“Human, halt!” calls the sheriff.
I run faster, and he fires.
A bullet strikes the ground beside me. I leap for Corentine, and she swings me up and sets me next to her. The sheriff runs to the end of the platform, where he’s forced to stop, the last train car out of his reach.
He fires a couple shots that bounce off the metal exterior of the car in sparks. The three of us duck inside the back door, and passengers gasp.
Corentine raises her revolver. “The human is with me.”
Everyone backs away from the armed giantess as we rush down the
aisle. Outside, we step across the hitch from one car to the next. Again, we go inside another passenger car, and Corentine wards off the alarmed passengers. As soon as it’s determined I’m human, giants jump on their chairs as though they’ve discovered a rat.
Outside the front door, screams come from the next passenger car,
followed by barking. I look up and see Markham leap over the top of
the third train car to the second, hefting the violin case. The elven guard charges through the car in front of us. Corentine and Mistral have a better chance of stopping the elves than I do.
“Give me your revolver,” I say.
“Are you mad, woman?” Corentine asks. “You can’t fire this.”
“The prince is getting away!”
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Mistral wrenches the revolver from her sister, takes the sandglass
box from me, and slams the revolver into my hands. “Go, dearie.”
I climb the ladder. When I’m halfway up, Commander Asmer
throws open the back door of the next passenger car. Her guards aim
their arrows at the giants. I mount the top of the ladder, slipping out of their view. The whines of the barghest can be heard over Corentine’s growls, then the wind deafens me to the skirmish below.
Markham stands at the opposite end of the train car, preparing to
jump.
“Stop!” I aim the revolver at him. Holding the firearm requires both hands. I hate to think what the recoil will do.
He turns around slowly. “You need to learn when to leave well
enough alone!”
“Stop this, Killian! I’ll never let you wake the giants. Put down the violin and go home to your sister!”
“I cannot,” he yells. “You aren’t the only one who is trying to live up to the memory of their father, Evie.”
My chest pounds, my ticker sprinting. “Put down Nightingale! I
will shoot!”
He opens his arms wide, daring me. His sleeves ride up, and instead
of the bandage I saw on his forearm before, he has a mark— a scar? But he’s impervious to injury.
I squint harder to see across the distance, my eyes burning from
the wind, and Commander Asmer steps onto the roof of the train car
behind me. I stand between her and Markham.
She aims her rapier at me. “Stay out of this, Everley! Your part is
over. This is between me and the prince.”
Markham smirks and turns to leap across to the other train car.
I pull the trigger.
The recoil flings me back. I land on top of the moving train car and slide to the edge. Commander Asmer grabs me by the leg and pulls me
back before I go over.
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“Stay there,” she shouts.
She makes her way to where Markham has fallen and places her
rapier to his throat. I cannot hear what she says over the wind, but he drops his head to the side and doesn’t get up. I rise to my knees, cradling my bandaged wound. The cuts on my side are bleeding again.
More elves climb onto the roof of the train. Corentine appears at
the top of the ladder next and crosses to me. She picks up the revolver and helps me to my feet.
“What were you thinking, woman? The recoil could have thrown
you off the train!”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
She snorts. “Well, at least you got your prince.”
Commander Asmer binds him, and her comrades seize Nightingale.
Finally, finally, finally, Markham has been captured.
But I don’t have him. Not at all.
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Chapter Sixteen
I pace back and forth in front of the door. Four days. The elves brought me to the Land of Promise and have held me captive for four long days.
They locked me in this chamber that’s furnished with an enormous bed, fine rugs, a glittering chandelier, a wardrobe full of fashionable ladies’
clothes, and a quaint sitting room that overlooks acres of orchards. So this grand room smells of lemon and verbena? So the silk bedsheets feel like bathing in starlight? They cannot buy my silence with comforts.
Still, this is the finest prison I’ve been held in.
I haven’t spoken to anyone except the surgeon who visited me the
first day. The homely young elf placed a mushy green salve on my cuts and left. Service gnomes deliver my meals. Three times a day, they
bring me a plate stacked high with delicious raw vegetables. When
I demanded to know where they are holding Corentine and Muriel,
they bared their teeth at me. Worst of all, the elven guard confiscated the infinity sandglass, my sword, and the music box I took from the
Bard’s shop.
They will regret taking my sword.
For some reason I haven’t puzzled out, I cannot spirit jump. I have
tried but travel nowhere. I go to the window and run my finger over
the millwork. The elves could have left me something to do, let me
carve wood to pass the time. Mostly, I stare out the window at the
Emily R. King
field-workers, an assortment of elves, spriggans, and trolls who go out at dawn and return at sunset.
I had never seen a troll before. The short, rangy green creatures live up to their reputation. Large square noses, spiky ears that stick out from the sides of their heads, and extra-large hands and feet, with really long fingers and toes for grasping tools. Their thin lips hardly close over their jagged teeth, a leer that gives them an air of surliness.
