by Brian Farrey
What these duties were, no one knew. And no one cared. It was a chance to serve the monarch in a way very, very few could. That service was superior to any excess the queen could provide.
Although gloamingtide heralded its official arrival, autumn had been in evidence for some time. An early frost—welcome respite from a particularly warm summer—prompted everyone to don woolly sweaters and caps. The smell of burning leaves and cooking spices promised evenings of comforting fires and even more comforting food.
Aon stood atop a ladder, cheerfully removing the bright banners from Tower Rise that hung from the rooftop thatching. Below, her father sat using a nail as a needle and thin rope as thread to pierce through colorful leaves and small gourds, making garlands that would replace the banners. When he finished a strand, he wove a glossy purple ribbon throughout. The ribbon had been Aon’s idea.
While Aon hid a sorrow no one in Emberfell would understand, it was not her permanent state. Most days, Aon was very happy. Today, for example. She loved autumn, and the gloamingtide festivals were among her most cherished memories. She looked forward to drinking spiced cider later that night until she got sick, after the Crimson Hoods had taken one of Emberfell’s lucky citizens with them to Nine Towers. Aon was not incapable of happiness. But she enjoyed her secret bouts of grief like a wicked indulgence.
Aon moved the ladder across the street, and her father fed strands of garland up to her.
“I forgot to tell you,” her father said, grinning. “Jackdaw Fen will be gracing all with a new song at the celebration tonight.”
Aon giggled. Her father belonged to a trio of bards. They called themselves Jackdaw Fen. Every gloamingtide, they entertained the whole town with songs around the bonfire. “What’s this one about?” she asked.
“Wrote it myself,” her father said proudly. “It’s based on the legend of Pirep and Tali.”
Aon applauded. The fable of Pirep and Tali—two girls who got lost in Dreadwillow Carse—had always been one of her favorite bedtime stories. She suspected she liked it because her mother’s family tree showed she had ancestors named Pirep and Tali. Her mother had often teased, saying Aon’s distant relatives were the same girls from the tale. But it was just make-believe.
Aon also liked the story because it was sad. The girls got lost in the Carse and never came out. But, of course, the people of Emberfell still thought it had a happy ending. Because nothing made them sad or scared or heartbroken. Nothing.
Aon raised her arms, very much resembling the statue of Queen Sula. “I look forward to a command performance,” she said in her most regal voice.
Aon and her father laughed as Aon carefully tied the first garland to the chimney of their neighbor, Mrs. Grandwyn. It stretched across the road to the awning of their house. The sunlight caught the purple ribbon, making the garland shimmer.
“It’s beautiful!” her father declared. “You’ve outdone yourself this year, rose blossom.”
Aon looked sharply down at her father, whose eyes immediately darted the other way. Rose blossom. The nickname her mother had given Aon. He hadn’t used it for three years. It was the smallest of slips, yet it told Aon so much. Somewhere deep under his ever-present smile, in some place his mind reserved for the oldest of dreams, her father still remembered.
Now, as he busied himself with the next garland, Aon’s heart ached to pose the questions that had gone unanswered for years.
Do you miss Mother?
How often do you think of her?
If you could speak to her one more time, what would you say?
Aon had her own answers to these questions, so many answers that all she wanted to do was say them out loud to someone who could help her understand them. But it would never happen. It would mean talking about her mother. And no one, anywhere, did that. Ever.
There were times—like this—when Aon wondered if everyone’s happiness was really a mask. Was it possible the other people of the land could feel all the emotions she felt—the grief, the anger—and hid them in the name of pleasing their monarch?
But these slips—when people were on the verge of remembering someone’s absence or expressing a feeling other than joy—only ever lasted a moment, until the twinkle in their eyes returned, vanquishing unpleasant thoughts.
No. Aon was the only one who felt this way. She was the only one who was broken.
“Come on,” Aon’s father boomed merrily. “We’ve got twelve more to hang before the Crimson Hoods arrive.”
