Everafter Song

by Emily R. King

Jamison and me for the fall of a world, a world we barely spent any

  time in.

  They’re going to let him go. Maybe not now, but eventually he will

  weasel his way out of here. He’s already begun to charm the guards and drum up support from his people. They will be glad to see him rise to power again, and he has all the time in the worlds. He only has to wait us out.

  I cannot spend another day with him, or near him, or in the same

  building as him. He’s always there, like a nightmare waiting for me to fall asleep so it can torment me.

  The elves have failed, and I have nowhere else to turn.

  Pressing a hand over my chest, I seek the power of my heart. Father Time, I know you’re close, and I know you’re aware of everything that’s happened. You and I need to have a conversation.

  My clock heart begins beating smoother, calmer, the bangs easing

  to soothing whispers. The scent of daisies billows in from behind me.

  I turn around and eye Father Time from his shiny top hat down to his 202

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  polished shoes. He’s leaning heavily against his cane, propped against it more than when we last met.

  “Everley,” he says by way of greeting, those solemn eyes devoid of

  any gladness at my summons, “you’re speaking to us again.”

  “I need your help. Markham exaggerated during his testimony and

  confused the justices.”

  “Killian is a habitual creature.”

  “He’s a menace. You told me once that my sword can stop him.” At

  my reminder, Father Time’s gaze intensifies. “I cut his arm before, and he bled. It left a scar. How do I do it again? Only this time, I’ll make sure my aim is true.”

  “There is a way. You must be in spirit form when you wound him,

  and you must strike him down with the sword of Avelyn. No salve is

  powerful enough to heal a blow from the immortal sword when she and

  her victim are in spirit form.”

  I rock back on my heels. “Centurion can stop him.”

  “Centurion was her name when she was a star, before Eiocha forged

  her into a blade. She is immortal; thus, she can kill an immortal.”

  “Then I’ll get my sword and the infinity sandglass, and I’ll spirit

  jump with Markham and finish this once and for all.” I hurry to the

  door.

  “Merely ending Prince Killian will not correct the fracture in the

  timeline,” Father Time says, halting me. “Certain measures must be

  taken to do both. We can tell you how to be rid of him and repair the timeline.”

  “Repair it in what way?”

  “It would be as though Killian had never existed.” Father Time’s

  words pierce my soul, cutting down to the wick of what I desire. “Such a change has a cost. You would grow up never having known Prince

  Killian.”

  I arch a brow. “I’m not seeing the problem.”

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  “You met Jamison and your friends while hunting for Markham.

  Without him to bring you together, you wouldn’t have had reason to

  meet.”

  My chest pumps faster. I could be free of Markham. We all could.

  But I would not know Jamison, or Claret, or Laverick. I would never

  have met Osric or Radella. I wouldn’t know Vevina, Dr. Huxley, or

  Quinn.

  Father Time removes his hat and holds it over his cane. “Your

  friends would still have their lives, but you would not be in them. The sweetness and the bitterness of the life you have now would be gone, as though it never was. Such an attempt to repair a fracture in the timeline this immense has never been made. Every Time Bearer has held the

  power, but it is risky; thus none have tried. You must want to alter the timeline more than anything in all the worlds. If even the tiniest shred of yourself wishes for this life and this existence over Killian’s departure, you would rend the timeline, and Avelyn would stall forever.”

  “So I give up everything or he wins?”

  Father Time exhales. “This is your choice, Everley.”

  My arms drop, hanging loosely at my sides. “I cannot wish for none

  of this to have ever happened.”

  “Prince Killian will not stop,” Father Time replies. “He will con-

  tinue until he makes himself a god over all the worlds.”

  A picture flashes through my mind of the Everwoods burning. Of

  course, I want to prevent that from happening, but not by giving up

  this life. My uncle sacrificed his last years for me. I owe it to him to make the most of the life I’ve been given. “What if I don’t correct the timeline? What if I just kill Markham with the sword?”

  “Then Prince Killian would be gone, but his wake of pain would

  continue to ripple out into the eternities. The power of one soul, one life, is immense. Choices are made; consequences follow. This is the law of agency.”

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  I’m not responsible for fixing Markham’s choices, but I can make

  this world better by removing him from it. I throw open the door. The exit is blocked by chains of daisies hanging from the doorframe to the floor. I part the vines, and the flowers disintegrate, white petals drifting to the ground in a pile of silken snow.

  Jamison stands on the other side of the door, my sword in hand

  and his eyes wide. He spots Father Time, hands me my sword, and steps inside. I shut the door behind him, and they stare at each other for so long I lose count of the seconds.

  “You’re Father Time,” Jamison says at last. “You know me.”

  “We know you, Jamison Callahan.” Father Time tips his head back

  and evaluates him shrewdly, without gentleness. “You have been waiting to speak with us.”

  “Do you care what happens to Everley?”

  Father Time nods, a staid drop of his chin. “We care about every

  living spirit.”

  “But do you care for her more than you did Amadara? More than

  her father? More than her uncle?” Jamison takes a charged step toward him. “Do you care enough about Everley not to let her lose against

  Killian?”

