Before the Broken Star (The Evermore Chronicles Book 1)

by Emily R. King

  The rain begins to fall in earnest, dampening our cloaks and boots. I pause and look back to gauge our progress. The trees obstruct our view of the sea, sealing out the salty breeze and trapping us within the dense, fetid Thornwoods, where every direction appears the same.

  “Markham,” I call, “how do you know which way to go?”

  “Direction is unreliable in the Thornwoods, as the paths are ever changing. You must look for evidence that we’re on the correct course. The Thornwoods showed your father the way. It will do the same for you.”

  The Fox and the Cat swivel toward me, inquisitive yet mystified. Why am I searching for our path? Jamison must be wondering too, but none of them press me, probably because I appear just as perplexed. Markham and Harlow start off again.

  I whisper to Tavis, “The trees will show me signs?”

  “Don’t worry. I came prepared.” He shows me the circumferentor at the top of his walking stick—a surveyor’s compass. “This will show us which direction we’re traveling.” He swings the stick in a small circle. The needle does not budge. He jiggles it harder, but there is still no movement. “It worked on the beach.”

  “I believe you,” I say. “Bad luck follows me everywhere I go.”

  I march over beds of pine needles and steer around sticker bushes. The evergreens are a tedium of razor prickles for my cloak to snag on. Each of us pauses periodically to untangle ourselves from the crooked thorns. A few sparrows and squirrels stir in the hushed woodland. Otherwise, most of the creatures have the sense to seek shelter from the rain.

  Every few paces, I listen and search for a sign that we are traveling in the correct direction. My only consistent impression is of the gentle pulse throbbing up from the ground and out from the trees, pressing into the deepest cogs and gears of my ticker. If the woodland is communicating with us, and the trees have voices, I cannot understand their language.

  Our party slogs on. Laverick and Claret make a game out of our travel by playing “walk as I do.” Harlow puts a stop to it when Claret does a rather ingenious impersonation of Harlow batting her eyelashes at Laverick standing in as Markham.

  “Governor,” Jamison says, “we came this way.”

  Markham dries his face, wet from the rain. “How can you tell?”

  Jamison points out a score in a tree root. “I marked this over an hour ago.”

  “Eiocha’s stars,” Harlow swears, dropping her pack.

  Claret chews her lower lip, and Laverick sits on a log to massage her calves. My brother fiddles with his jammed circumferentor, and Jamison shifts his weight to his good leg to hide his limp. I have no idea how long it has been since we left the beach, but we cannot waste our strength walking in loops.

  I grab Markham and drag him aside. Harlow is still close enough to listen to us. Markham will likely repeat what I say, so I let her eavesdrop.

  “Let me lead,” I say.

  His lips pucker as though he’s sipped sour tea. “I’m not lost. The Thornwoods is finicky.”

  “Maybe having me with you isn’t enough. Maybe I have to hold the sword.”

  His wolfish gaze narrows. “You nor the sword will leave my sight.”

  As if he would let me wander off. A while back, he hovered uncomfortably close when I relieved myself in the bushes.

  Despite his reluctance, we switch weapons. As my fist curls around the hilt of my sword, a knot between my shoulder blades unwinds. Markham walks away swiftly with the stubby cutlass. His pistol is tucked in his pocket, so he will get no sympathy from me. I return to the others.

  “You got your sword back,” Jamison notes.

  “Looks good strapped to her hip, doesn’t it, Lieutenant?” Claret says.

  Jamison and I flush, and the Fox and the Cat snigger.

  Harlow and Markham exchange quiet, heated words, and then she storms off to sit under a tree. Their relationship is confusing. What does Harlow gain from helping him return to his princess? What has he promised her?

  Markham catches me staring and makes a shooing motion. He relinquished his weapon to me, and now he expects me to guide us to the gate.

  I scour the area for hints of our location. The woodland is a wash of gray and green, a gloomy and daunting landscape. The ground is fairly level. We have not gone far enough inland to reach the mountains. I don’t believe the Thornwoods will provide a clear sign, so I pick a random route on impulse and follow my intuition. It has yet to lead me astray.

