by Brian Farrey
“It’s a war memorial,” she said in disbelief.
The idea seemed absurd to Aon. No one alive in the Monarchy had ever known war. War was a myth about faraway lands, told so everyone would better appreciate the peace of the Monarchy. But then, Aon was discovering that truth and fiction had more in common for her lately. She gazed at the monuments of bone all around. Was this what the princess wasn’t meant to know?
Climbing up, Aon moved onto the small island. Fog rolled in from the densest part of the forest and twinkled with pale gray light. At the base of the cenotaph, the ghostly outlines of two shades, deep in a silent conversation, took shape.
The first shade Aon recognized immediately. It was a young King Isaar, robust and healthy, nothing like the shade of the mad king under siege at the castle ruins.
Isaar spoke to a second man wearing fine clothes and a neatly trimmed beard. Severely angled eyebrows gave his eyes a shifty look. The stranger listened carefully as Isaar spoke and nodded occasionally. Isaar held out his hand. The stranger paused, looking suddenly unsure. Then, shoulders slumped, the stranger reached out and shook the king’s hand. The shades flickered away, only to re-form a moment later and repeat their conversation.
“Who is the man with King Isaar?” Aon called over her shoulder to the imps, who were now pelting each other with patties of mud and grass.
“He has many names,” Tali called back, gargling on swamp water. “Many, many names.”
“Many names throughout a life,” Pirep added.
Aon frowned. “Why are they shaking hands?”
“Why does anyone shake hands?” Pirep giggled.
Because they’ve just met, Aon thought. Or they’re friends. Or . . .
She moved around the memorial to where the mist danced about, creating a new scene. This time, she saw King Isaar flanked by two soldiers whose armor bore the royal crest. The stranger stood across from the king, his fine clothes replaced with a stiff, black robe. At a wave from Isaar, the two soldiers stepped forward. The stranger presented each soldier with a long, flowing robe, which each immediately donned. Isaar watched as the soldiers pulled large hoods over their heads.
Crimson hoods.
“Pirep, what am I watching? Is this the creation of the Crimson Hoods?”
The imp swam around near Aon and gaped up at the shades. “Don’t know Crimson Hoods. Only the Architect and his keepers.”
“The Architect? Is that the man’s name?”
Tali scuttled up onto the island and sat at Aon’s feet. “Here, as you see him, he is the Architect. But not for long. Not for long, not for long, not for long.”
“Why? What changes that?”
“The Carse, of course. The Carse changes everything.”
Aon understood. This wasn’t just the creation of the Crimson Hoods. She was witnessing the creation of the Carse itself. It was created by the Architect.
The shades vanished and then reappeared. The Architect presented the hooded robes to Isaar’s soldiers again. The Crimson Hoods worked for the Architect . . . who worked for King Isaar.
That’s why they shook hands, she realized. They were making a deal. And turning two royal soldiers into Crimson Hoods was part of that deal. More than ever before, Aon felt she was genuinely close to some answers.
Before she could interrogate Pirep and Tali further, a rush of wind washed over the island, carrying a distant tune. The song. It was back.
The imps swayed to the music, mesmerized by its eerie melody. Aon hadn’t heard it on her last two visits to the Carse. She’d all but forgotten about it. But hearing it again reminded her that someone lived here. And if she wanted real answers—not the riddles of Pirep and Tali—Aon had to find its singer.
Aon waded away from the island, back to the path they’d been following. She raced down the muddy lane until it split into a fork. Her head spun around, trying to pinpoint the singing. But it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.
“Wait, the Highness!” Pirep called as she and Tali scurried to catch up with Aon. “Wait!”
Aon was about to choose the path to the right when a flash of color down the left path caught her eye. The color stood out in this place that seemed to forbid hue and radiance. She went to the left, squinting into the fog.
And then she saw it, leaning up against a dreadwillow.
A crutch with a wide purple ribbon tied around it.
