Before the Broken Star

by King, Emily R.

  Markham weighs his inquiry before he replies. “The closer we are to the kingdom, the more unstable the tear will become. Envision a tattered rope bridge suspended over a chasm. Brogan snuck across without damaging the integrity of the bridge. But the more people that pile onto the bridge, or the more often the bridge is traversed, the sooner the brittle ropes will snap and collapse.”

  Jamison accepts this answer without balking. “Which way do we go, Everley?”

  His cold tone shrivels any gladness I felt that he’s acknowledging me. “I’m sorry, Jamison. I would have told you—”

  “Which way?” he repeats.

  “I’ll consult the sword,” I mutter.

  Claret and Laverick heave on their packs. Besides theirs, all our packs except Jamison’s were lost in the river. Both his and Markham’s pistols were rendered useless by the water, and Tavis lost his walking stick, the current having swept it downriver. The Fox and the Cat pull away from the group, excluding me from their quiet conversation. Though I wait for someone to come with me, no one offers to help me locate the next daisy. I am on my own.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  My sword directs me down a trail of daisies that bloom like new stars in the duskiness. Claret and Laverick whisper behind me, their discussion indistinguishable except for the word “prince” every so often. I have no interest in eavesdropping, my concentration on heeding the sword’s promptings.

  Ahead I spot a break in the woods. I duck through the gap and stop. We have come upon a lake, the sky above overcast and mountains in the distance. Trees crowd up to the still, dull water. My companions join me, Jamison limping a little.

  “Children of Madrona,” Claret groans, “I’m still damp from the river.”

  The island has more hidden pockets of peril than the alleyways of Dorestand. I refuse to aim the sword at the lake’s flat surface and find out if we should go in. No matter what, I won’t go in.

  “Is this area familiar to you, Markham?” I ask.

  “Your father and I were separated at the river. That was the farthest I’ve gone.”

  “Look there,” says Tavis.

  Daisies are mixed into the reeds by the lakeshore. Thank the Creator, we aren’t going near the water.

  We track the flowers around the lake in a single-file line. Tavis stays as close as my shadow, his nearness driving my thoughts to our father. I cannot fathom why Father would leave his wife and children to return here. He was not motivated by riches or treasure. His curiosity for answers and hunger for adventure were his downfall. In that, I hope we are not alike.

  “I don’t expect you’ll forgive me, Evie,” Tavis says, his voice weary. “I know you aren’t proud of what I’ve become, but it would mean a lot if you’d remember me as the brother I was and not as I am now.”

  His request compels me to compare this man to the brother I remember. “I think I prefer you now. You’re more forthright than you were, and you went back into the river to help Jamison. I’m not sure the old Tavis would have had the courage to do that.”

  I glance over my shoulder, assuming my brother will be pleased. His brow puckers and he rubs his chest as if pained.

  “I should have been with you all these years,” he says. “You needed me, and I let you down.”

  Exhaustion frays at my resentment. I haven’t the strength to hold on to my anger, not here, not with so many other worries requiring my care. “I still need you, Tavis. I hope you’ll choose me this time.”

  A long pause stretches between us, disturbed only by our footfalls.

  Finally, he answers. “I will, Evie.”

  The pathway deviates from the lake, back into the woods. Our party seizes the opportunity to wash away the dried mud before parting from the water, in which time the Fox and the Cat finish their conspiratorial whispering and query the prince.

  “How did you manage to hide for so long?” Claret asks. Whereas I am suspicious of his tricks, she seems impressed by his centuries-long ruse.

  “By not hiding.” Markham’s reply triggers a round of “aaaahhs” from the con artists. Harlow beams with pride, as if fooling others is worth boasting over. “No one anticipated the legend was authentic, which made changing identities simple. I moved around every decade or so and took a new name. My greatest detriment was my inability to age. My state position in Wyeth is the longest post I have held in the public eye. This is also the only time I’ve used my given name. With time running out, I needed to return to myself.”

  Laverick appraises him. “Does the queen suspect who you are?”

