Before the Broken Star

by King, Emily R.

  “This entire expedition is lunacy. But aren’t you curious what we’ll find on the other side?”

  “I could live without knowing.” He passes me the bell from my regulator. I slipped it into his pocket before we left the ship. “We’re going to survive this so I can teach you how to hide that better. Keep it for luck.”

  “Will this bell save me from tragedy?” My lips quirk. He has no idea that the function of my regulator was to do just that.

  A movement in the woods diverts his attention.

  “What is it?” I ask, slipping the bell into my pocket.

  “Nothing. Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

  I bend down and peer through the narrow tunnel. A grayish light waits for us at the far end. Is this how Princess Amadara snuck into the Everwoods, by means of pixie dust and enchanted passageways?

  Keeping the girl princess in mind, I crawl through the tunnel and into an Otherworld.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tavis helps me climb out of the portal. Our party has gathered at the base of a tree on a grassy hillside. At least one detail of the legend is wrong: Princess Amadara could supposedly look out from the balcony of her castle and see the Everwoods. But the forest is gone, no hedge or elderwoods in view.

  Markham has lowered to one knee. He presses a palm on the ground, his head bowed in triumph. The lost prince has come home.

  Far as I can see, the Land of Youth is equivalent to ours in design. Ground under us, heavens above, and sky in between. The similarities of this foreign territory do not prevent me from fretting. We are far away from our world, and I’ve no idea how to get back except for the way we came. I memorize the tree and our surroundings.

  Jamison climbs out of the portal last and takes stock of our destination. No one speaks, all of us waiting for direction from our guide.

  Markham rises and motions for us to be still. He treads away from the tree while we hold our breaths and wait for the world to cave in on us. I envision a rope bridge snapping and all of us plummeting into an abyss.

  I tug my gloves higher. The weather is not cold enough for our breaths to stain the air silver, but the night is crisp under the tarnished moon.

  After several steps, Markham beckons us. “Come along. The tear is holding for now. Remember, low voices and light feet. We should be all right.”

  His reassurance is thin comfort.

  We trample through the grass as carefully as seven people can. The field is unsettling without any wind; nothing moves. A deer with curling antlers and stripes across its midsection has lowered its head to graze. Flies and moths hang in the air as if on invisible threads. The stillness is absolute, as though we’re traipsing through an oil painting.

  My clock thrums as it spins, a reassuring vibration amid the stasis, yet every so often, the whirling hiccups. The minute hand is snagging and tripping over something. I cannot figure out what, so I pick up my pace as much as I dare to speed along our progress.

  Markham pauses to overlook the valley. Far off, across more fields, housetops crowd up to a stone castle, the whole village surrounded by trees. Something blue zips across my side vision. I stop and peer through the knee-high grass. Everything should be still and quiet, so the thought of something else awake with us pushes me closer to my comrades.

  We go carefully down the hill toward odd-looking trees. Nearer to them, I see they are a forest of men. Statues of soldiers spread before us, bedecked in armor and bearing spears and battle-axes. At least three hundred men are congregated near a river. All of them—skin, bone, hair—have hardened to wood. I have admired many wooden figurines in my life. None were this realistic.

  Claret knocks on a soldier’s chest and a hollow thud resounds. “Who did this?”

  “Our army was preparing for battle against another kingdom when Amadara—” Markham presses his fist over his mouth in despair. “When people are held captive by a break in time, creation power dims and flesh and blood decay. This wooden state occurs when a spirit is trapped in a body where time has ceased.”

  A curious pattern of logic. Time bows to creation power. That’s reasonable, given that the Creator oversees Father Time. What does that mean for my clock heart? It’s still sustaining me. I wish I knew for how long.

  Laverick looks into a soldier’s blank eyes. “They’re not dead?”

  “Dormant,” Markham says. He grips a statue’s shoulder, his expression aggrieved. “We may start to feel the effects soon as well. Let’s keep moving.”

