PART II
The Magnificent North
11
For fourteen days, there had been only dark waves and gray sea foam and biting salt spray. And then, as if it had been plucked from one of her mother’s bedtime tales, Evangeline saw the snow-covered curves of the Great Gateway Arch to the Magnificent North.
Made of granite with marbled blue veins and as tall as a castle’s keep, the arch’s weathered columns were carved to look like mermaids holding tridents that pierced through carvings of men, the way a sailor might spear a fish. The men’s backs were bowed, and their hands stretched to hold out the sign forming the top of the enormous arch.
WELCOME TO THE MAGNIFICENT NORTH STORIES BE HERE
“It’s even larger than I imagined,” said Marisol. Her light brown hair was shining, and her delicate face was full of healthy color. The weeks at sea had done her good. The first couple of days aboard the ship, she’d been too nervous to leave her cabin. But each day, she’d ventured out a little more, and today she huddled beside Evangeline at the railing.
“Is this where we need to be quiet?” she whispered.
Evangeline nodded with a smile, glad her stepsister was starting to believe in her Northern stories the same way Evangeline did. During their journey, Evangeline had not been surprised to learn that Agnes never told Marisol any stories growing up. So Evangeline had shared some of her mother’s tales, including her warnings about entering the North:
Never speak a word as you go through the Gateway Arch. The ancient magic of the North cannot pass the borders, but it always tries. It collects around the Gateway Arch, and if you speak as you travel through, the magic will steal your voice and use your words to lure unsuspecting travelers into helping it escape to other parts of the world.
It must have been a common myth, or everyone felt the same sense of gravitas that Evangeline did, for the whole of the ship sailed under the arch in silence.
On the other side, the air was cool as ice and full of clouds so low that Evangeline could taste them.
“I wish we could sail faster,” a sailor grumbled. “This part always gives me the collywobbles.”
The waves stopped lapping, and the nearby clouds drifted over the sun, shadowing their ship as it silently cut through the stretch of sea known as Valor Row, graveyard for the first royal family of the North.
The Valors’ ancient monuments were exactly as her mother had described them. Standing knee-deep in the blue-gray waters, the statues were nearly as tall as the arch, every inch of them carved to appear as if they wore armor or finery—except for their heads, which were all missing. And yet, as her ship sailed past, Evangeline could still hear their voices, or perhaps they were the voices stolen from those who had traveled through the arch before.
Free us, they rasped.
Restore us.
Help us.
We can …
Evangeline didn’t hear the rest of the plea as the ship reached the docks of Valorfell and everyone became busy disembarking.
“Miss Fox? Miss Tourmaline?” asked a silver-haired woman in a sea-salt-blue gown with a silver underskirt and a belt that held a number of tied-up scrolls in it. “I’m Frangelica. I’ll be escorting you to your lodgings and ensuring Miss Fox makes it to her dinner this evening.”
Frangelica’s smile was warm and her wave brisk as she urged the girls from the ship. But Evangeline could not bring herself to rush as she stepped onto the drizzly dock full of fishmongers, trading stalls, and knobby barrels of oysters.
She’d always loved living in the south. She loved the heat of the sun and the overbright colors everyone wore. But now the brilliant streets of Valenda seemed too lurid. Here, everything was mist-touched. It was all foggy grays, rainy blues, and deep purples the exact color of fresh plums.
The burly men at the docks all looked as if they could step into a forest and fell a tree with one swing of an ax. They wore leather boots covered in heavy buckles, while the women wore thick woolen gowns with belts like Frangelica’s, which held everything from bottles of tonics to palm-size crossbows.
Just taking in the cool, crisp air made Evangeline stand a little straighter and breathe a little deeper. And—
“Marisol, look, tiny dragons!”
“Oh my—” Marisol went pale as a robust pop sounded and a tiny pepper-black dragon about the size of a chipmunk shot out streams of red fire to sear a fish stick at a nearby stall.
On the docks, the adorable little beasts appeared to be as common as squirrels. Almost every vendor had one. Marisol was clearly not fond of the small winged creatures but Evangeline was delighted to spy tiny blue dragons sitting on shoulders and leathery brown ones perched on carts. The miniature beasts roasted apples and meats, blew glass baubles, and heated earthen mugs of drinking chocolate.