The clap of starlight fades to an endless vault of midnight. I sit up, my head pounding and my ticker tapping. The battlefield and army of brutal warriors are gone. Unfortunately, so is my sword. I am still atop the watchtower at the opening of the harbor. Jamison is asleep beside me, and Osric stands watch nearby, his attention on the sea.
Lying on my back again, I stare up at the icy stars, my mind ringing with Markham’s horrible war cry from my dream and my hand aching to hold my sword.
As the first light of daybreak spills over the horizon, the Undertow hoists its anchor and voyages out to sea. Osric monitors the ship’s departure while the rest of us stay in the watchtower and wait for the pirates to sail by.
Laverick and Radella found a barrel of stale water and more of my least favorite food—dried seaweed. I munch on my briny breakfast, bleary eyed and sore from yesterday’s exploits. Radella found a fly to dine on, which I studiously do not watch her eat. I have seen her devour enough of them to recall that she takes off the fly’s wings and eats the body first, saving the wings for last. Utterly disgusting, and yet, I wonder if the fly tastes better than this seaweed.
I slept little after my dream woke me. Though I have lived the events of that battlefield more than once in my nightmares, the scene varies. I always confront the army of giants with my sword, but this time, the giant’s face shifted to Markham’s. I never see who wins or loses. The sword of Avelyn always blinds me and I jerk awake.
Osric throws open the door. “They’re gone.”
We pack a sack with the last of the food and fill two water casks. Radella finally devours the wings of the fly.
“The grotto is half a day’s walk from here,” says the elf. “We should go.”
I slog outside after him without a word. A marine haze hangs over the village and the lagoon. We turn away from the watchtower and shuffle down a footpath to the rocky beach, traveling westward along the steep crags that line the coast. Radella rides in my pocket next to my quiet ticker.
“Why are we on the beach?” Jamison asks. “Aren’t we more visible down here?”
“Stone runs empty into the sea between here and the west end of the continent,” Osric replies. “This will be faster than navigating inland around them.”
The hard-packed sand littered with pebbles and shells resembles the beaches near my childhood home on the northern seashore of Wyeth. All that’s missing are the logs that washed ashore that I would teeter across as fast as possible without falling. My brothers, Tavis and Carlin, made forts out of smaller driftwood, while my sister, Isleen, searched for shells. Off the coast of Wyeth, the seafoam would drift inland and soak the sand. Our parents told us not to step in the foam, for where the land and the water churned up a froth was where the Creator first took physical form as an ivory mare, wild and serene as the sea, strong and sturdy as the land.
The waves here do not churn into something more, something hopeful.
Our walk marches us into midday, the fog vanishing to reveal a sun flanked by the colossal moon. Radella pokes her head out of my pocket, glares at the sunny waves, and hides again. No amount of time in this world eases her contempt for the water.
Osric suggests that we eat and drink as we travel. Any depletion of my strength leads to faintness, so I devour the seaweed and stale water without protest. He keeps his endless supply of apples to himself. His lack of willingness to share chafes at me. A while later, when he takes out yet another perfectly round red fruit, I can no longer contain my irritation.
“Has no one ever told you that it’s rude to eat in front of others?”
“We’re hungry,” Laverick adds miserably.
“Humans can’t eat apples grown in an elven orchard,” Osric explains. “They’re cultivated from special seeds enchanted with creation power. When consumed, charm apples slow our aging, but for non-elves, they’re poisonous.” He takes another bite and talks with his mouth full. “An elf who eats a charm apple a day will live longer than one who does not. Regrettably, the older we are, the more we need for upkeep.”
“Why haven’t we heard of charm apples?” Laverick questions.
“They’re only grown in the Land of Promise, and it’s unlawful to remove the trees or fruit or seeds from my world.”
“Then how do you get them here?” Jamison asks, joining our conversation.
“I buy them off traders. Years back, Prince Killian and I ran illegal shipments of charm-apple bushels from our world to the others. After we stopped, different runners took our place.”
