Clay lagged behind, hand clamped to hers, studying the witch’s watch with the Watchmaker. She thought about asking for a break to fix her leg, or at least stop in a river to wash off the lingering acid all over her skin, but she pressed on. Dembroch was running out of time and she was going to save it. Even if she didn’t look amazing in the process.
Apart from how disgusting she felt, and the fact she badly wanted a dab of hand sanitizer, Jenn was overcome with a happiness she had not felt in decades. For the first time in years, she knew she was smiling. Nothing, not the burning ache of her tired body, nor the prospect of the kingdom’s imminent doom, could dispel her happy heart. From the battle in the catacombs to the long hours in the Dreadnaught’s belly, she had grown and learned much.
She shivered to remember her time in the belly of the beast. She’d been bleeding profusely from the leg and burning all over, crushed by watches and skin and darkness as the Dreadnaught roamed the woods. At least she’d had the good sense to tear her sleeve off and bandage her leg. The bleeding had stopped soon after, though she felt light-headed. Shortly after, unable to find a way out of the monster’s gut, she’d fallen into the doldrums of depression. There was no hope of escaping, she knew. She was as good as dead. She had failed.
But then, like a beacon in the darkness, a sword had cut through the Dreadnaught’s back, puncturing its stomach. Jenn had shouted, cried, screamed.
How foolish she had been, she had realized. The future was not—had never been—bleak. The worst outcome was not the most likely result. The future, truly, was what you made of it. If you believed good could happen and acted as such, it would.
Now, despite all her doubts, she had recovered the seer’s Sight, escaped the Dreadnaught, reunited with her husband, and lived to tell the tale. She would continue that way. No matter what happened in the next few hours, she would face it boldly and happily.
They came into a clearing. On the far side was a cottage that looked less like a home and more like an oversized beehive made of dried mud and twigs. There were a few windows and only one door. Hybore was carved above it.
They entered the cottage and came to a stop.
“Oh, no,” Clay said. “Not again.”
The seer’s cottage was a disaster, though it looked like it always had been. There were stacks of newspapers from various countries, money from many more, mirrors, and thousands of handdrawn pictures covering whatever wall and floor space was left. But the stacks that were perhaps once organized had been strewn around. Papers and pictures had been shredded to pieces. Dried blood stained every hung drawing, tainting the sketches in unnatural colorings. The red flames of the Dembroch sigil were now black. Portraits of past knights and dames were smeared red.
But in the middle of it all, crackling atop the strewn stacks of paper, spitting black sparks, was a fire dark as the stained blood on the walls.
Jenn stumbled toward it, not understanding.
“Jenn, this isn’t a good idea,” Clay warned. “This is what we found at the Bridgemaster’s and—”
She ignored him, spotting a familiar-looking folded paper on the ground and retrieving it. When she unfolded it, she gasped.
It was the drawing the seer had shown Jenn earlier: a portrait of Jenn with the Dembroch castle behind her.
“The seer left without me,” she breathed.
“Looks more like she was forced,” the Watchmaker noted.
“She’s headed for the docks,” Jenn realized. She looked meaningfully to her husband. “I have to go.”
“I’ll come with you,” he replied, squeezing their connected hands.
“Oy,” the Watchmaker interjected, holding up the witch’s watch.
“You can’t,” she said. “You have to read the watch.”
“I won’t let you go alone,” Clay said. “If the witch made the seer run, she could be chasing her or hunting her. It doesn’t matter we’re stuck together, I wouldn’t feel right—”
“Quiet!” the Watchmaker whispered suddenly.
He dragged the two of them into a corner by the door. They heard approaching footsteps, fast, running. The Watchmaker pulled his axe off his back. Clay brandished the fortissium blade.
Someone burst through the door. The Watchmaker swung—
I came sprinting into the cottage.
“Nick!” Jenn shouted.
