Except Markham.
He continues without a care for the blossoms underfoot or the trees he brushes past. As I think ahead to his time-frozen world, my unease spreads. Markham was vague about what happens next. He spoke of treasure, restarting time, and reviving his princess. Never once did he divulge how he would reverse the curse.
I search the shadows for Father Time but do not see him again. A constant flurry of winged creatures dart about, the sprites more agile than the pixies, and the pixies more playful. Gnomes peek out from their burrows and, on occasion, run across our path like scurrying rabbits. The main mystery of the forest is which of these magnificent elderwoods was the first tree in all the world, Mother Madrona herself. Naturally, Markham does not point her out. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took a longer route to avoid her.
Before long, we arrive at a thick hedge on the outskirts of the woods. Markham plucks a pixie off a tree branch and shakes her. Shimmering dust rains from her wings like stardust and lands on the greenery, and then a hole opens near the ground at the roots of the shrubbery.
“Impertinent vermin,” Markham says, flinging the pixie.
She dashes off in a stream of light.
“The poor darling!” says Claret.
“Pixies are the rats of the Otherworlds. If it weren’t for the magical properties of their dust, we would exterminate them all.” Markham wipes excess dust off on his trousers. “In concentrated dosages, their dust makes things vanish. A convenient talent when one needs to create a door.”
Tavis bends over to examine the cavity in the shrubbery. “This leads to your world?”
“Don’t let the portal’s appearance dissuade you. We will be in the Land of Youth in moments.” Markham kneels on the ground. “Brogan told me what we can anticipate on the other side, but be vigilant. Our arrival may exacerbate the tear in time.”
He crawls into the tunnel, and Harlow goes in after him.
“Is anyone else disturbed by the magical hole?” Jamison asks.
I am more concerned about what we will find on the other side. We are leaving the Everwoods for a time-starved world. That is far scarier than a tunnel. My ticker has survived the Thornwoods and the Everwoods, but I have no way of knowing how it will respond to the Land of Youth.
“We’ll go next,” Laverick says.
The Fox and the Cat enter the opening one after the other. Tavis and I stare each other down. Neither of us wants to go next. At last, my brother concedes and crawls in.
Jamison eyes the heavenly woodland. “Something feels amiss. I don’t know what.”
“This entire expedition is lunacy. But aren’t you curious what we’ll find on the other side?”
“I could live without knowing.” He passes me the bell from my regulator. I slipped it into his pocket before we left the ship. “We’re going to survive this so I can teach you how to hide that better. Keep it for luck.”
“Will this bell save me from tragedy?” My lips quirk. He has no idea that the function of my regulator was to do just that.
A movement in the woods diverts his attention.
“What is it?” I ask, slipping the bell into my pocket.
“Nothing. Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”
I bend down and peer through the narrow tunnel. A grayish light waits for us at the far end. Is this how Princess Amadara snuck into the Everwoods, by means of pixie dust and enchanted passageways?
Keeping the girl princess in mind, I crawl through the tunnel and into an Otherworld.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tavis helps me climb out of the portal. Our party has gathered at the base of a tree on a grassy hillside. At least one detail of the legend is wrong: Princess Amadara could supposedly look out from the balcony of her castle and see the Everwoods. But the forest is gone, no hedge or elderwoods in view.
Markham has lowered to one knee. He presses a palm on the ground, his head bowed in triumph. The lost prince has come home.
Far as I can see, the Land of Youth is equivalent to ours in design. Ground under us, heavens above, and sky in between. The similarities of this foreign territory do not prevent me from fretting. We are far away from our world, and I’ve no idea how to get back except for the way we came. I memorize the tree and our surroundings.
Jamison climbs out of the portal last and takes stock of our destination. No one speaks, all of us waiting for direction from our guide.
Markham rises and motions for us to be still. He treads away from the tree while we hold our breaths and wait for the world to cave in on us. I envision a rope bridge snapping and all of us plummeting into an abyss.
