by Brian Farrey
So Aon swore she’d never return to the Carse. No matter how badly her sorrow festered deep within, no matter how strongly she heard the marsh’s plaintive tune in her dreams every night, no matter how sure she remained that the Carse could fix what was broken in her—she knew she could never go back. And maybe if she behaved the way the queen wanted and lived her life in complete happiness, she would get to see her father again.
But then she’d remember the look on her father’s face when the Hoods had chosen him. He was ecstatic. He was honored. He wasn’t the least bit sad he was leaving his daughter behind. Aon shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d never once admitted to missing his wife. Why would he feel differently about his daughter?
Knowing she could never win, Aon melted into the Grandwyn family. She fought off the sadness that still tugged at her heart. She would be happy, as she was supposed to be.
One day, Aon was in the barn behind her parents’ house, stoking the hot coals in her mother’s forge. Aon’s forge, now. Aon’s house, when she came of age. But something told her she would always think of the forge as her mother’s and the house as her parents’. The memories were too great.
It was here, near the heat of the fire they shared, that her mother had made the most wonderful glass creations. Vases, sculptures, pots—there wasn’t much Aon’s mother couldn’t craft. She’d even made the statue of Queen Sula near the mayor’s house. From an early age, Aon had studied glassblowing at her mother’s side. This place was Aon’s last connection to her.
Nearby, Laius, Mrs. Grandwyn’s long-necked son, gripped a tall metal rod and gleefully sang Jackdaw Fen’s ballad of Pirep and Tali. Aon giggled. Even during her saddest moments, she’d always found the boy’s mirth contagious. The pair had grown up just across the street from each other. There was much she liked about Laius. He was sweet, if frequently befuddled and easily distracted. He was curious, a trait they shared. And that singing voice—clear and melodious—had always been his greatest skill.
Which was precisely why Aon and Laius were at the forge. For all his good traits, Laius had yet to prove adept at anything besides singing. Few believed the boy could use his voice—glorious as it was—as a trade. So, months before the arrival of the Crimson Hoods, Laius’s and Aon’s fathers had agreed that Aon would teach Laius glassblowing. She’d watched them shake hands, sealing the deal. And she’d smiled, even though she knew there would be difficult days ahead.
Most of Aon’s time was spent making sure her easily distracted new brother didn’t burn himself. Today was no exception. As he swayed roughly from side to side, singing the final verse of his song, Aon gently guided him farther from the forge’s radiant, scalding heart.
Once he’d finished singing, she moved him closer. “Take your time,” Aon said. She stirred the pool of white-hot sand with a steel paddle, watching the sand melt into liquid glass. Laius dipped the metal rod he held into the molten pool. He turned the rod slowly, gathering thick strands of glowing fluid. When he had enough—the glass was as large as a beehive—he pulled the rod out and held it up.
“Very good,” Aon said. “And next?”
Laius pressed the cool end of the rod to his mouth and blew gently. The red molten glass on the other end expanded into a bulb. He pressed the bulb against the edge of a marble table, collapsing the middle slightly. He continued to press and blow until he had two bulbs joined by a narrow shaft.
“The hourglass must be perfectly shaped,” Aon reminded him. “Otherwise, the sands won’t flow smoothly.”
Laius nodded and, as he did, his chin knocked against the rod. Jarred, the shaft that joined the two bulbs broke, and both fell with a hiss into a bucket of water below. The boy laughed at his failure, the closest he would ever come to disappointment.
“Your next hourglass will be perfect,” Aon said, patting his shoulder. But he needed no encouragement. A smile on his face, Laius reached for a fresh rod and dipped it into the liquid glass.
“Now this time,” Aon said, “I want you to turn the rod while you’re forming the shaft. That way, you can—”
“Why do you go into the Carse?”
In her dreams, Aon had heard her father ask that very question. In her dreams, she fumbled for an excuse, all the while avoiding Father’s fierce and unrelenting gaze. Thankfully, the question had always disappeared when she woke. It was no small surprise that, when the question finally came for real, it was from Laius.
“I’ve seen you,” he said. “You don’t do it often. I’ve followed you to the edge of town, but I can never get that close. It’s a strange place, the Carse.”
He said this all with a gentle smile on his face, gathering fresh molten glass for another go at the hourglass. He wasn’t accusing her. He hadn’t caught her. He was just curious.
“I don’t do that,” she said, and then added, “Anymore.”
“But you used to. Why?”
Aon considered telling the truth. For three years, all she’d wanted was to discuss her feelings with someone. But looking into her adopted brother’s bright, blank eyes, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. She didn’t need someone to talk to. She needed someone to understand. And sweet, awkward Laius never would. Never could.
