“What if it doesn’t? Maybe Laverick, Claret, and I should hide
somewhere else.”
“Evie,” he says firmly. “I’ve no regrets about buying your uncle’s
shop or housing your friends. None at all.”
But will he have regrets if he’s caught harboring us?
He yawns and rubs at the crease between his eyebrows.
“Why don’t Osric and I investigate the skystalk?” I say. “You stay
here and rest.”
“I already told him I’m going, though I do need to speak with
Laverick at some point.” Jamison releases the rest of what he’s about to say all in one breath. “Winters told me about the constable who was
shot in the alley. He didn’t recover.”
“Let me talk to her,” I mumble. “I owe her that much.”
“What happened wasn’t your fault, Evie. No one intended for the
constable to get hurt.”
But he did, and now I’m nervous about what else could be wait-
ing around the corner for us. I have to intercept Markham before he
climbs the skystalk to the Silver-Clouded Plain. Capturing the prince and turning him over to Queen Aislinn could convince the council I’m not Markham’s ally and shift suspicion away from Jamison.
The queen should be willing to bargain. Markham’s crimes have
concealed the real reason she’s hunting him. I know she had her father, the king, murdered with Markham’s help so she could assume the
throne. To bury her secret, she may be willing to pardon me and my
friends in exchange for him. What she and the council do with the
prince once he’s in custody is up to them.
I once longed to see Markham stand trial. Now I would settle for
never seeing him again.
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A fogbank drifts over the grassy highland. Jamison leads the way over the hills while daylight burns through the morning clouds. Osric rides his horse beside mine, as stiff as a statue, his tricorn hat low over his scowling eyes. Jamison and I pass a smile back and forth. The elf seldom appears less than dignified. Until recently, he was a pirate in the Land Under the Wave and spent all his time at sea. He’s out of practice at riding.
I grip the key to the clock shop around my neck. I haven’t been on
a horse for some time either. In the city, I walked or drove my uncle’s wagon. The last time I rode on horseback, I was accompanying my
father into Dorestand to visit my uncle.
We approach a vast wheat field, the site where Markham planted
the skyseeds, and halt at the perimeter. The skystalk has grown taller than any structure I have seen, stretching to the heavens so high it hurts my neck to look up.
I start across the field, and Jamison and Osric follow, our horses
trampling through the low, tawny wheat. The monstrosity’s trunk is
wider than two longhouses set in a row lengthwise. Only creation
power—sorcery, as Queen Aislinn would say—could create this
behemoth.
She’s going to throw a fit when she hears of it.
Emily R. King
A half dozen farmers have gathered at the base. I draw my hood,
casting my face into shadows. Jamison opts to go to the other side of the skystalk to avoid the farmers. We stop a good distance away from them, next to the skystalk.
A great rumble rises from the ground. The stalk shoots up several
more feet, higher and higher, winding into the clouds like a corkscrew.
The farmers shout in alarm, and our horses spook. Jamison and I stay on ours, but Osric is bucked off. I hop down to collect his fallen hat.
He jams it back on his head while Jamison chases down his horse and
returns it to Osric.
“Rotten animal,” Osric mutters, getting back on his horse.
The farmers haven’t seemed to notice the elf from a distance. Osric
falling off his mount was the lesser spectacle.
The three of us ride closer to the skystalk. Swordlike thistles pro-
trude from the dingy olive trunk, some longer than my legs. Gnarled
and sinister, the skystalk bears no leaves or berries or acorns. Had I not witnessed it growing, I would think it was dying or dead.
“How long until the soldiers arrive?” I ask.
“From Dorestand?” Jamison replies. “Before the end of the day.”
Shouts from the farmers sound down the way. Several men are
pointing upward. We step away from the skystalk to look up. Someone
is high above, scaling the skystalk’s thistles.
Jamison exhales sharply. “Killian.”
“I had an inkling the prince hadn’t gone far,” Osric drawls.
A howl erupts behind us.
Osric’s and Jamison’s faces drain of color. We last heard this chilling sound in the Land Under the Wave when the elven guard was dispatched by their queen in search of the prince. Their barghest—a bloodhound
trained to track its target—led the hunt. Markham escaped, but his
companion, Harlow, was taken captive. We haven’t seen her since.
The barghest howls again. Down the way, the farmers glance around
for its source.
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“My queen received my letter,” Osric says in a daze.
Jamison dismounts and climbs up the stalk, his feet level with our
heads. “There.” He gestures east. “They’re coming this way.”
“They better hurry,” I snap. “Markham is getting away.”
Jamison hops back down. “Let that be their problem. This is what
we wanted, Evie, for the elves to take responsibility for their unruly prince.”
But how else can we start over if we don’t hand Markham over to
our own queen? If the elves take him, he will be gone, and so will our chance to sever ourselves from his actions.
A rumble shakes the ground, and the skystalk grows taller. I pacify
my horse, then dismount and step onto the lowest thistle.
“What are you doing, Evie?” Osric asks.
