by Brian Farrey
As Jeniah ran up the stairs of Gedric Tower, battle plans filled her mind. She would rally the royal troops. She would warn the commoners to avoid the Hoods when they returned. She would expose the evil beasts and protect the Monarchy.
She would be a queen.
Gedric, a tower that twisted upward like a great stone coil, sat on the easternmost part of the Nine Towers’ circle of spires. At the very top, Jeniah spotted the great war horn—a crescent of bone and brass that took up nearly the entire room. She puckered her lips, pressed them to the small end of the horn, and blew as hard as she could.
An unearthly shriek echoed throughout the land, glancing off mountains and shooting through trees. Jeniah ran to the throne room, eager to meet with the queen’s council to discuss a plan for protecting the Monarchy. But when she got there, she found the scholars huddled in the corner and her mother standing with shaky knees before the throne.
The queen gripped a staff in her weathered hands. It alone kept her standing. As Jeniah approached, Queen Sula placed herself between the princess and the throne.
“Jeniah,” the queen whispered, “what is going on?”
The princess reached out. “Mother, the Monarchy is in danger. The ancient evil—the Crimson Hoods—have returned. They’re stealing the people of Emberfell. But I’ve blown the war horn, and I’m preparing to hold council—”
The queen opened her mouth to interrupt but doubled at the waist, seized by a coughing fit. Jeniah gently helped her mother to her knees until the queen recovered.
“Jeniah,” Queen Sula said, “the Crimson Hoods are a myth. A fairy tale. They don’t exist.”
The princess felt a lump in her throat. “No. No, Mother, you see, I know they’ve been taking people. They’re pretending to act in your name. But I have a plan—”
The queen shook her head. “The people of our land dress as the Crimson Hoods as part of a gloamingtide fête. They’re symbolic and nothing more. There is no danger. Now, please stop.”
Jeniah looked past her mother at the assembled scholars. They whispered to one another, looking perplexed. The queen summoned her strength and dismissed her council with a single gesture. Red-faced, Jeniah helped her mother back to bed; then she stormed to the kitchen.
“You lied to me!” she spat at Cook and the others.
The servants smiled kindly with looks of genuine confusion on their faces.
“Forgive us, Your Highness,” Cook said, bowing low. “You asked us to tell you what we knew of the Crimson Hoods. We only did as you asked.”
“You told me stories and myths,” Jeniah said. “I believed you.”
“We only told you what Skonas asked us to tell you,” Cook said. “He said it was for one of your lessons. We didn’t know you were taking the stories so seriously. The truth about the Crimson Hoods is—”
Jeniah didn’t let the old woman finish. She turned on her heel and went in search of her tutor. She found Skonas exactly where she’d left him in the library. He was pulling worms from a satchel and feeding them to Gerheart.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded, holding back tears. “You had everyone tell me lies, and you made me look like a fool. You’re supposed to be my teacher.”
“And what did you learn?” Skonas asked softly.
Jeniah stiffened. This was a lesson. One that was harsher and crueler than anything taught by any previous tutor. But, oh yes, she’d learned.
“To believe only that which I’ve seen or heard for myself,” she said through bared teeth.
Skonas chuckled to himself. “It takes most people much longer to see that. You’re learning your lessons quite swiftly. You might be too strangely clever for your own good.”
“From now on, you are to tell me only the truth!”
“Everything I’ve said is the truth. Somebody’s truth. Funny how truth changes, depending on who says it.”
Too angry to speak, Jeniah turned and walked quickly to the door. But she couldn’t give him the last word. Whirling around, she said, “Truth shouldn’t be flexible!”
The tutor didn’t even look at the princess when he responded. “People should be.”
Walking back to her bedchambers, still shaking with anger, Jeniah made a vow: There would be no more lessons with Skonas. If she was to learn to be queen, she would do it on her own.
