intention to collapse a world.”
Jamison recoils in disgust. “How is he able to lie? He knew the
Land of Youth would fall.”
“I don’t think he did,” I reply. Markham couldn’t have known for
certain what would transpire when we entered that time-stalled world.
Still, the consequences remain the same. The world has fallen, and the casualties of the collapse are countless.
Imelda chews the corner of her lip in consternation. Every attempt
to trap the prince has led to more sympathy for him and less for us. I’ve no doubt the audience is convinced his real wrongdoing was his selfless need to see his wife again. The queen starts to walk away, then pivots on her heels. “Did you kill Princess Amadara?”
My ticker skips a beat. This is it, the question I’ve been waiting for.
Markham seeks approval from the council. “I thought I was on trial
for the fall of a world?”
“This speaks to his charges of treason,” Imelda explains.
“Answer the question, Your Majesty,” says the councilwoman.
Markham clasps his bound hands together as if in prayer. “No, I
did not kill my wife. She ended her life when she tore time.”
“Weren’t you angry with Amadara for hiding the Bard from you?”
Imelda asks.
“I was upset with her for lying, but I loved her.”
“You planted skyseeds, grew a skystalk, and infiltrated the Silver-
Clouded Plain, all so you could find the Bard, who had been moved
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before Amadara’s death, so you could locate Nightingale, wake the
giants, and restart the triad war.”
“Is there a question coming?” Markham asks tautly.
Queen Imelda stomps over to him, right up to the runes. “You
violated our mandate to oversee the Land of the Living when you gave away jurisdiction of their seas to the merrow king in exchange for the location of the infinity sandglass, something you had no power to do.
Why?”
“Because that’s what our father would have done!” Markham yells.
“Because that’s what you should have done!”
Imelda recoils as though struck.
“Humans are lost without us,” Markham proclaims. “They’ve for-
gotten their place. They need us to guide them, and we need them too.
Our crops are rotting in our fields. We could bring them here, and they would be happier, healthier. Yes, Nightingale would have brought about a war. Yes, a battle would have been terrible, but in the end, the triad would have returned to their true order and all would be right again in Avelyn.”
Markham breathes hard, his voice ringing out and echoing back.
His unraveling should be more satisfying, but his reasoning, his justi-fications, is alarming, particularly because he’s still in the witness box, still under the control of the runes.
This is what he believes. His truth is horrifying.
Imelda steps away from her brother, slightly dazed. “I’m finished,
Your Honors.”
The justices don’t move, the lot of them frozen in astonishment.
Markham has shown his true self. He wishes to defy the Creator, and
the elves could never, ever side with him against the goddess.
The council holds a private discussion in their box. Imelda watches
them intensely. I wish I could hear what they’re saying, and yet I don’t.
Again, Markham has me standing on a hinge with him, and depending
on which way the pathway bends, my future will unfold.
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Jamison and Osric say nothing. The prince has lowered his chin,
resuming a stance of meekness. Little noise comes from the audience.
We are all held in this moment of waiting.
At last, after a million forevers, the head justice signals she’s ready to speak.
“As elves, we have received a charge from the Creator to watch
over not only our human brothers and sisters but every living crea-
ture. Our sacred responsibility to uphold creation power has led us to leave our portals and hearts open. However, we are disturbed by Lord and Lady Callahan’s participation in the demise of one of Eiocha’s precious worlds. We cannot rightly penalize our prince and excuse them.
Therefore, we will reconvene in private to discuss a proper and just consequence for their involvement. Prince Killian will remain detained under our guard, and Lord and Lady Callahan are to stay in the Land
of Promise until we have reached a decision. This trial is dismissed.”
Cheers rise from the audience. Markham bows his head low, hiding
what I am sure is a huge smirk. I have no binding on my tongue, yet I have lost the strength to speak.
“What does this mean?” Jamison asks.
“The council has yet to determine what actions should be taken
against the prince,” Osric answers solemnly, “and you and Everley.”
“We did nothing wrong,” Jamison counters, his tone incredulous.
“Markham coerced us to go to the Everwoods. That was his mission.”
“Regrettably, in offering your report, you admitted to many of the
same offenses as the prince.”
“We weren’t on trial!” Jamison rejoins.
Osric grunts in agreement. “I’m sorry. I’ve been gone too long. I
thought they would see Killian for the monster he is and condemn him.
There’s still a chance they will.”
“What if they don’t?” I whisper, my voice hollow.
“You aren’t citizens of the Land of Promise. The justices will likely call for a short prison sentence or expulsion from our world.”
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The orchestra launches into an upbeat song. I forgot they were
there. The tone of their tune borders on celebratory, grating at every raw nerve in my body. Osric may reserve hope and faith in his people, but I have none.