  “This way,” I say, waving my party forward.

  My optimism sustains me for an hour or two. Trusting my inner compass will not fail me, I trudge onward, but our eerie surroundings challenge my concentration. I snag my arm on a thorn, cutting it and tearing a hole in my cloak. I cannot seem to focus on where to go, because all I want to do is leave these foul woods. After a third hour of nothing, my ticker starts to beat off rhythm and everyone’s pace drags.

  We stop for a drink from our water flasks. Runoff from the passing rain drips from the canopy and peppers my head. My frustration grates at me. I haven’t seen any suggestion that we are or aren’t on the right track.

  “I told you the Thornwoods was unlike any other landscape.” Markham is not gloating. He also seems disappointed in me.

  He rests on a rotting log and shakes a pebble from his boot. I sit beside him, preoccupied by my incompetence in finding my way.

  “How long did it take my father to discover the gate?” Frustration shortens my tone, making me sound as irritated and tired as I feel.

  “I couldn’t say. The Thornwoods distorts place and time. The light is always desolate, that of an overcast day, and the trees impede us from viewing the sky. The nearer we are to the gate, the less time shifts.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Then explain to me why we have wandered hours and the light hasn’t changed.” Markham gets up and cases the trees, pacing like a lone wolf in a cage.

  Nightfall should settle upon us soon, but the longer we stay here, the less convinced I am that it will. In the legend of the Ruined Kingdom, the forest surrounding the gate to the Everwoods was cursed to prevent the prince from returning. Did the curse on this woodland include manipulating time?

  I peek down the front of my shirt and a hot tickle crawls up my neck. The second hand of my heart is ticking in place, thumping the same second on repeat.

  Here in the Thornwoods, time has no power.

  My thoughts return to Markham’s expectation that I will lead us to the gate. I assumed my inner compass was an instinct I was born with, inherited from my father. But could the promptings come from my clock?

  Jamison stretches his leg and rubs his bad knee. Our wandering cannot continue. I have to obtain proof that we’re on course. I find Tavis at the edge of the group still fiddling with his surveyor’s compass.

  “Any luck?” I ask.

  “No,” he sighs.

  “Shouldn’t you have known it wouldn’t work? I thought you had been on expeditions on the isle with Markham before.”

  “Once,” Tavis says, his tone and countenance darkening. “I didn’t have the compass then. Our party of twenty men walked for days without a sign of the gate. After what was probably our twelfth night—it’s difficult to determine how long we were traveling—our party was attacked by a strange beast and the men fled in every direction. Only Markham and I found our way back to the beach.” Guilt emanates from Tavis’s bowed posture. As our father’s son, he was assigned to guide the party to the gate and failed.

  “Why did you come back?” I ask. I would be hard-pressed to return after that.

  “I came to be with you.”

  His sincerity renders me speechless.

  Tavis tenses, suddenly alert. “Did you see that?” He points to the copse of trees about fifty strides ahead of us. “There.”

  Two golden eyes flash in the underbrush and vanish before I see what they belong to. My brother pinches my sleeve and drags me back to the group.

  “Time to move,�
� he announces.

  “We’re waiting for a heading,” Markham says. He holds me accountable for our lack of progress. Though I fear what he will do when his impatience runs out, I am also afraid of the eerie yellow eyes my brother and I saw.

  I search the misty forest, gripping my sword for encouragement.

  Father Time, we’re lost. Markham won’t let us leave until he thinks I’ve done everything I can to lead us to the gate. Actually, I don’t think he intends to let us leave at all. Send me a sign or a way out of this nightmare.

  My ticker thuds harder. Not faster—stronger.

  I venture forward a step and the ticktocking builds as I approach a tree. The sword vibrates and warms. A splash of color draws me to the tree roots, where a single perfect daisy grows.

  “Odd,” Jamison says. “I’ve only seen daisies grow in clusters.”

  “That’s not the only thing strange about this place,” Claret replies. “Did anyone see any flowers before now?” We all shake our heads. “Nor have I, and I’ve an eye for pretty things. This little flower doesn’t belong here.”

