PRAISE FOR EMILY R. KING’S
THE HUNDREDTH QUEEN
Winner of the 2017 Whitney and UTOPiA Awards
for Best Novel by a Debut Author
“King’s debut is built on a solid premise that draws on Sumerian
mythology for inspiration . . . The tale maintains a consistent thread as King embarks on a deep examination of sisterhood, first between Kali and her best friend Jaya, and later when she must fight the rajah’s other wives to keep her place within the palace.”
— Publishers Weekly
“King writes multiple strong female characters, led by Kalinda, who
has the loyalty and bravery of spirit to defend her friends even if that means facing death. Strong characterization, deep worldbuilding,
page-turning action scenes and intrigue, as well as social commentary, make this book stand out. This outing opens a trilogy; readers will be eager to get their hands on the next installment.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“This lush and lovely first novel brings a beautiful and brutal culture to life. The ending is left open for sequels, and readers will eagerly follow Kalinda and Deven on their future adventures.”
— Booklist
“Filled with many action-packed sequences, forbidden romance, and unexpected surprises, this debut fantasy will appeal to teens who enjoy epic dramas with strong female characters.”
— School Library Journal
“A gripping plot with twists and turns, a unique setting, and strong female characters—a solid foray into the fantasy romance genre.”
— VOYA
“This book is definitely a page-turner . . .”
—Teenreads
A L SO BY EMILY R . K I NG
The Evermore Chronicles
Before the Broken Star
Into the Hourglass
Everafter Song
The Hundredth Queen Series
The Hundredth Queen
The Fire Queen
The Rogue Queen
The Warrior Queen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Emily R. King
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Skyscape, New York
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Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542093392 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542093392 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542043977 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542043972 (paperback)
Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
For my talented father.
I loved your music before anyone else’s.
The Land of Promise
The Other Land
The Silver-Clouded Plain
The Land of the Living
T
in of el
The Plain of De ig
he P
ht
Th
T e
Th
T
The
T
L
h
Wave
e
a
L
n
a
d
nd of Youth
Under the Wave
Prologue
The forest will burn.
Long ago, before the worlds were born of the Creator, Mother
Madrona foresaw the end of the Everwoods—the immense fire crack-
ling through her boughs, her bark scorching, leaves and acorns incinerating to dust. The mighty forest was felled, razed from treetop to root, and ash rained down from the stars.
Amid the elderwood trees going up in flames, the last image
Madrona saw before the inferno devoured her and her sisters was the
wicked smile of a prince.
This is one ending.
There is another.
Madrona dreamed of a knight wearing a talisman of time who
wielded an immortal sword. Sacrifices were made to set the knight
against the prince, but whether the knight would follow the path laid before her was yet to be seen. Some things that never are will be, and some things that will be never are. Even the Mother of All cannot say which ending is yet to come. Only that they both bring death.
Chapter One
The empty clock shop is eerily quiet. The only beating timepiece is the clock heart ticking in my chest, and it’s deafening in its loneliness. Every dusty shelf in the storefront has been cleared off and every item sold.
My ticker is all that’s left of my uncle’s magnificent creations.
Uncle Holden’s ghost lingers in the sawdust between the floor-
boards, in the scent of axle grease on the curtains, in his handwritten
“Closed” sign in the window, in the clerk’s desk where I would sit while he constructed his timepieces behind me, hammering and chiseling in
his workshop. My uncle inherited the shop from my grandfather, and
he meant to pass it on to me. This place will never be the same without him, without the warm soda bread he would bring home from the bakery, without his hot whisky tea, his nightly prayers to Mother Madrona, and his humming while he worked. While he was alive, I never thought of myself as orphaned. Now, I don’t know what I am.
A carriage stops in the street outside, its outline visible through the rain-strewn window. I duck between the display shelves and estimate
how long it will take for me to run from the storefront into the workshop. I’m too late. A key turns in the lock, and the bell on the door jangles.
Footfalls fill the quiet. As I hide between the shelves, I press a
palm over my clock heart to muffle the quickening ticktocks, my other hand on my sword. The dim light turns the entrant—a man in an
Emily R. King
ankle-length wool coat, collar up, cap low—into a silhouette. I doubt he’s a thief. He had a key, and nothing is left in here to steal.
He may be searching for me.
My wanted poster is hung all over Wyeth. I passed several of them
while riding south to the city. Each one stated the same decree:
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
EVERLEY DONOVAN, SORCERESS WITH A CLOCK HEART
REWARD: FIFTY GOLD PIECES
A month ago, Queen Aislinn falsely accused me of killing my uncle
and labeled me a sorceress. She couldn’t otherwise explain my ticker for a heart. In addition to me, she’s searching for Prince Killian Markham.