  We travel through a cluster of soldiers and past their cavalry. They were watering their mounts at the river when Amadara tore time. The soldiers’ horses have also turned to wood, and the river around them is eerily stationary. I am tempted to touch the water or the horses, but I dare not disturb either. I cannot fathom how time can stop an entire river from flowing.

  “Are your foes from the neighboring kingdom locked in time as well?” Jamison asks.

  I startle at his curiosity. The legend tells of the impending war, but doesn’t clarify the fate of their enemies, and I did not think to inquire.

  “Yes,” Markham replies flatly. “The tear impacted my whole world.”

  “How many people live here?” Claret whispers.

  Markham turns away from the cavalry, toward his castle. “Too many.”

  Harlow strokes the back of his head to soothe him. I despair to think that these soldiers are trapped inside themselves, alive and aware of their slow decay from flesh to wood. Amadara could not have known the consequences of saving her prince. Even Markham, bastard that he is, could not have foreseen that harvesting the heartwood from the Everwoods would amount to unending torment for countless innocents.

  We trail the inert river downhill through the wooden regiment. Markham pauses at every other man, addresses them by name, and pats their shoulder. They were his soldiers and comrades, his brothers-in-arms.

  As we near the end of the field of soldiers, his stride quickens. The castle waits, its towers illuminated by moonlight. Upon the highest tower, the roof has been broken by the top of a tree.

  “Onward to my beloved,” Markham says, leading the march to his castle with my sword.

  The village seems deserted. Cobblestone roads span between tight rows of thatch-roofed cottages. I expect to see more wooden people, children and families, servants and clergymen. Not a soul wooden or otherwise is immediately in sight.

  “Where is everyone?” Laverick asks.

  “Why are you whispering?” Claret replies.

  “Why aren’t you? This town is frightening.”

  Jamison veers from the group to a cottage. He rubs his elbow across a dusty window and waves me over. He steps back so I can see through the streaked glass, his lips in a grim line.

  My muscles jump under my skin at what I see. A child lies in bed, frozen in sleep, while his mother sits near. They are both wooden. Whatever brought her to his bedside is a secret that has long since been locked away. Did he have a nightmare? Was she singing him a lullaby?

  More mysteries whisper through the static village. An old man stands frozen in the open door of a cottage. Is this his home? Or was he visiting? A woman was lugging a heavy basket down an alley. Where was she going? What brought her out at night?

  My mind spins along with my heart clock. Markham believes the spirits of his people still reside in those wooden shells. I hope he is wrong and they are unaware of their confines, sleeping soundly in this lull in time.

  I quit glancing in windows and doorways. Part of me wants to turn around. I’d rather endure the biting crickets again than follow Markham another step. But my father saw something in this place that was worth returning for. I cannot leave until I view this bleak kingdom from his perspective.

  We start across the arched bridge over the river. Water would have flown by the castle and flung itself off the side of the hill in a dramatic waterfall. Instead, the river is stuck midleap, the airborne water frozen. Untouched by what must have been a powerful curren
t, the stone castle clings to the hillside, a grand overseer for all the kingdom. Battlements crown its many towers and staggered rooftops.

  Our stone path connects to the lowered drawbridge, which we take to the outer curtain. The portcullis is almost up, a welcome gesture if not for the wooden guards gripping the pull chain in the gatehouse. We slide past them and Markham opens the iron yett, letting us into the large inner courtyard surrounding the keep.

  Along with guards and servants, animals are stalled by the wooden scourge. Horses do not flick their tails, and a cat’s hunt was thwarted, its hind legs set to pounce on a mouse. As we pass through the stables, I duck from a spider dangling on a strand of web. The sanctity of life stops me from plucking it down to study the slenderness of its wooden legs. It is not a figurine to play with.

  The entry to the keep is closed. Jamison and Tavis open the door and Markham slips inside. We file in after him, Harlow more reluctantly than the rest. The musty air settles in my nostrils as Markham goes to the wall and lights a torch. He travels the exterior of the room, lighting others. Jamison and Claret each pluck one up.