Chapter Seventeen
HERRUS TOWER, THE SMALLEST OF THE NINE TOWERS, HELD APARTMENTS for the royal servants. All the servants—from Cook to the stable workers—lived in luxury. From any west-facing window, the servants’ quarters had an unobstructed view of Ravus Tower, which held the royal apartments.
In the dining hall of Herrus, Jeniah sat on the stony ledge of a window facing Ravus. When she was a girl, she often came to visit the servants here. They told the most wonderful folktales and fed the princess’s appetite for stories of magic. Right then, she’d have given anything to have Cook whisk her away with another fanciful tale.
Jeniah stared across the dark courtyard and could just make out the window of her mother’s bedchambers. Shadows flitted across the dim light—the healers, no doubt checking on the queen. If the queen woke, the lights would stay on while the healers examined her. If she was still asleep, the lights would vanish as the healers left quickly, in order to avoid disturbing the monarch. Jeniah gripped the window’s ledge until her knuckles hurt.
The lights vanished.
Jeniah had never felt more helpless. She didn’t care about the Carse anymore. Or the Crimson Hoods. Or what information Aon was gathering in her explorations. None of it mattered. Jeniah wanted to be the princess her mother wanted her to be. The princess everyone expected her to be. At that moment, it seemed far from possible. She couldn’t stop thinking about how, with every minute, her mother’s life ebbed. If magic existed, Jeniah needed it right that very second.
She heard nearly silent footfalls behind her. The scent of sulfur and lavender assaulted her nose. “Leave me,” Jeniah said, her voice hoarse. But Skonas waited in the doorway, Gerheart atop his shoulder.
“There’s not a single person in all of Nine Towers who understands how you feel right now,” the tutor said softly. “Except me. Remember, I’m not a royal subject. I’m not like everyone else.”
As often as she’d longed to hear real answers from her tutor’s lips, these moments—when Skonas wielded truth like a rapier—made Jeniah long for the comfort of a lie. But he was right, and she knew it. Any attempt to tell the maids or footmen the thoughts and feelings that thundered inside her would be met with a smile and a blank stare. She could tell Skonas.
Jeniah studied her tutor’s reflection in the window. She suspected a trap. Why this sudden kindness? Perhaps he truly felt sorry for her. Perhaps he really did understand everything that was running through her mind.
“My mother trusts you,” Jeniah said. “She thinks you are learned. I’m asking you now, not as Queen Ascendant but as someone who is afraid: What do you know of magic?”
She expected him to laugh. Or maybe just smile gently as all her past tutors had, taking her hand and explaining that magic wasn’t real. Instead, he sat next to her on the window ledge and spoke very somberly.
“Magic is misunderstood. Storytellers have had great fun masking its true nature behind spells and incantations and curses. Magic exists, and it is performed every day. It rests in the silence that follows a promise. It thrives in the heart of a selfless act. It stands side by side with courage and love.”
Jeniah’s heart sank again. “That’s poetic,” she said, “but it won’t help my mother.”
“Ah,” Skonas said, “so you think you want magic, but what you really want is power.”
“Same thing.”
“Not always.”
“It doesn’t matter. The power to stop my mother from dying doesn’t exist.”
Skonas nodded sadly. “You’re right there. In my life—and I’ve lived a good numbe
r of years—I’ve seen both magic and power in action. Tell me what you want more: to stop your mother from dying or to be a good queen?”
“Both,” Jeniah said. “I want both in equal measure.”
“Now tell me: Which do you have the power to affect?”
Jeniah sat quietly. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of answering.
So Skonas answered for her. “Are you starting to see now? The difference between magic and power? Being queen is less about wielding power and more about knowing how to wield that power.”
“I’m stuck, then, aren’t I? Because you won’t tell me how to wield power. You won’t tell me anything. Soon, the people of the Monarchy will gather for my coronation. And the person they’re relying on most to defend a thousand years of prosperity will let them down. Because I don’t know how to wield power.”