Beyond the orchards, vineyards line the rolling hills in rows of
groomed vines. A wide, swift river runs between the farmland, and off far in the distance, white-capped mountains loom. The late-day sunlight gives a dreamy haze to the scenery, as if bits of glitter hang in the air.
The view is nothing short of spectacular. I could gaze at it for hours, and have done so, for a lack of anything better to do. The Land of
Promise is a suitable name for this haven. Since my arrival, I’m less tired, my ticker has not skipped a beat once, my skin has softened, and I feel more rested than I have since I last slept in my bed at home in Dorestand under my uncle’s roof. I only hope Corentine and Mistral
are so comfortable.
Commander Asmer let them come along to bargain with the elven
queen for Neely’s release. We arrived through an exit portal in the
middle of the night, so I saw little of the chateau except for lanterns, worn cream walls, octagonal towers, and a slate roof. Then the guard ambushed the Esen sisters, taking them away, and brought me here.
A rap comes at the door. If that’s another gnome come to snap at
me, I’ll—
Osric opens the door. I run to him, and he pulls me in close. He
has his color back, and his leg is healed.
“When did you get here?” I ask.
“I’ll tell you later. The queen has summoned you. Be wholly honest
with her, Evie.”
“About what?”
Commander Asmer appears behind him and clears her throat.
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“We have much to discuss la
ter,” Osric says. “Remember you’re
a human in the elven world. Many still believe your kind are servant folk.” His gaze bores into mine, warning me to behave.
“I understand.”
Asmer leads us down the corridor, additional guards trailing
behind. Every gold doorknob gleams, and the mahogany floors shine.
Oak beams run along the ceiling, and fluted pilasters frame the doors.
Hand-painted murals of leafy branches laden with red apples and flow-ery vines border the top and base of the walls.
“What is this place?”
My inquiry is meant for Osric, but the commander answers. “The
queen’s private chateau. This was her childhood home.”
I peer around at the gilded doors and sconces. This looks nothing
like the world we came from. “Do you have trains and factories here
too?”
“No, no industrialization. The Land of Promise is a place of purity.
We have altered the world only where necessary, thus maintaining the integrity of its original beauty and divinity. We work with the land, not against it.”
Asmer opens the door to a circular two-story grand salon. Towering
lattice windows overlook an elaborate garden of green boxwood and
yellow roses. A chandelier hangs above the center of the room, glittering and silver. The hearth holds birch logs untouched by fire. Over the mantel hangs a ceiling-high gilded mirror, and on the opposite wall, the mounted head of a centicore. The antelope-like creature, with tusks and curled horns, stares ahead with glassy eyes.
Ornate furniture decorated with precious antiques is arranged
around the glossy white piano by the window. Queen Imelda sits there, pounding out a cascade of notes. Strands of her fine hair have fallen loose from her sparkling crown, the damask-silk bell sleeves of her sap-phire-blue gown draping over her lap. No one speaks until she strikes the last chord and lifts her hands from the keys.
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“Your Majesty?” says the commander, flanked by guards. “Miss
Donovan is here.”
Queen Imelda’s focus cuts across the room to me. “How are you
feeling, Everley?”
“What did you do with the giantesses?”
The queen tugs down her sleeves. “I will answer your questions
once you answer mine. The cuts on your side. How did you get them?”
“I was attacked.”
“By what?”
Her interest confounds me. “I don’t understand why it matters. I
was hurt and now I’m healed. Thank you for the salve.”
“The salve was a potent mixture of the same enchantment we
spread on our apple seeds before we plant them in the ground to grow charm apples. What harmed you was not of our worlds.” She swivels
on the bench, shifting her knees toward me. “Your skin was split, but also your spirit. Only one beast I know of has that power, and the elves rarely speak of her.”
A servant steps forward with a thick old book opened to a marked
page. The queen runs her finger over the fade page and stops to read aloud. “‘A beast hails from the nothingness between the stars, a craven and vicious monster, bred from the coldest night to disrupt the light. The cythrawl, known by Madrona’s children as the Destroyer, dwells in the farthest recesses of Avelyn. She wormed her way in between the stitches as Eiocha sewed the worlds into the heavens with her song. The cythrawl is a venomous light-eater, a devourer of creation power—spirits. If bitten by a cythrawl, the poison will spread to the victim’s heart. Only highly concentrated creation power may heal them.’”
She slams the book closed and stares at me. I have never explained
that I can spirit jump. My ability is private, a skill I won’t discuss with a room full of people.
Osric steps to my side. “Remember to be honest. Trust me, Evie.
You can tell her the truth.”
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“I don’t know what attacked me,” I answer loudly and clearly. “A
shadow came at me while I was spirit jumping from the Silver-Clouded Plain. I’d never encountered it before.”
