by Brian Farrey
Jeniah looked up at her mother. When she stared hard enough, she realized she could just barely see through her mother’s face. The queen was just another trick of the Carse. Something else she couldn’t believe, even though she’d seen and heard it. Betrayed and beaten, Jeniah was finally ready to give up.
“You know what to do, Jeniah.”
The voice of the Aon-shade whispered softly behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, Jeniah saw the shade wink out of existence.
She did know what to do. She relaxed. She exhaled slowly and forced herself to stop struggling. The mirebramble pulled her face underwater . . . and then released her.
Jeniah slowly lifted her head as the mirebramble retreated. She remained where she was until the vines moved far away, and then she looked up at the Queen-shade. It was no longer scowling. If anything, it looked guilty that it had tricked her. Somewhere behind her, Jeniah heard a voice. Singing. The princess slowly got to her feet, never taking her eyes off her mother.
That’s what I want. I need to find whoever is singing, Jeniah thought.
As if it could hear her, the Queen-shade nodded once and disappeared into the fog.
Jeniah waited for the last of the limp mirebramble to slink away, picked up her lantern, and plunged back into the Carse. The singing wended its way between the trees ahead. Determined, the princess marched straight toward it.
All Jeniah wanted now was to find Aon and get out. She resolved to forget all of this once she was back in Nine Towers. The torturous silence. The deathless shades. And the knowledge that even her mother—the woman who had warned her away from the black bog every single day of Jeniah’s life—had been in the Carse.
Chapter Twenty-two
AON HAD NO IDEA HOW LONG SHE’D BEEN KNEELING IN THE MUD. Finding her father planted in the ground and slowly becoming a dreadwillow tree had drained the last bit of energy from her body. She barely remembered falling to her knees. She vaguely recalled crying and crying and crying until she could stand it no longer. After that, she had sat in the mud, feeling hollow and abandoned.
She’d wanted to know why her mother left. And the answer had stolen her faith in the Monarchy, her queen, and everything she’d held dear.
Aon pressed her hands deep into the mud, letting the earth slowly swallow them. They were claws now, really. Crooked and scaly. She could feel her back hunch forward. She was becoming an imp, like Pirep and Tali. And she didn’t care.
The Crimson Hoods paid her no notice. After they’d tended to her father, they moved on to another dreadwillow. They never spoke, but they treated each tree with gentleness. A strange compassion, given that it was the Hoods who’d done this to the people within the trees. And through it all, the singing never stopped. Aon had come to hate the tune. It could no longer ease her misery. But then, she’d never felt a pain like this before. A pain so blinding, so sharp, she’d had to go numb just to push it away. The reprieve was only temporary.
Aon had no reason to return to Emberfell, now that she knew she’d never see her father again. Now that she knew what had driven her mother off. She had no reason to find Jeniah, knowing that the Hoods did work for the Monarchy. She didn’t know if Jeniah knew the truth, but she knew she could never trust another monarch again.
This won’t end, she thought. This pain will never, ever stop. I know that.
“I’m sure it feels that way now. But it won’t always.”
The voice, deep and rumbling, came at the precise moment the singing stopped. Aon didn’t even look up. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone approach. She could make out only the hem of a stiff, black robe and furry bare toes peeking out from under.
“Who are you?” Aon asked, hoarse from crying. She looked up to see a figure in a robe much like the Crimson Hoods’, only this person’s face was hidden under a black hood. The voice and the toes suggested a man.
“Do you like the song?” the man in the hood asked. “The dreadwillow trees do. They find it soothing. Of course, I’m sure they prefer your touch. But there are many trees in the Carse—so very many—and I doubt you have time to bring relief to them all.” He pointed to her neck, where gray scales were creeping up toward her face. “No. You don’t have that much time.”
“Who are you?” Aon asked again.
“I go by many names. Here, now, it’s probably best that you think of me as the Chorister of Dreadwillow Carse. For that’s what I do here. I sing to the trees. I ease their suffering.”