I tug my gloves higher. The weather is not cold enough for our breaths to stain the air silver, but the night is crisp under the tarnished moon.
After several steps, Markham beckons us. “Come along. The tear is holding for now. Remember, low voices and light feet. We should be all right.”
His reassurance is thin comfort.
We trample through the grass as carefully as seven people can. The field is unsettling without any wind; nothing moves. A deer with curling antlers and stripes across its midsection has lowered its head to graze. Flies and moths hang in the air as if on invisible threads. The stillness is absolute, as though we’re traipsing through an oil painting.
My clock thrums as it spins, a reassuring vibration amid the stasis, yet every so often, the whirling hiccups. The minute hand is snagging and tripping over something. I cannot figure out what, so I pick up my pace as much as I dare to speed along our progress.
Markham pauses to overlook the valley. Far off, across more fields, housetops crowd up to a stone castle, the whole village surrounded by trees. Something blue zips across my side vision. I stop and peer through the knee-high grass. Everything should be still and quiet, so the thought of something else awake with us pushes me closer to my comrades.
We go carefully down the hill toward odd-looking trees. Nearer to them, I see they are a forest of men. Statues of soldiers spread before us, bedecked in armor and bearing spears and battle-axes. At least three hundred men are congregated near a river. All of them—skin, bone, hair—have hardened to wood. I have admired many wooden figurines in my life. None were this realistic.
Claret knocks on a soldier’s chest and a hollow thud resounds. “Who did this?”
“Our army was preparing for battle against another kingdom when Amadara—” Markham presses his fist over his mouth in despair. “When people are held captive by a break in time, creation power dims and flesh and blood decay. This wooden state occurs when a spirit is trapped in a body where time has ceased.”
A curious pattern of logic. Time bows to creation power. That’s reasonable, given that the Creator oversees Father Time. What does that mean for my clock heart? It’s still sustaining me. I wish I knew for how long.
Laverick looks into a soldier’s blank eyes. “They’re not dead?”
“Dormant,” Markham says. He grips a statue’s shoulder, his expression aggrieved. “We may start to feel the effects soon as well. Let’s keep moving.”
We travel through a cluster of soldiers and past their cavalry. They were watering their mounts at the river when Amadara tore time. The soldiers’ horses have also turned to wood, and the river around them is eerily stationary. I am tempted to touch the water or the horses, but I dare not disturb either. I cannot fathom how time can stop an entire river from flowing.
“Are your foes from the neighboring kingdom locked in time as well?” Jamison asks.
I startle at his curiosity. The legend tells of the impending war, but doesn’t clarify the fate of their enemies, and I did not think to inquire.
“Yes,” Markham replies flatly. “The tear impacted my whole world.”
“How many people live here?” Claret whispers.
Markham turns away from the cavalry, toward his castle. “Too many.”
Harlow strokes the back of his head to soothe him. I despair to think that these soldiers are tr
apped inside themselves, alive and aware of their slow decay from flesh to wood. Amadara could not have known the consequences of saving her prince. Even Markham, bastard that he is, could not have foreseen that harvesting the heartwood from the Everwoods would amount to unending torment for countless innocents.
We trail the inert river downhill through the wooden regiment. Markham pauses at every other man, addresses them by name, and pats their shoulder. They were his soldiers and comrades, his brothers-in-arms.
As we near the end of the field of soldiers, his stride quickens. The castle waits, its towers illuminated by moonlight. Upon the highest tower, the roof has been broken by the top of a tree.
“Onward to my beloved,” Markham says, leading the march to his castle with my sword.
The village seems deserted. Cobblestone roads span between tight rows of thatch-roofed cottages. I expect to see more wooden people, children and families, servants and clergymen. Not a soul wooden or otherwise is immediately in sight.
“Where is everyone?” Laverick asks.
“Why are you whispering?” Claret replies.
“Why aren’t you? This town is frightening.”