She lunged just in time, dragging Clay with her, knocking me off my feet. The axe sliced the air where my head had been. I crashed to the ground, Clay and Jenn landing on top of me, all of us gasping for breath. My arm ached in its sling.
“What the devil, boy?” the Watchmaker howled.
We all got to our feet.
“Good to see you again,” I groused at the Watchmaker. I smiled at my friends. “Jenn, how’re things?”
“A bit bad,” Clay said.
“The seer is gone,” Jenn explained.
I glanced around the room. The streaks of stained blood reminded me of a lightning storm. My eyes fell on the ball of black flame. It seemed unnatural, unnerving.
“Great,” I murmured. “The witch.”
“Why are you here?” the Watchmaker asked. “Where’s the queen?”
“She was captured,” I explained.
He spun his axe in his hand and puffed up his chest.
“She’s alright, she’s alright,” I shouted, calming him. “We can’t save her by storming the castle. There’s a lot of…dead people walking around.”
“Still?” Jenn mumbled.
“The best thing we can do right now is light our torches,” I said. “Before it’s too late.” I glanced at Clay. “Nice job, by the way. Jenn?”
She pulled out two mirrored eyeballs.
“Almost there,” she said. “I have to get these to the seer.’
“I have to find her, too,” I explained. “She’s Page Hybore’s husband, the guy who summoned us. I have to talk to her. I think she has to stay for my flame to be lit.”
“We’ll go together,” Jenn said, giving Clay a look.
“Anybody run into Meg?” I asked.
“She ended up in the catacombs with me,” Jenn said. “She didn’t have any flames, but she was headed back to the Gate Grounds. She needed—”
Jenn gasped suddenly. She pointed to the sword in Clay’s hand.
“That sword,” she said.
“The fortissium blade?” the Watchmaker asked.
Jenn nodded. “That’s why the name rang a bell. Meg was looking for it. Or needed it for something.”
“What? How?” Clay asked.
Jenn explained it as quick as she could: Ryderwyle, the storm, the sword.
“Horror Hollow,” Clay interrupted. “That’s where the fortissium blade was originally. If the sword is returned, maybe it can stop the blizzard.”
The Watchmaker let out a sad, wounded sound. It seemed he’d grown fond of the fortissium blade.
“You have to go to Meg,” Jenn told Clay. “Nick and I have to find the seer. We have to go our separate ways.”
Clay looked pained. “Can’t we—”
“There’s no time,” Jenn said. “Remember, a promise denied twice. When we meet again, we’ll stay together. For good.”
Clay bit his lip. He could feel the pull between their hands, strong as a magnet, not wanting to be separated. But they had to.
“Okay,” he said.
Just like that, their hands tore apart. A bite of pain shot through their fingers. Clay nearly fell but caught himself.
Jenn massaged her hand. There was an angry red mark across her palm.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Clay nodded, but could already feel a tingling in his hand, a pull toward Jenn.
“Go,” he insisted, holding his hand away from her.
We exited the seer’s cottage, hesitating before we went our separate ways. The dragons still circled above.
“Good luck,” I said to Clay and the Watchmaker.
Careful to avoid touching
his hand, Jenn gave her husband a kiss farewell. She smiled, the taste lingering on her lips.
“See you at the castle,” she said, and took off running.
I gave my friend and the Watchmaker a sheepish grin and took off after Jenn, holding my aching arm. High above, beyond the dragons, the sun rose higher and higher.
CHAPTER 41:
The Queen’s Path
Surrounded by her corpse escorts, Queen Coralee arrived at the entrance to her castle. She’d only agreed to come when one of the dead defenders managed to speak, telling her that the witch had an innocent girl in the castle, one whom would be slain if the queen did not come home.
Seeing the fortress, her heart fell—the castle walls and its grand façade had cracks running throughout. Tongues of a black flame poked out of the low windows that ventilated the catacombs. Storm clouds amassed high above, blocking out the midday sun.
