Before the Broken Star

by King, Emily R.

  Claret dips a finger in the river. “It’s cold. I’ll stay with them onshore.”

  “I’m not keen about cold water either,” says Laverick, scrunching her nose.

  “None of you can remain on the riverbank,” Markham barks. “Get in or be left behind.”

  He strips off his boots and stockings. Tavis joins him, removing layers and stuffing them into his satchel. He wades in first and balances his pack on his head. With his other hand, he judges the depth around him with his walking stick. At the center of the river, the water rises to his upper thighs.

  “This is the deepest point,” he says.

  Markham shoves his shirt into his pack. “If I remember right, the water doesn’t rise above chest level.”

  “You’d best be certain,” I say. “Don’t forget you need me.”

  His shirtless torso presses against my arm. “I’m not likely to forget your usefulness, Miss Donovan. You’d be wise not to forget mine.” He lifts his pack overhead and wades in.

  After an impertinent sneer at those of us stalling, Harlow trudges in as well. Stripped down to her shirt and trousers, she hisses at the abrupt cold but does not pause.

  “Everley, you can follow us along the bank,” Jamison says. “I’ll carry the sword into the river.” His offer is thoughtful, but he cannot take my place. The sword has ordered me into the water, and my defiance may prolong our quest.

  “The river isn’t too deep,” I say, my confidence weak. As long as my ticker isn’t submerged, I will be all right. The glass face seals out some water, including perspiration. “I’ll be careful.”

  I remove my boots and stockings. Claret and Laverick follow my example, undressing down to their billowy shirts and breeches. The Cat grumbles the whole time, bemoaning the impending frigid water. I leave on my waistcoat. My shirt will become sheerer when wet, so the thicker cloth will conceal my heart.

  Jamison removes all his clothes except his trousers. My gaze roves over his broad chest, golden skin stretched over sleek, firm muscles. I catch Claret and Laverick doing the same and shoot them a withering glower. They smirk at one another, unrepentant in their ogling.

  Markham snaps at us to hurry along. He and Harlow are already shivering. Tavis waits in the thigh-high water, and I hesitate at the bank. The last time I entered any water was the night before my parents died. Mother bathed me in their washtub and Father combed my hair by the fire. While my tresses dried, he told my siblings and me petrifying tales of the isle. He later stroked my head and said I had no cause to worry. Dagger Island was far away, and I was safe in our home.

  Time is the foulest trickster.

  Jamison consolidates our belongings into one pack and hefts it for us. Balancing my sword, I wade into the frigid water. The stony riverbed digs into my feet. One loose or slippery rock and I am doomed. I subdue my dread by concentrating on each step.

  At the center of the stream, Markham twirls the daisy he plucked from the bank. Harlow stares daggers at the pretty little flower.

  “Which way?” I ask.

  He sniffs the daisy and tosses it into the water. We watch as the flower bobs downstream. Then suddenly, as though the river has switched directions, the daisy pinwheels back, passes us, and travels upriver against the current. Gooseflesh showers me from head to toe.

  “Mother Madrona,” Laverick breathes.

  Back home, she would be sentenced to burn for uttering blasphemy. Here in the wilds, halfway around the world, where Madrona’s power dominates more than any ruler’s, she prays to the only authority that’s relevant.

  Markham and Harlow track the daisy upstream. Claret and Laverick go next, arms above their heads, holding their daggers and packs. I slog along between Jamison and my brother.

  “Everley,” Jamison says, “when we get out of the river, you’re going to explain what’s happening. I’m trying to be patient, but if one more daisy appears out of nowhere, I may explode.”

  He still hasn’t guessed Markham’s true identity. Why would he? Not in all the worlds would anyone assume he’s the lost prince. I didn’t want to tell Jamison or the Fox and the Cat, but the longer we spend in the Thornwoods, the more their ignorance feels like a risk.

  Trees line the river. Their swaying boughs pause when we approach, then restart as we move away. The lull in birdcalls and creature chatter is more apparent from water level, a unanimous quiet that alarms us into silence. No forest I have traversed has been more aware of man’s presence. The very river shifts in reproach at our invasion. Currents slice past my legs like fingers on the verge of plucking us up and tossing us to shore.

