The Secret of Dreadwillow Carse (5 page)

Chapter Eight

THE MONARCHY HAD FEW LAWS. IN A LAND OF PLENTY,
WHERE KINDNESS
prevailed and deceit was mere fantasy, hardly any regulations were needed. Even Dreadwillow Carse, with its mirebramble and other assorted dangers, wasn't formally forbidden. And though Aon was no expert on the rules that governed the land, she was fairly certain one of the laws must be “Do not lie to royalty.”

But that was what Aon had done. More or less.

In boasting that she'd already been in the Carse, Aon had omitted one key fact. She had never gone more than thirty-two steps into the marsh's bleak interior. She had never passed the hook-shaped rock. She couldn't. She'd tried. Oh, how she'd tried. Time after time, she'd failed to find what she sought. And yet she continued. The Carse held answers for her. She knew that.

And, it seemed, the Carse held answers for Princess Jeniah as well.

But Aon's past efforts were meaningless now. She possessed the royal crest, the symbol of ultimate authority. And because the princess had proven immune to the Carse's power, surely the crest would get Aon deep into the Carse at last.

That was, if she wasn't arrested. If lying to royalty wasn't against the law, certainly making demands of a royal must be. In the moment, Aon hadn't given it a second thought. The words had tumbled from her mouth without regard to possible consequences. This was how badly she wanted her father back. The threat of danger had held little fear. Now she felt a deep and all-consuming guilt at having lied to her sovereign. And an absolute terror that the princess might seek revenge.

For all Aon knew, Jeniah would return shortly with a battalion of soldiers who would arrest Aon for her boldness. She would be the first person to be thrown into prison in hundreds of years. All because she was broken. All because she couldn't control her sadness.

Aon waited to be arrested. But no one came for her. The princess had left Emberfell, promising to uphold her end of the bargain. Which meant Aon would have to honor hers. And when it became clear she was not in trouble for insisting that Princess Jeniah return Aon's father, she set to work.

As the sun went down, Aon took a spade from her parents' barn and then crept to the east end of town, far from the Carse. She entered the woods where two oak trees bowed in the middle, forming an arch. From the arch, she counted fifty steps dead ahead. At the stream that interrupted her path, she turned north and counted another fifty steps. She paused only to glance quickly over her shoulder. A shadow, following in her footsteps, darted behind a tree.

She continued on, her fiftieth step bringing her to three saplings that formed a triangle. Lighting a lantern against the encroaching night, she then stood in the center of the triangle and started digging. When the spade stopped with a
thunk
, she knelt and pawed at the soft earth with her hands. She brushed the dirt away to reveal a rectangular wooden box. Opening the lid, Aon removed an hourglass as long as her forearm.

Set in a silver frame, the hourglass's bulbs were perfectly shaped and completely flawless. Golden flakes—more like glitter than sand—filled the bottom bulb. On the side of the hourglass, as if etched with early-morning frost, was a set of wavy lines that curved around one another. Up close, they looked like nothing more than lines. But, on taking a step back, she saw clearly this was a rose in bloom—Aon's mother's trademark. Despite having just been in the cold ground, the hourglass felt warm in Aon's hand.

It felt like it belonged there. It made her hand feel whole again.

“What are you doing?”

Aon pretended to jump at the question. She turned. Laius peered curiously at her from the shadows.

“You followed me,” she said.

She did her best to sound surprised. But she'd known all along he was there. Laius had made little effort to hide. Of course, Aon had made no effort to throw him off her trail. She'd led him here on purpose, but he could never know that.

The boy nodded and knelt next to Aon. He couldn't take his eyes off the hourglass. Aon handed the timekeeper to him. Laius ran his palm against the smooth glass, marveling all the while. Aon couldn't help but smile. This was what he'd been working with her to achieve. She knew he'd never seen one so perfect before.

“It's beautiful,” Laius said. “Why is it buried in the woods?”

Aon studied his face. She had known Laius all her life. His hands, big for a boy his age, were clumsy. But what he lacked in grace, he made up in loyalty. Aon needed someone loyal. She knew she couldn't perform the princess's task alone. The trick would be getting Laius to help without betraying Jeniah's trust.

“I was thinking,” Aon said, “that maybe you're having trouble blowing an hourglass because you don't have one to look at for an example. Maybe the next time we're in the forge, you could look at this one.”

Laius's eyes lit up, as if Aon had handed him the final piece of a puzzle he'd been trying to solve for ages. “But why did you bury it?”

Aon considered lying, but her late-night talk with the princess had made her bolder. “Laius,” she said, “do you remember my mother?”

The boy smiled, but his brow furrowed in confusion. She could see that he
did
remember Mother. But, just like everyone else, the overwhelming happiness rendered such memories meaningless. It was as if he knew what she meant if she said “cup” or “towel” but couldn't summon the words to describe them.

“She taught me how to blow glass,” Aon continued. “She made this herself. It was the first time she'd ever gotten an hourglass right. She loved it more than any other glass she blew. She always told me she'd give it to me once I turned eighteen.”