An army of cadavers lined the front steps of the castle. A hundred knights and dames from all walks of life—or death—watched her approach. They cleared a path for her to enter the castle.
Slowly, deliberately, she walked across the courtyard, heart heavy. Her kingdom was all but barren of citizens and life, the remaining surely condemned to suffer in the coming hours. The castle—her sanctuary, the stronghold, Dembroch’s symbol—was breaking. And all of it, all of this devastation, was because of her. Because of her curse.
Queen Coralee cast her mind like a net into the sea, desperately trying to think of a way to put an end to the destruction, to forestall the doom of Dembroch, and to save those still left on the island.
She could run. Far. She could easily overpower and outrun these dead defenders. But where would she go? She’d never be able to outrun her shame.
She could fight. Storm her castle. Slay the witch. But then where would she be? She would have killed her sister, the last family she had. If she did this, the queen would truly become the monster that her sister had always thought she was. And the curse would still be there. Waiting.
Heart thumping hard in her chest, Queen Coralee thought of her parents. Oh, how she missed them. How she wished she could bend her father’s ear for his wisdom. If only she could hug her mother, be filled with compassion and empathy, and go forward with love in her heart.
But her beloved mother and father were in the grave. In the end, her father had fallen to the curse and her mother, burdened with a broken heart, had abandoned her children.
The queen was filled with disappointment and sorrow. For the first time, she felt an inkling of the angst that her sister Edith must have felt. To be abandoned. To know her parents failed.
I must forge my own path, the queen decided. She would not run, she would not fight her way through. She would remedy this terrible situation in her own way and, even if it meant giving up her life, she would not let this curse hurt anyone else. Her kingdom would survive, even if the throne was empty.
CHAPTER 42:
A Sharp Sword and Worn Watch
After hundreds of cautious steps and careful probing with the tree branches, Meg made it into the ring of hot springs at the center of the Gate Grounds. The fire of peace still burnt upon its plinth, the torch laying on the ground beside it.
With the torch in her hand once more, she glanced at the castle. All she had to do was deliver it to the Aerary. But her quest wasn’t done yet. Not really.
She glanced at Ryderwyle. It was stormier than ever. The mountaintop glittered with ice before it was hidden in clouds again. Page Trey and his master were somewhere on the island. They must be freezing. Meg couldn’t just abandon them…
“Meg!”
She spun around to see Clay and the Watchmaker running toward her, about to enter the Gate Grounds. Clay held a black sword above his head. A lit torch hung over his back. And right behind them, like a black cloud chasing them, were hundreds of dragons.
“Wait!” she shouted.
Her voice was so desperate, Clay and the Watchmaker came to a grinding halt. The cloud of dragons gathered above them, watching Clay’s every move.
“There are invisible doors everywhere,” Meg explained. “I’ll come to you!”
Wielding her torch once more, Meg walked slowly through the Gate Grounds. She almost fell into a few moving gates again and even saw the one to Ryderwyle circle past her.
When Clay was beside Meg, he held the sword out to her.
“It’s called the fortissium blade,” he said. “Jenn told me you were looking for it.”
Meg put two-and-two together. The sword before her was the stolen one from Ryderwyle that had set off the blizzard.
“Can you send it to Ryderwyle?” Clay asked.
“I’ll hand deliver it,” she said.
Clay was at a loss for words. She could see surprise on his face, and knew what he was thinking: she had changed. But she knew the truth. They both had. Clay looked young again. Brave again.
“May I?” she asked.
“Careful with it,” the Watchmaker said.
She took the sword from Clay. A shock bit her fingers.
“What—?” she gasped, but her words were drowned out.
Overhead, the host of dragons shrieked in excitement and careened toward Meg.
“Go!” Clay shouted.
Gripping the fortissium blade, Meg turned and ran. She held the torch before her, dodging doors left and right. Dragons descended all around her, shooting fire from their mouths. Invisible doors swallowed fire and fiend alike.
