I remember everything that happened while my heart clock was flooded. Floating out of my body and flying, visions of wooden soldiers and giants and apple orchards. They couldn’t have been real.
But the images were vivid—and plausible. Markham reanimated the castle guards. He could have roused his brothers-in-arms and evacuated them out of the Land of Youth to the island. Until I eliminate the chance that what I saw was a bad dream, I have to presume the vision of the future was real.
Jamison trudges back. “Their tracks disappear at the tree line. I doubt they went into the Thornwoods. The curse isn’t broken.” He plunks down on the log and flicks sand from his hair. “Given the placement of the sun, we’re on the southern end of the island. Claret and Laverick must have gone west toward the settlement.”
His geographical assessment matches the map of the island I memorized. It also fits the location of Markham’s troops and the direction of their marching. They were on the northwest end of the isle heading south.
“Jamison, I think Markham is on the isle.” I quickly summarize having seen his army while I was incapacitated. I don’t tell him about the battlefield or the dais over the apple orchard.
He ponders to himself, his countenance contemplative. “Your spirit left your body and flew across the sky.” He doesn’t sound skeptical, merely confused.
“I don’t know how I did it. I only know what I saw. Do you think Markham plans to attack the colony?”
“It’s possible. Now that he has his treasure and his army, he could do anything.” Jamison curses to himself. “His army of wooden soldiers are brutes. When I struck the castle guard, I thought I’d broken my hand.”
My concerns mount for the settlers, especially Quinn. “We should get back to camp.”
Jamison shoulders his pack. I rise slowly, testing the vigor of my clockwork heart. After all the wondrous things I have seen, I hoped I would gain an understanding of how my ticker functions and sustains me. What has increased is my gratitude for the extra time I have been given. I live for Tavis, and Amadara, and every other soul in the Land of Youth whose time has expired.
The pixie flies ahead, bucking the strong winds. Every bit of me aches, from skin straight down to bone. Even the hair on my scalp twinges. The pixie waits for us far in front. We catch up and she zips ahead again.
“Blue’s an impatient thing,” Jamison says.
“Blue?”
“It doesn’t seem right not to give her a name.”
“How do you know she doesn’t have one? And suppose she doesn’t. Your first choice is ‘Blue’?”
“You name her, then,” Jamison says.
The pixie hovers in the air as we trudge up to her. She and I cannot communicate through speech, but it is as plain as the scowl on her face that she considers me inferior.
She lands on Jamison’s shoulder and trills a tune that is far more complex than any birdsong. He grins at her.
Good sin. He’s smitten.
“‘Blue’ will do,” I say on a sigh.
As we trudge farther up the shore, Jamison passes me a dagger from his pack. “Take it, Everley. It’s the only one I’ve got.”
His gesture warms me—he knows I’m less apprehensive when carrying a blade—yet his relinquishing our only weapon to my care also sobers me. We have to reach the settlement before Markham and his army.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Blue zooms ahead and waits for us in midair, her arms crossed and toe tapping. She will have to tolerate our infirmities. Jamison’s knee hasn’t had a rest in countless hours, neither of us have had proper sleep in I don’t know how long, and my heart clock may be ticktocking, but the new gears are clunky. The ticks feel sharper, as though the minute hand is flinging itself forward. The alteration is slight and I sense no physical repercussions, but I am coddling the replacements parts. The daisy clock was beautiful sitting on a shelf. But does she have the strength to run more than time?
We catch up to Blue and she perches on Jamison’s shoulder. We climb a rocky outcropping and take in the view of the settlement huddled in the cove. No wooden army is in sight.
“Are we going?” I ask.
Jamison’s awareness has drifted out to sea. “A storm is coming.”
Indeed, a curtain of gray suspends across the watery horizon. We quick-foot down the outcropping and up the beach. The Lady Regina remains anchored in the bay. I watch for Markham’s ship to cruise into the harbor, but as we get closer to the tents, neither his ship nor his army have come.