When she slept that night, Jeniah dreamt that she was searching through Emberfell at midnight with a blue-light lantern. The town had been abandoned. In the distance, the war horn pierced the night, dissonant and warbling. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see hooded figures lurking in every corner. But when she turned to face them, they vanished. She searched frantically as the lantern light grew dimmer and dimmer by the minute. When at last the light vanished, Jeniah had to concede.
She had no idea where Aon’s father was.
Chapter Ten
THE PEOPLE OF THE MONARCHY, OF COURSE, DID NOT HAVE BAD dreams. Such was the nature of their never-ending bliss. They all woke refreshed every morning, having dreamt only of honey-flavored tea and purple-tinted sunsets and everything that made them happy. They had no idea what a nightmare even was.
But Aon knew. Nightmares like the one where the mirebramble had overrun Emberfell, the vines pulling everything in their path toward the black marsh. Or the one where the Carse grew bigger and bigger before her eyes. From an early age, Aon found her nightmares told her what no one else knew about the black swamp. The Carse was what fierce things feared encountering in their own nightmares.
With Dreadwillow Carse on their right, Aon and Laius crept beneath the night’s black canopy. Aon cast a glance toward Nine Towers. Was Jeniah in her room this very minute, waiting for word on what Aon had discovered? Was she pleading with the queen to release Aon’s father and choose someone else to serve her? Yes. Aon had faith the princess was honoring their bargain. Now Aon had to find the strength to hold up her end.
The pair stopped at the entry to the Carse, framed by low-hanging dreadwillow branches. Laius was pale. Aon hadn’t considered how the Carse would affect him while he waited. He kept eyeing the marsh and dancing in place. It was as if he wanted to be afraid but had no idea how. She pointed to a patch of grass across the road.
“Why don’t you wait over there?” she said. “Farther away.”
Laius didn’t need to be told twice. He hugged the hourglass close to his chest and scurried to the clearing.
Aon clenched her teeth. She was used to the Carse’s effects, but not immune. She nodded at Laius. “One hour.”
Laius turned the hourglass upside down. Before she lost her nerve, Aon plunged into the Carse.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
She held her lantern out at arm’s length. The bog was pitch-black during the brightest of days. It hardly seemed possible it could be darker at night. And it wasn’t darker.
But it was creepier.
Twelve . . . thirteen . . . fourteen . . .
Every sound—the snapping of twigs beneath her feet, the breeze caressing the moss-laden tree branches—issued an ominous warning. Everything about this place had a single message: Get out.
It took all of Aon’s concentration not to run from the Carse back to Laius. She focused on the image of her mother’s face, the one she summoned each night before bed. She imagined what it would be like to be reunited with her father. Both tricks gave her the power to walk forward, inch by inch.
A twisting path of rounded earth served as the only way into the Carse. On either side of the winding trail, viscous ponds the color of tar burbled, spewing gray gas that mixed with the noxious mist all around. Aon held a damp cloth to her mouth to fend off the familiar stench of spoiled milk and olive juice. Fear coursed inside her like a ferocious summer gale, hot and relentless. She turned her head to listen hard for the singing. Yes, if she could just hear the song that filled her . . . But even that fervent wish couldn’t distract her from the overwhelming urge to leave.
Aon reached into her p
ocket and clutched the royal crest she’d received from Jeniah. She drew strength from the thought that she was here on a mission from the princess.
It wasn’t enough. Retreating from the Carse was more than an urge now. It was a need.
Why did I think I could do this? she asked herself. She’d tried over and over to explore the Carse. Entering in the name of the Queen Ascendant hadn’t changed anything. It hadn’t made her any braver. The crest hadn’t given her Jeniah’s immunity. She was doomed.
No! She stopped alongside the hook-shaped rock, unable to pass the imagined barrier. She ground her teeth, pushing back with what little will remained. All these dark thoughts. They didn’t belong to her. The Carse was responsible. This isn’t my despair, she reminded herself. This isn’t my despair.
Once she realized this, she held her ground for the very first time. She couldn’t move forward past the rock, but she didn’t have to run. Aon smiled grimly at the darkness. “Stalemate,” she whispered.