  Father Time sighs and bends over his cane. “Muriel showed you

  your future.”

  I frown back and forth between him and Jamison. “What did the

  sea hag show you?”

  Neither replies.

  “We cannot promise what you seek, Jamison,” Father Time says.

  “But with time, all things are possible.”

  Jamison rests his fist over his chest. “Promise me that the last thing Muriel showed me will come true. Swear to me the sea hag was right

  about how this all ends.”

  I pull my sword in close to my hardening belly. “Jamison, what did

  Muriel see?”

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  Father Time returns Jamison’s penetrating stare with his own.

  “Muriel warned you that she could not assure you what was to come.

  The future is uncertain.”

  “But you’re Father Time,” Jamison says, his desperation gnawing at

  my own. “You can promise me that Evie will be all right.”

  Father Time rubs his chin. “This is why we don’t tamper in matters

  of the heart. Muriel was too loose with her projections.”

  “Then she was wrong?” Jamison presses.

  Father Time offers him an apologetic half smile. “You have a stal-

  wart heart, Jamison Callahan. You have proven time and again that you are steadfast and bold, admirable qualities that will continue to preserve you. Your heart will not fail you.”

  Jamison turns pensive, all his question
s and demands spent.

  Father Time bows to me and then puts his hat on. “Think on our

  words, Everley. We haven’t much time.” He stamps his cane against the floor twice in a row— tick tock—and disappears.

  The scent of daisies remains. Jamison drops onto the edge of the

  bed and buries his face in his hands. I sit beside him and wait. An eternity passes, though, in all truth, it’s probably just a few minutes until Jamison ends his silence.

  “We were in the Land Under the Wave,” he says, speaking through

  his hands. “You had left for Everblue to get your sword from the merrow king. Radella and I stayed behind with Muriel. The sea hag offered repeatedly to show me what was to come. I was hesitant to give up any time to pay her for her reading, so she promised she would take just a year from me.”

  “The contract said you exchanged a month for her prediction.”

  “Muriel asked to take a year from me before she saw that just over

  three months was all the time I had left.” He lifts his misery-marked face from his hands. “She showed me things, flashes of scenes. I saw you and me returning to the Land Under the Wave, both of us climbing the skystalk, the two of us standing on a stage before thousands of 206

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  elves. They were just pictures, but they felt real. Then she showed me a battlefield surrounded by fallen trees, and two armies charging each other. Giants and elves and men all fighting. Carnage.”

  I am too stunned to move or speak.

  “You were leading the charge on a white mare, the same horse I saw

  you riding this morning. Our friends were falling by the sword. One by one, they were gone. I tried to fight my way to you, then a mace flew at me.” Jamison’s voice breaks. “I saw myself on the ground. I don’t know how, but I was outside myself, looking down at my body. I was dying.

  Muriel said that would be my fate unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Muriel told him he had just over three months left to live. She took a month as payment for her fortune-telling, and that was more than a month ago. If she is right, that leaves Jamison just weeks.

  He runs his tongue over his bottom teeth. “For a while, I thought

  the visions Muriel showed me were dreams. We were doing fine, you

  and I, at Elderwood Manor. I wanted the sea hag to be wrong. Then

  the things she showed me started to occur.”

  “Father Time didn’t confirm her predictions.”

  “He didn’t disagree with them either. And I know what I saw.”

  Jamison covers his face with his hands again. I pull them down so he will look at me.

  “Is that everything Muriel showed you?”

  “There was one last picture.” A bit of light returns to his counte-

  nance, a spark of hope. “You and I were in your uncle’s clock shop. The store was full of clocks again, and you were smiling. I thought the scene was from the past, from the day we met, but everything else she showed me was of the future.”

  I release a breathy snort. “This has to be of the future. I didn’t smile at you for a long time after we met.”

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  “She never clarified the timing.” Jamison shakes his head at himself, dismissing his doubts about the conflicting visions. “But I did see us in the clock shop. I did.”

  “Then there’s hope.”

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  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Night has fallen. The hour has grown late, creeping toward a new day. I slip out of bed and pause. Jamison is sleeping on his stomach, one arm tucked under a pillow, the other strewn across the side where I just lay.

  He fell asleep in his clothes. The longer I watch him, the more I want to slide back in with him, so I quickly slip on my boots and collect my sword.

  “Are you ready to finish this, Centurion?”

  The sword warms in my hand. Father Time may call her by her new

  name, but Centurion was a star first. Just because she may have another purpose doesn’t mean her past should be forgotten.

  I tiptoe down the corridor. Someone is playing a lullaby on the

  pianoforte in the double parlor. I look in through the open door and freeze. Markham sits at the piano, his fingers flying over the ivory keys, a revolver on the bench beside him. The infinity sandglass and Nightingale are on a sofa table. Queen Imelda is tied to a chair, her crown askew and her hair hanging limply around her face. Asmer lies

  motionless on the floor by the draperied windows, her head bleeding, her stave beside her. No other guards are in sight.

