Markham steps forward, and the tip of my sword touches his vest. “Brogan stood in the way of my redemption. I’m so tired, so very tired. I’ve sought peace longer than you can fathom.” A half step, the blade pressing into his clothes. “Finish it, Everley.”
He must be mocking me. He doesn’t think I will cut down a defenseless man. Maybe he’s right. Though he killed my family in cold blood, I didn’t imagine this moment would include outright butchery. Even so, freedom lies at the end of my sword. Or is Jamison right? Can I still walk away? Or have I gone too far to turn back?
“Ah, you’ve something to live for,” Markham says. “Love perhaps? You’ve given your heart to Lieutenant Callahan?”
“He has nothing to do with this.” I don’t love Jamison, but I did let him into my head, and he’s jeopardized my judgment.
“Both of us bring loved ones into this stalemate.” Markham smiles sadly. “You’re grasping your salvation by a thread. Taking my life will destroy your spirit.”
“You already did that.” My memories of that night slither in around me. I am seven again, and he is standing over me with his sword. Every hour has come to this. I am one grand sweep from escape. “You ruined my life.”
“That was not my intention. I’d intended to end it.”
I plunge the sword into his chest.
Markham gasps as the blade sinks deep, impaling him. I follow the impetus of fissured sinew, his body recoiling against steel, then step back. He grasps at the hilt of my weapon. With inhuman strength, he pulls the sword from his chest.
The blade is clean. I wait for blood to spread across his chest and stain his ivory shirt. His heart does not break, nor does he crumble.
Markham caresses the edge of the sword and then sheathes it at his hip. “Do you see now that your ambition is futile?”
“H-how . . .”
Markham bows regally. “Prince Killian Markham of the Kingdom of Amadara at your service.”
“It cannot be.” The world tilts as though the ship is capsizing, but it’s only me. All reason and rationale fall around me, dropping me into an eddy of disbelief. It’s a moment before I stop sinking. “You . . . cannot be him. The lost prince and Princess Amadara are characters in a story.”
“I call her Ama,” Markham replies, devastation marking his brow. “Losing her and our home ruined me. I need not sleep, nor can I eat. Food tastes of salt and wine of ash.” He lifts a pocket watch, its craftsmanship old. The second hand is frozen between the eleventh and twelfth hour.
“I know clocks,” I say. “You could have removed or broken the gears.”
“Clever, but no.” He carefully opens his buttoned shirt. He has no injury or scar from my stabbing. But I saw the blade go through him. “Everything I love, all that I am, is trapped in time with my beloved Ama.”
My mind whirls in a million directions, striving to comprehend. “Father Time banished you from the Everwoods and into our world where time exists. You should have begun to age as soon as you arrived.”
“On her dying breath, Ama tore time to save my life. Father Time cannot violate her blood sacrifice; thus, I am stuck in between worlds.” His voice is so full of agony, it crackles. “I exist in between the beat of a clock, continuously locked in the middle of nowhere.”
The tumbling sensation returns. Everything is upright except for me. I am plummeting through an endless loop of madness. “You would have been banished three hundred years ago.”
“Three hundred and forty-nine. Immortality is beneficial for one purpose—counting time.” Markham’s stricken gaze lowers to my chest, as though he can hear my heart.
Even after seeing his torso unmarred, I cannot accept he is Amadara’s husband. “The lost prince was flawed, but he wasn’t wicked. You’re—you’re a monster.”
He touches his chest, offended. “You pursued me across the high seas, endeavored to take my life, and I am the monster?”
The world lists further. All the time I spent, the sacrifices I made, the preparation and training. All of it was for naught. I can never avenge my parents. Never see this man destroyed. I failed my family. Failed my father.
“You’re like Brogan, thinking your intentions are noble and your deceptions are defensible.” Markham’s voice rises, his color waxy. “Brogan Donovan was a thief and a traitor. Given the chance, I would exterminate him again.”
