The Secret of Dreadwillow Carse (7 page)

Your Royal Highness,

Your mind is split in many directions, I would think. Your studies with your tutor, the queen's health, just to begin. I think that I might overlook such a simple solution, too, if I hadn't been able to concentrate. I'm glad I was of some small service.

As for Pirep and Tali, I'm not sure at all that what I encountered has anything to do with the story. The Carse is a strange place, and it may all have been a trick. Or maybe a test. Yes. I can't explain why, but every time I've ever entered the Carse, I felt it was testing me. This last time, more than ever.

I am recovering swiftly and plan to return to the Carse the night after next. I will report back when I learn more.

Your humble, obedient, grateful, and loyal servant,

Aon

Dearest Aon,

I am happy to hear you are on the mend. Please do not return to the Carse until you are fully well.

Since you first mentioned it, I haven't been able to get the story of Pirep and Tali out of my mind. I checked in the library and found several instances of the story. But none mentions that they went into the Carse. The storybooks all simply say the girls vanished.

I'm intrigued that you suspect these girls might be your distant relatives. If they were on your mother's side, would she know anything about them?

Jeniah

P.S. I really wish you'd call me Jeniah.

Your Royal Highness,

I don't know for sure that the girls who disappeared in the story are the same girls on our family tree. Maybe I will learn more when I'm in the Carse again.

Unfortunately, I cannot ask my mother. She's been gone for several years now.

Your humble, obedient, grateful, loyal, and devoted servant,

Aon

Dearest Aon,

I am so sorry to hear of your mother's passing. I think you know that I understand what you've been through.

Jeniah

Your Royal Highness,

Thank you, Your Highness, but my mother isn't dead.

Your humble, obedient, grateful, loyal, devoted, and dutiful servant,

Aon

Chapter Twelve

WHEN THE GIGANTIC DOORS ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE
THRONE ROOM
swung wide and a line of finely dressed women and men walked in, a single thought entered Jeniah's mind:
At last!

By custom, people from throughout the land gathered in the throne room at Judira Tower the last day of every week to petition the reigning monarch for assistance that only the royal family could give. Jeniah had decided to take Aon's advice to heart and announced to the royal staff that she would be joining the queen to hear this week's petitions. Watching her mother govern—
that
was how Jeniah would learn to be queen. For the first time, no one argued.

Hats in hands, the week's petitioners kept their eyes to the floor as they approached. Atop an oval dais, Queen Sula sat in a grand throne of gold and velvet, her head held high and a friendly if tight smile on her lips. In an alcove to her left, her most trusted advisors—scholars from every corner of the Monarchy—huddled together, ready to share their wisdom at the queen's request.

Jeniah sat to her mother's right on a smaller chair. It had been several days since the two had been this close. The princess could hear the queen laboring for each breath. All eyes fixed on the queen. Jeniah shifted in her seat and wondered what her mother was waiting for to start the proceedings.

A moment later, Skonas shambled into the room. Jeniah watched him strut past the petitioners as if
he
were their sovereign. All regarded him with a curious gaze but nodded politely in his direction. Skonas's gaze swept past Jeniah—not even sparing her a glance—and landed on the queen. He bowed and then moved to the far corner, where he picked at his furs as if looking for mites. He clicked his tongue when he found something and flicked it away in disgust.

With Skonas in place, the queen lifted her hand to start the petitions. One by one, the citizens of the Monarchy approached the dais.

“The summer was kind to me, Your Majesty,” the first petitioner, a stout farmer with bushy eyebrows and a bushier beard, said. “I was gifted with the birth of many new cattle. But now I don't have enough grain to feed them.”

The queen listened carefully to the man's plea. “I congratulate you on a plentiful year. You do the Monarchy credit. I grant you whatever grain you may need from the royal silos.”

The next petitioner—a tall stick of a man with droopy shoulders—went to one knee before the throne. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I am but a humble exchequer for the village of Bellshire. I am in love with the town's apothecary, but I worry I am not worthy of his affections. Do I dare tell him how I feel? Or should I seek a mate within my station?”