Aon wasn't even sure Laius was listening. His eyes had become glassy, his gaze unfixed. It was the look anyone in Emberfell gave when Aon talked about her mother. Or when they got too close to the Carse.

But where any adult with that look on his face would have excused himself and walked away by now, Laius remained in the hourglass's thrall. Which meant Aon had a chance.

At times, being the only person in all the land capable of trickery came in handy.

“Once my mother was gone,” Aon pressed on, “I don't think my father wanted to remember her. I woke up one day, and it was as if she'd never been there. He'd removed everything that ever belonged to her from the house.”

She pressed her fingers against the glass and swallowed. “Except this. I had borrowed it from Mother. It was under my bed when Father collected her belongings. He didn't know I had it. And I couldn't risk him taking it as well, so I hid it here.”

Aon watched Laius carefully. His dim expression fluttered between a smile and a look of total bewilderment. How would he react to all this? Would he tell Mrs. Grandwyn about the hourglass? Would someone come to take it from her, deciding her mother was best forgotten by all?

Aon took Laius's hands and helped him turn the hourglass upside down. The golden sand inside the top bulb slowly trickled down to the bottom. The grains twinkled, catching bits of firelight as they fell. Laius gasped. Aon knew what he was feeling. The hourglass's beauty often took her own breath away.

“She loved making hourglasses, my mother,” Aon said. “She said, ‘You always know where you stand with them.' She thought they were the only truly fair things in the world.”

“Why?”

“We all come from different backgrounds. Farmers, millers, blacksmiths, tailors . . . But we all get the same amount of time each day to do with as we please. See here?” She pointed to the falling sand. “I've just given us each an hour. There's so much we could do before the last grain tumbles down. It all depends on the choices we make.”

Aon's eyes flitted across the boy's face, searching for signs of understanding.

“We should go back to town,” Laius said, reaching for her hand.

“My mother used to go into the Carse, too,” Aon said, desperate to stop him. It worked. The boy froze and looked at his feet. “Something happened to her. Something no one knows about. I need to find out what that was. And I'm sure the answer lies in the Carse. It's why I go there.”

There. She'd done it. Telling this truth felt freeing. And she hadn't mentioned she'd been sent under royal order. Jeniah's secret was safe.

“Laius, I need help.
Your
help.”

For the first time, Laius met her eyes. He was not the sort of boy people asked for help.

“Maybe my mother can help you,” he said softly.

Aon shook her head. “No, it has to be you. You're the only one I trust.”

“You do?”

“I trusted you enough to show you my mother's hourglass, didn't I? You know it makes me happy. And you know I couldn't be happy if someone took it away from me.”

For a moment, Aon worried she'd gone too far. There were times she forgot that not only was the sadness she felt unique, but often others couldn't even
understand
the idea of not being happy. It was like asking Laius to imagine a color he'd never seen.

But if Laius didn't understand, he didn't show it. “How can I help?”

“Tomorrow evening,” Aon said, “after everyone's gone to sleep, I'm going into the Carse. And I need your help, Laius. I want you to come with me.”

The boy's jaw dropped. “No! I can't. It's—”

“You don't have to go in,” Aon said quickly. “Just wait at the entrance of the Carse. Once I cross the border, give the hourglass a single turn. I don't want to spend any more than an hour in there. If I'm not back by the time the sands run out, you are to get word to Princess Jeniah.”

“The princess?”

“Anyone can request an audience with the royal family. It's the law. Just go to the gates and ask for her. You can say I sent you.”

Laius nodded obediently. “Tell the princess.”

Worms made of doubt wriggled inside Aon. She hadn't betrayed the princess. Not really. Jeniah had insisted that no one else must know about their agreement, and Aon hadn't told Laius about it. But the princess hadn't felt the way the Carse could creep into your heart. Aon felt safer knowing someone other than Jeniah knew where she'd gone. She wished she felt as sure that the princess would be able to help if something went wrong.

Even so, she smiled and patted her brother's shoulder.

“The princess will know what to do.”

Chapter Nine

JENIAH KNELT BEFORE THE FIREPLACE IN HER BED
CHAMBERS,
watching the flames swirl. She felt defeated. She'd been so proud when she conceived the plan to send someone else into the Carse. It meant she could learn what was there without risking the Monarchy. Surely, these were the sorts of clever ideas that came naturally to queens.

But it was only a small step forward. It was nothing compared to the giant leap backward she'd just been dealt. Even now, with Aon sure to deliver the Carse's secrets, Jeniah watched as a whole new mystery blossomed before her like a dark flower. Sending an emissary to explore the marsh had been an easy solution. Her new problem wouldn't be so quickly solved.

Jeniah had listened carefully as Aon explained how her father had been taken by the Crimson Hoods. Certainly the queen hadn't known she would be orphaning Aon by taking her father into the queen's service to live in a special tower. So maybe the queen could see fit to select someone else and return Aon's father to Emberfell.

Jeniah had assured the girl it could be done. She'd agreed to it as the reward for Aon's help. Aon would send regular reports on what she found in Dreadwillow Carse, and Jeniah would send the girl's father home.

But it was a lie.

Jeniah knew nothing of the tower where special servants of the queen lived.