  “Queen Aislinn is blinded by her own ambitions.” Markham trails his touch down Harlow’s arm. “I’ve also hired assistants over the years who’ve dispelled rumors about me that were too near the truth.”

  A question jumps off my tongue. “Was my father too close to your falsehoods?”

  “Brogan had his own secrets,” Markham replies.

  “He’s not here for me to question,” I say.

  My brother shakes his head at me to disengage. Again, Markham is unruffled. “I gave your father several chances,” he says.

  “How many chances did you give my mother?” I take a charged step forward. From the corner of my eye, I see Jamison grip his sword.

  The governor, the prince—no, my parents’ killer—replies quietly, “Brogan could have saved your mother, but he let her die.”

  I charge Markham, slamming him toward the water. He stumbles to the lakeshore and teeters on the brink of falling. I grip his collar, uncertain if I will toss him in or impale him. “What about Isleen’s final moments? Your men used my sister and knocked out my brother for trying to stop them.”

  Harlow drags me off him. “Everley, control yourself.”

  “What do you gain from this?” I ask, shoving her off me. “Your prince wants to reunite with his princess. Once he does, he’ll let his men use and discard you too.”

  “There are other ways to be used and discarded,” she says.

  “You’d know that better than I.”

  “That’s enough.” Markham tugs down his waistcoat, the epitome of propriety. I sense the Fox’s and the Cat’s alarm and confusion but feel no inclination to expound on my rage. “My patience is ebbing. Everley, I’ve been forthright with you, yet you continue to punish me for your father’s deceptions. I tolerate your misplaced animosity because I know who I am. Despite your ingratitude, I have given you the same chance as your father to explore wonders and discover worlds. Don’t squander my gift.”

  “You’ve no remorse for what you’ve done,” I say, tears grinding my teeth. “You can pretend you’re something else, but I see you for what you are. You’re a monster.”

  “Which of us is wielding the sword?”

  His pious smirk undoes me. I swing my blade to slice his stupid, handsome face. Jamison’s rapier connects with mine, stopping the blow.

  “Everley,” he says lowly, “you’re better than this.”

  “I’m really not.”

  I push against him, steel against steel. Claret and Laverick stand ready with their daggers. Tavis’s fists are balled. They will fight alongside me—they have loyalty—but a mutiny will solve nothing. Markham will still be indestructible and a charlatan. We will still be lost in the Thornwoods, and I will still rely upon my clock heart, which, at the moment, is closer than ever to breaking.

  I withdraw my sword and stalk uphill into the woods.

  Markham yells for me to come back. The evergreens muffle Jamison’s reply, his voice infuriatingly level and reasonable. I storm farther into the trees. These woods are full of threats at every turn. I would still rather be out here than spend another moment near that liar. Markham can play the poor lost prince, but he is a monster.

  And yet, the longer I am with him, the less certain I am that he’s the only one.

  Footfalls resound behind me.

  “Everley, wait.” Jamison’s plea urges me faster. “I cannot keep up. Slow down.”

  “Do I n
eed to defend myself?” I ask, halting. “Or can I put away my sword?”

  “I interfered on your behalf.” He hikes up to me, lunging over heaving tree roots. “Taking Markham’s life means more to you than your own.”

  “I cannot kill him. The lying bastard was honest about two things: he’s the prince and he’s trapped in time. Markham is immortal.”

  Jamison comes closer, compelling me to lower the sword. “You didn’t think it was important that I know? You’d hang for killing the governor. I was preparing myself to attend your execution.”

  “My thoughts have been elsewhere. Tavis says our father was culpable in his own death.” My voice hitches, then drains to a rasp. “If Father could have saved us, why didn’t he?”

  “Sometimes there’s no good explanation.”

  “There’s always an explanation.”