Jamison veers from the group to a cottage. He rubs his elbow across a dusty window and waves me over. He steps back so I can see through the streaked glass, his lips in a grim line.
My muscles jump under my skin at what I see. A child lies in bed, frozen in sleep, while his mother sits near. They are both wooden. Whatever brought her to his bedside is a secret that has long since been locked away. Did he have a nightmare? Was she singing him a lullaby?
More mysteries whisper through the static village. An old man stands frozen in the open door of a cottage. Is this his home? Or was he visiting? A woman was lugging a heavy basket down an alley. Where was she going? What brought her out at night?
My mind spins along with my heart clock. Markham believes the spirits of his people still reside in those wooden shells. I hope he is wrong and they are unaware of their confines, sleeping soundly in this lull in time.
I quit glancing in windows and doorways. Part of me wants to turn around. I’d rather endure the biting crickets again than follow Markham another step. But my father saw something in this place that was worth returning for. I cannot leave until I view this bleak kingdom from his perspective.
We start across the arched bridge over the river. Water would have flown by the castle and flung itself off the side of the hill in a dramatic waterfall. Instead, the river is stuck midleap, the airborne water frozen. Untouched by what must have been a powerful current, the stone castle clings to the hillside, a grand overseer for all the kingdom. Battlements crown its many towers and staggered rooftops.
Our stone path connects to the lowered drawbridge, which we take to the outer curtain. The portcullis is almost up, a welcome gesture if not for the wooden guards gripping the pull chain in the gatehouse. We slide past them and Markham opens the iron yett, letting us into the large inner courtyard surrounding the keep.
Along with guards and servants, animals are stalled by the wooden scourge. Horses do not flick their tails, and a cat’s hunt was thwarted, its hind legs set to pounce on a mouse. As we pass through the stables, I duck from a spider dangling on a strand of web. The sanctity of life stops me from plucking it down to study the slenderness of its wooden legs. It is not a figurine to play with.
The entry to the keep is closed. Jamison and Tavis open the door and Markham slips inside. We file in after him, Harlow more reluctantly than the rest. The musty air settles in my nostrils as Markham goes to the wall and lights a torch. He travels the exterior of the room, lighting others. Jamison and Claret each pluck one up.
The great hall is as still as a coffin. Moonlight sneaks in through a window high above, illuminating the large room and double-wide stairway leading to the upper floors. We pad across the red carpet to the pair of matching dining tables that are as long as the room. The table legs are carved with daisies. I stoop to admire the artistry and spot a white bear rug before the hearth at the far end of the hall. Candelabras decorate the tables, and tapestries hang on walls opposite each other.
Over the hearth, a banner with a crest spans to the ceiling. It is a white mare beneath an elderwood—the Creator and Madrona. The antiquated furniture and architecture belong to another time and place. There’s something distinctly foreign about the rounded doorways, bright carpets, and wide molding.
Markham runs his fingers over a high-back chair. He suits this bygone era, when people hung tapestries and needed arrow slits in their walls. Without a word, he strides to the arched stairwell and bounds up.
“Killian, wait!” Harlow says, dashing after him.
The remainder of our party hurry to follow. At the upper landing, we stop and listen. Harlow calls for Markham above us.
“This way,” Laverick says, following the sound of her voice.
The Fox and the Cat round a corner and shriek. Something hits the ground, and wooden pieces scatter over the stone floor. Tavis drags me back. Jamison draws his sword and charges around the corner. I shake free of my brother and edge forward.
A wooden guard lies on the floor, his arms and legs broken into chunks.
“I—I didn’t see him,” Claret says.
“We didn’t mean to knock him over,” Laverick assures her.
Jamison crouches over the guard and picks up a lump of his shattered leg. My mouth parches, repelled by the wooden cadaver. The insides of the man are hollow like a rotting log.
Tavis steps over the fragmented remains of the guard. “Markham is headed to the top of the tower. That’s where he shared a chamber with Amadara.”