As the winds serenade us, I smell breakfast—hotcakes and bread. Hunger pains warble through my stomach. Jamison halts and offers Blue the front pouch of his pack to hide in. She flits inside and he pulls the flap down over her head.
“We need to get everyone on the ship,” he says. “Send the women to the beach. I’ll gather the men and the longboats.”
I grab his arm, making him stay. “Good luck.”
On impulse, I lean in and kiss his cheek.
Jamison gives me a closed-lipped smile. “Good luck to you as well.”
He squeezes my hand and jogs off to the settlement. I select another path and go straight to our tent. Quinn is playing with Prince on the floor. Dr. Huxley keeps her company while sorting through his medical supplies.
“Everley!” Quinn throws her arms around me. “You’re back!”
“Pack your things, we need to leave.” I scoop up her cat and pass him to her, then stuff her wooden figurines in her bag. Alick rises in alarm. A gust billows the tent walls and howls over the roof. “We need to round up as many people as we can and board the ship. Governor Markham has turned against us.”
Claret and Laverick burst through the door, Vevina after them. With all of us inside, the tent is cramped.
“You made it!” Laverick cries.
“Jamison and I went through the same portal,” I say. “How did you find your way back?”
“We remember the map of the island from the lieutenant’s cabin,” Claret answers, setting down the sack slung over her shoulder. “We came to warn everyone about Markham, but no one believes us. Not even Captain Dabney.”
Vevina sets her hands on her hips. “The captain thinks an immortal prince is hogwash, but I didn’t trust the governor. He’s too charming.”
“It helps that we showed Vevina our bounty.” Laverick pulls a bronze candlestick from a sack. Also inside are a handful of strange gold pieces and the silver collection bowl from the castle chapel.
A slight vibration shakes the ground. Over the wind, another tremble comes. Then another.
“We have to hurry. Markham brought the wooden army from his world and they are marching this way.” I push Quinn toward Alick. “Get the sick and wounded to the beach. Quinn, stay with Dr. Huxley.” She holds Prince close and pets him. “Vevina, you and I will evacuate the women. Jamison is alerting the men. Women go in the longboats first. As soon as you fill a boat, row out to the ship. Return as many times as you need for the others. We will try to hold them off, but if there are any strong swimmers, suggest they not wait.”
Vevina draws a dagger. “I guess I’ll be needing this gift from the captain.”
“We’ll each require a weapon,” I reply calmly to avoid hysterics from Quinn. She has stemmed her distress well so far.
“This is a penal colony,” Alick interjects. “Half the men aren’t armed, and those of us who are have few weapons to spare.”
“Laverick and I will find something,” says Claret.
They leave to scour for a defense, and Alick extends his rapier to me.
“Trade me for the dagger,” he says. “I’m not much good with a sword.”
I do not know if that’s true or if he’s being generous, but we exchange weapons. I hug Quinn, squishing Prince between us, and send her along with Alick. Vevina and I leave the tent, and she claps loudly for the women to gather. Many have left their own tents to discuss the vibrations.
As I usher women outside, I spot a daisy in the
middle of the path. A second daisy bobs in the wind not far away. Then even farther, in direct line with the others, a third and fourth flower.
I follow the row of daisies to the tree line. Ferns swish and branches sway, bullied by the drafts. The stormy horizon has shut out the sun, casting pale shadows over camp. I stop before a patch of daisies and still. A slight kick of my ticker nudges me to peer into the woodland.
My gaze locks with another’s.
Father Time is partly concealed by a pocket of trees. He has come to collect on his debt. I could run, but that would be pointless. I cannot hide from time.
I brace myself for the conversation I have been evading for almost decade and traipse into the underbrush, halting so I am still within view of camp.
“You found your way.” His voice is as smooth as a well-oiled clock. “We have waited a long time to meet you, Time Bearer.”