“Going after Markham.”
“Wait,” Jamison says. “The skystalk is unstable while it’s growing.”
“Either I go now, or Markham gets away.”
He glances at the elven guard running toward us. “Go. We’ll fend
them off.”
“We will?” Osric asks.
I start up the stalk. Markham is so high above me I grow dizzy
looking up at him. My ticker booms in my chest, solid and strong. I
set a swift climbing pace.
Another howl from the barghest comes from below. I’m still close
enough to hear Osric bickering with Jamison about how his queen
might be unhappy with us for interfering. The elf queen will have to accept our involvement. She and her kind waited to come to our aid,
and now they expect us to stand aside? Not bloody likely.
The stalk begins to shake. I hold on as it shoots up several lengths higher.
I cling to the trunk, my head reeling. I catch my breath. The ground suddenly feels much farther away, then closer, then farther again.
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Emily R. King
Another piercing howl carries up from below. The farmers flee the
wheat field as a rangy canine the size of a black bear dashes for the stalk.
Charging after the barghest is the elven guard.
Jamison and Osric hold their ground against the approaching party.
I set out more quickly. Clouds slowly pour in around the skystalk,
masking my view of how far I have to go to reach the top. Markham has climbed higher than any treetop in sight, but his heavy pack is slowing him down. I go faster, my heart booming. The
next time I look up, he’s closer. I’m gaining on him.
Finding a burst of strength, I ascend even faster, pushing into the
rising winds.
Flying arrows arch toward me. One of them embeds in the stalk
near my foot. Another strikes Markham through the arm, pinning him
to the skystalk. The elven guard is firing at us from a distance with accuracy I have never seen.
I clamber upward again, my chest heaving. The gusts of wind rip at
me. Markham is directly above, near the low-hanging clouds. I swipe at his ankle. He kicks free and jerks the arrow out of his arm. More arrowheads sink into the stalk around us. I grab upward and grasp his leg.
He extends the infinity sandglass out, dangling it in the air, many
stories above the ground. “Don’t make me do it, Everley.”
“You wouldn’t.”
His hair falls forward into his steely gaze. “You know better than
to doubt me.”
“You won’t drop it,” I repeat, my grip firm on his leg. “You need
time as much as the rest of us.”
“Time only serves itself.”
He holds the sandglass out farther, and his sleeve rides up to his
elbow. His forearm is bandaged, covering what I suppose is an injury.
I cut him there with the sword of Avelyn a month ago when we spirit
jumped to a moon. He’s already healing from the arrow wound he
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Everafter Song
received moments ago, as he always does. Why would he need a ban-
dage for an old injury?
Markham glares down at me. “Catch.”
He lets the sandglass go.
I lunge, but the vessel skims past my fingers. I snag one corner of
the wooden base and hang off the stalk, suspended over the ground. My weight is too heavy to pull myself back again.
My grip on the sandglass starts to slip. The thistle anchoring me
cuts my palm as I slide farther away from the skystalk. I hold on tighter, hissing against the pain. My grasp on the thistle is failing. I cannot hold on. I try to readjust my grip, and the sandglass slides out of my other hand, plummeting and pinwheeling end over end.
I brace myself, hoping a merciful power will intervene. The priceless timepiece smashes into the ground and explodes into pieces.
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Chapter Six
My ticker stops. Everything stills as I wait for the world to crumble apart, the moon crashing into the land, the sun melting from the heavens. The noise of Markham still climbing yanks me out of my horror.
My clock heart stamps out a healthy beat, and the world doesn’t fall to ruin.
Time goes on.
Markham pauses just before entering the low-hanging clouds and
lifts a sandglass overhead—the true infinity sandglass. The bastard made a duplicate. He laughs and ascends into the mist, the distance left to the top impossible to tell.
I hug the skystalk, my ragged breaths booming in my ears. My head
whirls, my muscles shaky, my hair whipping me in the face from the
wind. My cut hand stings and bleeds down my wrist. I climbed higher
than I realized. The expansive view of the countryside extends all the way to the western coastline. I cannot force myself to go higher.
I descend the stalk little by little. The elven guard comes into focus, their arrows aimed at me. Sitting on the ground, held at sword point, are Jamison and Osric. They look disgruntled but otherwise unharmed.
I scramble down, jumping the last few feet. An elf disarms me, and the barghest rushes over to sniff my feet. I try backing away, but the massive canine growls.
Everafter Song
The guard, clad in black garments under light chain-mail vests,
surrounds me. They are all male, except for a female snapping orders in a language I don’t understand. She has thick red hair and sooty lashes, her teeth pearly and eyes a stirring green. Her figure has just enough curves for her tall height, her shape neither round nor reedy. A rapier hangs at her waist, and her boots extend above her knees. Her fitted trousers and military jacket would be considered indecent on a human woman, yet the tailored lines are elegant.
She drags her toe through the broken duplicate of the sandglass and
whistles. The barghest pads over to her. She leashes the canine with a metal chain and collar.
“Come,” she says.