Disguised as a human through a glamour charm, the prince from the
Land of Promise—the world of the elves—could be anywhere. Whoever
catches him will be rewarded with three hundred gold pieces. Markham must love that he’s worth more than me.
The man pauses at the clerk’s desk and removes his tricorn hat. “You can come out, Evie. I’m alone.”
I step out into Jamison’s view. “How did you know I was here?”
“I’d recognize the beat of your ticker anywhere.” He smiles briefly, his lips tense. “You didn’t tell me you were riding to Dorestand.”
I didn’t expect to see him either. He had a
meeting with his naval
superiors here in Dorestand this afternoon. “I didn’t want to worry
you.”
Coming into the city was risky, but I needed to visit the shop one
last time before the new owners moved in. I’ve been here for an hour, wandering from empty room to empty room.
“You didn’t need to come, Evie. I had planned to bring the last of
your uncle’s things to Elderwood Manor. Unless you would rather leave them here?”
“For the new owners?” I ask.
4
Everafter Song
Jamison dangles the key to the shop. “No, for you.”
My jaw falls open.
“I would have told you sooner, but I wanted to wait until the deed
was signed.” Jamison offers me the key. “I just came from the housing office. The deed is in my name, but the shop, loft, and workshop are yours.”
I stare at the brass key, speechless. It takes me a moment to form a reply. “You bought my uncle’s shop?”
“Unfortunately, I was unable to recover his tools before the taxation officer auctioned them away, but I managed to persuade the auctioneer to leave behind the last bottle of whisky from the cellar. I know you shared a whisky tea every evening with your uncle, so I thought to bring it home.”
Home. For the last month, Elderwood Manor, Jamison’s estate in the northern highlands of Wyeth, has been my place of hiding. As a
marquess with no known association to me, Jamison may come and go
as he pleases, whereas our friends and I must remain in the shadows.
“You should keep the shop, Jamison. Add it to your list of proper-
ties. I cannot return to Dorestand to live, not now and maybe not ever.”
The corners of his mouth draw downward. “You mustn’t decide
what to do right away. Take the key and hold on to it. The shop can
wait.”
Wait for what? Jamison’s conviction that someday I will be accepted
for my clock heart and pardoned by our queen is an endearing fantasy, but I cannot delude myself into thinking that’s a possibility. Still, he holds out the key.
“Evie, your uncle wanted you to have this.”
I stretch out my hand and slowly close my fingers around the key.
“Thank you.”
“No thanks are necessary. I’m only sorry I was unable to recover his clocks before they were sold.”
5
Emily R. King
“Uncle Holden would have wanted his clocks in homes, sur-
rounded by families.”
Jamison runs his hands up and down my arms. “You remember the
day we met here?”
“I could never forget.” It was the day Markham sauntered back into
my life nearly a decade after killing my family.
“I heard a song in my head when I saw you. A melody filled my
mind.”
“You did not.”
“No, I didn’t,” Jamison admits, smiling. “But I did sense everything shift. One look at you, and there was no turning away.”
I lift my chin, an invitation for a kiss. He leans forward and hesi-
tates. He’s been reluctant to touch me ever since we decided to dissolve our marriage to protect each other and our friends. His pause lasts just a moment, long enough to remind me he’s no longer my husband, then
he presses his lips to mine. The distance between us closes, but I sense his thoughts have turned inward and away from me.
A bell chimes as the front door opens. In one motion, I spin around
and draw my sword.
Osric steps into the shop, his scowl deep. “Has she been here all
along? Creator almighty, Everley. You could have told us where you
were going.”
“Do you think it’s wise to come into the city, with so many humans around?” I ask, sheathing my sword.
The elf points at his head. “I’m wearing a hat.”
Covering his pointed ears doesn’t negate Osric’s other elvish features—
his sharp nose and chin. His peculiar but dashing good looks don’t belong to the Land of the Living. Our human world is too plain for a creature of his ageless beauty. His deep-brown skin is flawless, not a wrinkle in sight.
“The Fox and the Cat told me to meet them here.” Osric removes
a flask from his jacket. He boiled down his dwindling supply of charm apples, which are grown only in the Land of Promise, into a cider.
6
Everafter Song
The potent mixture is poisonous to humans but slows an elf’s aging
process. Elves live for hundreds of years. By eating charm apples, they can remain younger looking longer. Osric drinks, then licks his lips.