“The trees are suffering?” Aon’s heart beat so fiercely, she could feel it in her ears. It was hard enough to see her father’s face melded into the trunk of a tree, but she couldn’t stand to think he was also suffering.
“Not all of them,” the Chorister said. “The oldest, the ones outside the briar wall, they’re just trees now. They stopped being people a long time ago. Humans weren’t meant to endure endless misery. Eventually, a dreadwillow sheds the last of its humanity to put a stop to the pain. But these inside the heart of the Carse will spend many more years feeding on what they need most.”
“You’re making them suffer!” Aon shouted.
“They suffer because it’s what a dreadwillow knows. Ever seen a moth dance around a flame? They’re drawn to the fire, even though that attraction will eventually consume them. The dreadwillows live on misery, despair, melancholy. Their roots reach deep into the earth, spreading across the Monarchy. To survive, the trees leech these feelings from all who live here. But sadness is their flame, and once they attain it, the pain is unimaginable. So I sing.”
He demonstrated. That soft, mournful tune filled the air. As it did, the nearby dreadwillows shifted, their branches relaxing.
Aon stared down. The roots of these trees were barely underground. But these were the newest dreadwillows—the people most recently taken by the Crimson Hoods. The older trees would surely have roots that dug much deeper if they spread all across the Monarchy.
“That’s why everyone is happy,” Aon said. “That’s what King Isaar did.”
The Chorister stopped singing. “Isaar had just emerged victorious in the bloodiest war the Monarchy had ever seen. He was eager to ease the suffering of his people, and so the Carse was made. A place to keep all the Monarchy’s woes. Now everyone lives a prosperous life filled with joy.”
“I don’t!” Aon spat, choking on her own words. “You drove my mother off. And then you took my father. Your dreadwillows don’t feed on my sadness. I’m left to feel it.”
The man in the hood folded his hands at his waist. “The Carse has never affected the women in your family. You, your mother, Pirep, Tali . . . It goes back a thousand years, back to a single woman who felt a sorrow so strong, it would pass to every generation in her family.”
Aon had never heard of this woman. “Why? Why was she so sad?”
For the first time, the Chorister hesitated. When he spoke, pain colored each word. “She loved her husband very much. And she lost him when he made a foolish deal with the king. She watched herself age while her husband remained untouched by time because of the terms of that bargain. That ache passed from daughter to daughter to daughter. Even now, it’s felt by those who don’t truly understand it.”
Aon’s mouth went dry. For the first time, she did understand. She’d seen the shade of the man who’d made a deal with Isaar. The imps had called him the Architect. If the woman the Chorister was describing had been the Architect’s wife, and the wife’s sorrow at losing her husband had afflicted all the women descended from her, then that meant the Architect was Aon’s—
“What would you say if I told you,” the Chorister said quickly, his distant manner changing abruptly, “that it was possible for your father to leave here and return to his life in Emberfell?”
Aon forgot about the Architect. Her chest swelled. She brushed the hair from her eyes and fought to stand. “Yes. Yes, please.” The words tumbled out. “You don’t know what it’s been like. No one in Emberfell understands what it means to lose s
omeone. If their father dies or their mother is taken by the Crimson Hoods, their lives go on. It’s like . . . It’s like they’re happy, but they can’t feel everything that love brings. Or the pain that comes from losing love. I do. I feel it. I’m broken. I’m not like them. I miss my father. I need him.”
The Chorister raised a finger of warning. “Bear in mind: the Carse must have its due. In exchange for your father, someone must take his place. Someone that you choose.”
A slight breeze whistled mournfully through the dreadwillow branches. Aon found herself struggling to speak. “Someone I choose?”
“You. Say the word. Choose someone, anyone. Your father will be returned, and the person you name will take his place.”
Aon’s mind swam at the possibilities. Whom would she choose? How could she choose? Mrs. Grandwyn. Laius. Her vision filled with the faces of everyone she’d ever known in Emberfell. She pictured them planted in the black earth, bark forming on their skin, their limbs becoming crooked branches. Everyone was someone else’s brother or father or sister or mother. Could she really do that to another person?
