Before the Broken Star (The Evermore Chronicles Book 1)

by Emily R. King

  Harlow rolls her shoulders to stretch. “You must want something terribly bad from me.”

  “If I win, you’ll tell me where to find Governor Markham.”

  Her brows arch, confirming my intuition—she knows where he is. “When I win—”

  “If.”

  “When I win, you’ll explain to me what you want from Markham.”

  Her wager is high, but Harlow won’t ever find out that I am the believed-dead daughter of the queen’s former explorer, because I will win. “Deal.”

  I raise my sword and she mirrors my stance. Neither of us has formal training. Like every competitor in the trench, we taught ourselves to fight through experience. Harlow is taller than me by a finger length and quicker, or she was, so I ready myself.

  The whistle sounds. Before the shrill call leaves my ears, she swings and steel jars against steel. We sidestep, in and out, forward and back, swords clashing between us like arcs of lightning. I breathe lightly, my heart a gentle drone.

  I spin away from her thrust. “I’m stronger than I was.”

  She redirects her blade for my side and catches the hem of my cloak, slicing a strip of cloth free.

  “You’re still slow.” Harlow kicks me in the kneecap. I drop to the planks. She grabs a fistful of my hair and wrenches. “You think you’re better than the rest of us.”

  “I’ve never said that.”

  She yanks so hard my scalp burns. “You don’t belong here, shop clerk.” Fear acts as a pressure point in my throat. Harlow has figured out who I am during daylight hours. “Go home, Everley. You don’t belong here.”

  I thrust my elbow into her side. She grunts and lets up on her grip. I twist from her hold and knock into her with the blunt hilt of my sword. She crashes onto her back. Sweeping my blade down, I halt shy of her middle.

  “I don’t think I’m better than you. In fact, I hardly think of you at all.”

  The mediator blasts his whistle to conclude round one. We have two more rounds, yet he blows his whistle three more times, four in total.

  The warning to evacuate.

  My gaze flickers over the audience to the waterfront. Dozens of torches wink along the shoreline, bobbing closer to the docks. Bloody bones, a raid.

  Harlow flashes a smirk. “I guess we both lose.”

  Everyone around the trench stills. Then, as though someone snapped their fingers and woke them from a magical sleep, people bolt in a hundred directions. Streetwalkers clutch their skirts and sprint down the pier while sailors push to the longboats docked along the wharf. Claret and Laverick jump into the river and swim for the bank. Other streetwalkers follow the sailors rowing across the channel, swimming toward the other side or to their ship. Vevina scoops up her winnings and shoves them down her corset. I slam my sword into my sheath and tug on Harlow, but she’s dead weight.

  “What are you doing?” I demand. “Get up!”

  “Go away, Everley.”

  “You’ll be arrested!”

  “So will you.” Harlow folds her arms across her chest like a child.

  All around us, boats row out into the river. My instincts shout at me to flee, but I cannot find Markham without her. “I’ll tell you one secret right now if you come with me.”

  “You think you can bribe me?” She laughs, an apathetic sound. “You think too much of yourself.”

  I consider hitting her over the head and dragging her off, but her weight would slow me down.

  Constables along the riverbank capture Claret and Laverick sloshing out of the water and then chase after other escapees swimming farther down shore. Dozens more constables spill onto the dock, a swarm of shadows headed our direction. The first line of corps seizes people fleeing. Another group of constables charge up the wharf toward us.

  “Fine,” I snap, releasing Harlow. “Find your own way out of here.”

  Harlow salutes me snidely. I sprint to the edge of the dock and scan the waterway. All the longboats are gone, and diving into the channel is not an option. My older brother Tavis taught me to swim, but my clock heart cannot go underwater. The mechanical workings would become waterlogged. Not even recalibration could save my ticker should it flood.

  The constable corps thud closer. I duck behind water barrels and curl into the shadows. Muffling my regulator, I strive for calm.

  Be still. Be a machine . . .