Aon did as she was told. And she smiled.
THE SUN WAS but a sliver disappearing behind the mountains when the Crimson Hoods arrived.
A watchman in a turret at the western edge of town spotted the pair coming and rang the bell. Everyone everywhere dropped what they were doing and spilled out into the streets. Aon and her father had been finishing their dinner when they heard the bell. They fussed with each other’s clothes—he straightened her dress; she smoothed his wrinkly shirt—before heading out into the street.
The townsfolk lined up in front of their houses and stood up tall. There was no guarantee that the Hoods would visit your street, but you wanted to be ready if they did. Aon slipped her hand into her father’s. She almost gasped as she saw the two Hoods round the corner and make their way slowly down her own street. Someone she knew was being chosen.
The Hoods walked closer and closer. The queen’s envoys wore the long robes of monks, with voluminous cowls stained a deep, dark red, the exact color of a sunset heralding an oncoming storm. Their faces were never, ever seen. They slowed as they approached Aon’s house.
For a moment, Aon thought they were going to choose her. It was rare, but not unheard of, for the Hoods to select a child. Her heart and mind raced; her heart marveled at the thrill of serving the queen, and her mind filled with questions she would ask.
Why choose me, Your Majesty? Did I please you in some way? What is Dreadwillow Carse? Why does it make me feel sad? Why do you want us to be happy so badly?
Am I really broken?
Yes. That was the first question she needed answered.
The Hoods stopped in front of Aon’s father.
Each Hood reached out an arm and laid it gently on her father’s shoulders.
Aon’s throat burned with bile, even as her father’s face beamed with pride. A cheer rang up and down the streets of Emberfell. Aon couldn’t move. She hardly noticed when her father bent over and pulled her in tightly.
“Can you believe it?” he whispered. She could feel his tears of joy as he pressed his cheek to hers.
No. He was happy? He was being taken away from his daughter. How could he be happy? She had no one left. What about me? Aon thought.
“You will be cared for,” her father assured her. “And I will always love you.”
“Will I see you again?” It was the only thing she could think to ask.
Father held her chin up so their eyes met. “Aon, the greatest thing that can happen to us is here now. You will be happy, I promise.”
He hadn’t answered her question.
Aon tied her last strand of purple ribbon to her father’s crutch. She needed to know he’d have one reminder of her. Then she kissed him on the cheek as the Hoods led him away.
The revelry grew louder as Aon’s father passed their neighbors, limping and waving. Aon barely noticed when Mrs. Grandwyn took her hand and led her to the house across the street. She had seen this happen before. If the Crimson Hoods claimed a family’s provider, a neighbor would take in the rest of the family. No questions were asked. No tears were shed. Emberfell took care of its own.
Aon felt it immediately. Once the Hoods turned the corner, once her father was out of sight, everything returned to normal on their street. No more words were spoken about Aon’s father. Later tonight, at the bonfire, it would be as if he had never been there. Jackdaw Fen would perform, now as a duo. From here on out, Aon Greenlaw would always have been a member of the Grandwyn family. The wound left behind by Aon’
s father’s exit would be closed just that quickly.
And life—the life they all knew and loved and embraced and never questioned—would go on.
Chapter Five
AFTER FOUR DAYS WITH SKONAS, JENIAH HAD ARRIVED AT A conclusion: Her first duty as queen would be passing a law with severe penalties for anyone who answered a question with another question.
That was all her new teacher seemed able to do. When she asked him how best to settle a dispute between land owners, he would ask, “Why do you suppose land owners argue?” When she asked the proper way to host dignitaries from across the Monarchy, he would ask, “Are you sure there’s just one proper way?” This went on from sunrise to sundown. He’d imparted no lessons since that first one: You are your own best teacher.
Jeniah went to bed each night, furious that she wasn’t any closer to learning how to be queen than before Skonas had arrived. She didn’t know how to be her own best teacher. She would stare at the canopy over her bed, trying to figure out why her mother had selected this odd man to be her tutor. While she believed Skonas to be a fool, she knew her mother wasn’t, not by any means.