  Our spinning daisy leads us into waist-high waters. I lift onto my tiptoes, legs quaking and feet aching. A steep incline extends far above the riverbanks. We enter the gulch, the water creeping up to the bottom of my rib cage. Any deeper and it will be more efficient to swim.

  Laverick and Claret stop and go very still.

  “Something brushed past my thigh,” says Claret, her rolling r’s more pronounced when she is afraid.

  “I felt it too,” replies Laverick.

  She and Claret stay frozen while Tavis and Jamison survey the surface for signs that what the women felt wasn’t a fish or a frog. Farther up ahead, Markham halts and then spins in a circle.

  “What are you doing?” I call.

  “The daisy disappeared,” Harlow answers.

  I search the high riverbanks for another flower. We’re at the bottom of a ravine, the worst place to return our hunt to dry ground.

  Harlow and Markham swivel toward a ripple approaching them quickly from upriver. Something skims the surface, bulging the muddy water.

  Markham draws his cutlass. “Get to land!”

  He and Harlow swim hard for the bank. As the swell races after them, I take out the daisy I tucked in my pocket and grip it for protection. Markham glances over his shoulder at his silent pursuer—and then they meet.

  Water spurts up as Markham is dragged below. Harlow goes still as a statue just feet away from where he went under. Claret and Laverick shriek and thrash toward the steep riverbank. Tavis readjusts his grip on his walking stick and high-steps for shore. I start to return to land as well, my gait more cautious to avoid slipping in.

  “Harlow!” Jamison calls.

  She’s unresponsive. He tosses his pack to shore and shouts for her again. As I lumber ahead of Jamison, every movement in the river feels adversarial. Claret and Laverick scramble up the embankment, clawing at loose dirt and pebbles. I’m in shin-high water when a tight binding wraps around my ankle and wrenches.

  I twist as I fall, landing on my backside in the shallows. Tentacles shoot out of the river and grasp blindly at the embankment. The Fox and the Cat scream and kick. One of the tentacles, a slimy greenish feeler, has captured my ankle. I swing the daisy to ward it off, but the tentacle tautens and pulls me farther into the water.

  “Enough of that,” I say, discarding the flower.

  A swift drop of my blade liberates me. I rise, drenched from my navel down, and the daisy is crushed in the mud.

  Jamison slices at the tentacles, his rapier gleaming as a righteous beacon. Tavis cudgels the invader, wielding his walking stick like a staff.

  Claret and Laverick have scaled out of reach. I begin to join them when Markham resurfaces, gasping. He rolls in uproarious waves, fighting against a thick tentacle coiled around his neck. Harlow returns to herself and stabs at the cloudy water. Her blind aim strikes his stealthy attacker. The tentacle releases Markham and the two quickly splash to shore.

  I back up out of the water. Shivers course through me in violent surges. My heart clunks, a gradual unwinding.

  Be calm. Be machine. Be indifferent, like time.

  The water quiets, the surface glassy. Jamison and Tavis do not wait for another strike. They swim for safety. Markham and Harlow fight a path up the ridge. Laverick and Claret crest the top and look down. My brother reaches the embankment and starts up.

  I hold back for Ja
mison. He’s nearly to shore when tentacles shoot out, wrapping his arms and legs. He arches his back and swings wildly, but they pull him under.

  “Jamison!” I wade back in as far as I dare.

  He bursts from the depths, writhing against the tentacles around him. They snake up to his neck. I cry up to Markham. “Help him!”

  He stops up the incline. “Climb to me with the sword!”

  “We aren’t leaving without Jamison!” I eye the river. The water isn’t too deep out by him. I’ll wade in and—

  The tentacles roll him under and out of sight.

  Quiet accompanies the leveling of the surface. Any splash or bubble is reason to hope, but no signs of life below manifest. He has been under too long already.

  I start into the river with my sword.

  Markham slides down the embankment and hurls me back. “You will not risk yourself.” We grapple with the blade, jerking it back and forth. “Remember who you are, Everley. You’re no hero.”