Skonas tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “I’ve taught you three lessons now—” Jeniah scoffed at the notion. “The fourth lesson is still yours to set, but I’ll tell you one more thing you should probably know: I can’t tell you how to wield power. Oh, sure, you could look back on how all those before you governed and learn from their mistakes. But you’ll always encounter problems your ancestors never dreamt about. And then what good will that ancient wisdom get you? In the end, you’re better off drawing on what you know and making up your own mind.”
I can’t tell you how to be queen. I can only tell you how I was queen. Her mother’s words came back to Jeniah.
Skonas reached up his billowing sleeve and pulled out a chunk of moldy cheese. He tore off a piece, popped it into his mouth, and said, “I think you want to be a good queen more.”
Jeniah looked at him, horrified. “How can you say that?”
“Because you already know that no power can save your mother. She is going to die, and when that happens, all you’ll have left is your crown. You will have to go on. So you feel guilty that you’re not thinking more about your mother.”
Skonas leaned in. “It’s all right, Your Highness. You’re allowed to be scared for yourself. Your mother understands, I promise you.”
Something deep within Jeniah shifted. A hundred knots unfurled. A thousand burdens took flight. She’d been wanting—needing—to hear these words but never even knew it.
“It’s a good sign,” Skonas said, slipping the cheese back up his sleeve. “The fact that you’re worrying about your own future while worrying that your mother has none. It shows great promise.”
They sat quietly. Jeniah pressed her forehead against the cool glass and peered into the night sky.
“So,” Jeniah said, “what’s an answer?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You once told me that questions are the lamplight that leads us from darkness. What are answers?”
Skonas took her by the shoulders and gently guided her a quarter turn to the left. Out the window, she could see the gardens, bright as day. Skonas pointed to the memorial for the past monarchs that burned like a small sun.
“Answers are the pyre that banishes darkness altogether.”
Jeniah stared into the distant flame. So, her search for answers had been the right thing after all. Strange, how it brought her no comfort.
Skonas cleared his throat. “Now, about that fourth lesson . . .”
“Your Highness?” Jeniah glanced over her shoulder to see her maid, Sirilla, peeking into the room. She was grateful for the interruption. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Princess,” Sirilla continued, “but . . . well, there’s a boy at the gates. He’s asking to see you. He said he was sent by ‘Aon.’ ”
The princess stiffened. She stood, straightened her dress, and moved across the dining hall. “Take me to him.”
“Jeniah.”
The princess stopped at her tutor’s soft beckoning. When she turned back to him, he wore the same look on his face as he had on their first meeting in the library, when he had told her that the fourth lesson would be imprinted on her soul. This was only the second time she’d seen that very serious look.
“Your mother is dying, and you can’t change that,” Skonas said. “You’ll do best to consider what you can change.”
Jeniah sighed. She’d grown weary of Skonas’s riddles. She allowed Sirilla to usher her from the room. The maid wrapped a warm cloak around the princess’s shoulders as they walked away.
A pair of royal guards stepped in line behind Jeniah as she emerged from the towers and walked to the gates. A patchwork of moon and torchlight guided her to where a boy with a long neck shivered in the night air.
The boy stared, bright-eyed, through the bars of the gates, his brown hair pitched this way and that. In his hands, he held a large hourglass. When he caught sight of the princess, the boy broke into a wide grin.
“Do you have a message from Aon?” Jeniah asked.
The boy held up the hourglass, every grain of its sparkling sand resting in the lower chamber. He never stopped smiling, but when he spoke, the princess’s blood chilled.
“She didn’t come out,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen
“WHERE IS HE?”
Aon hadn’t even heard herself scream the question. The rage that set her every limb aflame left her blind and unthinking. She wanted to tear the Carse apart. She wanted to turn every hideous dreadwillow tree from here to Emberfell into kindling. All this time she’d been coming here for answers, hoping they would lead to her father’s release. No wonder Jeniah couldn’t find Aon’s father. He’d been hidden in the one place the princess could never look.