  The great hall is as still as a coffin. Moonlight sneaks in through a window high above, illuminating the large room and double-wide stairway leading to the upper floors. We pad across the red carpet to the pair of matching dining tables that are as long as the room. The table legs are carved with daisies. I stoop to admire the artistry and spot a white bear rug before the hearth at the far end of the hall. Candelabras decorate the tables, and tapestries hang on walls opposite each other.

  Over the hearth, a banner with a crest spans to the ceiling. It is a white mare beneath an elderwood—the Creator and Madrona. The antiquated furniture and architecture belong to another time and place. There’s something distinctly foreign about the rounded doorways, bright carpets, and wide molding.

  Markham runs his fingers over a high-back chair. He suits this bygone era, when people hung tapestries and needed arrow slits in their walls. Without a word, he strides to the arched stairwell and bounds up.

  “Killian, wait!” Harlow says, dashing after him.

  The remainder of our party hurry to follow. At the upper landing, we stop and listen. Harlow calls for Markham above us.

  “This way,” Laverick says, following the sound of her voice.

  The Fox and the Cat round a corner and shriek. Something hits the ground, and wooden pieces scatter over the stone floor. Tavis drags me back. Jamison draws his sword and charges around the corner. I shake free of my brother and edge forward.

  A wooden guard lies on the floor, his arms and legs broken into chunks.

  “I—I didn’t see him,” Claret says.

  “We didn’t mean to knock him over,” Laverick assures her.

  Jamison crouches over the guard and picks up a lump of his shattered leg. My mouth parches, repelled by the wooden cadaver. The insides of the man are hollow like a rotting log.

  Tavis steps over the fragmented remains of the guard. “Markham is headed to the top of the tower. That’s where he shared a chamber with Amadara.”

  Farther down the hall, we pass a chapel with a stained-glass window. It is a duplicate of the crest in the main hall of Madrona and the Creator, a white mare beneath an elderwood. Laverick and Claret duck inside and peruse the chapel.

  “Don’t disturb anything,” I say.

  Claret eyes the collection plate. “We’re going to take a look around. We’ll catch up soon.”

  We leave them to rummage around while we continue down the hall. Jamison limps to another stairway. Tavis and I start up, but he stalls to rub his knee.

  “Go ahead,” he says, offering us the torch. Tavis and I swap a glance, then my brother slides his arm around Jamison and starts to climb. Jamison goes along, but grouses. “I can make it on my own.”

  “My sister thinks I should help you.”

  “She didn’t say a word,” Jamison replies.

  I push out a sigh. “Be quiet and let him help you up the stairs.”

  “You make a fitting husband and wife,” Tavis remarks, his tone light. “Our mother and father would have approved, Lieutenant.”

  A weighted pause overtakes the stairwell. I am both relieved that I cannot read Jamison’s expression and wish to the stars that I could.

  The stairs end at a set of doors defended by a pair of castle guards with spears. Markham jiggles the lever. When it doesn’t open, he claws at a brick in the wall. Harlow is so still she could be a statue. Markham pulls out the loose brick and reaches into the hole behind it. He emerges with a golden key.

  “Killian?” Harlow asks, a breathy plea. She seems to be seeking a promise of reassurance. For what, I cannot say.

  “It will be all right,” he replies.

  Markham straightens his waistcoat and inserts the key into the lock. The noise of the bolt sliding echoes through the stairwell, then a deafening click. Markham pulls up the lever, pushes in the door, and mutters something to himself.

  Only after he goes in do I decipher what he said.

  “I’m home.”

  Harlow lifts her chin and marches in, and then the three of us follow. Jamison and Markham set our torches in the sconces. Feminine cloth and gold leafing trim the elegant furniture. A silver comb and hand mirror rest on a vanity. Across the door is a balcony, the doors hanging open, and in the center of the room, a grand bed. I only know it’s a bed because of the four posts still standing. The mattress, canopy, pillows, and other bedding have been consumed by an elderwood.

  The fingerlike roots of the tree snake across the floor, buckling the stone. So thick is the trunk that the center occupies the bulk of the wide straw mattress. Low branches cover the ceiling, yet only the bottom portion of the tree grows within the castle walls. The top has pushed through the roof and spilled into the night.