Jeniah had never before heard of the Crimson Hoods.

At the time, the lie had felt justified. There were many things, Jeniah had reasoned, of which she had not yet been made aware. She'd never been inside her mother's court where they likely discussed such matters. The queen had many agents who performed her bidding throughout the land. Perhaps the existence of the Crimson Hoods would be revealed to Jeniah when Skonas got around to teaching her the other lessons he'd promised.

But . . .

The way Aon had described the Crimson Hoods—mysterious messengers who appeared at the turn of every season—didn't seem right to Jeniah. There was something . . . sinister about it. When Jeniah retired for the evening, she had a new mission: learning about the Crimson Hoods as soon as possible.

The next morning, Jeniah went to her mother's bedchambers to ask what the queen knew about her alleged secret servants. She was greeted outside the door by the Chief Healer. “The queen must not be disturbed, Your Highness,” he said gently. “I have given her an elixir to ease the pain that kept her awake during the night. She will sleep for hours.” Jeniah tried to insist on waiting at her mother's bedside. But the Chief Healer assured Jeniah that what the queen needed most was solitude.

To distract herself, Jeniah went to her daily appointment with Skonas. When her tutor arrived at the library, humming to his falcon that strange tune he always hummed, she sat across from him and asked, “What can you tell me about the Crimson Hoods?”

Skonas stopped humming and yelped. His eyes widened, whether in shock or fear she couldn't tell. She suspected it was a little of each. The old man lifted his palms to the ceiling and made a circular gesture while muttering under his breath. Startled, Gerheart squawked and retreated to the top of the bookcases.

“What
are
you doing?” the princess asked.

“An ancient ritual,” Skonas rasped, “to ward off misfortune. Where did you hear about . . .
them
?”

“I've heard they are secret servants of the monarch,” she said. “If I'm to be queen, I should know more about them.”

Skonas folded his hands and regarded her closely. “Yes. Yes, I think you're right. It's only fair. As queen, you must know what you're up against.”

Jeniah's toes curled in anticipation. This sounded more grave than she'd imagined.

Skonas leaned in and spoke in hushed tones. “Servants of the monarch? Far from it. The Crimson Hoods stalk the silent places of the night, preying on the innocent. They were forged in the shadows cast by the dawn of time. And since the evil beings first walked, they've dedicated themselves to a single purpose: the destruction of the Monarchy.”

Jeniah nodded, fighting all the while to hide her shock. Evil? There had never been, to her knowledge, anything in the Monarchy that could be described as “evil.” The word had practically no meaning here. This didn't sound anything like what Aon had reported. And why had Aon believed the Hoods to be the queen's servants?

Unless . . .

Unless the Hoods
posed
as servants of the queen in order to steal away with Her Majesty's most loyal subjects. Unknowingly, Jeniah had stumbled on a conspiracy.

“Again, I must ask,” Skonas said. “Where did you hear of them?”

Jeniah was torn. Admitting she'd heard this from Aon meant revealing her plan to learn the secrets of the Carse. But if the Hoods were real and seen recently in Emberfell, then the Monarchy was in danger. She had to act with caution.

“I think I heard Cook mention it,” she lied.

Skonas nodded. “Well, she'd know. Most of the staff would know all about the Hoods. They are well versed in ancient knowledge. Wisdom you won't find in books, passed down from generation to generation among the commoners.”

Jeniah quietly cursed herself.
Of course
Cook would know all about this. When she was younger, the princess had spent hours in the kitchen listening to Cook weave tales as she ordered her assistants about. Jeniah wished she'd thought to ask Cook about the Hoods first. The kindly old woman could give Jeniah the information she needed to save the Monarchy
and
rescue Aon's father. And no one would ever need to know about Jeniah's bargain with the brave girl from Emberfell.

The princess thanked her tutor and ran from the library. Until her mother woke, the Monarchy was Jeniah's responsibility. There was a threat to her subjects, and she was going to do something.

She went first to the kitchen to Cook and asked what the kindly matron knew of the Crimson Hoods.

“Very powerful,” the old woman said. “They can reach into your chest and turn your very soul to stone.”

Next, Jeniah consulted the royal cartographer, Ms. Reynard.

“Before we became a land of bliss, the Crimson Hoods ruled with a savage fist. They say that if the Crimson Hoods ever return, we're all doomed.”

Jeniah talked to everyone she could find. All had stories about the horrors of the Crimson Hoods. Each added to her knowledge of this new adversary, but few told her how to fight back. One thing was very clear: the Monarchy was in danger.

It was Mr. Dalcott, the stable keeper, who told her what she most needed to know.

“At the top of Gedric Tower sits the war horn,” he said. “It has not been blown for a thousand years, since before the time of the first monarch. It is a cry to battle. When the horn sounds, the wisest scholars gather in the throne room and plan to defend the Monarchy.”

The war horn.
Of course Jeniah knew of the ancient relic. Her mother had taken her to Gedric Tower and shown it to her a year ago. “One day you will learn,” the queen had promised, “how important it is to the Monarchy's heritage.” That day, it seemed, had arrived.

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.