The slime ponds on either side of her path belched. Giant bubbles rose to the top of the mire and popped. Aon gripped the lantern tightly, preparing to use it as a weapon. She had to be ready for anything. She’d never seen the muck churn so violently.
She watched as something short and bulbous emerged, as if forming from the mud itself. The implike creature that stepped onto the path appeared to be made of wet clay and weedy flotsam, head and body in one misshapen sphere. It resembled a toad but was the size of a large dog. Its stubby, taloned feet—covered in black warts—pawed at the moist soil as it struggled to stand upright. It coughed repeatedly—the long, spindly arms on either side of its head flailing—until it spat a thick green liquid at Aon’s feet.
A second, identical imp surfaced and joined its partner to block Aon’s exit. The white-hot fear inside her chest threatened to explode as the creatures approached. She’d never seen anything like these beasts before. They looked like monsters from a fairy tale.
Both creatures gurgled and shook, their enormous eyes raking over every inch of Aon.
“She does not belong here,” the first imp said.
Aon hadn’t expected to hear the imps speak. She considered: if they could speak, could they also maybe . . . sing?
“Perhaps she was sent . . . ,” the second imp mused.
“Yes,” Aon said quickly, sensing an opportunity, “I was sent.”
“As food,” the second imp finished as a gob of saliva tumbled over its jaw and down its muddy chin.
The pair waddled slowly toward Aon, who backed up until she tripped on a root. She held up the royal crest.
“Look!” she said. “See? Do you know this?”
The imps immediately stopped, their lips drawing back in surprise.
“Oh,” the first creature said. “The Highness.”
“Yes,” Aon said with a sigh of relief. “Princess Jeniah sent—”
“We have been expecting the Highness,” the second creature said. It bent low in what Aon assumed was a bow. “We live to guide the Highness.”
They think I’m the princess, Aon thought. Of the Monarchy’s spare laws, there were probably punishments for pretending to be royalty. But going to a dungeon would be welcome if breaking the law kept her from being eaten.
She stood and squared her shoulders, as she imagined the real princess must do all the time. “I come here seeking information about the Carse.”
The first creature’s jowls quivered. “But of course, the Highness. Pirep only lives to serve.”
Aon started at the name. She quickly composed herself when the imp eyed her suspiciously. “Pirep,” Aon repeated with a nod. She turned to the second creature. “And you . . . You must be Tali?”
“Tali, the Highness,” the second creature said with a croak. “Tali lives to serve. And eat. Tali lives to eat and serve.”
It can’t be, Aon thought. It was a coincidence. A very strange coincidence.
“If you know who I am,” Aon said coolly, “then you know I am not to be eaten.”
Both creatures shook their heads vigorously, sending flecks of spittle and slime in every direction. “Oh no, the Highness,” Pirep said. “Pirep and Tali will guide and not eat.”
“But maybe eat later,” Tali muttered.
Pirep thumped Tali behind the ear. “No! No eating! Guiding!” Then Pirep waddled down the path. “Come, the Highness. Pirep knows just what to show.”
Aon took a step forward, but no more. She tried to follow, but foreboding held her back with the strength of steel chains. Her jaw trembled as she fought, but the feeling was too strong.
“I . . . can’t,” she gasped. “I can’t go in any deeper.”
Tali kicked at the ground. “Gots to pay the toll, she has. Highness or no!”
Aon’s stomach fell. She hadn’t thought to bring money. She pulled a tin brooch from her shirt. Her mother had made it for her. It had no monetary value, only that of a memory. But it was all she had to offer.
“Will you take this?” she asked.
Tali spat. “Shiny things? The Carse does not want shiny things.”
Pirep tapped her foot impatiently. “The Highness is not knowing?”
At first, Aon was confused. The Carse does not want shiny things. How could the bog want anything? But then, she knew it was true. The Carse planted thoughts of terror in her head. If it was possible for the Carse to give, surely it could also take.
