Everafter Song

by Emily R. King

  He smashes the sandglass into the ground, picks up a handful of

  the sand, and holds up a kernel. Not sand. The vessel was filled with tiny seeds.

  “How curious that something so small could grow into some-

  thing so mighty.” The prince squints and compares the little seed to a full-grown elderwood tree before him. More of them have caught fire

  around us. “Once these trees are gone, I will plant a new conclave of elderwoods that will grow in my name to hold up the sky and tie the

  worlds together. I will live with them forever and see a new Avelyn take shape.”

  My sword glows, its inner light pulsing.

  A hand grabs the hilt. While Markham admires his destruction,

  Father Time presses a finger over my lips to quiet me and yanks the

  blade from my middle. A withheld scream burns in my throat, pushing

  against my lungs. My stomach bleeds so much I’m not sure where all

  the blood came from. Surely, my veins must be near to dry.

  I cannot win. I cannot fix everyone, save everyone, change every

  awful thing the prince has done. The ruin he has caused has rippled

  out too far.

  Father Time lays the sword into my palm. “Get up, Everley,” he

  whispers.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can and you will.”

  Father Time vanishes, and a pulse of vigor pushes out from my

  clock heart. The momentary boost emboldens me to rise. My wounds

  pound in agony. I only know of one way to take away the pain, and it means causing myself more.

  I pull myself up onto my knees. I’m bleeding so badly I cannot look

  down at myself. The end is nigh, but it will be an end of my choosing.

  I’ll be damned if I let Markham have the satisfaction of killing me.

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  My legs quake as I try to stand. Mother Madrona said my family

  was with me. I call upon them for strength. Be with me. Help me stop Markham once and for all.

  A hardness runs down my spine, strong like a rod of steel. My hurt

  arm loses some of its sting, and the sword wound in my belly drifts to a faraway ache.

  I pull myself upright and plant my feet. The firelight above brightens the forest to midday, the screaming of burning trees torturous. Dragging my sword at my side, I trudge toward Markham. With each step, daisies sprout at my feet, growing up and laying the path before me.

  “Markham.”

  He swings around in surprise.

  I raise my sword. “You’re no god.”

  He throws a handful of the seeds in my face. I blink them clear,

  and he strikes me. I fall to the ground on my stomach, my wounds

  throbbing daggers. Markham grabs a fistful of my hair and wrenches

  my head back.

  “We’re done here. Now be a good lass and die.”

  I place my hand over his on the back of my head and reach for his

  spirit. His hand starts to let go of me, so I push my spirit out of my body and drag his along with mine.

  Our bodies lie on the ground beneath us. From above, my gunshot

  and stab wounds appear critical. Markham glances around in alarm.

  The Everwoods have taken on a new form. We could be inside a frozen

  sun. Everything that was green is now white. In the core of the trees, their heartwood pulses like real hearts of flesh and blood, soft red lights, sparks of verve. A glow radiates off everything, and the fire Markham started burns blue. The color matches the heart of a flame, the purest blue imaginable, serene, treacherous.

  He tries to dive back into his body. My blade slashes through his

  arm and sends him sideways.

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  “You were right about one thing,” I say, following him. “My temper

  was going to get me into trouble.”

  Blue sparks rain down around us. He leaps for his body again. I

  lunge, stabbing him through the leg. He sinks to the ground one knee at a time.

  “Look who’s kneeling now.”

  Markham tries to get up. I slice at his other leg, and he falls to the ground, writhing.

  Around us, the fire spreads down the trees toward our bodies. I

  cannot see a tree that hasn’t caught fire. All the sprites have gone, and Father Time is nowhere in sight.

  “Evie, please,” Markham says, gripping his legs. He cannot get up.

  He does not bleed, not while in spirit form. The wounds are there, but his body will not manifest them until he returns to it.

  “You have the gall to beg me?” I ask.

  “Everything I’ve done will be undone. All the work, all the sacri-

  fices. It will be as though none of this ever happened.”

  The prince starts to crawl for his body. I raise my sword, and a picture of Jamison comes to my mind, the two of us standing in a gazebo beside a pond. Letting go of it, of him, aches worse than my wounds, but I have my family with me to lift me up. Calling upon them one last time, I lift my sword over my head with both arms.

  “This is for my father.”

  I drive the blade down, straight through Markham’s chest. He goes

  still, eyes bulging. The blue light of the fire around us flashes to searing white. As the light melts away, I find myself back on the ground in my body, in so much agony I can scarcely breathe.

  Markham lies beside me, my sword lodged in his rib cage. I muster

  the willpower to roll over to him, my face in line with his. He wheezes, his mouth open, but nary a sound comes out.

  “I don’t hate you any longer, Killian Markham. You don’t get to

  have that from me anymore.”

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  He shuts his eyes. Between each breath, he says a word. “I. Should.

  Have. Killed. You. When. You. Were. A. Lass.”

