The Secret of Dreadwillow Carse (13 page)

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 someone. 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, little 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.”

The Chorister seemed impressed. “Oooh, now that was an interesting answer. Very well. I'll tell you. There is only one thing you need to know in order to be queen. It has nothing to do with etiquette or diplomacy. You need only know the price of happiness in your Monarchy.

“Your people will thrive and prosper. They will never need. Your name will be hallowed. In exchange . . .” The Chorister paused to run his hand across the bark that framed Aon's father's face. “In exchange, you consent that a single person each season will bear the ills meant for all. The Crimson Hoods will continue to harvest willing volunteers to become dreadwillows. These four people will suffer unimaginable pain. The Carse will flourish, each dark bud and bloom growing healthier with every unshed tear.

“But . . . thousands and thousands will continue to live in bliss. And you, Your Highness, you will be
beloved
. You will be the greatest monarch who ever lived.”

“They're only ‘willing volunteers' because they've been lied to,” Aon pointed out.

“The Monarchy
cannot
know unhappiness,” the Chorister said. “Tell any commoner the truth. They'll still go willingly because they can't comprehend how a dreadwillow suffers.”

“This is what the warning means, isn't it?” Jeniah asked. “I wasn't supposed to find out about this, because if I did, I'd end it. Right?”

“That presumes,” the Chorister said, “that you're the first to face the choice.”

“What?”

“Every monarch has come to me,” he said. “Every single one. None could resist the warning to keep out.”

“I don't believe you,” the princess said. Of course she'd seen the shades of the past monarchs. She knew they'd been in the Carse. But they couldn't have come this far. They
couldn't
have known about the horrors in the heart of the Carse and allowed them to continue.

Could they?

Aon stepped away from the dreadwillow. “When I first arrived, the creatures here thought I was you. They said they were expecting you. They knew you'd come.”

Jeniah felt ill. Every monarch. They'd all known exactly what was going on. Even her own mother. And in the name of peace, in the name of prosperity, they'd all agreed to let the terrible ritual continue.

“Then why the warning?” Jeniah asked. “If every monarch was meant to come here, why warn us off?”

The Chorister shambled over to a tree stump and took a seat. “If your mother had brought you here, held you by the hand and explained the pact, and then beseeched you to consent and thus maintain the everlasting bliss of the Monarchy, would you have done so?”

“Without question,” Jeniah said immediately.

“And
that
,” the Chorister said, holding out his hands, “is the reason for the warning. This is not a decision anyone else can make for you. The warning forces you to find your own path here, and that path gives you all you need to know to make the decision.”

Aon placed a hand on the princess's elbow. The anger had left her face, replaced with sad understanding. “This is why the royal family can feel something other than happiness. It's why you're immune to the effects of the Carse.”

Jeniah nodded. “The decision is too important to be made by someone who knows only happiness. The monarch has to understand pain and loss, or the choice is meaningless. But why can you feel sad, Aon?”

The girl glanced at the Chorister. “It's . . . in my blood.”

Thoughts—like a swarm of angry bees—clouded Jeniah's mind. It was heartless. Why should she pay for the legacy of her ancestor? She shouldn't be the one making this choice. She was just twelve. She wrung her hands, her fingertip grazing the opal ring she wore.

No. She was Queen Ascendant. And she had a duty.

“If I consent,” Jeniah said, “the Monarchy continues as it always has. If I break the pact, the Monarchy falls.”

“If you break the pact,” the Chorister said, “pain and sorrow will return to the land. The Monarchy, as you've always known it—as anyone alive has ever known it—will cease to be. It will be a new age. You will still be queen. But of what, I wonder? A realm of people whose joy is tainted by fears and problems? A land of plenty no more? The destruction of everything Isaar worked so hard for?”

Jeniah pictured the resulting chaos.
That's why the Monarchy keeps an army
. With the return of pain would come fear. And with fear, the potential for war. The soldiers would be needed to restore the peace.

The princess considered. The Chorister was right about one thing: she had no idea about the war that had torn the land apart all those years ago. No one did. How could she condone bringing back the possibility of war when she didn't fully understand its horrors?

“And would
you
care to advise your sovereign?” The Chorister turned and addressed Aon.

Aon started, surprised. “The princess has to choose. Why are you asking me?”

“The only way to save your father is by choosing someone to take his place. That can't happen if the princess ends the pact.”

“Is it true?” Jeniah asked. “Can you save her father if I consent to the pact?”

“For an exchange . . .” The Chorister looked meaningfully at Aon. The girl bowed her head. She wasn't about to say a word.

Jeniah weighed her options. She could agree and allow her subjects to continue living in a gilded paradise. And it would almost certainly mean that the guilt of allowing those four people every year to become dreadwillows would eat at her, as it did her mother. And her grandmother before. And nearly every monarch in the family line.

But this wasn't about what it would do to her. It was about the Monarchy. The Chorister was offering exactly what she'd always wanted: to be loved as the monarch who kept the peace. She could have magic
and
be a great ruler. The price seemed small in comparison to the gain. A queen should be willing to make sacrifices for the good of her people. Shouldn't she?

Overhead, a faint caw pierced the silence. Jeniah looked up. A falcon soared high above the trees, chasing a flash of red in the dim light. A rubywing.

Yes. She needed to make a sacrifice for her people.
All
her people.

Jeniah made her decision. She turned to face the Crimson Hoods.

“I am Jeniah, Queen Ascendant of the Monarchy. My family has ruled this land since the very highest mountains were mere pebbles. You were set this task by my ancestors—each renewing the bond as the Monarchy changed hands—and you have done your duties faithfully and served your monarchs well. But that ends here and now with me. I dismiss you.”

The Crimson Hoods stood impassively for so long that Jeniah began to suspect they hadn't heard her. Or they were being disobedient. Then, without a word, without so much as a gesture, they both turned on their heels and walked away. As they marched deeper into the Carse, the mire rose up to swallow them slowly. The mists curled around their robes like a final embrace. Soon, they were gone.

The air rent with a sound like a great curtain tearing. White and orange sparks burst up out of the briar, racing along and igniting every branch and thorn, until the entire wall surrounding the heart of the Carse was consumed with fire. Like all the other magic Jeniah had witnessed in the Carse, the flames were thoroughly destructive. They twisted and danced until, all at once, the briar crumbled to a cloud of ash. The fire vanished as quickly as it had risen. When the cloud had cleared, Jeniah looked around.