Imelda storms over to us, flushed and glistening from perspira-
tion. “Your testimonies were a disgrace. My brother made you out to
be fools.”
“You didn’t portray yourself well either, Your Majesty,” Jamison
retorts. “Nor did you prepare us for that abysmal questioning. You told us this trial would be Killian’s reckoning. Justice is fair, but nothing about that was just.”
“My brother is a brilliant manipulator.” The queen sets her jaw,
angry tears clouding her eyes. “You two will never understand the burden he is to me.” She strides off to Commander Asmer, who is stationed at the door leading off the stage.
Noises of the audience departing and the orchestra music drift far
away, as though I have tumbled down a tunnel. I stand at one end of
the stage, and the prince is at the other. The sensation of being far away lingers as I watch two guards escort him offstage. I note how careful their grips are on him compared to when he was brought out. One of
the elves is Dalyor. The prince exchanges words with him, and they
share a split-second smile. I am too deadened from shock to ask if Osric noticed.
Jamison and I follow him to the carriage. Elves have gathered
at the back of the theater for a view of their prince. They shout his name, clamoring for his attention. A line of guards holds them at bay.
Markham steps onto the back of the wagon, getting higher up so they
can see him, and waves. The crowd presses against the guards to get
closer to their prince. He finishes waving and goes inside the wagon.
“He’s going to get away,” I mutter vacantly to myself. “They’re
going to set him free.
”
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Osric grunts, more of a growl. “He will not go free. Killian has
admitted to grievous crimes. The council could never look the other
way.”
Members of the mob seeking a view of the prince begin to dissipate.
A voice calls out for Osric from the other side of the guard line, and an older married couple approaches. They are dressed in fine clothes, well groomed, and handsome. Osric goes to them, and the guard lets
them pass to our side. The couple stands close together at a distance, scrutinizing him and us.
“Mother and Father,” Osric says, his tone cautious. “How are you?”
“Well enough for two old elves,” his mother replies. “You know
these humans?”
Osric lifts his chin. “I do. They’re my friends.”
“They’re deceivers.” His father’s tone is colder than his mother’s.
“Humans belong in our fields, not giving testimony against our prince.”
Their discussion draws the attention of those around us. Dalyor
steps away from the prison wagon and wanders closer to his friend.
Osric speaks slowly and annunciates clearly, as though seeking
patience. “The prince spirited away your only daughter unto death.”
“Brea knew better than to consort with the prince,” his mother
snaps. “She was brazen to tempt him.”
Osric’s face turns steely. “She was charmed by Killian, just as you
have been.”
“You should show respect for your prince,” his father replies.
Osric guffaws, a broken, humorless sound. “To think I believed you
might have changed.”
“You shouldn’t have come home,” says his father. “Why couldn’t
you have just stayed away?” He wraps his arm around his wife and leads her back in the direction in which they came.
Osric tremors, on the verge of snapping into a rage or dissolving
into tears. Dalyor and I reach for him at the same time. Osric pulls away from us both and bounds into our carriage.
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“I’ll talk to him.” I climb into the carriage after him. Osric wipes his eyes and stares at the floor. Jamison joins us, and the carriage begins to roll out with the cavalcade. “Your father shouldn’t have said that. You’ve every right to be here. This is your home too.”
“Why do they defend Killian over their daughter?” Jamison asks.
“My parents think he should have been king. For a time, Killian
had so much outside support there was talk that his father would buck tradition and favor him over Imelda for the throne. After the king and queen passed away, the speculation lessened, but some of Killian’s supporters still think Imelda is unfit to govern.”
“Why?”
Osric sighs deeply and slumps in his bench. “I’m not certain you
would understand.”
“Give us a chance,” Jamison replies.
Osric looks around the carriage for possible listening ears, then
drops his voice to a whisper. “Queen Imelda . . . Queen Imelda killed her parents.”
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Chapter Twenty-One
Osric refuses to say anything else until we return to the chateau.
He leads Jamison and me away from the manor, past the boxwood
garden, and into the orchards. I am bursting by the time he sits on a bench overlooking trees full of shiny red charm apples. The second
he notices them, he starts to sweat. I almost suggest we go elsewhere, but he starts in.
“What I tell you can never be shared.”
Jamison and I both nod in agreement.
“Long ago, when Killian and I were friends—before I realized he
was a supreme nidget—he confided in me about the night his parents
passed away.”
Jamison waits to see if I will take the last seat on the bench. I’m too restless to sit, so he does. “How did they die?” he asks.