Three times a day, Jeniah joined the queen at her bedside for meals. Her mother would ask, “How are your lessons with Skonas?” And Jeniah would report, “Fine.” She was reluctant to admit that she didn’t understand what her tutor was doing. Nor would she admit that she didn’t know why the queen had chosen him. Queens—even future queens—she reasoned, should know these things. So Jeniah hid her ignorance and prayed she’d figure it out.
Every day, she would meet Skonas in the library after breakfast. They would stare at each other silently across the table. She waited for him to give her an order, set her a lesson. Most often, he took out a pair of knitting needles and began to craft what Jeniah could only guess was a sock for his lengthy beard.
When she could take it no longer, she’d collect some books and continue searching for information about the Carse. All the while, Skonas simply sat there—knitting and humming a peculiar tune he’d been humming for hours on end, day after day—until Jeniah asked a question about something she’d read.
And then he would answer with a question.
On the fifth day, Jeniah stopped going to the library. She didn’t see the point. When Sirilla, the lady’s maid who helped the princess dress each morning, came to her chambers, Jeniah flatly refused to get out of bed. “Why should I bother?” she asked. “I’m not learning anything. He’s not teaching me what I need to know.”
“Begging your pardon, Your Highness,” Sirilla said, “but you are the Queen Ascendant. He cannot refuse your command.”
Jeniah considered this. Never once had she used her authority to get what she wanted. Kind words win hearts; cross words turn them, her mother had always said. And it was advice that had worked for them both. Until now.
Unhappy that it had come to this, Jeniah quickly dressed and went in search of her tutor. He would answer her questions today. But she found the library empty. Asking around the castle, Jeniah learned he was in the gardens just outside Lithe Tower.
Jeniah found Skonas standing near a six-foot-tall stone obelisk with a great flame on top that burned morning, noon, and night. This was a memorial to all past monarchs. An inscription ran along the monolith’s base: In the name of peace. Skonas stood with his head bowed, as if praying.
Jeniah summoned her best royal voice. It was the tone her mother used to let people know she would not be swayed from her course. She walked right up to Skonas, hands planted firmly on her hips, and leveled her most serious stare at him. “I have questions for you.”
Skonas raised his head. “Questions are the lamplight that lead us from the darkness. And you know what lamplight really is, yes?” He leaned in and met her serious stare. “Fire. You should tread carefully, Your Highness.”
But Jeniah wouldn’t be intimidated. “Then surely answers extinguish the flames.”
“So you’re saying answers return you to the dark?”
“Well, n-no . . . I—I mean . . .”
“How can you seek answers if you don’t know what they really are?”
Jeniah growled. He was being tricky again.
“As Queen Ascendant, I command you to answer me: Why can’t I go into Dreadwillow Carse?”
The tutor sniffed and turned his gaze to the sky. He held out his forearm, wrapped in his falconer’s glove. “Why do you think?”
The princess stifled a volcanic scream.
But she continued with her firm, royal voice. “I’ve been told that if any monarch goes into Dreadwillow Carse, the Monarchy will fall. If I’m to be queen, I need to know what that means. Is it a prophecy?”
Skonas tilted his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I don’t believe in prophecies. They’re too . . . absolute. People are too fickle to adhere to absolutes. Prophecies are stories that cheat so the storyteller can pretend he knew all along what would happen.
“What you’ve been told is a warning. Quite different. You’ve heard plenty of those in your life, I’d imagine. ‘If you touch the fire, then you’ll get burned.’ ‘If you play in the rain, then you’ll catch a cold.’ If. Then. It’s a choice. Prophecies don’t offer a choice. But warnings do. And living is all about choices, wouldn’t you agree?”
This was the most Skonas had said to Jeniah since that first day. It seemed using her authority as Queen Ascendant was the key. She continued. “But those warnings make sense,” she said. “At some point, someone touched a fire and got burned. So they warned others. No monarch has ever entered the Carse, or the Monarchy would have fallen by now. How can you warn someone about something that clearly has never happened?”