But they’re not like me, Aon thought. If she chose Mrs. Grandwyn, her husband and family wouldn’t care. Their lives would go on. They had no choice. The Carse would silently sap the pain of losing a family member, leaving them with only the bliss of having known them. Whom would it really hurt to choose someone, anyone?
“They should decide,” Aon said, pointing to the Crimson Hoods. “They always choose. Why does it have to be me?”
“It’s an exchange, my dear,” the Chorister said. “That’s how it works. That is how it has always worked. The Carse gives you something; you give the Carse something. That is how it will always work. To free your father, you must choose his successor.”
“Does it have to be someone I know? Could I choose a stranger from another town?”
The Chorister considered. “You could. But suppose for a moment that you’re not alone. Suppose another girl, somewhere in the Monarchy, can also feel loss, and the stranger who takes your father’s place is someone she loves. What’s to stop her from striking a similar bargain by trading her loved one for someone randomly chosen? What’s to stop that random choice from being your friends, your neighbors . . . or your father again?”
Aon reached out and wrapped her fingers around the end of the branch that had once been her father’s arm. Only two fingers remained at the end. The rest were now twigs. “Then I choose myself. I’ll take his place.”
The Chorister tsked. “Very admirable, but not possible, I’m afraid.”
Aon frowned. “Why not? You didn’t say there were conditions. The Carse gives; I give. That’s what you said. Well, I’m giving myself.”
“Exchanges aren’t just in goods and services. This exchange is also an exchange of knowledge. An understanding of what the exchange truly means. Your father would learn nothing. He’ll leave here and never give another thought to you, the daughter who sacrificed everything for him. He’ll return to Emberfell and start life anew.”
It hurt to hear that. But Aon knew it was true.
“Something must be learned from the exchange. If you become one with the Carse, you don’t learn. It must be someone else. Now . . .” The Chorister paused and leaned in. “Can you do it?”
But Aon didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know.”
The Chorister chuckled softly. “That’s a very good answer. I hope you’ll remember it.”
“Remember it? Why?”
“You’re very lucky. You don’t have to make that choice. Maybe, someday, you’ll be grateful to understand that. I hope you can sympathize with someone who must make that choice.”
Aon swallowed. “Who’s that?”
The Chorister pointed to the wall of briar. “The only person in all the Monarchy who can change things.”
At that moment, the wall of briar shuddered. The terrible vines snapped and cracked as they ambled aside, creating an opening just as they had done for Aon. The Chorister held out his arms in welcome as a tall, lean silhouette ducked down to pass through the briar’s opening and enter the clearing.
“Princess Jeniah,” the Chorister called out. “I believe you’re right on time.”
Chapter Twenty-three
AS JENIAH STEPPED INTO THE HEART OF THE CARSE, SHE LET HER hand slide into her robe and felt the dagger she’d hidden there. It was clear she couldn’t trust anything here. She saw Aon near a sickly-looking dreadwillow—unless it was just another shade. Not far from Aon, a hooded figure with arms outstretched beckoned her closer.
“I wasn’t sure you would make it,” the man in the robe intoned. “But you’ve had much on your mind, haven’t you?”
Jeniah ignored the man and walked toward Aon. The girl moved a step closer to the tree and wouldn’t meet the princess’s gaze. It was only when she’d nearly reached Aon that Jeniah noticed the dreadwillow had a human arm and face blistered with bark. Then she looked more closely at Aon. The girl’s skin had gone gray, and her hands were now claws.
“What’s happened?” Jeniah asked Aon. But the girl remained silent.
Two more figures, wearing the crimson hoods that Aon had once described, seemed to float across the foggy ground until they came to a stop behind the man who had greeted Jeniah. “So, they’re real,” the princess said. “I should have guessed they were from the Carse. That’s why my mother said they were a myth.”