I ball my fist and swing. My knuckles crunch against his cheekbone. Markham absorbs the hit without defending himself. I shake out my hand and strike again, my concentration transforming into a rage of fists, my vision a blur of red. He must hurt, cry, bleed.
Markham grunts when I bludgeon his lip. Still no blood, but he feels pain.
He should feel pain.
I unsheathe my sword. We will see how immortal he is after I carve him apart.
He draws his flintlock pistol and pulls back on the hammer. “I’ve been more than patient, Everley. Drop the sword.”
I cannot determine if he’s bluffing, and I would rather not find out, so I release my weapon. The sword lands with a clang. My chest heaves so hard, my lungs may burst. I cannot inhale enough air to fill me. It is with pure defiance that I compel my ticker not to stall. What powers are protecting him? His eyes are clear, his skin unmarred. He is the epitome of handsomeness, the princeliest of men. My own knuckles bleed and darken with bruises.
Tears spill over my lashes. I was a fool to think I could defeat him. That I could be whole. I start down the stairs on rickety knees, my vision smeared. Markham pursues me like a bad dream.
“Go away,” I rasp.
“I need your assistance.”
“You’ll get no more of my time. I’ve wasted more than enough on you.”
Markham pins me against the handrail and presses the pistol under my chin. “I need someone Father Time and the Creator favor. Soon after I fled my kingdom, I lost my sword here on the island. I searched and searched to no avail. Centuries later, your father came upon it. Tripped over the damned thing, to be precise. Of all the hundreds of acres on the isle, and all the years I spent searching, Brogan stumbled upon my sword his first journey into the Thornwoods. The sword of Avelyn chose him for reasons only the Creator knows.”
My father’s sword, the one Markham is holding, is the sword of Avelyn? The Creator gave the sword of Avelyn to Father Time to guard the Everwoods. In the legend, it was the weapon the prince wielded to cut into the heartwood of the elderwood tree, thus carving into his princess’s heart.
Markham has again revealed his madness. He’s a prince. And my father’s sword is ancient? I could spit in his face for the audacity of his lies.
And yet . . . his appearance contradicts my doubts. He has not aged in a decade.
“I believe Father Time may favor your father’s bloodline.” Markham wipes away a tear dangling from my chin with the end of his gun. “You will help me return to my kingdom.”
“You have Tavis.”
“Your brother wasn’t left the sword of Avelyn, a fact I was unaware of until after I spared his life. Father Time chose you.” Markham tears open the top buttons of my shirt. I jerk the neckline shut too late, and his finger hovers over my clock heart. “Eternal life has taught me to recognize Father Time’s hand and train my ear to his call. Who built this magnificent machine? It could not have been your uncle. His craftsmanship is too basic. I would like another glimpse at it, if you’ll spare me the curiosity.”
“Fall on your sword,” I answer, holding my shirt closed. He has abolished my purpose for coming here. He won’t also rob me of my pride.
“Perhaps I’ll look another time.” Markham strokes my jaw with the end of the pistol. “You must be very special for the sword of Avelyn to have selected you. It must be your clock. The sword senses its master within you, Time Bearer.”
He speaks as though the sword picked me, when, in truth, the day my father came home from Dagger Island, I lusted for it. The sword represented his adventures and travels, both things I wanted. My bond with it was b
orn from my love for him, not a higher calling as Markham would have me believe.
He speaks quickly, manic in his conviction. “I can sense when the sword is near. I felt it in the Thornwoods and in your uncle’s clock shop. All those clocks deluded me into thinking I was sensing Father Time, but the sword was with you.” His face splits into a monstrous smile. “Everley Donovan, you’re going to lead me home to the Land of Youth.”
Dread lances through me. He wants me to return him to his land, his people, his Otherworld. “I won’t. I cannot.”
“Have you forgotten who I am?” he asks, his tone dead quiet. “The lieutenant came a long way to plead Rafferty’s case. I can help or hurt his cause.”
“Leave Jamison alone.”
Markham lowers his pistol and splays his fingers across my collarbone. His hair falls into his feverish eyes. “Will you risk your love so I may return to mine?”
