Before the Broken Star (The Evermore Chronicles Book 1)

by Emily R. King

  Jamison shouts over the din. “Prepare to receive fire!”

  Men on both sides of the battle duck for cover. I run after Markham and brace against the gunwale. The cannons fire.

  I count eight—no, nine—blasts in quick succession.

  Gunfire pelts the deck and starboard side of the Lady Regina. A cannonball severs the foremast, and the top third of the mast falls toward the middle deck, where I last saw Jamison.

  I cover my ears and shield my head. Markham watches calmly, unflinching as the blasts boom. His ship is firing on their own crewmen and commander. Since he cannot perish, he must have given the order at the sacrifice of his men.

  Our swordplay was a game. He was toying with me, delaying for this slaughter.

  A cannonball strikes the stairs to the upper deck. I shield myself from showering debris, the concussion ricocheting through the ship. Markham’s men ready the longboats for departure. He steps out into the open and tips his chin in farewell.

  “Until next time, Everley.”

  He strides off, exposing his back to me. Arrogant blaggard.

  I slice the back of his belt. He stops and clutches at his drooping trousers. I cut higher, cleaving the string around his neck. As the heartwood falls between us, blasts sound. Seconds later, the cannon fire bashes several longboats apart and the middle deck buckles under the siege.

  Markham lunges for the heartwood. I drive my blade through his chest, where his heart would beat if he had one, and spear the blade into the gunwale.

  He moans, his fist tight on my sword. While he’s pinned, I scoop up the heartwood and fling it overboard. I look to land and see the wooden soldiers freeze. All their movements cease at once, and a few fall over, toppling like cut-down trees. Smoke plumes stream from the settlement, the camp decimated.

  His wooden army has fallen.

  I return for the sword of Avelyn, but Markham has pulled the blade that trapped him from his chest and tossed it out of my reach.

  His wolfish eyes glow murderous, my sword in his hand. “You’re a briar in my heel.”

  “Everley!” Quinn cries from middeck. “Help me! He’s stuck!”

  Without a weapon of my own, I have no hope of winning the sword of Avelyn from him. “I’ll be coming for my sword,” I say.

  “Why wait?” Markham waves me forward, blade ready.

  I back out of his range and run into the wind.

  He shouts after me. “You’ll never find me, Everley! You’ll never see the sword again!”

  I jump over the cracked and smashed deck. The dead are strewn among the fragments of planks, more casualties from gun and sword wounds than cannon fire. Everyone is wet, drenched by the unyielding storm. While the cannon fire has ceased, Laverick, Claret, and Vevina are directing survivors into the few longboats still intact.

  Quinn yells for me again. I hurry around my friends and head in the direction of her calls.

  Having endured the worst of the damage, the middeck is deserted. Dr. Huxley has not moved from when he was flung during the hatch explosion. I start for him, then spot Quinn. She kneels beside Jamison, who is trapped under the fallen foremast. His hair is uncovered, his hat lost to the wind. My clock heart swings wildly.

  “I tried to wake Dr. Huxley, but neither of them is responding,” says Quinn.

  She pats Jamison’s cheek and tries to shake him awake. Nearby, also pinned by the mast, Harlow fights to wriggle free.

  “Everley, your chin,” gasps Quinn.

  I dare not ask how my face looks. Markham has probably marred me for life, this time where everyone can see.

  Another volley of cannon fire sounds.

  I protect Quinn’s head from raining pieces. “Get to Vevina,” I say.

  “What about Prince? I cannot find him!”

  “He’ll be all right. Now go.”

  Quinn stumbles over rubble.

  “My ankle,” Harlow says tightly.

  The mast landed on her at an angle, restraining her lower leg. She wriggles and pulls without progress. I grab the mast and lift. Harlow works her ankle free and gets up, her hair flinging around her face. She hefts her rapier and starts to limp up the deck to Markham. He’s climbing into a longboat with his surviving crewmen.

  “Wait,” I say. “Aren’t you going to help me free Jamison?”

  “Everley,” she says, panting, “be grateful I haven’t the time to slit your throats.”