  Her opinion endorses my own. The Thornwoods is too harsh a terrain to produce blossoms.

  “I think we should look for another,” Laverick suggests.

  I don’t know how I discovered the first flower, so I repeat my actions and aim the blade past the daisy. A vibration runs up my arm from my sword. I step around the tree and walk until the sword warms and quivers again.

  “Here,” says Tavis, kneeling by another daisy. “Do it again, Everley.”

  Once more, the sword directs me to a flower several strides away.

  “They’re making a trail for us,” Markham says. He plucks the daisy and inhales its summery scent. “I’m coming, Ama.”

  My amazement continues as the sword buzzes warmly in my grasp, leading me from one daisy to the next. I don’t know how I’m doing this, but I am too grateful to finally have a direction shown to us that I dare not question or doubt the source.

  Twenty-four daisies later, our gait slows to a slog. Nighttime still has not fallen, but I drop my pack and declare it is time to retire. Markham doesn’t challenge me. He collected the daisies in a bouquet and sniffs them occasionally. By all appearances, he’s a prince besotted with his princess. From Harlow’s scowl, she’s waiting until he puts the flowers down so she can crush them under her heel.

  We dine on tasteless hardtack. Along with the absence of time, we’ve lost the warmth of the season. My cloak and gloves ward off the worst of the cold. Harlow tries to start a fire with her striker, but the damp moss and kindling will not ignite.

  Tavis keeps a lookout while Jamison spreads out the bedrolls. Buzzing insects have taken flight, and chirping resounds around us, strident like a discordant violin note.

  “What’s that?” Claret asks, her eyes huge.

  “Crickets,” says Markham. He scrapes thorns off a trunk and settles against it. He will be on watch while the rest of us sleep. Harlow sits beside him and tucks against him for warmth.

  I lie down with my sword, my bedroll adjacent to Jamison’s. As we tracked the trail of daisies, he became quieter and quieter. He stares up into the forest canopy, his concentration broken by yawning. The crickets’ chirps swell, their lullaby clamorous. Not bothering to try to stay awake, I let fatigue drag me under.

  In what feels like a matter of minutes, Markham nudges my side with the toe of his boot.

  “Wake up,” he says, “We need to move.”

  The crickets have not quit chirping.

  I bury my face in my arms. “Let me sleep.”

  “You’ll have to make do. It’s unsafe to linger in one place too long.”

  He wakes Jamison next, who glances about bleary-eyed, and Harlow rouses the Fox and the Cat. Claret sits up in a drowsy daze, while Laverick rolls over and ignores us. My brother is awake, his bedroll folded and put away. I haul my sore muscles up, but only because I need a private moment in the bushes.

  I leave my bag and wander to the edge of camp. Markham sends Harlow after me to ensure I don’t take off with the sword. I walk faster to make her task of keeping track of me more difficult.

  Just beyond the sight of camp, the cricket song ceases.

  I go still, my senses jumping. Directly ahead, two yellow eyes glow in the undergrowth. They are the same pair of eyes Tavis pointed out hours ago. My heart rebels against my stillness, ticking faster. Something is hunkered within the fountain of ferns, and its measured breaths are cavernous. Whatever hides there sounds large, larger than me.

  Very cautiously, I retreat a step. The beast snorts in response. Gooseflesh skitters across my scalp.

  Harlow barrels through the undergrowth. “You can’t lose me, Everley. Your red gloves make you easy to spot.”

  “Stay back,” I say, waving her away.

  “Don’t tell me what to do—”

  The ferns before us undulate in violent ripples, patches of tan hair visible amid the greenery. My ticker beats the same second over and over, sprinting in place.

  “What is it?” Harlow asks, her voice horrorstruck.

  “I hope not to find out. Maybe if we retreat slowly, it will leave us alone.”

  Harlow strides backward at an urgent pace.

  “I said slowly!”

  The beast bugles and crashes out of the underbrush. I stumble back and land on my bottom. Harlow races for camp, and the enormous four-legged creature rears on its hind legs. Its powerful elklike body fills my view. A pair of antlers curls high and forward, their ends tapering to vicious points over irate eyes.