But what did it want? She thought of her previous visits to the Carse. The memory of how good it felt to pour out her grief roiled inside. Grief, later replaced with relief. Give and take.
Sadness. The Carse wanted sadness.
“I’m going to tell you a story,” she said. “It’s the story of a princess who was soon to become queen. You see, her mother was dying . . .”
Aon spun the story of Jeniah and her mother, being careful not to let on that she herself wasn’t the princess. Aon described how Jeniah must have felt at the thought of losing her mother. It required little imagination.
As Aon wove the sad tale, the creatures began to sway. They closed their eyes and lay on the ground, sighing contentedly. The sadder the story became, the more these creatures grinned with their terrible, fat lips. They were enjoying it.
They were feeding off the misery.
Finishing the story, Aon came to understand something about the bog. Something she’d never known. The Carse wasn’t just a place that evoked sadness. It thrived on gloom. That was why she felt so welcome here when she came to cry.
“The Highness is too good to Pirep and Tali,” Pirep said, sighing with satisfaction.
And Aon realized she didn’t feel terror anymore. Gingerly, she took a single step past the hook-shaped rock. Then another. And another. Nothing. No bone-chilling fear. No unrelenting desire to run. That was the secret to going in deeper. Sharing such profound misery had kept the effects of the Carse at bay. Aon had to laugh. That made her the only person in Emberfell who could possibly complete Jeniah’s mission.
She knew she had to leave the Carse soon or Laius would alert the princess. “I’ll return,” she said to Pirep and Tali. “Will you guide me then?”
“We will always guide the Highness,” Pirep said. With that, the twin creatures stepped from the path and disappeared back into the silty gray froth.
Aon ran down the path, back toward Emberfell. She felt renewed. For once in her life, the piece of her that was broken had proven useful. Her brokenness would be the key to giving Jeniah what she needed and getting her father back. And maybe, just maybe, learning the truth about her mother.
Here, sadness was a currency.
Here, Aon was wealthy.
Chapter Eleven
YOUR ROYAL HIGHNESS,
I have so much to share about my recent visit to Dreadwillow Carse! I don’t know where to start.
Today, I ventured farther inside than I have ever gone before. What I saw during my time there was much as you would expect. In many ways, the Carse is a swamp, like any
other.
And yet, it isn’t. When you’re inside the Carse, it’s as if the swamp itself is trying to force you to leave by filling you with terror. I think this is meant to keep anyone from going to the very center of the Carse. Perhaps that is where I’ll discover the secret you seek.
One strange thing I learned: I think the Carse is nourished by sadness. In fact, once I’d expressed sorrow, the terror lifted briefly, and I found it possible to go deeper in. But this doesn’t make sense. There is no sadness to be found anywhere in the Monarchy. If the Carse requires sorrow to survive, how could it possibly exist and flourish? It’s too big for my tears alone to sustain it. I hope to find the answer as I continue to explore for Your Highness.
I worry, though, that being in the Carse takes a toll. When I returned home, I collapsed. I recovered, but it may be a few more days before I feel strong enough to return. I promise to carry out your orders and learn everything I can.
Please know that you and your mother, the exalted Queen Sula, are in my thoughts. I pray you’re both well and content.
Your obedient servant,
Aon
P.S. Throughout the Monarchy, the people tell the story of Pirep and Tali. Does Your Highness know this tale?
Dearest Aon,
I had no idea that being in the Carse for a long time would make you ill. Do whatever you need to recover. Perhaps we should rethink this plan. Whatever secrets lie in the Carse are not worth exposing you to illness.
But you have definitely made me curious. Every monarch has worked tirelessly to ensure that people throughout the land are happy. If, as you say, the Carse needs sadness, how does it survive? If anything, it should be choking on the joy that surrounds it. Very strange.
I would ask my tutor, Skonas, but I doubt he would tell me. He is the most frustrating man I’ve ever met! He’s supposed to be teaching me how to be a queen but his lessons are wrapped in half-truths and misdirection. I worry I won’t learn what I need to know in time.