  Harlow limps off, her departure punctuated by a clap of thunder. I wish to the stars that she will trip and fall overboard, and then I funnel my anger into lifting the mast off Jamison. It scarcely moves, still pinning his upper half.

  The ship tilts as it takes on water. I will myself not to panic, and lift harder. A section of line snaps from a sail and strikes me in the back. I fall forward against the mast in a fresh wave of pain. Across the way, Harlow reunites with Markham. He lifts her into the longboat and they lower below the rail.

  “Everley?” Dr. Huxley sits up and rubs his forehead.

  I totter over to him. “Are you all right? Can you stand?”

  “I’m presentable,” he says loudly. He must be addled from the explosion. I haul him to his feet and help him over to Jamison. The surgeon examines his condition and practically yells, “He’s breathing and his pulse is strong. Help me lift this off him.”

  Both of us hug the mast and push so it will roll down Jamison’s legs. The wooden beam hardly budges. We need more hands, but everyone else has fled to the longboats, except for . . .

  “Blue!” I call. “Blue, where are you?”

  Her azure light weaves through the windy downpour and she lands on Jamison’s chest.

  Dr. Huxley holds his head again. “I must be concussed and imagining things.”

  “She’s real,” I say. “Blue, can you free Jamison?”

  She nods adamantly and then hovers above the mast and flutters her wings. Pixie dust sprinkles off her wings and lands on the mast. Almost immediately, the wooden section where the dust landed vanishes. Without the restraining weight, Jamison rouses.

  I bend over him and stroke his hair. “Do you hurt?”

  “I can get up.”

  “We’ll help you,” Dr. Huxley says, still talking too loudly. The explosion damaged his hearing, hopefully temporarily. “Your head is bruised, and probably your ribs. Move slowly.”

  Blue dives into Jamison’s shirt pocket. We help him up and hobble all together to the portside. Vevina has waited there for us with a longboat.

  “Where’s Quinn?” I ask her.

  “She’s gone ahead with Laverick and Claret.”

  Rainy gusts wail as we climb in one at a time and start our descent toward the waves. Jamison slumps against me, clutching his sore side, and Dr. Huxley rubs his sore ears. Vevina is covered in soot from the hatch explosion, her dress torn and her curly hair fuller than ever.

  The other longboats ahead of us row to shore, out of the line of fire of the ship. Markham and his men row their boat toward the Cadeyrn of the Seas. Someone in one of the boats below shouts above the din.

  “Whale!”

  A great curved back appears in the open water. The whale goes up and under repeatedly, swimming fast for the parallel ships. The harpoon scars of the Terrible Dorcha are undeniable.

  “Great Creator,” Vevina breathes.

  Markham’s men row faster across the tempest-tossed sea for their ship. The giant whale swims up to them and dives. The men pause their rowing and peer over the side as the monster passes beneath them. When it seems Dorcha has gone, he surfaces next to the watercraft and smashes it with his fluke.

  The men cry out as they are thrown into the water. Dorcha wallops the boat with his tail again, destroying the chance for salvageable remains. Harlow grabs on to a floating board from the wreckage and treads water. Markham swims for his ship, slowed down by the sword of Avelyn in his fist.

  Jamison and I brace against each other and watch in incredulity as Dorcha turns wide and pursues Markham at th
e surface. The whale shows no interest in any other swimmer. He stalks Markham, who flails for speed he does not have. Dorcha closes in and opens his mouth.

  The whale overtakes Markham, swallowing him straight down his gullet, both man and sword.

  I gawk as the Terrible Dorcha, having caught his prey, plunges below and out of sight.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Three hundred and seventy dead—sailors, soldiers, and convicts—and another thirty-eight missing. We salvaged what we could off the Lady Regina. The trusty vessel won’t set sail again. After a fortnight of preparing for departure, the enormous first-rate flagship of the queen’s navy, the Cadeyrn of the Seas, has become our salvation for voyaging home. Despite the battle, the two crews set aside their grievances and united under the common objective of leaving the isle.