Meg beelined for the Ryderwyle door. It was orbiting the geysers in a lazy loop.
A dragon batted her on the head, its claws drawing blood from her scalp. She almost fell, but caught herself and swung at it with the sword. It clanged off the beast like she’d hit a gong with a hammer.
She kept running. The remaining dragons screamed in her ear, clawed at her clothes.
At the last second, her torch illuminated the door to Ryderwyle. It was headed over another hot spring. She leapt for it and felt the familiar tug of a gate. The next instant, she was gone.
◆◆◆
A few minutes later, Clay and the Watchmaker sat in the woods—or what was left of them—at the edge of the Gate Grounds, studying the witch’s watch free of distractions and dragons.
Clay still could not decipher the watch. There was too much damage. To his benefit, the Watchmaker had not cracked it either. The watch’s gear set was dense and confusing to begin with, not to mention the damage from being inside the Dreadnaught for twenty-some years.
Maybe, Clay thought, he needed more practice. He fished out his own pocket watch and opened it up to see, much to his surprise, that the time read five minutes until midnight.
“Hey,” Clay said, nudging the Watchmaker. “I thought lighting that flame made me younger at heart or something.”
Intent on the witch’s watch, the Watchmaker did not reply.
Maybe it’s a combo, Clay considered. His watch wasn’t midnight anymore because he had reinvigorated his soul and found his joy. But the kingdom was in dire straits and the deadline to save it was imminent. Everyone, even Clay, was in danger, or five minutes from midnight.
Clay turned his watch over, examining the gears. His watch had far less gears than the witch’s, perhaps seven in all. The innermost gear was large and, though it made all the other, smaller gears glide rhythmically, it kept spinning out and catching itself.
It’s spinning its wheels, Clay considered.
It made sense to him because he, too, had felt this way long ago. Bound by loyalty to his parents, he had abandoned his dream of engineering and worked at the family business. But all the while, he’d felt as though he were spinning his wheels. He’d been waiting for the right chance to leave, then the next, then the next—until he’d been there so long, he’d lost his drive and yearning to do more.
There was a gear just like it, a lumbering gear that could not be goaded to move faster by any of the others. But the remaining gears clicked along at a good pace,
working perfectly together. One resembled a heart.
It all suddenly became plain to Clay: these gears represented the most important aspects of his life. They were his love for Jenn, his desire to have a job that he enjoyed. All of these gears ran smoothly because of the innermost, skipping gear, which represented his drive and motivation. It was his joy. It kept spinning out, begging to override his insecurities and doldrums. It yearned to help him love his life and wife more fully. Joy was what made Clay tick.
Clay gaped at his watch. One second, they were just gears. The next second, they were a story. He just knew.
Feeling slightly reckless, Clay turned his attention back to the witch’s watch. And it looked completely different. The gears were all the same, but now, he could see what they were. What they meant. What the witch intended.
“Holy moley,” Clay said, stirring the Watchmaker. “I think I know what this means.”
“What?” the Watchmaker shouted.
Clay was already on his feet.
“Come on!” he shouted.
He took off, the Watchmaker lumbering after. Clay aimed for the castle, flaming torch bouncing on his back, the secrets of the witch on his tongue.
CHAPTER 43:
Ryderwyle’s Liberation
Several miles to the north and many degrees cooler, Meg weathered the storm. Winter winds and flurries of snow surrounded her like an icy blanket. Her exposed skin was already numb. The flame of her torch danced wildly but didn’t extinguish.
A twinge of fear set into her. How was she going to find Page Trey and his master in this weather? Let alone the Horror Hollow.
You’ll find them, she reminded herself. Be patient.
An idea struck her. She held a magic torch and the sword. Maybe she could make them work together.
She held the sword to the torch. Flames licked its metal. Sparks flew out of the fire, disappearing into the winter wind.
Meg searched her memory. What had the witch done to get her magic to work? Of course, she realized. She had to speak.
The Age of Knights & Dames Page 23