  I can scarcely believe my sight. Centicores live in the highlands of the Land of Youth, but we do have myths about the territorial beasts in our world. One common story tells of children playing too far from home and coming upon a centicore grazing. All that was found of them were their shoes. How did a centicore get here from an Otherworld?

  The beast rears up and tosses its massive curled antlers and drops less than ten strides away. The centicore bugles again louder, a gut-shaking cry. I cup my ears and shudder.

  “Everley!” Markham cries from off in the woods. “Everley, come back to camp!”

  I carefully rise to my feet. The beast paws its front hooves, its head down.

  Jamison and Markham crash through the foliage behind me. They pause about thirty paces back with their pistols loaded. I stand right in their firing range, between them and the centicore.

  A shot explodes, whizzing past my head. The lead ball strikes a tree near the beast. Markham’s aim went wide. The centicore drops its antlers and charges at us. I sprint into the Thornwoods to flee Jamison’s line of fire.

  A cracking boom resounds through the trees. I slow to see if Jamison’s aim hit the centicore, and the beast bounds right after me. I take off again faster.

  Heavy gallops draw nearer. I circle back around to find camp, giving Jamison time to reload, but I am swiftly lost in the labyrinth of briars. I don’t look back to see how close the centicore is at my heels. The beast is fast and spry, made of agile strength and muscle—it will outrun me in no time.

  Taking advantage of my smaller size, I weave between tightly packed trees to slow it down. Unfortunately, I slow myself down too.

  I pick a straighter course and speed up, leaping over tree roots and rocks. The sound of the centicore galloping in pursuit stays within range. My chest tightens, my heart ticking madly. My side aches and legs burn. Low tree branches scratch my face, and the thorny tree trunks discourage me from climbing to safety. I hope to find my way back to my party, but neither camp nor my comrades are visible.

  My pace starts to lag. The centicore’s noisy stampede is falling behind. The beast must be tiring as well. I duck behind a tree and press my hand over my exploding heart. My regulator would be ringing like the bells on the palace chapel. I hold myself together one breath at a time.

  A shadow streaks across my side vision and then hot pain ignites across my side as I’m flung forward. I hit the gro
und and my sword is thrown from my grasp. The centicore vaults on top of me, landing with a bone-jarring wham. All air whooshes out of my lungs as its hoof slams my torso. I shove against its breast, hand full of wiry hair. My other hand reaches for my sword, but it’s beyond my grasp.

  Square teeth nip at me, just shy of my nose. I push against the centicore’s maw. Spiky horns bear down, close to goring. I scream as the beast snaps at my jugular.

  The echo of my scream comes back to me. The centicore’s eyes glaze over and it slumps on top of my legs. Five frantic ticks later, it still has not moved. I panic, shoving and wiggling to pull free. I squeeze out from under it and crawl away. Markham stands over me, his sweaty hair matted to his forehead.

  I run my fingers over my ticker. A line snakes down the glass, cracked but not shattered.

  “Everley!” Jamison calls.

  I hear but don’t see him.

  Markham looms over me and drops my sword at my side. “Don’t run off again.”

  Jamison shouts for me once more. I catch my breath enough to whistle. Jamison run-limps to us. His pistol is shoved into the waist of his trousers, and black powder stains the front of him. My ribs ache from where the centicore kicked my side and landed on me.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks.

  “Just bruised. Help me up.”

  He grips my wrists and hauls me to standing. Markham yanks his cutlass from the centicore’s side. Its lopsided mouth hangs open, its tongue drooping out. Nausea dangles in my belly as the stench of blood fills the forestland.

  “Thank you for getting to her in time, Killian,” says Jamison.

  He would not praise Markham if he knew the beast couldn’t have harmed him. Markham spared me for his own benefit, or rather for the benefit of the sword. My only satisfaction is knowing he must have thrown a fit when I ran.

  I scoop up my weapon and loop my arm around Jamison’s waist. “How’s your leg?” I ask.

  “No worse than your bruises.”

  He plucks pine needles from my hair, and I brush more off my cloak.

  “Evie!” Tavis calls from nearby.