  I stomp on Markham’s instep and he stumbles back. Sword raised, I wade into the water. Tavis side-foots down and splashes to me.

  “You can’t, Evie.” He glances at my ticker hidden behind my wet waistcoat. Markham must have told him about my clock heart. My brother pries the sword from my grasp and dives in.

  Standing at the water’s edge slathered in mud, I scour the surface. Markham grabs my long hair and wrenches me back.

  “Foolish girl. We cannot lose the sword!” He shoves me hard and I fall into the shallows, up to my wrists in chilly water.

  Panic lashes across my middle. Time holds me captive, each tick another moment Jamison and Tavis don’t have air. Each second drills through me, robbing me of my own breath.

  The water erupts, and I shield my chest from a shower of spray.

  A grindylow ascends from the river depths, Jamison entangled in its tentacles. Tavis stands before them both, the monster twice his height. The grindylow, a water creature that hails from an Otherworld, is the color of the river, a muddied mix of browns and greens. Round blank eyes sit on the outside of its bulbous head. Dozens of tentacles shoot out from its thickset body, and spiky fins run along the ridge of its humped back and oblong face.

  The grindylow peels its mouth open, exposing razor teeth from gill to gill. Markham backtracks and clambers up the rise.

  My brother confronts the creature and slashes Jamison free. He drops into the water and comes up gasping. Tavis maneuvers between them and stabs the grindylow in the side. The monster screeches, a garbled, high-pitched shriek. Tavis holds it off as Jamison staggers to the riverbank. I guide him out, and he collapses on the bank.

  He pats his breast pocket. “Where’s the snuffbox?”

  “The what?”

  “Rafferty’s snuffbox. It’s gone.”

  The grindylow shrieks and thrashes its head. I heft Jamison to his feet and push him to climb the embankment. Claret and Laverick call to him, encouraging him upward.

  “Everley!” Markham hollers from above. He’s almost to the top. “The sword!”

  His concern for the blade and not my brother incenses me. If he cares so much about the security of the weapon, he should be down here.

  Tavis splashes to the bank, and stringy tentacles sweep at his feet. He flies forward and hits the rocky ground.

  I take back my weapon and step in front of him. The grindylow glides closer, sliding lithely at the surface, its head above water and its tentacles twitching. In shallower depths, the monster starts to climb out of the river, walking on tentacles. The grindylow spreads its lips in a vainglorious grin and lunges, teeth bared. I jump sideways, leaping over its feelers, and rotate. Double-fisting my sword, I drive the blade through its plump middle. The beast screeches, a pained whine. I withdraw my blade, and it limps back and then dives underwater.

  Tavis scrambles up the slippery bank. I keep my sword raised for another strike, but the river soothes to a croon as the current journeys off into the forest. Something silver in the mud catches my eye. Rafferty’s snuffbox. I shake off the water and pocket it.

  Claret and Laverick help Tavis up the incline. I throw Jamison’s pack over my shoulder and slip up the muddy ridge, the grindylow’s shrieks still ringing in my ears. Near the summit, Markham reaches for me. I hold on to the sword and clamber up the last few feet on my own.

  Rolling onto my back, I lie between my brother and Jamison.

  “Are you—?” Tavis starts.

  “I’m alive,” I reply. “Jamison?”

  “Just grand.”

  Laverick and Claret pass around the water flasks. I sit up to drink and take in our sorry state. Mud covers our battered bodies, our faces pale and tired. Markham and Harlow are already re-dressing, pulling their stockings and boots on over their dirty feet.

  “Get up,” Harlow says. “The lot of you can recover on the trail.”

  “We’re not going anywhere yet,” I counter. “We need to rest.”

  Markham tucks in his shirt and shakes water from his hair. “You will move when I tell you to.”

  “Had you helped us fight the grindylow, we might listen to you,” I reply.

  He replies with a rigid jaw. “I’ve waited nearly three hundred and fifty years, and on the cusp of my return home, you dare to thwart me?”

  I rise on bare feet, hoisting my sword between us. “If you think that was a threat, just wait until you hear what I have to say now that I’m standing.”

  Markham reels back to strike me. I double-fist my sword and glare down the blade at him. Though I cannot wound him, the gratification of stabbing him would not be a waste of strength.