Laverick appraises him with respect for his success as a smuggler. “Did you ever get caught?”
“Once we were nearly decapitated by a gnome trader.” Osric grunts to himself, a soft laugh. “I did it for the coin, whereas Prince Killian relished the danger and the opportunity to rebel. He has a history of infuriating his sister.”
“Not just his sister,” I mumble.
Osric proceeds down the trail, eating his magical apple. His friendship with Markham is long over, but the memories they made together will always exist.
The first time I met Markham, he and my father were embarking on a voyage. I was barely five years old. Markham, an admiral then, wore a gray naval uniform and shiny black boots. I remember how handsome he looked, how indomitable he appeared, seemingly untouched by misfortune or sorrow. He was everything a naval officer should be—the type of gentleman my parents may have hoped I would someday marry.
I don’t recall much else about him, not that it matters. Nothing about the prince was genuine, then or now. Even his appearance has been altered by a spell.
The tide starts to creep closer, so we hike up the hillside and mount a tor to view our progress. To the west runs a long, narrow piece of land, and far off at the end of it, there’s a crooked tree. We have returned to Hangman’s Spit.
I lay a hand over my faint ticker and recover from the climb. Jamison observes me from the corner of his eye. I am monitoring my clock heart, and he is monitoring me.
“This way,” Osric says.
We descend the other side of the hill to a stony inlet. Twin two-person skiffs are moored to the shore.
A gnome jumps out from behind a rock, wielding a small spike.
“It’s me,” says Osric, “and these are my human friends.”
The gnome grumbles something indecipherable.
“No, I didn’t steal them from a trader.” Osric gestures at the boats. “May we take these to go see her?”
The gnome grumbles, and then he notices Radella sticking out of my pocket and growls. She trills at him so loudly I fear she may rattle my clock heart out of my chest. Gnomes and pixies coexist in the Everwoods, but that doesn’t seem to make a difference to these two. I finally move away from him so she will stop.
“What’s wrong with you?” I demand.
She trills again, less irritably than before.
“I don’t care,” I say. “We’re all tired and sore, but you don’t see me snapping at anyone.”
“Certainly not,” Osric drawls, one eyebrow lifted.
Radella chuckles against me.
“Oh, shut up,” I tell her.
Osric steps into the first skiff. “Laverick, you come with me. Jamison and Everley, you take the other boat. We need to go quickly. High tide is coming in.”
Jamison and I climb into our boat, facing each other on parallel benches, and the gnome unties us. We row out of the sheltered inlet into low waves.
Osric steers toward a group of sea stacks—vertical rock columns in the coastal waters—and rows straight for the largest stack. The white stone column is so tall its shadow blocks the sun. In the lower face of the stack is an archway. Osric’s boat bobs up to the opening and slides through it into the rock structure. Jamison and I double our speed, wrestling against the currents, and row up and into the stack.
We pass through the arch and into a cavern. The water inside is glassy blue, and when reflected off the white rock of the low ceiling, it intensifies to a
bold and dreamy cobalt. Waves slap against the boat as we look about for the other skiff, but they must have gone down one of the inner passages.
“Which way?” Jamison asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Radella, will you go find them?”
She shakes her head and folds her arms across her chest.
“Radella,” I reply, “go look for our friends or I will never let you ride in my pocket or on my shoulder again.”
She shoots up so fast her wings brush my nose and takes off down the nearest tunnel. I hold on to the side of the boat and take these few seconds of waiting to rest.
Jamison leans forward, entering more of my vision. “Everley, you’ve said you’re well, but something is wrong. Is it your heart?”
“My ticker is functioning as it should,” I say in all sincerity. My clock heart is spending the time I was given as it was made to do.
“I should still have a look at it.” Jamison reaches for the buttons of my shirt, and I shift back.
“Neely looked at it twice. I told you, it’s working as it should.”