  Graves litter the entirety of the settlement, the sea of headstones a warning to the next curious explorer or greedy ruler who tries to tame Dagger Island. This cursed place will only bring misery and death.

  On this early morning, fourteen days after the battle, we finish the final burial. The weather has been sublime since the storm, all tempered breezes and sunshine. The island is either giving us a blessed send-off or trying to beguile us into staying.

  Jamison marks the grave with a circle of stones, and Blue chews on a gnat she caught. My attention drifts to the thorny trees. We returned to the battle site to find piles of timber. Without creation magic animating the wooden soldiers, they were reduced to kindling.

  And burn them we did. We lit pyres up and down the beach and their remains burned for days. Yesterday, we doused the embers and ashes with sand and buckets of seawater. My hair still smells of smoke.

  Jamison lifts the headstone into position. “TAVIS DONOVAN.” Though his remains weren’t recovered, we honored Tavis’s life and laid him to rest between Captain Dabney and Commander Flynn. May Madrona watch over all of their spirits.

  Markham was given no formal resting place. Confusion still surrounds his disappearance. Most believe he’s dead, while superstitious sailors and convicts think the Terrible Dorcha captured him and took him away. I have no doubt he is alive. The attack of the whale was sudden and unexpected, but if I cannot kill Markham, neither can Dorcha.

  Harlow was found clinging to driftwood and was pulled from the sea. She struck a soldier for implying that Markham had become whale food. Jamison, now the highest-ranking officer and our temporary captain, ordered her chained in the hold. She will remain there our entire passage home. We embark for Wyeth as soon as Jamison and I return to the ship. I will be grateful to never again see the skyline of Dagger Island.

  Jamison steps to my side by my brother’s grave, his hat concealing most of the bandage around his head. Additional bandages wrap his bruised rib cage. His black-and-tan captain’s uniform suits him.

  “You can come back to visit him,” he says.

  “We both know I won’t return.”

  “Time cannot change what’s been done, but you did it, Everley. You confronted Markham and maintained your integrity.”

  I hear Jamison’s praise, yet when I give ear to my ticking heart, I still think of my family. I don’t know how I’ll let them go.

  Jamison slides his hand along my jawline and kisses my cheek. Dr. Huxley said the cut across my chin will heal but likely scar. Before he examined me, I had already accepted the mark won’t fade. Markham leaves scars, that’s what monsters do.

  Jamison walks down to prep the longboat. On the way, he stops at Rafferty’s grave and adjusts a stone that has slid out of place. We didn’t have his remains, so Jamison buried Rafferty’s snuffbox. Jamison took good care of arranging his resting place, directing his headstone toward the water in view of the sea.

  Blue flies one turn about the top of Jamison’s head, her radiance a cobalt halo, and then darts off into the Thornwoods. She goes there often to hunt for insects. I have stared into the woodland’s shadows until my eyes crossed, yet I have not seen anything else fantastical. Not Father Time, or portals to the Otherworlds, or even a single daisy.

  I shut my eyes to my brother’s grave. This is farewell to him, to this isle, to the younger, naive me. The memories I make henceforth belong to the new cogs and gears of my heart. The days, hours, minutes, and seconds are mine. I will not be giving them away to liars and cads. I will not let them be corrupted, no matter where luck and time lead me.

  The daisy Father Time gave me has turned brittle. I lay it in front of the headstone and cover the stem with dirt so it doesn’t blow away. Beside the flower I line up the wooden figurines I made of our family. Father and Mother would be proud of the man Tavis had become. I will be forever grateful for the memories we made and the extra time we spent together.

  After kissing each of my family’s wooden heads, I place Tavis’s figurine between our parents. “Be at peace,” I say.

  I tug on my mother’s red gloves and tread down to the boat.

  Jamison watches the tree line. “Have you seen Blue?” he asks.

  “She flew into the Thornwoods. Perhaps she went home.”

  He frowns at the foliage. Blue spends the majority of her time in his company, hiding in his pocket and sleeping on the floor beside him at night. We have kept her companionship a secret from everyone except Dr. Huxley and Quinn. I don’t imagine Blue would leave without bidding farewell to Jamison.

