minimize access to that portal. The other portal is deep in the sea over Everblue and guarded by the king’s soldiers. No one may travel through either portal without the merrow king knowing.”
“The portal near Everblue must be the one the Terrible Dorcha travels through,” Jamison says.
Osric nods. “On the morrow, we’ll visit a friend of mine, a collector. She may have more of the bubble tonic Markham traded for. Bubble tonic gives land dwellers the ability to breathe underwater for hours, but it’s very hard to find.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to ask the merrow king to come to us instead of trying to go to him?” Jamison asks.
“King Dorian rarely leaves his castle. Mundy had to petition him three times before he would send a guard to inspect the sword, and then he acquired it sight unseen.”
“Why does he never leave his castle?” I ask. “Is it because of the finfolk?”
“Dorian spends most of his time with his daughters. He lost his wife a while ago, and now he rarely leaves their side. His children are his most precious treasure. The king dotes on them to no end. He even acquired the sword of Avelyn as a gift for his eldest daughter.”
The thought of a merrow princess in possession of my sword is discouraging, but I push my reservations aside and cling to the positives. Today, we escaped the pirates and found the portal. I will hold on to the afterglow of our accomplishments for as long as I can, for tomorrow we continue the race.
Chapter Fifteen
Fog hangs over the green clearing like the smoky breath of a dragon. My ivory mare shifts nervously under me, both of us directed at the murk. The Black Forest, known for its coal-barked flora, fringes the field, and a battalion of armed soldiers flanks us, including Jamison and our allies.
Across the field, from within the dim, something marches in our direction. The unbroken, collective sto
mping quivers the evergreens’ branches and dries out my throat. Through the slots in my helmet, I see the outline of the opposing army take shape, towering ghouls materializing in the gloom. I grip the reins to steady my horse, my clock heart ticking wildly.
The marching escalates to thunderheads colliding in my ears and then abruptly halts.
In the beat of silence, the whole of the world seems to cower from the army of giants. Their soldiers are massive, taller than the trees and thick as megaliths. Every one of them is adorned in heavy armor in a style of olden days, helmets with plumes, shields engraved with intricate skyscapes, and thick silver chain mail. They carry an array of sharpened arms: long swords, battle-axes, and maces.
I raise my own weapon, a lighter short sword, an ideal defense for a buccaneer swashbuckling in the tight quarters of a ship, not a sensible blade to brandish against a giant.
A horn blares from the other side of the field, the sound piercing. My horse spooks, rearing up and tossing me. I hit the ground, dropping my sword, and my mare tears off into the fog. As I rise, I notice my battalion has left me, either run off into the labyrinth of woods or spirited away into the mists.
The call of the horn concludes, and the giants charge.
I search for my short sword, but it’s nowhere to be found. My enemy gains on me each second. I sprint for the trees to retreat, and something shiny catches my eye—the sword of Avelyn. My blade is nestled on a bed of seagrass. My fingers curl around the gold hilt, and the blade glows white.
The giants’ strides eat up the land fast, crossing the clearing so that by the time I lift my sword, the first opponent has arrived.
Ropes of thick hair hang about his hulking shoulders, his expression mangled in a ferocious sneer. As he looms over me, his face transforms into Markham’s. I raise my shining blade to the prince’s true figure. At last, his outward appearance matches the monster in my mind.
He roars a bloodcurdling war cry and swings his long sword. Our weapons clash with a crackle of lightning. An arc of light bursts from our crossed blades, its force striking me like a blast and throwing me backward to the ground.
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