“Laverick and Claret saw you ride off. The stable hand told us you were headed for the city.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” I say. “As you can see, I’m fine.”
“I couldn’t persuade Foxy and Frisky not to follow you.”
His nicknames for Laverick and Claret are meant affectionately.
The three of them must have leaped at the chance to leave Elderwood
Manor. Hiding from the queen has exhausted all our patience.
Shadows approach the front door. Jamison and I crouch behind the
desk, and Osric ducks down with us. A pair of constables peers through the windows. I flatten my back to the wall and draw my sword.
“Wait,” Jamison says. “They might leave.”
“What if they come in?” I question. “Madrona knows how they’ll
react to an elf.”
Osric points at his head again. “Hat.”
The corpsmen in their scarlet jackets continue to look in the win-
dows. Crawling low to the floor, Jamison leads the way from the storefront, through the workshop, and into the kitchen at the back of the house.
The bell on the main door rings.
We freeze and listen to the footfalls in the storefront. The back door is locked, and opening the latch will create a loud noise.
The bell rings as the door opens again. The footsteps grow quieter.
We hold still for a few seconds, then Osric turns the door latch.
The grating snap echoes through the silence. A constable appears in the workshop doorway and raises his pistol.
“Halt!” he says.
We scramble to our feet and dash outside. Afternoon rain drizzles
down, the summer air wet and warm in my lungs. As we barrel down
7
Emily R. King
the al ey, Osric’s hat blows off his head and lands in a puddle. He pauses to retrieve it and catches up.
“Halt or I’ll fire!” the constable shouts.
The three of us stop, our backs to him. I curse myself for not car-
rying a pistol.
“Jamison?” I ask.
His head is down, collar up and hat low over his eyes. “I don’t have a firearm on me either. Osric?”
“Oh, right, ask the elf if he has thought to bring a human gun.”
“Turn around and put your sword on the ground!” says the
constable.
A gun goes off. I reel around at the blast. The ball struck the ground and broke apart a cobblestone. Behind the constable, at the other end of the alley, Claret and Laverick aim their pistols at him. Both wear wool capes over dresses and white petticoats, along with striped stockings and shiny black boots.
“Let them go,” says Claret, her firearm billowing smoke.
Laverick winks at me, her pistol leveled at the constable.
“Put down your weapon,” he says.
“You first,” Laverick replies.
Jamison and Osric start to back away. The constable returns his aim
to us, namely me.
“Stay there or I’ll fire,” he orders. “I know you’re the sorceress with the clock heart!”
>
I lift my chin and glare down my nose at him. “Let us go or I’ll put a curse on you and your family.”
He blanches but doesn’t lower his gun. Either he’s foolishly brave
or he’s calling my bluff.
“Go, Evie,” Laverick says, her stance self-assured.
“No.” I’m tired of running and hiding. I’m not a sorceress, but I do have a clock heart, and there’s nothing wrong with who I am.
Jamison shakes his head. “Everley . . .”
8
Everafter Song
“It’s me they want.” I start toward the constable. “You can have me.
Let the others go.”
“Don’t come any closer!” His grip tightens on the trigger. Perhaps
he is indeed afraid that I’ll hex him. “Put down your sword!”
“You’ll have to take me in, sword and all.”
“Evie, I have you covered,” Laverick calls out.
The constable’s arm quivers. “I said put down your weapon!”
He stands a handful of paces away, nearly within lunging distance
of my blade. My clock heart beats so loudly I hear it ticktocking over the patter of rain. The whites of the constable’s eyes are starkly clear.
He’s young, not much older than me.
“I’ll lay down my sword,” I say, “but you mustn’t fire.”
His dry lips part, the skin cracked on the bottom. Raindrops col-
lect in his sandy hair and drip down his pasty face. I take another step forward.
Two guns fire, one immediately after the other.
The constable sinks to his knees and tips over onto his side. His
shot at me went wide. Laverick lowers her pistol, her eyes broadening.
Another constable runs out from the kitchen and fires at her. She
and Claret bend down to evade his shot. He ducks back inside to reload.
The young constable on the ground does not move. Blood streams
from his chest and gathers in a puddle, tingeing the water red. Claret tugs at Laverick to hurry along, and the two of them step around the fallen constable. Laverick slows down for a better look at him, then Claret drags her forward.
The five of us run around the corner of the building to the main
road. Jamison whistles for his carriage driver waiting down the way.
Laverick leans against a lamppost, breathing fast.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She stares straight ahead blankly. The carriage stops alongside us.
Osric vaults in. Jamison holds open the door.
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