Queen Sula did not take a moment to consider. “The mate you seek should be the one who fills your heart,” she said immediately. “Let no station in life create a barrier that dulls the joyful pleas of your deepest desires.”

These were the petitions—the need for sage advice—that worried Jeniah the most. When the queen spoke, it was with calming assurance. Everyone
knew
that what she said was true. How would Jeniah advise the people who asked for her help? Especially when the man who was supposed to be teaching her was currently in the corner, comparing the hairs in his beard to the furs on his chest.

Jeniah watched all morning as her mother carefully listened to each appeal, granted what was in her power to grant (which was nearly everything), and offered wisdom to those in need. Skonas cleared his gravelly throat when the final petitioner, a portly woman with a kind face, approached. The queen arched an eyebrow at the tutor and then gently touched her daughter's arm. “The Queen Ascendant will hear the final petition,” the queen declared in a strong, clear voice.

Jeniah bit the insides of her cheeks. She wanted to decline. She wanted to cry. She didn't know what she'd say if the woman wanted advice on whether or not she should arrange a marriage between her son and the baker's daughter. She didn't have that sort of wisdom. As far as she knew, she didn't have
any
wisdom.

“Now that you are Queen Ascendant,” the queen reminded her softly, “your word is law. Take your time. Measure your thoughts.”

The petitioner bowed her head. Jeniah could feel the stares of everyone in the room. They inched over her flesh like scorpions searching for prey.
Please ask me for something I can grant
, Jeniah begged silently.
Wheat from our silos, sugar from our larder. Anything simple.
On the outside, she did as she'd watched her mother do since the first petitioner. She sat up straight, lifted her chin as if she'd done this a hundred times before, and nodded for the woman to begin.

“My family farms the orchards to the south of the river, Your Majesty—”

“No!”

Jeniah jumped at the sharp voice. All eyes turned to Skonas, who took a single step forward. “The proper address,” he said icily, “is ‘Your Highness.' Princess Jeniah cannot be addressed as ‘Your Majesty' until she is truly a queen.”

The farmer was startled by the sharp rebuke. Jeniah felt embarrassed for her. What Skonas had said was true, but the woman had made a simple mistake, surely not worthy of his hard tone. She glanced to see if her mother would scold the tutor. But the queen remained silent.

Jeniah turned back to the farmer and smiled. “Please continue,” she said, and then added very pointedly, “There will be no more interruptions.” The farmer composed herself and started again.

“As you know, Your Highness,” the woman said, “every spring, we welcome the arrival of the ravens that nest in our orchards. They eat the insects and other vermin that would otherwise destroy the orchards' bountiful harvest of fruit. But this year, a small family of rubywings has taken to nesting in the orchards as well. Their bright color attracts predators that swoop in and eat the ravens. Because all in the Monarchy is yours, Queen Ascendant, we respectfully ask permission to protect the ravens.”

Jeniah pretended to be considering very carefully. Really, she was trying not to throw up. She quietly drew air in between her teeth. She wanted to be fair. She glanced over to the queen's advisors, who stood at the ready. The queen had not once consulted them throughout the morning of requests. But surely she, the Queen Ascendant, could be allowed to ask others their advice, when she was so new at this.

“Reeve Ellsworth,” the princess said, “what do you know of the rubywings?”

An elderly man with a balding pate stepped forward from the alcove. Each of the reeves was charged with having a thorough understanding of some aspect of the Monarchy. As Reeve of Nature, Ellsworth had knowledge second to none of all the plants and animals throughout the land.

“They are clever birds,” the reeve said. “Once nested, they are not quick to move.”

“Do you see a solution?”

The man nodded. “There are several ways to tend to the rubywings, Your Highness. Some are simple; others are difficult. Some are fast; some will take time.”

“Such as?” Jeniah asked.

“Rubywings usually nest in Susurrus Valley,” the reeve said. “Care could be taken to relocate this brood so they can be among their own kind. The valley's red-leafed trees will provide them shelter from predators.”

“Or perhaps the rubywings could be sold,” said Reeve Wane, the bright-faced woman who served as Reeve of Culture. “The milliners who live in the north keep rubywings as pets—they spoil them with fat worms and artesian water—and sometimes use their feathers in hat making.”