I search for the partner he speaks of, but only Father Time slips out from behind the trees. As with his ageless features, his clothes are timeless and elegant: polished boots, charcoal trousers, fitted gentleman’s jacket, crisp collared shirt, and plain black neckerchief. His lean limbs, straight shoulders, and trim waist lack distinguishable attributes. He is a paradigm, the original form for mankind, if on the shorter side.
He strides to me, daisies sprouting at his feet. His gaze is level with mine, our height equal, his eyes the shade of an evergreen. His spidery lashes could rival any lady of the court’s. His feathery hair sweeps across his forehead and hugs his neck, neither too short nor too long. With a willowy finger, he taps my ticker, and a jolt goes through me as my heart clock quickens.
“Please don’t collect on the time I owe,” I say. “Not yet. I must stop Markham’s army first, then we may settle my debt.”
“Everley, you owe us no debt.”
“Then I must make amends for my family. My father—” My voice breaks, testing my dominance over my ticker. “The Donovans have been dishonorable to the Everwoods and Princess Amadara.”
“Amadara was indeed Majesty of the Trees, but Prince Killian was jealous of our friendship and has not told the whole truth of the events. Perhaps someday we will share the tale with you as it truly transpired.” Father Time steps nearer. My racing heart levels out and the gears glide effortlessly. His presence is a balm for the ticking in my chest. “Brogan Donovan did not defy creation power. Upon his return to the isle, he was to deliver the sword of Avelyn to us in the Everwoods.”
“But Markham said—”
Father Time’s expression turns stony. “Prince Killian has told many falsehoods. You have seen the insidious aftermath of his corruption and foresaw the calamity that will befall the Otherworlds.”
For a moment, I am at a loss, and then I recall the spirit journey I took while Jamison was repairing my waterlogged ticker. “My visions were real?”
“You sense their truth and fear their validity. A single lie can break a spirit or destroy a dream.”
“But if I saw the future, then I also saw what will become of you.”
“That is our fate should you fail.” Father Time’s reasonable tone of voice belies the urgency of his warning. “You must take back the sword of Avelyn, Everley. We already lost one world. We cannot lose another. If we’ve any hope of defeating Prince Killian, you must have it.”
“Who is ‘we’?” I ask, checking the small grove. “Are you not alone?”
“Time is infinite. We are not here nor there. We are everywhere and in everything. It is easier for the mortal mind to confine us to a single figure, so we choose this form.”
Right now my mortal mind is muddled by a cluster of emotions. I have countless questions for him, ponderings and worries that have kept me up at night and haunted me during private moments of the day. “My Uncle Holden said you brought me back to life. Did you save me? Did you help him install my clock heart?”
“Do you not believe your uncle?”
I blink fast, taken aback. I didn’t anticipate he would ask my opinion on the matter. “I—I don’t know.”
“The time will come when you will be ready to receive the answer, then you will know.” Father Time does not fidget or gesture when he speaks. His confidence exudes a supernal stillness. “Do not fret over how much time you have left, Everley. You will have enough to accomplish the task we have set forth.”
I still have a hundred questions about my clock heart, but his reassurance convinces me that I can set them aside. The army’s approach is nearing an end, the beat of their march strengthening as they come closer. “What do I do about the heartwood that Markham stole? Can I stop his army?”
“The heartwood is not invincible. Prince Killian must stay within sight of his troops and carry it on his person for the army to remain animated.” Father Time waves his palm over the nearest tree trunk and the thorns transform to little flowers. He plucks a daisy and examines the ivory petals. “The blood sacrifice he made to tap into creation power is tied to his spirit alone. Taking the heartwood from his possession will disable the creation power; thus, the spell he cast on the wooden soldiers will be broken.”
The burden laid upon my shoulders nearly sinks me down. Stealing the heartwood and taking back my sword are monumental tasks, but I have to accept responsibility for my role in this chaos and protect my friends.
“How do I kill Markham?” I ask.
His green eyes take on a hard gleam. “Time ends lives every day. Trust us, Everley. Prince Killian will know death.”