“Now, Your Highness,” the black-hooded man said with a wag of his finger, “I think we’re past pretending that your mother didn’t know about the Hoods.”
Jeniah regarded the hooded figure coolly. “Tell me your name.”
“I go by many names,” the man said. “Once, I was known as a healer. Later in my life, I was called a mystagogue. At one point, I was known as—”
“The Architect.” Aon, who had said nothing since Jeniah’s arrival, spoke softly now. Her face was a mask of bewilderment and bottled rage.
The hooded man paused and then gave a curt nod. “Indeed. You, Princess, may call me the Chorister.”
But Jeniah turned her back on him. He was playing games, and she would have none of it.
“Aon, come with me. We’re going to leave here—”
“Just tell me one thing . . .” Aon’s cheeks flushed. “Did you know? Did you know what was going on here? Did you know my father was being turned into a dreadwillow?” She draped herself against the nearby tree; its human arm fluttered as if wanting to hold and console her.
“You know I didn’t,” Jeniah said, reaching out her hand. But Aon wouldn’t take it. “I would never have sent you in here if I’d known about any of this. But I’m starting to understand more about—”
“Understand?” the Chorister scoffed. “You know nothing of what the Monarchy once was. You don’t know the horrors of the war that Isaar brought to an end. When the smoke had cleared, when the battlefields had been emptied, the people demanded peace. Isaar was a good man. He wanted nothing more than to give his people the peace they so deserved.
“So he struck a pact. His people would be happy. His people would be prosperous. They would never again know sorrow or heartache. But these feelings couldn’t just be banished. They needed to be taken. Silently, painlessly gathered up.”
Jeniah glanced behind Aon at the girl’s father. “The dreadwillows.”
“With roots that spread throughout the Monarchy. They did exactly as Isaar wanted. Secretly touching the heart of every woman, man, and child and carving out the sadness. Leeching it into the Carse, like drawing poison from a wound.”
“So,” Jeniah said cautiously, “the dreadwillows are like a cure. Melancholy is a sickness, and the Carse keeps the Monarchy from getting sick by keeping everyone happy.”
“Perhaps,” the Chorister said. “Although, happiness achieved at the expense of others is its own special brand of poison.”
Before Jeniah could question what he meant, the horrible truth dawned. Her mother’s face, litt
le more than a withered husk, appeared in her mind. She turned away from the Chorister. But the Chorister wasn’t about to let the princess forget his meaning.
“Some monarchs live longer than others,” he continued. “They find ways of living with the guilt. They convince themselves that the peace and prosperity enjoyed by thousands is well worth the suffering of just four souls a year. But other monarchs, the ones who let their decision eat them alive from inside . . . They die far too young. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Highness?”
Jeniah closed her eyes and tried to summon a different picture of her mother. She wanted to remember how the queen looked a year ago when she was still full of life and energy. But now all she could see was how tightly Queen Sula’s once beautiful, dark skin pulled on her thinning, sickly face. A sickness, it seemed, the queen had brought on herself.
“That’s why King Isaar ordered the attack on his own castle,” Aon said. “He couldn’t live with the guilt, once he saw the pain it caused the people who were chosen to become dreadwillows.”
“You’re saying you created the Carse,” Jeniah said to the Chorister. “You’re saying Isaar ordered you—”
“Ordered?” The Chorister chuckled. “Not exactly. He struck a deal, remember?”
“That would make you more than a thousand years old.”
The Chorister drew in a deep, loud breath. “Bargains can be very powerful and should never be made lightly.” Was that . . . regret in his voice? Had a thousand years as the bog’s keeper tempered the Chorister’s feelings on Isaar’s bargain?
All this talk of bargains. Jeniah felt sick. If this was the magic she’d sought all her life, she wanted no part of it. But, like it or not, she was tied to this magic. Of that, she was certain.
“I understand,” the Chorister said, “that you’re learning how to be queen. Have you come to any conclusions yet?”
Jeniah leveled an angry glare at the man. “I’ve learned more about how not to be a queen than how to actually be one.”