  I roll onto my back, clutching my wounded side, and stare up into

  the inferno. He coughs, and then his coughs turn into choking. I don’t care for death, but his is one I want to be sure of. I roll onto my side and watch the prince of elves, the king of lies, succumb to the end of his days.

  A clap of thunder ricochets across the sky. Embers rain down on

  me, smoke skulking all around. Markham’s soul peels off his body and floats up through the halo of fiery treetops and into the heavens. A shadow waits in the blackest spot, toothy jaws grinning.

  “Good night, sweet prince,” hisses the cythrawl.

  Markham screams.

  One death of his was enough to witness. I close my eyes and let his

  screams become swallowed up by the crackling flames.

  I rest my sword on my chest. The fire above is mesmerizing, a wash

  of reds and yellows and oranges, a terrifying last sunset. My mind begins to meander away from me, seeking the end to this exhaustion and pain.

  My vision slowly fades to emptiness. Right before everything goes

  blank, I see my family’s faces above me, and my father smiling.

  I wake up in a bright, immaculate white room, lying on a fragrant bed of daisies. Music plays all around me, its origin uncertain. I recognize it as the everafter song, but in a more buoyant key, sung by a woman I cannot see.

  Father Time stands beside me wearing his top hat and suit. “Do

  you know where you are?”

  “No.” All I remember before waking up was fighting on the battle-

  field. “Where’s my sword? I have to get back to the battle.”

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  Father Time eases me to lie back down. “The battle is no more,

  Everley. You have reset the fracture in the timeline. The Evermore has returned to its predestined state. You bore the weight of the worlds upon you and made Avelyn whole.”

/>   I deflate into the daisies, my ache so deep I cannot move.

  “Everything is gone. I have nothing to go back to.”

  He smiles widely, an odd sight on his austere face. “Dear girl, you

  have everything to go back to. What you have done will always exist at the back of your mind and the bottom of your heart.”

  “But I won’t remember Jamison.”

  Father Time plucks a daisy from the bed and lays it on my chest.

  “You would be surprised what the heart can hold on to.”

  The pure white light around us strengthens, and the woman’s sing-

  ing grows louder. A star shines over my head, dazzling and strong; her prongs look as though they were broken and someone sewed them back

  together.

  “Centurion,” I whisper. “Please don’t send me away yet. I don’t

  want to forget her or them.”

  Father Time begins to fade into the brightness. “They’re all waiting for you. Go to them.”

  The intense radiance burns through my mind, removing everything

  except the delicateness of the daisy petals against my skin and the contented sigh of a star.

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  In Another Time

  A bell rings as the door to the shop swings open. I set the map I was studying beside my half-eaten pastry and look up as a young man enters.

  He walks straight, his shoulders lifted and his gait steady. I watch as he peruses the clocks, stopping at one decorated with pixies.

  His eyes, a glorious morning-sky blue, dart to mine.

  “May I help you?” I ask.

  He points at the clock. “Is this one for sale?”

  “I sure hope so, since it’s on the shelf.” I notice pastry flakes have fallen on my chest and quickly brush them away. Isleen is going to

  strangle me if I stain her dress, and then Mother will tell me that’s what I get for taking it without asking.

  The young man walks over to me at the clerk’s desk. He’s dressed

  impeccably, his blond hair brushed back and face shaven. I stare longer than I probably should.

  “I’m looking for a timepiece for my sister’s birthday. She’ll be thirteen next week.” He spots a map on the desk. “Is that from one of

  Brogan Donovan’s expeditions? The king’s greatest explorer?”

  “It is.”

  “His adventures are why I almost joined the navy, but my father

  needs me at home running the estates.”

  I smile wide. “Brogan Donovan is my father.”

  Emily R. King

  “That’s grand,” he says, delighted. “Have you any interest in

  exploring?”

  “I’ve thought about it, but my father is gone for months at a time,

  and I enjoy being at home. This is my uncle’s shop, and I’m his appren-tice. Someday, presuming I learn to carve well enough, this will be

  mine.”

  He smiles wider, his gaze lingering on my face, and extends his

  hand. “I’m Lord Jamison Callahan.”

  My mother would disapprove of me touching a gentleman

  stranger—even a lord—but what trouble could I get into when my

  uncle is in the workshop behind us? I place my fingers in his, and he lifts my hand to his lips.

  Something jangles at the back of my mind and the bottom of my

  heart. A recollection dawns on me. I have seen this man before, at night, when I’m falling asleep. His face has come to me, among many others, but his I have seen the most. “I’m Everley Donovan,” I say, my words slow. “Have we met before?”

  “I think I would remember meeting you,” he replies softly, his stare intense.

  “Let me show you my favorite timepiece.” I walk him over to the

  daisy mantelpiece clock. “My family has almost an identical clock like this in our home.”

  Lord Callahan looks at me slantwise. “Forgive me, but I think I

  was wrong. Maybe we have met before. My father is an admirer of your uncle’s work.” His gaze does not let up on me. “Pardon my forwardness, but would you like to go for a walk? There’s a bakery down the street that sells soda bread. I told my mother I would bring some home to

  celebrate the growing season.”