Farther down the hall, we pass a chapel with a stained-glass window. It is a duplicate of the crest in the main hall of Madrona and the Creator, a white mare beneath an elderwood. Laverick and Claret duck inside and peruse the chapel.
“Don’t disturb anything,” I say.
Claret eyes the collection plate. “We’re going to take a look around. We’ll catch up soon.”
We leave them to rummage around while we continue down the hall. Jamison limps to another stairway. Tavis and I start up, but he stalls to rub his knee.
“Go ahead,” he says, offering us the torch. Tavis and I swap a glance, then my brother slides his arm around Jamison and starts to climb. Jamison goes along, but grouses. “I can make it on my own.”
“My sister thinks I should help you.”
“She didn’t say a word,” Jamison replies.
I push out a sigh. “Be quiet and let him help you up the stairs.”
“You make a fitting husband and wife,” Tavis remarks, his tone light. “Our mother and father would have approved, Lieutenant.”
A weighted pause overtakes the stairwell. I am both relieved that I cannot read Jamison’s expression and wish to the stars that I could.
The stairs end at a set of doors defended by a pair of castle guards with spears. Markham jiggles the lever. When it doesn’t open, he claws at a brick in the wall. Harlow is so still she could be a statue. Markham pulls out the loose brick and reaches into the hole behind it. He emerges with a golden key.
“Killian?” Harlow asks, a breathy plea. She seems to be seeking a promise of reassurance. For what, I cannot say.
“It will be all right,” he replies.
Markham straightens his waistcoat and inserts the key into the lock. The noise of the bolt sliding echoes through the stairwell, then a deafening click. Markham pulls up the lever, pushes in the door, and mutters something to himself.
Only after he goes in do I decipher what he said.
“I’m home.”
Harlow lifts her chin and marches in, and then the three of us follow. Jamison and Markham set our torches in the sconces. Feminine cloth and gold leafing trim the elegant furniture. A silver comb and hand mirror rest on a vanity. Across the door is a balcony, the doors hanging open, and in the center of the room, a grand bed. I only know it’s a bed because of t
he four posts still standing. The mattress, canopy, pillows, and other bedding have been consumed by an elderwood.
The fingerlike roots of the tree snake across the floor, buckling the stone. So thick is the trunk that the center occupies the bulk of the wide straw mattress. Low branches cover the ceiling, yet only the bottom portion of the tree grows within the castle walls. The top has pushed through the roof and spilled into the night.
A tree growing so successfully in the middle of a bedchamber may be the most spectacular sight I’ve seen yet.
Markham strides to the grand elderwood and touches the velvety tree trunk. “Amadara, I’m here. I’ve come to set you free.”
He draws my sword, and gripping it with both hands, slices into the tree. The gleaming blade goes through the trunk with little resistance. Claret and Laverick find us in the tower, their packs hanging lower and their pockets thicker than when we left them. They gape at the prince sawing into the elderwood. We all remain at the edge of the chamber while he chops through the outer bark.
He punctures the exterior of the trunk, and an inner cavity opens. Markham lays aside the sword and peels off the velvet bark in great strips, ripping the hole wider.
A hand appears inside.
“Help me,” he says, pulling at the outer layers faster.
Tavis goes to his aid. Together, they dig open the center of the elderwood and uncover an arm and torso. In another few moments, the hole in the tree trunk is large enough to crawl into.
“Careful,” says Markham.
He and my brother reach into the cavity and pull out a young woman. She is as stiff and pale as white pine. The two men struggle under her weight but manage to lay her on the floor without dropping her. Unlike the guard in the castle hall, the princess has hardened to solid wood.
I edge forward beside my brother. Princess Amadara could be a wooden statue or an expertly crafted doll. Her exquisite features are so lifelike she could stand up and move about without a puppeteer or strings. She does not seem much older than me. Her face is composed of angled features balanced by a soft chin and full lips. It’s no wonder Father Time fell in love.
Before the Broken Star (The Evermore Chronicles Book 1) Page 22