  A tree growing so successfully in the middle of a bedchamber may be the most spectacular sight I’ve seen yet.

  Markham strides to the grand elderwood and touches the velvety tree trunk. “Amadara, I’m here. I’ve come to set you free.”

  He draws my sword, and gripping it with both hands, slices into the tree. The gleaming blade goes through the trunk with little resistance. Claret and Laverick find us in the tower, their packs hanging lower and their pockets thicker than when we left them. They gape at the prince sawing into the elderwood. We all remain at the edge of the chamber while he chops through the outer bark.

  He punctures the exterior of the trunk, and an inner cavity opens. Markham lays aside the sword and peels off the velvet bark in great strips, ripping the hole wider.

  A hand appears inside.

  “Help me,” he says, pulling at the outer layers faster.

  Tavis goes to his aid. Together, they dig open the center of the elderwood and uncover an arm and torso. In another few moments, the hole in the tree trunk is large enough to crawl into.

  “Careful,” says Markham.

  He and my brother reach into the cavity and pull out a young woman. She is as stiff and pale as white pine. The two men struggle under her weight but manage to lay her on the floor without dropping her. Unlike the guard in the castle hall, the princess has hardened to solid wood.

  I edge forward beside my brother. Princess Amadara could be a wooden statue or an expertly crafted doll. Her exquisite features are so lifelike she could stand up and move about without a puppeteer or strings. She does not seem much older than me. Her face is composed of angled features balanced by a soft chin and full lips. It’s no wonder Father Time fell in love.

  Markham traces her high cheekbone, his gaze wandering over her face. “Do you dream of me, my love? For I have dreamed of you.”

  He leans down and tenderly presses his lips to hers.

  I fidget at the intimacy of the moment. We are intruding upon their privacy, yet I cannot stop myself from watching.

  Tears run down Tavis’s cheeks for the reunion of the husband and wife. Markham’s hands will always be bloody, but the horror
s outside this castle feel far away compared to the hope the sight of the prince and princess instills.

  Love is unstoppable.

  Love can break the bounds of death.

  My hand seeks Tavis’s. He looks at me in astonishment. I have not yet sought his touch or affection. I have been too afraid of what it would mean to move on. No matter how trivial or insignificant, my touch is my best offer of forgiveness. A promise that I would seek him through the eternities.

  The prince kisses his princess’s cheeks and forehead several times each. Tears brighten Harlow’s angry eyes, her chin quivering. Laverick weeps too. Even Jamison’s gaze shines with withheld tears.

  “So beautiful,” Claret says, wiping her wet cheeks.

  “How do you wake her?” Tavis asks.

  Markham stands above his wife, his countenance drawn down. “No power can repair the damage left by a fissure in time. Once time is torn, the lives under its care are lost forever.”

  Before I can ask him to explain, he picks up my sword, lifts it over his head, and plunges it into the chest of his sleeping princess.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Time buckles beneath me. My heart does a little jump, skipping ahead and then whirling, then skipping, then whirling once more. The sequence of stops and starts, the incredulity and dread, leave me woozy.

  I need a moment to think and breathe. Per usual, time doesn’t care what I require.

  As Markham hacks farther into his princess’s chest, my unbelief blinds me to what I am seeing. What is this insanity?

  I seek my companions’ reactions for understanding. Harlow’s lips twist in a wicked smile, but the others are no less shocked than me. Claret and Laverick appear near to fainting, embracing one another as though to hold each other up. Tavis covers his eyes and mutters “no, no, no” under his breath. I relate to Jamison most, his expression locked in horror. It is the look of someone who has identified a monster—a blend of abject terror and wrecked innocence.

  Monsters exist and, apparently, so do monstrous princes.

  The princess sheds no blood. Markham butchers her surgically, as my uncle would section a portion of wood for crafting, splintering away the rough outer layers and cutting into the hard inner core. He goes no deeper than the length of three or four barleycorns into her left breast and then saws out a small section where her heart once beat. Out of spite or warped sentimentality, the shape he chooses to carve is a heart the size and width of an acorn.