“That’s what you want? To reunite with your princess?”
“I wish to undo a wrong. I cheated time, much as you have. To break free of my debt, I must release Amadara. I will give you the same riches I promised your brother. Land and a title when I return to my kingdom.”
“Your incentives are meaningless.”
His fingers bite into my neck. “I wouldn’t discard my generosity. Cooperate or the lieutenant will know terror and pain. It has been a long while since I have keelhauled someone.”
“Keelhauling” is a word my father would whisper to my mother so we children couldn’t hear. I searched out the meaning in a book and have never forgotten what I read. A brutal practice by mariners, the victim—usually a convict or prisoner—is tied to a line looped beneath the vessel, tossed overboard, and dragged under the ship’s keel from one side of the vessel to the other. Most men are cut up by the barnacles along the hull, resulting in lacerations that lead to infection should the man live that long. The majority of the victims drown.
Markham has me suspended on a wire of merciless steel. Only I am no longer hanging from his clutches alone. He has strung up Jamison beside me. This is why Markham brought him along, to use him against me.
“I’ll go,” I say, “but Jamison will know nothing of our agreement.”
Markham’s lips hover over mine, his grip on my neck loosening to oily petting. “We’re alike, you and I.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
“Oh, you are. We’ll both do anything to protect the ones we love.”
His unrattled answer in turn rattles me. My affections for Jamison are minimal, far from love. But I don’t want him brought further into Markham’s web. This is my past, my problem, my purpose for coming here.
Markham will bleed.
He lets me go, his smile an arrogant slash. I throw on my hood and stalk into the dark. At my cabin door, I crumple against the wall and will myself to stop shaking. Jamison may be awake inside, and he cannot see me this way or he will know something is wrong.
Everything is wrong.
Markham has the worst possible advantage. I’ve no sense if everything else he told me is true, but I felt my blade go through him and saw his unscathed flesh. Out of all the preposterous claims he made, his inability to perish is legitimate.
A brisk wind teases my cloak and chills me. I cannot wait to compose myself before going inside or I will be out all night. I slip into our cabin so depleted not even the shadows pacify me. Jamison is still fast asleep. I lie down and stare into the dim, too numb to cry. My heart ticktocks at a normal rate, both of us at a loss for what to do other than survive the night.
For one glorious second, when my sword was embedded in Markham’s chest, I had triumphed. I was unchained from my debt to my family, and the time I stole with my clock heart was rectified. It is not enough that he took my family and crippled my future. He deprived me of justice.
Exhaustion finally relieves me of my anguish. Killian Markham may be eternal, but so is my hatred. And he may be delusional as to whether he is the hero or monster of his story, but he is unmistakably the monster in mine.
Chapter Seventeen
My ladies-in-waiting are nowhere to be found. After searching belowdecks, I finally come upon them in a quiet place on the forecastle, huddled over a book in the morning sunshine.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Claret closes the book and tucks it beside her. “My lady, do you need something?”
She says “my lady” with an impertinent tone that doesn’t bother me in the least.
“Actually, yes.” They look at each other in amusement. They thought I wouldn’t ask anything of them while they were aboard. “I came to speak to you about the expedition. I heard from the crew that we’ll arrive at the drop-off soon. I want both of you to remain on the ship. The Thornwoods will be treacherous. I don’t want either of you hurt.”
“But we have to go,” Laverick protests. “The expedition is the reason we came.”
“You came to explore the island?”
Claret stands, hugging the book to her chest. “We came for the same reason Governor Markham is here. To hunt for treasure.”
I bluster a laugh. “That’s a tale I haven’t heard.”
“It’s true,” Claret insists. “We overheard soldiers discussing a secret treasure at camp. We went searching to find out whether it’s real and found this.” She opens the book to a portrait of a woman with sunny hair, huge light-green eyes, a slim neck, and creamy skin. Her beauty is like a rose in full bloom; it would be impossible to overstate her perfection. Under her portrait is a name written in fine penmanship—Ama. I turn the page to a picture of my father’s sword; the title reads the sword of Avelyn.