  “The solution you want might be wrong.” Jamison’s clear eyes pin me, obviously aching in pain. “After Tarah’s death, I returned home on leave. My sister was long dead by the time I arrived. The marquess sent for me after her wake. My fury was so great at him for not taking better care of her that I struck him with all my might.” Jamison balls his fist and stares at it, as though he carries the memory in his knuckles. “My father huddled on the floor weeping, so drunk he couldn’t stand. His weakness incensed me. I hit him again and again . . . When he was bloody and unconscious, I was so ashamed of what I’d done. I had beaten the man who for years had beaten me. I couldn’t be like him, not his marriage, not his selfishness, not his temper. With his blood still on me, I vowed to change.”

  I start to ache for Jamison, for his loss and sadness, and then an image of myself plunging my blade into Markham returns. I was unashamed then, and I still am. Something must be wrong with me to have no compassion.

  “Jamison, I’m not you.”

  “I don’t want you to be. My father disowned me. My relatives want nothing to do with me. I lost everything, Everley. I don’t want you to lose everything too.”

  Jamison reaches for my sword hand, and I recoil.

  His tone hollows out. “All I want is your trust.”

  “I warned you I’d make a poor wife.”

  “So you did.” Jamison inhales a long, slow breath, and those morning-sky eyes beam at me. “I promised myself that my life wouldn’t emulate my father’s in any way. No woman ever tempted me to go against that vow until I met you.”

  My chest pangs. I have never felt more undeserving of someone’s kindness. “I cannot change who I am,” I say, patting my heart. I cannot discount the ticking hunk of wood in my chest, my life force, my compass. “I’m sorry, Jamison. Even at my best, I’ll always be a little broken.”

  “Over here!” Claret shouts from somewhere off in the trees. “We found something!”

  Jamison reaches for my hand. This time, I let him take it. “You’re more than the girl with a clock heart. You’re Everley Donovan, born into this world to do great things.” He tips his head against mine, his forehead to my temple. His deep voice curls into my ear. “You are not broken.”

  Markham appears downhill. “Callahan! Everley! You must come see this!”

  I lean against Jamison, wanting so badly for what he said to be true. But then why am I afraid of not making the most out of each moment? Why am I seldom content where I stand? I pull from his grip and trudge downhill to Markham.

  “Finished sulking?” he asks.

  “Want my blade in your gut?”

  He chuckles darkly. Oh, how I long to put him in a grave.

  Jamison ambles down to us, his manner reserved. I send him a brief smile, so he will know that I may be angry, but not at him. Markham leads us parallel to the hillside. The land levels off and trees thin out. Our party stops at the opening to a bowl-shaped canyon filled with daisies.

  Thousands of the yellow-and-white wildflowers stuff the field within the gorge. The meadow is as long as the Lady Regina’s main deck and twice as wide. Flat, rocky cliffs on both sides soar straight up, higher than bell towers.

  Across the meadow, on the closed-in side of the ravine, the massive stone wall is draped with legions of ivy vines. The barrier is so tall it could obstruct a giant. In the center of the rock face is a small divide like a slot canyon. An iron gate two doors wide is wedged between that narrow opening. Ivy has coiled around the bars and filled in the gaps, hindering our view of the other side.

  “This is it,” Markham says with a bright laugh.

  Harlow beams at him and grabs his arm to revel in their accomplishment. The two of them are positively giddy. Jamison squints at the gate as though it’s an illusion that he expects will disappear, while the Fox and the Cat wear expressions of eagerness like they have spotted a profitable mark to steal from.

  My brother and I gape in rapt amazement. Until seconds ago, the entrance to the Everwoods existed only in storybooks.

  “It’s real,” Tavis whispers.

  “Mother would have loved to see this.” My sword thrums, vibrating in double time with my ticker. The amalgamation of their warbling makes me light-headed. The feeling reminds me of Father’s homecomings. I could hardly sleep the night before he came home. First thing in the morning, I would dress and wait for when it was time to go to the docks. Mother was up and ready for the day, more excited than me. When we first saw Father walking down the gangplank, Mother would run to him. Watching him scoop her up and swing her off her feet made me feel airy all over, like I was the one flying. The same feeling emanates from the sword and collects in my clock heart.

  This blade—my blade—is the sword of Avelyn. It must be. I cannot otherwise explain how steel could radiate joy.