I assume she’s speaking to the beast, but her guards heft Jamison
and Osric to their feet and gather our horses. Another elf prods me to fall into line with the others.
“Who is she?” I whisper.
“Commander Asmer.” Osric’s tone verges on admiration. “She’s
Queen Imelda’s top guard. Asmer was the soldier who caught Prince
Killian with my sister, Brea, and reported their romance to the queen.”
“I remember things differently,” replies Commander Asmer from
the front of the group. She glances over her shoulder. “You’ve been gone from home too long, Osric.”
His gaze and voice flat, he answers, “I’m not welcome in our world
any longer.”
“Perhaps you no longer feel welcome because it’s no longer your
home.”
The commander’s comment throws Osric into a sulk. He was
ordered by his parents to find his wayward sister after she ran away with the prince, but Brea passed away tragically, and centuries later, Osric has not returned home. His self-imposed banishment isn’t a topic he speaks of often.
Commander Asmer faces forward and makes no other remark.
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Emily R. King
Jamison wraps my cut hand with his kerchief. I would tell him
about the bandage I saw on Markham, but the elven guard may over-
hear me. The bandage makes no sense. Yes, Father Time once implied
that the sword of Avelyn could harm Markham, but I’ve stabbed him
multiple times, and he has always recovered. Was the bandage a ruse, just like the duplicate sandglass?
After about half an hour, Jamison begins to favor his bad knee. He
could ride one of the horses, but the elves don’t offer. Just as I open my mouth to complain, I spot Elderwood Manor. More elves are stationed
at every door of the huge house and patrol the gardens. The guard
posted at the main door blinks at Osric as we approach.
Osric slows in front of him. “Dalyor?” he asks. “You haven’t aged
a day.”
The guard flushes. “It’s been a while, Osric. How have you—”
“You two can catch up later,” Asmer says. She ushers us inside and
strides into the study. Pianoforte music comes from within.
As we follow her, I whisper to Osric, “Who’s the guard out front?”
“Dalyor is an old friend.”
“None of my friends blush when they see me.”
A flush creeps across his cheeks. “Yes, well . . .”
The guards shove us into the study. Laverick and Claret are nowhere
to be seen, but an iron birdcage has been set on the floor. Radella is locked inside. She peers out at us, her usual azure color tinged bruise purple.
A statuesque, willowy elf plays the pianoforte. Her fine ash-blond
hair is tucked into a slim gold crown studded with diamonds that match her earrings. Her long, lean fingers fly across the ivory keys. The music is not of our world, all at once gentle and discordant and impetuous, like a sparrow taking flight for the first time. Her attention stays fixed on her instrument, her rosebud lips pursed in concentration. She’s adorned in a floor-length ice-blue velvet dress that complements her eyes, the 46
Everafter Song
bodice tight and the sleeves billowing. On the seat beside her is a short-handled stave.
Her song ends
with a flurry of notes followed by a rambunctious
crescendo of bold chords. As the sound dissipates, she maintains her pose, fingers arched and waiting. The guards applaud. Osric joins in, and I shoot him a frown.
The crowned elf—their queen, I presume—twists toward us. “I
haven’t visited the Land of the Living in many decades,” she says. “For centuries, humans dwelled in dens. Your living conditions have much
improved, and you have such fine things. How much for your piano-
forte, human lord? I’ll pay in diamonds.”
“It’s not for sale,” Jamison answers.
“Disappointing.” She tings the highest treble key. “This would suit
my music library.”
Commander Asmer edges forward to the front of the group.
“Queen Imelda, this is Jamison Callahan and Everley Donovan. And
you remember Osric Llewellyn.”
Osric lowers to one knee and bows his head. “Your Majesty, thank
you for coming.”
Queen Imelda picks up her stave and glides past Osric to me. She
smells strongly of lemon and verbena, a light, enamoring scent. She
looks a few years older than us, but as Markham’s elder sister, she must be at least six hundred years of age.
“Everley,” she says, her voice suspiciously sweet, “you’re the human who has been pursuing my brother across the worlds.”
I sense that she expects me to kneel, but I cannot bring myself to
bend the knee to an intruder in our home, let alone Markham’s sister.
Commander Asmer passes her my sword. “Everley is the bearer of
this.”
“The sword of Avelyn?” The queen’s statement carries a hint of
puzzlement. She lifts the weapon to the light as though the answer is 47
Emily R. King
engraved in the blade. “The Creator’s hallowed sword should belong to someone who can control its might.”
“I can,” I answer. “And before me, the sword belonged to my father.”
“Ah, yes, Brogan Donovan, the great human explorer.” Her praise
verges on sardonic. “Father Time has a bleeding heart for your family.
First your father and then your uncle. I was sorry to hear of Holden’s passing. A rare man.”
“How did you know him?”
“I’ve known of every helmsman and Time Bearer in my lifetime.
One dies, and Father Time chooses another, replacing them like clockwork.” Her gaze examines me, dicing me apart. “You are a surprise.”
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