  From between the barrels, I see Vevina scraping up the last of her winnings. The constables surround her. She brushes the lapel of a corpsman’s jacket coyly with a stack of bills. He pushes her over, front down onto the table. Her lips form a surprised circle as he shackles her wrists. Vevina set aside a hefty sum in bribes to the corps so they would disregard her business practices. Someone with greater means and power must have initiated this raid.

  Footfalls pound closer, vibrating the wharf beneath me. Harlow sits a few feet away, still out in the open. What is she doing?

  A wave of corps hurdle into the trench and encircle her. My ticker does double time, triggering my regulator to ring. Despite my cloak smothering the box, the sound carries in the night and two constables pause. Their rounded hats are tipped low over their foreheads. One of them squints through the shadows at me.

  “There!” he hollers.

  Another constable leaps over the barrels and aims his pistol between my eyes. “Disarm yourself!” he says.

  Across the trench, Harlow tosses aside her sword. I start to set down my own blade, and the constable whacks me over the head with his pistol. I fall forward, hissing in pain. Rough hands disarm me and slam me facedown. The constable wrenches my arms back and clamps on the heavy, tight manacles. I sag forward, my fingers uncurling to useless nubs.

  Harlow watches me while she, too, is shackled. For some absurd reason, she’s smiling.

  Chapter Five

  From street level, the lower entrance to Dorestand Prison is a nondescript stairwell leading to a dark hole. Prison guards haul Harlow and me out of the carriage into the cold of the night. The gallows in the courtyard outside the main gate of the jail are vacant. On execution days, hundreds attend the hangings, and even more come for the burnings.

  Rain runoff bleeds leftover ashes from the stone pit in the courtyard. Accusations from the Progressives against old-world followers, heretics of Mother Madrona, have increased since the queen offered a considerable reward for their identification. What were once seasonal burnings for severe crimes like treason or murder have become daily celebrations of our queen’s purging of the Children of Madrona.

  Our guards prod us down steep stairs and open the thick wooden door. The stench of rot hits me as we are elbowed into the city’s underground. Lanterns illuminate the narrow stone corridor. I slosh through puddles of muck that shine like oil slicks. Huge rats skitter about, the only willing patrons of this place where freedoms expire. The farther we tread, the faster my nerves quiver.

  We are taken to a locked cell. Dirty faces peer out from behind the iron bars. At least twenty women of various ages huddle within, filling a cramped area no bigger than the back of the wagon that brought us here. How will Harlow and I fit?

  A guard unlocks the door, and another removes my manacles. As I rub my chafed wrists, I am pushed inside, and Vevina catches me. I did not pick her out among the other solemn faces. Claret and Laverick sit together at the back of the cell, soaked and shivering. Harlow shoulders her way into the cell and searches for a gap on the stone floor.

  “That’s the last of ’em streetwalkers,” one guard says to the other.

  I pull from Vevina’s grasp and step up to the door. “I’m not a streetwalker. I’m an apprentice to a clockmaker. Please send a message to my guardian, Mr. O’Shea. He’ll confirm that I—”

  He slams the door and locks it. “Save your sniveling for the magistrate.”

  The guards depart, and I shout after them. “Where’s my sword? I want my sword!” Harlow scoffs at me, so I aim my glare at her. “Be quiet. You’re stuck in here too.”

 
“Difference is I’m not wallowing. I’ve got a roof over my head and a dry place to rest. You won’t hear me complaining.”

  Harlow is entirely too calm. Dorestand Prison is a sarcophagus, better suited for the dead. Considering her relaxed pose, I would guess she had planned the raid, but she lacks the means and power. It is far more likely that Harlow knows who sent the corps upon us, though she would not tell me, not for anything less than a hefty ransom.

  She sits against a wall and stretches out her legs, occupying more room than any other woman. Her reputation as a spy discourages protests from our cellmates. Harlow has been rumored to sell and gather secrets for the queen, a piece of gossip she may have started to inflate her own importance. It is hard to tell what is true about Harlow and what is a lie.