Jamison rubs at his bearded chin in frustration. “Do you remember what I asked of you the night of our wedding?”
“You asked for honesty, and I’m telling you the truth. Jamison, you cannot fix my clock heart.” He doesn’t need me to tell him that I’m living off borrowed time. His knowing will change nothing, except to spoil this time we have. Jamison and I have come a long way since our wedding day. I will not corrupt this easiness between us with doom and dismay.
“Please stop worrying,” I say, cupping his jaw. “I don’t need you to fix anything. Just be here with me.”
He holds my wrist and leans into my hand. “Always.”
His sentiment comes out naturally, softening the distance between us. We have a history together—a past and a present—and, at least for a little while longer, a future. Jamison’s lips are so close to mine they tempt me to go against my previous decision to hold back on a kiss. I cannot stop myself from leaning into him, my lashes sinking closed, and my mouth—
“Hurry along, you two!” Osric calls. He and Laverick have rowed back to the opening of one of the inner channels.
Radella zips back to us and then flies ahead as we row toward our friends. The ceiling is closer, or, more accurately, the water is higher, the rising tide pushing us up. We maneuver through the narrow passage, following the other skiff. Our path is lit by sunshine pouring through gaps in the overhead rock face. The rising water continues to lift us nearer to the ceiling, so we hunch over and row, our strokes shorter due to our bent position.
We pass through an archway into a large cavern. A section of the ceiling has eroded, letting in daylight. Osric and Laverick row to the ledge and tie off their boat. We dock alongside them and climb out as water gushes through the passage, shortening the archway so it’s no longer passable by boat.
A worn pathway lines half of the pool, and etchings cover the wall from the floor to high above. I can read some names and dates, all carved into the stone by different hands. The markings are so closely layered and clustered that I lose count of how many there are, but there must be hundreds.
“Look at this.” Laverick taps an inscription. “This person signed their name over three hundred years ago.”
“This one is four hundred years past,” says Jamison.
His remark spurs a hunt for a signature and date that are even older. Radella locates another one from four hundred years ago, and then Osric points out a date five hundred years old.
“Who were these people?” Jamison asks.
“They were patrons of my friend’s kindness.” Osric brushes a fingertip over the one dated five hundred years ago. “They carve their names on her wall for her so she can better remember their stories.”
Jamison and Laverick spread out to find more old names.
“Do you know any of these people?” I ask.
“This was my great-aunt,” Osric replies, referring to the name he’s touching. His voice brims with sadness whenever he speaks of his family or his home world. “She’s probably passed on by now.”
I feel his ache as my own. “Does missing them ever go away?”
“Not for me. Home will always call to me.”
“Have you thought about going back?”
Osric drops his hand to his side. “Too much time has passed. The home I left is not the home I would return to.”
We pace the wall, and I spot a big name at eye level—Prince Killian Markham, dated over three hundred years ago.
“How old is Markham?” I ask. “He told me he was not yet four hundred years old.”
“He’s almost as old as me. Around six hundred years.”
My belly plummets to my knees. Markham tricked time and gained immortality 350 years ago. He walked the worlds almost that long before then. His age feels insurmountable. If people learn wisdom and gain knowledge through experiences over time, how can I outwit someone multiple centuries older than me?
“Carve your name next to his,” Osric suggests.
“But your friend hasn’t helped us yet.”
“She’ll forgive the anticipatory mark. Put your name above Killian’s and make it bigger. Should he return here, the sight will vex him.”
I take Osric’s sword and carve my name above Markham’s. After adding the date, I step back to view my handiwork. I have not carved something in a while, and doing so feels good.
Osric pats my shoulder. “It isn’t much, but it helps a little.”
I only wish the act helped lessen my anger. I would prefer to vandalize Markham’s name on the wall, scratching it from existence. But that could upset Osric’s friend, and we need to start off our meeting right to secure her help. I wonder about these people’s stories. Their signatures and the dates are trophies of the collector’s generosity. What did she do for Markham? What does Osric hope she will do for us?