  My sword wants to go through that gate, and I want to take it there, but the field has an unnatural tranquility that puts me ill at ease. The rock faces are vertical, the flat stone terrible for climbing without rope, which we lost with Markham’s pack.

  “Well,” he says, “shall we?”

  “Something isn’t right,” replies Jamison. He picks up a stick and throws it into the field. The instant the stick hits the ground, dozens of black dots leap up around it.

  “What in the name of Madrona?” Harlow says.

  Jamison flings another stick and the same explosion of life occurs.

  I crouch down and part the nearest crop of daisies. On the floor of the meadow, concealed by the flowers, crickets swarm. Tavis, Claret, and Laverick all inspect the sections in front of them. The crickets, as long as my forefinger, are everywhere. Jamison tosses another stick farther out, and more crickets burst from the flowers.

  “Ow,” Tavis says, jerking his hand away. His finger is bleeding. “One bit me.”

  Markham pokes a stick into the flowers. Some of the crickets hop away, while others snap at the wooden intruder.

  “Grand,” he drawls. “Flesh-eating insects.”

  We stare across the expanse at the gate. My sword has not quit vibrating. I point it at the iron doors, and it warms and shivers more quickly. I should have known this would not be as simple as walking up to the gate. Nothing on Dagger Island is as it seems.

  A cricket strays outside of the flowers. Harlow slams her foot down on it, producing a sickening crunch. Markham watches the drab sky with centuries’ worth of frustration. He could cross the meadow alone and suffer through the cricket bites, yet he stays. He must need me to pass through the gate; otherwise, he would have taken the sword and left.

  Claret and Laverick sink back and carp about the crickets. Tavis pinches the bridge of his nose, the same motion our mother used to chase away headaches when her children were squabbling. Jamison contemplates the field as though it’s a puzzle.

  “We came all this way,” Harlow states, referring not just to our trek through the woods but to the voyage across the sea, “and now we’re going to let crickets stop us?”

  She picks up a stone and hurls it at the daisies. It strikes the flowers, then bounces and slides to a stop. No crickets leap from the meadow floor. Jamison edg
es forward, peering at the thrown rock. He takes a pine cone and tosses it in the same direction. The pine cone lands near the stone, again without disturbing the crickets.

  Nothing on Dagger Island is as it seems.

  Sheathing my sword, I speak to the group. “Everyone collect stones and pine cones. There may be a path across. We just have to find it.”

  They all listen except Harlow, who crosses her arms over her chest. Jamison removes his cloak, turns it inside out, and folds it into a sling. We load our pickings into it.

  “Harlow Glaspey,” Markham says, his arms full of pine cones, “help us or be gone.”

  She stomps into the trees and returns with a bundle of sticks. Once the sling is brimming, I grab a handful of dirt and sprinkle it on the closest flowers until I find a section where no crickets hop out. I expand the width until they do.

  “This area is clear,” I say. “It must be our way across. We’ll use the pine cones and stones to test which direction to go.”

  “I’ll go first,” Markham says.

  He hefts the bundle of rocks, stones, and twigs over his shoulder and steps into the field. His feet crush the dirt-covered blooms. No crickets are riled. He casts a handful of stones ahead of him until he finds the next clear patch of land. Over and over, he uses the ammunition to test and mark a zigzag path. More than once, he disturbs the crickets and suffers their wrath. He does not let their bites slow him down.

  Halfway across the field, he pauses to consider the sky. I was so intent on his progress, I did not notice the light changing. The gray dims rapidly, spreading out from an inky cloud hanging over the gate.

  “The curse is trying to keep him out,” Tavis says. “We need to cross now.”

  Markham begins to toss stones and pine cones haphazardly. Harlow embarks down the established route, then Jamison and I follow. Claret holds on to Laverick and they enter the ankle-high daisies, followed closely by Tavis.

  The field is wider than it appeared from the outskirts. Winding through the switchbacks goes on forever. By the time we close in on Markham, the murky heavens have deepened to onyx. We catch up to where he stopped, over halfway across, and view the problem. He has run out of ammunition.