  Vevina crosses the cell to Claret and Laverick. They do not invite me to sit with them. It wasn’t my intent to insult their livelihood. I’m not a streetwalker—that’s the truth—though I could have been less condemning of the guard’s accusation.

  I settle near the iron door, away from the other inmates. They are poorly dressed, unwashed, and infested with fleas. The closest woman eyes my red gloves. I wrap my cloak closer and scowl back at her until she stops.

  Markham was so close. I should never have tried to make a bargain with Harlow. I should have tried to look for him myself. By now, I could have my answers and be on my way home.

  “Don’t fret, shop clerk,” Harlow says, lowering her hood over her eyes. “We’ll be out of here tomorrow.”

  The skinny window high in the corner reveals the midnight hour. Soon dawn will come, and Markham will embark for Dagger Island. I drop my forehead against my knees and fall into the hollow beat of my ticker.

  Once again, time is my greatest adversary.

  Daybreak comes and goes without fanfare. Markham has set sail for the island, gone away from Wyeth for months, if not years. The murdering blaggard is free to go and do as he pleases, while I’m trapped in this dank hole awaiting trial. Harlow’s confidence about our quick release was ignorant optimism. I overheard an older woman tell another prisoner that she’s been here a full month and hasn’t had her trial in court.

  Vevina sits cross-legged between the Fox and the Cat by the far wall. Claret pulls pieces of salted meat from her pocket and passes one to Laverick.

  “I swiped these off a constable,” she says.

  Laverick rips into the food with her teeth. She doesn’t seem to notice the famished stares from the other prisoners—or those of us who are repelled.

  Children of Madrona don’t consume meat or fish. They believe all life is sacred and ending another human’s or animal’s life causes bad luck. My parents told me stories of our ancestors slaughtering cattle for sustenance and the calamity that followed. Whole villages suffered lice outbreaks, great storms blew in from the sea, and locusts destroyed crops. Only after the people gave seeds to the land as penitence did Madrona withdraw her plagues. Progressives don’t view the mythical elderwood as a deity. They think the Creator gave us animals to feed and clothe ourselves, and extreme penalties are permissible when employed by the law.

  My nonmeat diet was taught by my parents and upheld by Uncle Holden. He isn’t rigidly devout. He consumes meat in times of famine and wears leather as long as the slaughter of the animal is humane. I haven’t felt persecuted by Madrona for sampling a bite of a boiled egg or sleeping on a down pillow instead of straw. Someone more superstitious could perceive my misfortunes as punishments, while others could say my trials are part of life. Neither the Progressives nor the Children of Madrona seem fully right or wrong. Any belief taken to the extreme is dangerous.

  “How long ’til the guards return?” Laverick asks, licking salt from her fingers.

  “Won’t be long.” Vevina’s gaze drifts far away. “They have to adhere to the departure docket.”

  “I heard the ship’s full,” says Claret.

  “They’re almost done gathering their allotted prisoners. Not just any woman will do.” Vevina regards our cellmates. Most of the women are in their later years. “The queen needs healthy stock, servants and breeders for her settlement. We can make it aboard with the others if we behave.”

  They must be referring to the Lady Regina, the second ship leaving for the penal colony that will be full of female convicts. I tilt my head to hear them better, my interest piqued.

  Laverick scrapes her nail across her lower lip nervously. “I’ve heard soldiers would rather desert the navy than be assigned to Dagger Island.”

  “A transportation sentence is better than hanging for treason or rotting in here,” Vevina replies. The Fox and the Cat nod solemnly. “The women on the ship will have clean clothes and beds, food every day, and fresh water. The queen won’t tolerate anything less for the future mothers of her colony.”

  A transportation sentence might appeal to them, but the Lady Regina is a floating prison. The queen is sending convicts because no one else will go. The history of Dagger Island goes back further than the penal colony. Tragedy befell the isle’s previous rulers, Princess Amadara and her lost prince. What remains of their fallen kingdom was justly forsaken. No good can come from invading a broken world.

  A greasy-haired guard unlocks the door and points at Vevina. “You there. You and your lasses come with us.”