With a war cry, Aon swung the crutch back and forth like a scythe, missing Pirep and Tali by scant inches. The imps cried out and scrambled about, zigzagging as Aon swatted at them.
Aon could barely speak. She wrapped the purple ribbon so tightly around her hand, the purple ribbon tore. With a burst of anger, she struck the oozing earth with the crutch. “He’s here! My father is here somewhere. Take me to him.”
Pirep hid behind Tali and held her hands over her eyes, as though that would prevent Aon from seeing her. Tali tried to burrow into the ground. “We do not know the He!” Pirep wailed. “We do not know the He!”
Tali, unable to hide herself in the mud, started crying. “We serve the Highness. We guide the Highness. Pity Tali and Pirep. Pity us!”
Aon looked around wildly. If her father was here, then it was likely the Crimson Hoods were as well. And she refused to believe the imps hadn’t seen any of them.
Over the sniveling of the imps, the slow, wordless waltz continued.
“Whoever that is singing,” Aon said, “take me to them. Take me to them right now.”
Pirep and Tali huddled close and whispered back and forth. Then Pirep stepped forward cautiously. “The Highness has much to see and learn in the Carse. Later. Tali and Pirep will take the Highness later.”
Aon picked up the crutch and held it over her head as if ready to strike. Pirep ducked and whined. “Now! Now! Tali and Pirep will take the Highness now.”
Muttering, the imps waddled down the left path. Aon followed closely behind, keeping them at bay with her father’s crutch. The farther they traveled, the louder the singing got. The waltz no longer seemed to come from everywhere; they were clearly headed straight for the source.
Please be with my father, Aon thought. That singing had always brought her comfort in the Carse, and she knew, deep down, that if her father was with the singer, he would be safe.
She suddenly remembered to check the hourglass. Glancing at her waist, she found the bottom bulb had shattered. Probably when she’d been swinging the crutch. She had no idea how long she’d been in the Carse.
Aon held up her hands. Gray skin. Black warts. And her fingers were starting to look like talons.
It didn’t matter anymore. She was too close. She couldn’t turn back now.
The trail grew more and more narrow. At last, it stopped in front of a wall of briar and thistle that rose up out of the swamp, twisting around itself
like wooden lightning. The barbs were as big as Aon. Monstrous vines reached up and up, threatening to choke the blackened sky itself. The wall stretched as far as she could see in either direction; there was no going around it.
“As the Highness wishes,” Pirep said, bowing awkwardly. She and Tali stepped aside to allow Aon to approach.
The girl studied the briar. The points on the thorns glistened like glass. She assumed they were poisonous.
“What I want is behind this wall, yes?” Aon picked up a fallen dreadwillow branch and poked at the briar. The thorns sliced the stick into splinters.
“Everything the Highness wants is there,” Tali confirmed.
“Is there a way through?” Aon could hear the singing louder than ever. It was definitely coming from the other side of the briar wall. But she could see no opening, and the thorns would easily impale her if she got too close. “Tell me how—”
But when she looked down to her guides, their mischievous, helpful faces were gone. The imps had inflated to nearly twice their size. They reminded Aon of a cat that had arched its back in preparation for a fight.
“She is not the Highness.” Pirep, who had always been the more polite of the pair, had changed her tone sharply. Her bulbous eyes glared murderously at Aon. Aon stumbled. The bravery she’d felt swinging the crutch around drained away as both imps advanced slowly, dangerously.
“She is not the Highness,” Tali agreed, baring razor-sharp teeth.
Aon quickly pulled out the royal crest. “You have seen this,” she said, trying to sound regal. It didn’t work. “You know who I am.”
“The heart of the Carse always opens for the Highness,” Tali said. “It has always opened for every Highness. You are not the Highness.”
Aon felt her stomach drop.
“What do you mean it has always opened for every Highness?” she asked, trying to buy time. “No monarch has ever been inside the Carse.”