  However, she could still be mad at us for introducing her to Prince. The cat survived the battle, albeit scragglier from his swim to shore. During his first night aboard the ship, he hunted Blue into a corner. We had to beg the pixie not to disappear him with her magical dust.

  “Blue will come when she’s ready,” I say.

  Before we get into the boat, Jamison arranges the oars for departure and I slip my regulator bell into his back pocket. Our game has become a challenge of stealth and sneakiness. I intend to outdo him.

  We push the longboat into the quiet surf, get in, and row to the ship in silence. I fix my gaze on the watery horizon. I have seen enough of Dagger Island to last my lifetime. Every so often Jamison checks for Blue, but the pixie does not show.

  After we are hoisted from the water to the gunwale, Jamison ties off the line and I hop over the rail onto the planking. The main deck is strangely quiet.

  Vevina strides out from behind the center mast, holding her dagger and wearing a men’s tricorn hat. Her cagey smile alerts me as to what is happening. Jamison deciphers her welcome differently.

  “Are we under attack?” he asks. “Has Killian returned?”

  Jamison has yet to state his opinion about Markham’s disappearance. He must be of the same mind-set as the superstitious sailors and me, believing that Prince Killian has survived, imprisoned in the belly of the whale.

  A single curl of Vevina’s hair flitters in the breeze. “This, Captain Callahan, is a mutiny.”

  Claret and Laverick step out from behind her. They, along with a dozen or so more women and men, an even mixture of convicts and sailors, are armed with cutlasses and pistols. Quinn holds her cat and pets him, her gaze solemn.

  “I have taken control of the ship,” Vevina says.

  “And you will captain with what experience?” Jamison counters.

  “Captain Dabney, bless his soul, trained me to man the helm. The lasses have been working on their knots and riggings, and the sailors who agreed to serve under my command will be justly compensated. We are in agreeance that this ship and crew need not go to waste serving a senile queen who sent us to expire under the rule of a deceptive governor. To her, we are chattel, expendable slaves. But not anymore.” The crew stamp their feet in accord. “Those who were disinclined to share our vision are locked in the hold.”

  Jamison glowers, visibly affronted by their knavery. This is not a matter of the women’s adequate sailing proficiency but their replacing the highest-ranking officer with a con artist.

  “What better use do you have for the ship?” I ask.

  Vevina’s smile s
tretches. “I’ve listened on the docks. Bootlegging is a rewarding trade. I suspect I’ll have a flair for it.”

  I’ve no doubt she will be an effective pirate, which is not at all heartening.

  “Commandeering the queen’s ship is treason,” Jamison says. He grips his pistol but does not draw. “Should you be caught, your crew will be sentenced to the gallows.”

  “We will take that risk,” replies Vevina.

  The crew hurrahs, including Quinn. She is too young to appreciate the ramifications of this decision, but her courage is commendable. She is not the scared little mouse I first met. I don’t want her or any of us women shackled in prison, for once we return home, we will no longer be settlers. We will be convicts.

  “Might you join our crusade, Captain?” Vevina inquires.

  Jamison’s gaze pans the masts and sails. “The sea is my home,” he replies softly, “but Wyeth is my realm. I will not commit treason.”

  She nods sagely, as though she anticipated his answer. “What of you, Everley? Care to take back your freedom? I’ve a fine spot for you in the crew. Of course, I won’t be sore with you for aligning with your husband.”

  Contrary to her light tone, she sounds nettled. She must think I will agree with Jamison only because we’re married, but I have my own reasons for not rebelling. Once Vevina and her crew run from their prison sentences, they cannot return home. I want to see Uncle Holden again. As his only living relative, I cannot forsake him.

  I lay down my sword. In any case, the weapon felt wrong in my grasp, the weight too heavy and the hilt too plain. All rapiers fail to compare to the sword of Avelyn.

  Jamison also sets down his pistol and sword. Vevina sweeps up our weapons, and Claret and Laverick pat us down at gunpoint, the Fox more roughly than necessary.

  “Where’s your pixie?” Claret asks. “You know, the tiny thing with the salty temperament?”