A smile bullied its way onto Skonas’s lips. “Strangely clever,” he said. Skonas said that to Jeniah a lot. He seemed to think it was a compliment. But Jeniah could never be sure.
Overhead, Gerheart cried. A moment later, the falcon landed on Skonas’s arm. The tutor fed his bird a chunk of bread and then said, “Not all warnings are perfect, you know.” He held his gloved hand over the fire atop the obelisk. “You see? I’m not getting burned.”
Jeniah rolled her eyes. “Of course not. You’re wearing a glove.”
“But the warning doesn’t say, ‘If you touch the fire, you’ll get burned . . . unless you’re wearing a glove.’ Even warnings need to be heeded with caution.”
“So, you’re saying there are ways around certain warnings?”
“I’m saying,” Skonas said, sending Gerheart flying with a flick of his wrist, “that all warnings must be considered.”
Jeniah reeled at the idea. Not the idea that warnings should be considered, but that Skonas was actually making sense. “Where did the warning come from?” she asked.
“Where does any ancient knowledge come from? It’s handed down through the generations until the significance of the person who first said it is lost to the winds of time. Sometimes, we lose their name altogether. And despite this, the knowledge gets repeated and repeated over and over.”
Jeniah’s nose wrinkled. She didn’t like not knowing who had issued the warning in the first place. It could have been anyone. Following a rule just because it had always been followed felt strange. She liked to understand rules. She needed to.
“And you know what’s interesting?” Skonas said. “The same is true of lies. Say a lie over and over, and people will start to think it’s true.”
Which was exactly what Jeniah had been thinking. Suppose the warning had been spread by someone who had stolen something from the royal family. Perhaps they’d hidden it in the Carse, and to keep the family from investigating, spread a rumor that entering the Carse would mean disaster. The idea was far-fetched, of course . . . but still possible.
On the other hand, Jeniah had first heard the warning from the queen. Jeniah trusted her mother, and her mother believed in the warning with all her heart. Maybe the queen knew more than Skonas. Maybe she had a very good reason to believe the Monarchy would fall if
a monarch entered the Carse.
But maybe only one held any value: Maybe the warning was wrong.
“One other thing,” Skonas said. He leaned over until their faces were a mere hairbreadth apart. For days, the tutor had been amiable. Jovial, even. The look on his face as he peered into Jeniah’s eyes made him appear more serious than she’d ever seen him. “If you think you’ll get anywhere with me by throwing royal commands around, you are gravely mistaken. I come to teach Ascendants out of courtesy to the reigning monarch. I am not a royal subject, and you have no power over me. Remember that.”
Skonas whistled. Gerheart swooped down and perched on the tutor’s arm. Skonas nodded to the princess and walked off, leaving her alone at the memorial.
Warnings must be considered, Skonas had said. So Jeniah considered. She closed her eyes and repeated the centuries-old warning over and over again to herself softly. After an hour of this—an hour filled with fervent whispers and deep thought—the princess came to a realization that sent her running to her bedchambers in search of her longest hooded cloak.
The warning said she couldn’t enter the Carse.
It didn’t say she couldn’t send in someone else.
Chapter Six
EVERYWHERE SHE WENT, AON SMILED.
She traded jokes with the butcher when she went shopping for Mrs. Grandwyn. She led her classmates in singing the joyous songs that celebrated Emberfell’s bountiful harvest at the autumn pageant. And she cheerfully read bedtime stories to Mrs. Grandwyn’s youngest children—her new siblings.
Happiness was her only choice now. In the week since her father had been taken by the Crimson Hoods to serve the queen, Aon had come to believe one simple fact: she was being punished for her sadness.
It was the only explanation. Somehow, the queen had been spying on her from atop one of the royal towers. She had seen Aon enter the Carse and come out crying. The loss of her father was the price of her sorrow.