  “Killian,” Jamison says, his brow knit tight and his voice quiet, “how have you waited three hundred and fifty years to go home? Isn’t home Wyeth?”

  Markham withdraws from me and lets Jamison’s inquiry go unanswered.

  Tired of his ambiguity, I answer on his behalf. “He’s been lying to you about who he is. He isn’t just a governor for the queen. Killian Markham is the lost prince from legend. The gate we seek that will lead us to the Everwoods will in turn let him into his kingdom in the Land of Youth. Or so he says.”

  “It’s not postulation,” Markham says. He bows, a stiff bend at the waist. “I am Prince Killian, husband to Princess Amadara and king of the Ruined Kingdom.”

  Jamison holds very still, and then he lies back down again, his hands on his pumping chest as though he suddenly cannot catch his breath. Harlow wrings out her cloak, everything about this unsurprising to her. Laverick and Claret make up for her dispassion with gaping mouths.

  “You’re the lost prince of legend?” whispers Claret.

  “You mean the lost prince?” Laverick finishes.

  “It’s not as impressive as it sounds,” I say dryly.

  “Ha!” Harlow snorts. “Where are your crown and title, Everley?”

  No one laughs. My brother is understandably unmoved by this revelation, yet it is Jamison’s reaction I am most preoccupied by. He sits up again, his demeanor even paler. I cannot read him. Is he astonished by Markham’s identity? Wounded by his leader’s lie? I wait for him to challenge this information or demand to know more. He hangs his head and says nothing about this fusion of myth and reality.

  Markham tugs down his waistcoat. “Now, if everyone is recovered, I wish to return home to Ama. We may not succeed if we do not find the gate soon.”

  “What do you mean?” I don’t recall any mention of there being a time limit on finding the gate to the Everwoods.

  “Time cannot stand still forever,” Markham answers, his tone clipped. “The tear in time in my world will eventually cave in on itself. My kingdom, my whole world, will collapse, and Amadara with it.”

  The Fox and the Cat fall into somber silence. They do not have all the information, not even half, but the significance of our mission is evident. Our failure to assist Markham on his journey home will lead to the destruction of a world.

  Jamison rubs his forehead, as if he is
massaging a terrible headache. He still has not looked up at me.

  “Killian,” Tavis says gruffly, seemingly bothered by our sudden time limit, “what would you have done had Everley not been sentenced to the isle?”

  “Her arrival was inevitable,” Markham replies simply, his arrogance absolute. “Misfortune worked against me for centuries. What you call bad luck is time shifting out of accord with one’s wants and needs. Luck was bound to turn in my favor eventually. Time always heeds to persistence and determination.”

  By some absurd chance, I understand his reckoning. The very tick of my heart propelled me to find him, which in turn led me to the isle. My uncle calls this process dovetailing. He selects two pieces of wood that do not fit together and carves out notches until they knit in harmony. Time does not bend to our will as Markham thinks. We merely wait until our moment arrives. This philosophy has spurred me on for a decade. I always knew that someday Markham and I would reunite.

  Jamison lifts his chin and opens his mouth to speak. Another moment passes before he finds his words. “How do we know you’re not lying?”

  “A lie serves its master.” Markham holds out his empty hands. “I gain nothing from revealing my greatest vulnerability.”

  That may be true, but Markham is in the ideal position to deceive us. Only he escaped the fissure in time. Only he could have told the outside worlds The Legend of Princess Amadara. As the author of the tale, he could have manipulated the story to suit himself. All or nothing of what he told us could be true.

  “My deepest apologies, Lieutenant.” Markham lays a solemn hand over his heart. “Your wife insisted I not tell you. Out of respect for your marriage, I left the details of our excursion for her to recount. My regrets to you all.”

  The Fox and the Cat accept his apology with nods. They were the lost prince’s supporters before his revelation, and even if they do not fully believe who he is yet, they want to.

  Jamison tugs on his shirt and boots while I fish my own boots and stockings from his pack. Regardless of my constant glances at him, he ignores me. Dressed and ready to travel on, he asks, “How long do we have, Killian?”