“Osric,” I say, “what does your friend collect?”
“I’ll let Muriel tell you. Her powers are unique.”
“Her powers?” Jamison asks from farther down the wall.
“Muriel is known in these parts as the sea hag. I wanted you to see this before I told you so you would know she’s helped many people in dire circumstances.”
His reassurance doesn’t quell my unease. The only other sorceress we’ve met is the hag in the Thornwoods. She tried to poison us with apples and then use our bones to build her mongrel a place to sleep.
“I can sense you still have reservations. Perhaps this will persuade you.” Osric stops near a slot in the stone that leads out of the pool cavern. On the wall near the exit is his own signature. “Muriel has helped me too.”
Jamison and I glance at each other, both of us locked in uncertainty. Neither one of us moves or takes the first step; however, Radella flies to the slot in the wall, waves us forward, and darts in.
“The pixie is brave,” Osric says.
Not really. Radella has been afraid of most everything in this world. Apparently, the sea hag is less intimidating than the selkie barmaid.
“Muriel is waiting,” Osric says, and then he slips into the slot and disappears.
Laverick stares at the marking of his name and chews her inner cheek. “Do you think the sea hag can help us find Claret?”
“You should ask her,” I say. “Look how many other people she’s helped.”
“But what will she ask for in return?” Jamison questions.
Laverick quits gnawing her cheek. “I don’t care. I just want Claret to be safe.” The Fox twists back her long auburn hair to prevent it from snagging on anything and slides into the slot.
I start to follow her, but Jamison blocks my way.
“You shouldn’t get her hopes up,” he says. “You don’t know what the sea hag can do.”
“And you don’t know that she can’t find Claret.” My voice hitches on worries that I’ve repressed for Laverick’s sake. For my sake too, if I’m being honest. I
would rather concentrate on recovering my sword than Claret, because the sword cannot be drowned or enslaved, and the thought of either happening to Claret is too terrible to consider. “Until we hear otherwise, I will believe Claret can be found.”
Jamison glances around the cavern, peering down the wall of names. “I don’t like this. Osric should have told us he was bringing us to a sorceress.”
“He wouldn’t have brought us here if Muriel were dangerous.” As soon as I say the words, I question how right they are. We barely know the first mate. Is his bitterness against his prince so great that he would put us at risk?
Jamison stays in front of me, locked in indecision.
I squeeze past him into the slot and then send him a conciliatory smile. “We should at least give Muriel a chance. We can’t do this on our own. We need help.”
He follows me, murmuring under his breath. It isn’t until we are nearly through the opening that I make out what he said.
It isn’t the help I question, it’s the cost.
Chapter Sixteen
The sea hag’s grotto is full of house cats.
Black cats with white bellies, calico cats, gray-striped cats with long fur, shaggy orange cats with ivory tips on their tails, and dusky-blue cats with huge golden eyes. Some of them meow while others yowl and prowl about or lie tucked in a ball. The cats crawl all over the furniture and laze in pools of sunshine. There must be three or four dozen of them living in this grotto in the middle of the sea. I’m so overwhelmed by their number I nearly overlook the young woman Osric is embracing.
“Muriel, you’re looking well.”
“Thank you, Osric, as are you. The apple bushels you left here are waiting for you in the kitchen. I saved them for your return.” She waves us in from the entry. “Come in, come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
I thought the sea hag would look more like an old woman, with bone jewelry dangling off of her, like the witch of the Thornwoods, or I thought that perhaps she would be a creature of the sea, with webbed toes, green hair, tentacles, and gills. But this woman—by all appearances, this human—has the most brilliant scarlet hair I’ve seen, wide-set silver eyes, and full crimson lips. I cannot place her age. She has a timelessness about her, and her pale skin has an inner glow, as though she drank the nectar of the moon.
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