“The cythrawl is not something you encounter. She’s something
you run from. She’s a kreacher, a corrupted creation.” Queen Imelda
picks up my music box from behind her on the piano bench. “We
found this among your possessions. Where did you get it?”
“The Bard’s shop.”
The queen winds the lever, and the music starts. “An interesting
selection.”
“Do you know the song?”
She gives me a quizzical look, as if she doesn’t understand why I
took the box without knowing the tune it plays. “This is a sample of the everafter song, the very lullaby Eiocha played on her violin to stitch the worlds into the cloth of the eternities. Eiocha played this piece in another key to put the warrior giants to sleep and end the triad war. No one remembers that rendition of the tune, though, for that would be
very dangerous.” The queen holds the music box carefully in her palms as it plays. “I’m aware of my brother’s intention to wake the warrior giants. Commander Asmer spoke with him, but he would not say why
he wishes to do this.”
“He wants to undo a wrong. Something to do with
his—your—parents.”
Queen Imelda holds down the turn lever of the music box, stran-
gling the lullaby to silence. “He killed your family. Will you testify against him?”
I exchange a big-eyed glance with Osric. “Yes.”
“Good.” The queen sets down the music box. “My council has
agreed to hold his trial tomorrow. Killian still has supporters. Their loyalty goes back a long time, but he has finally done something they cannot forgive him for. Elves are allies with the Land of the Living. An act against humans is an act against us.”
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“What about my sword and Nightingale?”
“Nightingale is locked away safely.” Imelda sweeps her voluminous
skirt behind her on the bench and faces the piano again. “Your sword and the infinity sandglass will be delivered to you upon the comple-tion of the prince’s trial and sentencing.” She begins to play a slower, moodier song. I sense she has nothing more to say, and we have been
dismissed, but I stay.
“Your Majesty, did you notice a scar on Markham’s right forearm?”
“I haven’t seen or spoken to my brother since he’s arrived.” She
glances at Asmer, who shakes her head. “Why?”
“No reason,” I mumble. “What will happen to Markham if he’s
found guilty? He cannot be executed.”
“You mortals have a morbid preoccupation with death. I suppose
I would, too, if I lived less than a century.” She sighs tersely. “Death is too easy a punishment for destroying a world. Should Killian be found guilty, our judges will impose an equal punishment. For the safety of Avelyn, my brother will never leave our world again.”
“But the Realm of Wyeth is looking for him. He’s wanted for—”
“Everley, Killian will pay.” Queen Imelda bows her head slightly,
her diamond crown shifting forward and sparkling in the sunlight. “I swear by the Creator by whom my people swear. If I break my oath,
may the land open to swallow me, the sea rise to drown me, and the
moon fall upon me.”
Her pledge was unnecessary, something that as queen, she doesn’t
owe me, a foreigner no less, and a human at that. I interrupt her playing one more time. “You know what he did to me, but I don’t know what
he did to you.”
The queen strikes an aberrant chord and stills. “He left me.�
� She
waits for a breath and then resumes playing the same gloomy tune.
Commander Asmer ushers me into the corridor. My legs have
turned to wax. This doesn’t seem real. Markham will stand trial, and I will have my chance to tell everyone what he did to my family.
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The commander leads Osric and me down a spiral stairway into
the bowels of the manor. At a steel trapdoor, she pounds her foot and backs away. An eye slot opens in the door and shuts again. The latches click, and the trapdoor swings inward to reveal steep steps leading
underground.
“This isn’t eerie at all,” I mutter.
“This is an oubliette,” Asmer replies.
I have never heard that word, but as we descend farther down the
stairs, I make out barred nooks containing detainees and realize “oubliette” is a fancy word for prison.
In the next cell, a blond woman with delicate features sits near the bars and tosses a bean sack up and down.
“Everley,” she says, smirking. “You’ve finally made it.”
“Harlow, I’ve wondered where you were. Enjoying yourself?”
Her eyes gleam, fiery yet cold. “I thought you got your sword back?”
“The elves have it for now.”
She chuckles, a breathy sound brimming with spite. “It’s a good
thing your clock heart is attached to you, or you would have lost it by now too.”
“How are you enjoying prison?” I counter. “You’re looking haggard.”
She rests her hands behind her head, her pose nonchalant. One
would think this was her chateau. “I’ve been in worse places. The streets of Dorestand weren’t a quaint little clock shop, but I always make do.”
My teeth grip down hard. Harlow had a difficult childhood, I will
give her that, but she let her life harden her, whereas Laverick, Claret, and Vevina had hope and relied on each other. Harlow depends on no
one except Markham. When will she see him for what he is?
With nothing more to say, I continue down the block. Near the end
of the row, I spot Neely and Redmond in one cell, and opposite them, Corentine and Mistral. All the giants are seated to avoid hitting their heads on the low ceiling. Asmer unlocks their cells. Neely beams at me and rises too fast, whacking the top of his head on the stone.
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“Neely,” I say. “Your foot is better.”
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