  Vevina leads the way across the cell, she, Claret, and Laverick stepping over the other prisoners. Out of spite, the inmates tug at their skirts and slap their ankles.

  “’Tisn’t fair!” one grouses. “They’ve been here one night!”

  “What about us?” asks another.

  “Shut it,” replies the guard. He pushes the trio out beside a second guard, then points at Harlow and me. “You two come as well.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  He spits at me, the gob landing near my foot. “Just get up.”

  I rise and follow Harlow from the cell. The guards snap manacles around our wrists and then nudge us down the corridor and up a staircase. They throw open a door to blinding daylight. My vision clears to reveal a chamber lined with polished benches and clean windows. On the other side, by an interior door, stands a naval officer.

  Lieutenant Callahan draws up in astonishment. Of all the arrogant blaggards in Wyeth, I didn’t intend to come across him again.

  He strides to me, his gait purposeful. He carries the authority given to him by his nobility and rank of command with ease, and his confidence compels every eye in the room. Claret and Laverick appraise him as though he’s a sweet to swipe and stash in their pocket. His presence repels me. The lieutenant has on the same standard blue uniform Governor Markham wore the night he murdered my family.

  “Miss Everley, why are you here?” Callahan asks, frowning deeply. “Are you feeling all right?”

  My neck warms as I recall my condition when he left yesterday. “I’m much improved.”

  “Step back, sir,” the greasy-haired guard advises. “She’s dodgy.”

  “Her?” Lieutenant Callahan laughs. No one else makes light of the guard’s warning, so the lieutenant sobers. “This must be a mistake. Miss Everley is a clockmaker’s apprentice.”

  “No mistake, sir,” replies the guard. “The corps rounded her up with these streetwalkers.”

  The lieutenant straightens, standing a hand taller than the guard. “Careful,” he says, quiet yet direct. “You will treat Miss Everley with respect.”

  The guard withdraws on a harrumph. Vevina and the other women gape at the lieutenant. For all the stars in the sky, I cannot comprehend why I have his backing. He must assume I was a bystander swept up in the raid. Or perhaps he has another motive. Callahan would not be the first nobleman to place presumptions upon a woman of lesser standing.

  “Why are we here, Lieutenant?” I ask.

  Sympathy softens his stern brow. “For your trial.”

  I rock back on my heels. It’s time for my trial already.

  A court clerk opens the far door and beckons ou
r group to come in. I cross my arms over my beating ticker and follow Callahan. The magistrates burn people for praying to Madrona. Discovery of my clock heart, which could be confused for a mechanism of sorcery, would surely lead to an execution sentence.

  In the high-ceilinged courtroom, gentlemen and ladies occupy wooden pews before the lofty magistrate bench. The gallery is packed, and after a glimpse of our judges, I understand why.

  The older, portly magistrate in a heavy white wig and plain robes sits beside Her Omnipotence, Queen Aislinn. Our gray-haired monarch has donned a fashionable buttercream brocade dress with an ivory lace bodice and three-quarter sleeves. Her air of deportment reveals no emotion beyond strict power.

  During my father’s service, the queen’s unsmiling portrait hung in our home. Some say she hasn’t smiled since she was fifteen. She woke in the middle of the night screaming that she had seen a vision of her father dying. Palace guards investigated and found the king had been disemboweled. Aislinn was sworn in as our queen a day after his wake.

  The guards usher the streetwalkers inside the courtroom after us. We take turns bowing before Her Omnipotence and form a line in the dock. Callahan stands off to the side with two soldiers. Our guards leave, and the clerk directs our attention to the green-and-blue Wyeth flag over the magistrate’s bench. It displays a symbol of the seven worlds, ours in the center and the six Otherworlds encircling it. The myth that our world is one of seven worlds in existence has survived the queen’s purging of the old ways, as it exemplifies the Creator’s greatness and supreme rulership.

  “Hand over your heart,” says the nasally clerk. “Repeat after me: ‘I swear by our beloved queen, great seer of benevolence and omnipotence, that the evidence I provide shall be the unerring, uncompromised truth.’”