“Where did you find this?” I ask.
“We may have found it in the governor’s quarters,” Claret says.
This must be Markham’s personal sketchbook. He called Amadara “Ama,” the same caption beside the portrait of the woman. “You shouldn’t have taken this,” I say.
Laverick snatches the book back. “The governor has a large library of texts. He won’t notice it’s missing. We’ll return it later after we study the drawings inside. Some of them are of the Ruined Kingdom.”
“See for yourself.” Claret opens the book again and flips through page after page of pictures of countryside scenery. “Look how vivid and detailed they are. The person who drew them must have spent time in the kingdom or knew someone who had.”
My tongue curls into the back of my throat. It won’t be long before they associate Markham with these drawings or realize that my weapon mirrors the sword of Avelyn. They might already suspect.
“Where does it mention there’s a treasure?” I ask.
Laverick turns to a picture of a stone castle surrounded by forestlands. A river slices through the middle of the quaint village within the castle’s compound. A well-dressed couple stands in the window of the highest tower, she with lustrous hair and he a proud demeanor. I read the caption beneath.
Land of Youth.
Blessed of Father Time and ruled by Princess Amadara,
the Land of Youth is the wealthiest in all creation.
Laverick points to the caption. “See, the kingdom is wealthy. Their coffers must be overflowing with gold.”
“Or jewels or fine furs or ancient relics,” Claret adds. Her attention drifts away as though she is imagining various forms of treasure.
The caption does imply the kingdom has untold riches, but I’m still doubtful that there’s a hidden treasure. “All right, you two. You found the proof you wanted. Now put the book back before the governor finds it missing and keelhauls us all.”
“You should see one last picture,” Laverick says. She turns several pages to a charcoal sketch of a solemn young man.
My heart gives a significant tick. No nameplate or caption identifies him, yet I recognize his character from the feeling of his presence. Father Time is unmistakable, as his power has dwelled within me for years.
His thick black hair and youthful face are startlingl
y familiar. Though he appears sterner and more severe than I visualized, that may be the interpretation of the artist or the grace of my own vision. Father Time’s pensiveness grants him an air of wisdom and agelessness. He could belong to any century and world. He is unbound, ancient yet eternal.
Markham captured his persona with a critical, unforgiving eye. This is a portrait of someone he has met and is well acquainted with. Either he has an astounding imagination or the drawings in this book are accurate representations of real people and places. I don’t want to accept that he’s the lost prince. Then I would have to consider that Amadara truly danced in the Everwoods and the myth about her tearing time to save her prince is not a tale. It is history.
Laverick nudges me. “The young man in the portrait feels like someone you know, doesn’t he? Claret and I stared at his portrait for an hour this morning. We cannot recall where we know him from.”
I study Father Time’s brooding expression. He really does exist—my ticker has professed the validity of his power for a decade. An unspoken side of me hasn’t doubted his authority, yet it is different to see evidence that a guardian of time watches over us.
I close the book. “Return this immediately.”
“Don’t you want to see the other pictures?” Claret asks. “There’s one of a village—”
“We’re rowing to land soon. You have to put this back before we leave.”
“You mean you won’t be angry at us for coming with you?” Laverick asks.
“Would it stop you if I were?”
Claret pretends to consider my question. “Well, if we’re being honest . . .”
I push the Fox and the Cat toward the governor’s cabin. Markham stands at the middeck near the longboats. He and his crew are preparing for our departure, well within sight of the door to his quarters.
“What now?” Claret whispers.
“You’re the con artists,” I answer. “Think of something.”
“We’ll distract him while you return the book,” says Laverick.
I shrink back. “Why me?”
“Claret and I are always together. The governor will be suspicious if we aren’t seen side by side.” Laverick’s claim has as much merit as a dead sea rat has voice, but we’re speedily approaching the drop-off location.
Before the Broken Star Page 15