The trees around us quiver in the gales. The squalls howl so loudly I can feel more than hear the marching army.
Father Time plucks another blossom. “Time is no respecter of persons. We are the same, yesterday, today, and forever. But we have our favorites.” He hands me the daisy. “We must depart now.”
“Will I see you again?”
“You have everything you need. A wise friend once taught us a lesson we shall never forget.” Father Time leans in and his balminess drifts over me, starting as a warm drop that ripples out. “‘Miracles are forged in the heart.’”
“Everley!” Jamison calls.
I turn toward him in camp. When I revolve back, Father Time has taken himself away. I tuck the blossom into my pocket and run out to meet Jamison.
Armed soldiers and convicts assemble at the north end of the settlement. Commander Flynn shouts instructions, while nearer to the surf, Vevina and Captain Dabney load the women into a dozen longboats. Three full boats are rowing for the Lady Regina. I spot Quinn holding her cat next to Dr. Huxley on the second. Thank creation, they are off to safety.
Several of the men carry torches and lanterns. The storm has darkened the sky so it feels as though nightfall is ahead of time. Fire may be a good defense against the wooden soldiers unless those heavy gray clouds unburden their rain.
Jamison loads a musket with powder, shielding it from the wind with his back. He sinks the ball and patch down the muzzle of the gun with the ramrod.
“Where did you find the firearms?” I ask.
“Claret and Laverick discovered three crates of them beneath the floorboards of the governor’s cabin.”
The Fox and the Cat pass out more muskets down the way. The rain starts, a downpour that immediately drenches my head and shoulders. The torches suffer, their fire dimming, but the lanterns burn strong. Jamison finishes loading his musket, and not a moment too soon.
The wooden soldiers march into view, their flawless formation a dreadful sight. They don’t walk like men. Their lumbering, mechanical movements are slow yet powerful. Only their joints move: knees, ankles, wrists, elbows, hip, and head. They look like gigantic, strapping marionettes, my alias given grotesque shape. In place of smiles, they wear grimaces. In place of clothes, armor. In place of stage props, battle-axes and spears. With our evacuation of the women and the ill, we are closely matched in number, yet we have not determined how our ammunition and blades will stand against their attack.
The army marches in formation to
ward us, about two hundred yards off. Markham and Harlow are nowhere in sight. Our troop of settlers mutter, aghast about our enemies. Proclamations of What are they? Where did they come from? What do they want? swell down the line. The commander loses his chain of thought, momentarily suspended in disbelief.
“Commander Flynn,” says Jamison, “they’re coming.”
The commander retakes control. “Prime and load!”
The infantry finish arming their muskets. Every single gunman holds the line in the rain and wind. Claret and Laverick squeeze in near us with their firearms.
“Can you shoot those?” Jamison asks them. “Without experience, you could harm yourself or others.”
“My brothers taught me to shoot,” says Laverick.
Claret shrugs. “I can hit a tree.”
Unlike them, I have no experience with muskets or pistols. Jamison quiets for further orders from the commander. I step back from the line and hold up a lantern.
“Make ready!” Commander Flynn yells, sword above his head.
The settlers bring their muskets straight up, perpendicular to the ground, with the left hand on the swell of the stock, the lock turned toward their faces, then with the right hand, they pull the lock to full cock and grasp the wrist of the gun. Laverick and Claret follow their movements a half second later.
The wooden soldiers are not deterred.
“Present!” calls the commander.
The infantry bring the butt of the musket to their right shoulder while lowering the muzzle to firing position and sighting along the barrel at their enemy. I set down the lantern and lift my sword at ready. Seventy-five yards off, the wooden army reaches the stream and starts across, raindrops splattering the waterway.
Commander Flynn lowers his sword. “Fire!”
Gunfire goes off, sparks flaring and smoke spiraling. A full second goes by and then the smoke clears. The front line of wooden soldiers does not slow. They progress to camp with dented limbs and cracked faces.
Before the Broken Star Page 24