  “Come in, Everley,” says Markham.

  I hover in the doorway. “I was on the way to your cell. How . . .

  how did you get out?”

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  “A guard released me. He’s a member of the royal choir and a huge

  admirer of my music. Back in the day, we performed together. He’s felt unappreciated by my sister.”

  While Markham plays the quiet melody, he nods toward a pair of

  feet behind the piano that I didn’t see before. I edge into the room, and a body, a gunshot wound in the chest, comes into sight—Dalyor.

  He couldn’t have released the prince. He’s Osric’s friend.

  Yet there he is on the floor, dead.

  Imelda’s eyes are puffy from crying. Markham switches musical

  numbers to an eloquent melody. The prince’s music has a finesse, a fluid constraint I’ve rarely heard, a refinement that comes from innate talent and a diligence to achieve perfection.

  “It’s been too long since I last performed,” he says, swaying his

  head from side to side. “One never forgets the joy of creating beauty.

  You carve wooden creations, Evie. You understand how it feels to put your heart into something.” He plays foreboding, sinister chords. “After my parents died, I swore I wouldn’t create music again until I avenged them.”

  I sidestep farther into the room, keeping a distance from him while

  edging toward the queen. “Imelda, are you all right?”

  Markham plays at a softer volume, background music. “Tell Everley

  what you did, Imelda.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She blows a loose strand of hair

  from her eyes. “You’re angry about something long in the past.”

  He picks up the revolver and aims it at his sister. “I remember that night as well as if it were yesterday. Start with when you left the theater with Mother and Father.”

  Imelda’s mouth bobs open. “You won’t shoot me.”

  “I would, but this would be more effective.” He aims the revolver

  at the commander still unmoving on the floor.

  “Don’t!” Imelda cries. “Killian, Asmer has done nothing to you.”

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  “Someone told you about my relationship with Brea, and it wasn’t

  one of my guards.”

  Imelda’s lower lip trembles. “The night Mother and Father died was

  a tragedy. Our carriage tipping over was an accident.”

  He laughs and lowers the revolver to his lap. “Convenient, isn’t it?

  Everyone else died in the accident, yet here you are.”

  Imelda drops her gaze. “I loved Mother and Father. Unlike you, I

  wasn’t given time to mourn and disappear for years. I had to serve our people.”

  Markham rises from the pianoforte so fast the bench falls back.

  “Don’t lie to me, Imelda! I spoke to the driver after he was pulled from the river. Before he died, he told me he had warned you the carriage wheel was loose. You ordered him to leave it alone.”

  “You’re blaming me for the driver’s incompetence?”

  “You walked away from that accident with every hair on your

  head!” Markham strides to
her and levels the barrel of the revolver at her temple.

  I ready my sword. I have one strike, one lunge to land a blow, or

  I will be shot.

  “Tell the truth,” he says.

  Imelda begins to cry. I dare not urge her to speak.

  The prince presses the gun against her temple. “Three seconds.

  Everley’s ticker will count down for us.”

  Tick . . .

  Tock.

  “Mother and Father could hardly remember their own names!”

  Imelda cries. “Their bodies were here, but the parents who raised us were gone.”

  He pushes her head to the side with the firearm’s barrel. She cringes, crying harder. “You wanted them gone,” he snarls.

  “Their deaths were merciful. They were shells of who they once

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  was happening. They hardly remembered you, and they completely

  forgot their own daughter.”

  Markham’s hand trembles, rage pouring off him. “You were jealous

  they remembered me and not you.”

  “I was jealous of them! They had you!” Sobs overcome Imelda, tears rolling down her face. “I adored you, Killian. The day you were born, you gave me a greater purpose. I wasn’t just to become a queen—I was your older sister. I was more than my royal title. I played with you, rode horses with you, lied for you. Then when Mother and Father began to

  lose their memories, you abandoned me. You gave them all your time

  and left me alone.”

  Markham rocks back in astonishment.

  I shuffle closer to them, my sword at the ready. “You’re brother and sister, Killian. Your parents wouldn’t want you to harm her.”

  “You have no idea who our parents were,” Markham snaps.

  “Everything I’ve done, I have done to honor their memory.”

  He leaves the revolver at his sister’s head and whistles.

  Harlow enters the room with Jamison, holding him at gunpoint.

  He surveys the room, his gaze latching on to the gun in Markham’s

  hand, still aimed at the queen’s head, and then landing on me. I could grab the sandglass, get a hold of Markham, and spirit jump us out of here, but I cannot outrun shots from his revolver.

  “What did you do with the others?” I ask.

  “Thanks to Dalyor’s help, the rest of the guards—including our dear

  friend Osric—are locked in the oubliette. All it took was Dalyor holding their precious queen at gunpoint, and the guards acquiesced. You’ve gained in popularity, Sister. At least in your close circles.” Markham strokes her hair away from her tearstained face. “Our father’s greatest regret was letting our human laborers go. You weren’t there for his final days, Imelda. You didn’t hear him, didn’t see the fire in his eyes. In between the moments when he would stare off at nothing for hours, he 212