Jeniah listened and nodded. “These are fair solutions,” she said. Then she turned to the petitioner. “Do you agree?”

The woman seemed stunned that she was being consulted. “All I ask, Your Highness, is that the solution be expedient and executed with as little toil as possible so as not to disrupt the harvesting. Every day the rubywings live in the trees, ravens are dying and the harvest is in danger.”

Jeniah watched her mother from the corner of her eye, searching for any sort of guidance. But the queen remained expressionless. Jeniah was on her own. Clearly, much was at stake. The plentiful ravens were dying. The trees' fruit would be ruined without the ravens to eat the insects that spoiled the harvest. Although it would inconvenience the rubywings to relocate them, it was clearly for the greater good.

The princess said to the farmer, “You may proceed as you see fit, doing whatever is swiftest and simplest to protect the ravens from being eaten.”

The farmer thanked Jeniah. The queen's herald blew a horn, and the petitioners left.

“Let it be known,” the queen whispered to her steward, “that this was the last audience I will grant. No more petitions will be heard until Jeniah is queen.”

When the throne room had emptied, Jeniah kissed her mother good night and left for her own bedchambers.

“Tonight at sundown,” Skonas said, appearing out of nowhere and falling into step at the princess's side, “I want you to go to Traithis Tower.” Traithis was the second tallest spire after Lithe. It was used as a watchtower. Every window contained a telescope from which all corners of the Monarchy could be viewed. “Keep your eye on the orchards. You will see the people acting on the Queen Ascendant's will.”

Something warm tickled Jeniah's stomach. She hadn't thought of that. She had made a royal declaration, and people were going to act on it.
Your word is law
, her mother had said. This would be the way of things from now on.

She could make a difference.

“And what did you think of your third lesson?” Skonas asked Jeniah.

Third lesson?
Skonas hadn't said a word throughout the audience, except to correct the farmer. It hadn't even been his idea for her to observe the petitions. But when she thought about it, she
had
learned it was important to consider the needs of the multitudes over the needs of a handful. That would no doubt guide her in future petitions.

“I think,” Jeniah said smoothly, “I should like more lessons like that.”

Skonas chuckled. “Perhaps someday someone will do that for you. But remember, I promised you just three lessons. You will set the fourth and final lesson yourself. I will stay only until you have finished.”

The tutor nodded respectfully; then he turned and made for the tower's exit.

AT SUNDOWN, JENIAH
went to the top of Traithis Tower as Skonas had instructed. She turned the largest telescope to the south until the lens fell on the orchards.

She watched as a slim man approached the largest tree with ginger steps. He raised a pole and tapped it fiercely on the lower branches.

The orchard seemed to explode. What Jeniah had believed to be a thicket of leaves was, in reality, a flock of ravens that burst forward from the tree's bare branches. The sky filled with the black birds, blotting out the glowing horizon like a funeral shroud.

In the turmoil of birds flying everywhere, Jeniah spotted four flashes of scarlet. The rubywings, which looked exactly like the ravens but for the shiny red feathers on their wings, raced to keep up with their darker brethren.

And just as quickly as they'd taken flight, the rubywings fell to the ground, one by one. Jeniah gasped. She twisted the end of the telescope, and the distant image came into sharper focus. The birds lay at the base of the tree, a single arrow through each of their chests. The ravens continued on untouched until they became one with the night sky.

Four archers emerged from the nearby bushes, clapping one another on the back and sharing congratulations on their marksmanship. The queen's advisors had said there were several options. They hadn't mentioned that one option—the one the farmer had chosen—was killing the birds.

“That's not what I meant,” Jeniah whispered.

But it's what she'd said. She'd given the woman permission to take care of the problem, and that was what the woman had done. She'd sacrificed a few rubywings for the many ravens in the name of doing what was easiest.

The assurance Jeniah had felt earlier—the knowledge that she had done the right thing—slipped away. Now, she was afraid. She didn't want to speak ever again. The power she wielded was too much. For once, she saw just how much what she said mattered.

Your word is law.