  “Thank you, but my uncle Holden needs me here.” I would go with

  him right away, regardless of the scolding my mother would give me,

  but I have to prove to my father and uncle how badly I want this job. I take out a wreath I made from twigs and daisies and set it on my head.

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  Everafter Song

  “My family is meeting later in the quad for the prayer circle. Maybe I’ll see you there?”

  “Sorry, but no. My family celebrates with a picnic, a tradition my

  mother started.” He appears genuinely put out that he will not see me again later.

  We stand together in silence, neither one of us making an effort to

  part ways. My uncle hammers away in the workshop behind me while

  he sings an old ditty about the Creator. The whole city is in good spirits on the celebration day for the growing season.

  “I’ll take this one,” Lord Callahan says of the daisy clock. He counts out a stack of notes as payment and places them in my hand. “May I

  have it delivered?”

  “Would tomorrow be all right?”

  “Would you bring it? My sister would be delighted to meet Brogan

  Donovan’s daughter.”

  “I usually go on the deliveries with my uncle.”

  “Maybe afterward we can go for that walk?” he asks, his eyes bright.

  “I’d like that.”

  “Grand.” Lord Callahan shoves his hands in his pockets and strides

  to the door. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Donovan.”

  “A pleasure to meet you as well.”

  He tips his head at me and slips out.

  I run to my desk and open my journal. Flipping to a fresh page, I

  start a new entry before this feeling of lightness passes.

  Today I met the gentleman with morning-sky eyes. We

  both felt like we knew each other, though neither of us

  could remember from where. I didn’t tell him I’ve seen

  him before in my imagination. It’s strange to even write

  that, but as I sit here and listen to the ticktocking clocks,

  I feel certain our meeting was not happenstance.

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  Emily R. King

  I pause, my ink quill poised over the paper. Isleen bought me this

  writing journal for my eighteenth birthday last month. I write about my life, but more so, stories about giants and elves and pixies, and merrows and sea hags, and princes and ladies of the night. Tavis says my stories are wonderful. Even Carlin likes me to read them to him. My siblings think the stories are fanciful, but when I’m writing them, nothing has ever felt more real.

  “Everley,” Uncle Holden says, stepping out of the workshop, “your

  father will be here in a minute. Are you done?”

  “I’m finishing something, and then I’ll be right there.” I shut my

  journal and Uncle Holden reads the title.

  “‘The Evermore Chronicles,’” he muses. “What’s it about?”

  “Nothing of interest.”

  “I’m interested in everything you create, especially why you put a

  tree rune of protection on the front.”

  “To keep my brothers out, of course.” I chew on my inner cheek.

  “The tale has to do with fanciful creatures and far-off worlds. All the things I wish were true but aren’t.”

  “And who is the hero of this tale?”

  “A girl.”

  “What’s special about her?”

  “She’s not a normal girl. She has a clock for a heart.”

  “Does she now?” Uncle Holden smiles, amu
sed by my imagina-

  tion, and probably flattered that I included some of his own crafts-

  manship in my story. He picks up the journal. “Does this girl have any companions?”

  “She knows a pair of best friends who love each other, one who

  looks like a fox and the other a cat; a kind surgeon; a gambling woman who stashes cards down her corset; an ornery girl with a pearl brooch; and a vain, charming man who adores apples. Oh, and one more, a

  young lord with clear blue eyes who plays the violin. Those are the ones I see—I mean, write about the most.”

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  Everafter Song

  Uncle Holden hands me back my writing journal. “Does this story

  have a villain?”

  “No.” I sigh. “None of my ideas have felt right yet, but I’m work-

  ing on it.”

  My father calls my name from the house connected to the back of

  the clock shop. I stuff my journal into my bag beside the figurines I whittled today—a pixie, a sea hag, and a sleeping giant.

  “Are you coming, Uncle Holden?”

  “I’ll lock up and meet you there.”

  I kiss him on the cheek and run out the back door.

  Father sits atop his horse. “Ready to meet up with the family, Evie?”

  “Ready, Papa.” He pulls me up to ride behind him, and I sit side-

  saddle in my skirt. I wrap my arms around his waist, closer to him and his smell of leather. As we set off, I say, as neutrally as I can, “I met a gentleman. We’re going for a walk tomorrow.”

  “Oh?”

  I can tell Father doesn’t want to be interested, but my mention of

  a man is unusual. Despite his and Mother’s best efforts, I have avoided all their attempts to meet gentlemen callers. “His name is Jamison

  Callahan. He thinks you’re a great explorer.”

  “I like him already,” he says with a chuckle.

  I rest my cheek against my father’s back and hum his favorite sea

  chantey. Father whistles along with me as we ride down the streets

  beneath strands of apples strung over our heads. A daisy slips from my festive crown and drops between us. I catch the sweet-smelling flower before it falls to the ground and hold it over my beating heart.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No writer finishes a series without a big band of supporters. Warmest thanks to these colleagues and loved ones:

  Marlene Stringer, for coaching me and cheering me on through