“Prince Killian was performing with the royal choir in a special
concert for Queen Thora and King Markham’s six hundred and fiftieth
wedding anniversary. It had rained for many days leading up to the
show. The weather had cleared in time for everyone to come from far
and wide to celebrate. Halfway through the second part, during the
prince’s performance with the choir, Queen Thora became tired. Imelda left early to see that her parents made it safely home. Mudslides had washed out the main road back to the chateau, so they took a lower
road in the ravine by the river. The water was running high and fast
Emily R. King
that night. Their carriage tipped over on loose rocks and slid down the embankment into the rapids. Imelda escaped with a few scratches, but the king and queen . . .”
Osric picks up a fallen charm apple and rolls it in his hands. “Brea and I were at the theater when the news reached us. I had been singing in the choir. Killian was thanking my father, the choir director then, for our wonderful performances. My sister ran to tell them what happened.
Killian left straightaway for the river and was there all night and day.
The carriage driver was found alive but died hours later. The king’s and queen’s bodies were recovered four days after the accident.”
“That’s terrible,” I say. “But how is Imelda to blame?”
“There was speculation as to how she was the only one who sur-
vived.” Osric sounds somewhat suspicious himself, or at least uncertain.
“Killian went into mourning. He blamed himself for not leaving the
concert early with his parents. He hasn’t played music since. When
he finally emerged from his seclusion years later, he was harder, more serious . . . driven. He had a plan to smuggle charm apples to the Otherworlds to sell for profit and asked me to work with him. Before, his life revolved around music and spending time with his family. But since the king and queen died, most everything he’s done has been to hurt Imelda.”
“All because he blames her for their accident,” Jamison concludes.
“Killian doesn’t just blame her,” Osric says. “He’s convinced she
killed them.”
Imelda is spoiled, self-important, and dismissive, but a murderess?
After being accused of hurting my own uncle, I’m hesitant to brand
anyone such a thing without proof. “Why would Imelda want her par-
ents gone? What did she gain? They were incapacitated by their failing health, so she was already ruling in their stead.”
“That’s where things get tricky.” Osric stares at the apple in his
hands. “Imelda and Killian were close in their childhood years. She was never as well liked as he was. His musical talent cast a shadow over hers, 200
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and then there was an incident where sacred trees were destroyed. But Imelda adored her brother, and Killian was devoted to her and their
parents. When the king’s and queen’s minds began to fail, Markham
took care of them without complaint.”
I side-eye Osric. “You think he was a good son.”
“I know he was a good son. Killian wasn’t always bent and warped.
He was a talented, bright, capable young prince with a brilliant future ahead of him. That’s no excuse, of course.”
“You pity him for losing his parents,” Jamison says.
“Or something else?” I ask. “Why did Markham confide in you and
ask you to start a smuggling racket with him?”
Osric clutches the charm apple harder, his color rising. “There was
a time when I had lofty aspirations. I came to work at the royal family’s chateau to manage their orchards and get noticed.
Killian and I met.
He was so damn charming.”
He starts to lift the apple to his mouth, his focus far away.
“Osric,” I say sternly, snatching the apple from his grasp. He jolts into awareness and wipes his hands on his trousers to erase the sensation of the apple from his hands. “You fancied Killian?”
“What do you want me to say, Evie? I was a young elf who, like
many others, dreamed of falling in love with a handsome prince.”
“But it’s Killian!” I say, my nose wrinkling.
“It was a foolish fantasy. Nothing ever came of it. Killian favors
females, and I . . . I moved on.” Osric pops one of his remedy tablets into his mouth. “As I said, that was a long time ago.”
“Then why are you defending him now? After all he’s done? I don’t
care what he did. I only care that he’s dangerous.”
“Everley,” Jamison says, his tone reasonable, “Osric isn’t denying
that Killian has done awful things.”
I bite down on a groan. Jamison should take my side or, at the very
least, be as repulsed as I am. Osric was taken in by Killian in more ways than one. I don’t know if I can ever look at him in the same way. “I’m 201
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done listening to excuses. I don’t care how musically talented Markham was or how good he was to his parents. He’s a monster. Whether monsters are born or made doesn’t change the fact that he is one.”
I kick the apple at my foot, sending it rolling, and march off.
Jamison and Osric call for me to come back, but I maintain a swift
pace out of the garden via a leafy arbor and through a back door into the chateau.
Commander Asmer spots me stomping down the hall. “Everley,
supper will be served—”
“I want my sword. The queen said I could have it back after the
trial. I want it sent to my room right now.” I continue into my chamber and slam the door.
Staying in this world was a foolish waste of time. Our friends are at home hiding from soldiers while we’re waiting on a group of narrow-minded elves to punish a spoiled prince. The justices want to blame
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