“I’m not what anyone thinks I am, Laius,” she said. It was the closest, she thought, she might ever come to a confession. When the boy’s face told her he didn’t quite comprehend, she said simply, “It makes me happy.”
Which, of course, made no sense. Anyone who’d ever gotten too close to the bog’s edge knew it was not a place where anyone could be happy. But it was the only answer anyone in Emberfell would understand.
Laius tilted his head in his charmingly baffled way and grinned. “The queen wants all her subjects to be happy,” he said.
With a final twist of the rod, he held up his masterpiece. The hourglass looked more like a pyramid. The boy’s smirk suggested he knew he’d failed again.
Aon squeezed his shoulder. “Your next hourglass will be perfect,” she reminded him.
“You said that about this one,” he said.
“But you didn’t make an hourglass,” she replied. “Your next hourglass will be perfect.” She pointed at the fire. “Now, try again.”
And like that, Laius plunged the rod into the forge, fishing for liquid glass with renewed vigor. He sang out in a voice sure and clear. Aon smiled to herself. If she could no longer use the mysterious singing in the Carse to ease her sorrow, her new brother’s voice would do almost as nicely.
IT WAS WELL after dark when Aon pushed Mrs. Grandwyn’s wheelbarrow to the edge of town. She emptied a mound of old vegetables onto a compost heap. She was turning to go home, when she heard a cry in the dark.
“Help!”
The voice was faint but piercing. Aon looked around but saw no one. Then the cry came again, from the west. Beyond Emberfell’s borders.
Near the Carse.
With lantern in hand, Aon ran toward the pleas and immediately felt the Carse’s dark embrace. Foreboding and dread prickled at her flesh. For just a moment, she welcomed that sensation. She’d missed it.
Rounding a bend, she spotted a girl on the ground. Shrouded in a long cloak, the girl was wrestling great leafy vines as they snaked out from the Carse and wrapped themselves around her body.
“Stay still!” Aon called out as she ran to the girl’s side.
“It’s . . . crushing . . . me . . . ,” the stranger gasped from under a hood that hid her face.
“The vines are attracted to movement,” Aon said as she knelt at the girl’s side. “Just relax. Here, take my hand. I won’t let you go, but you have to stop squirming.”
With a whimper, the girl did as she was told. The pair remained absolutely still. Almost immediately, the vines stopped crawling. A moment later, the vines released their grip and slunk back into the darkness of the Carse.
Once the danger was over, Aon helped the girl to her feet. “We should move away. Are you hurt?”
She led the
girl back toward Emberfell. The stranger brushed off her cloak. “I’m . . . I’m okay. Just shaken.”
“You should be more careful,” Aon said, laughing as she scolded. “Everyone knows to stay away from the mirebramble.”
The girl seemed confused and then laughed herself. “You’re right. I should probably know better. But I’ve never seen it before.”
Aon smiled. “Then you can’t be from Emberfell. Where are you from?”
“Not far,” the girl said, pulling back her hood.
Aon immediately knew her face. She’d seen the girl just a year earlier in a royal parade that had wended its way through Emberfell as part of a tour of the Monarchy. Aon had never seen anyone else quite like the girl. The beautiful dark skin, the silky black hair.
It was Jeniah, the Queen Ascendant.
Chapter Seven
“THANK YOU.”
Jeniah drank greedily from the mug Aon offered. The spiced cider warmed her insides, replacing the chill that had settled in her bones since her trek from Nine Towers. To venture out to Emberfell, she’d chosen the cloak that would best hide her identity. Sadly, it wasn’t the cloak best suited to fending off the cool autumn evening.
The house Aon had brought her to was dark, except for two small candles the girl had lit. Aon had known where to go to find the matches, as if she knew the house well. But, clearly, no one lived here. It was too quiet. And though it was filled with furniture, Jeniah couldn’t help feeling the house seemed empty.
Jeniah peered through the dim light at Aon, who sat hugging her knees to her chest. Aon couldn’t take her eyes off the princess.
“It’s very dark,” Jeniah said. “Can we light more candles?”
The girl shook her head. “It would attract attention. And you said you wanted to keep your visit a secret.”
Jeniah felt her cheeks flush. So much for exploring the town unnoticed. She hadn’t even set foot in Emberfell before her presence had been revealed. Thankfully, Aon had respected Jeniah’s pleas for secrecy and had helped spirit the princess through the shadows of the town.
“Whose house is this?” Jeniah asked.
Aon opened her mouth but then closed it, as if she’d suddenly thought better of what she was going to say. When she finally spoke, she said, “How are you feeling? Getting too close to the Carse can be . . . dangerous.”
“I’m fine,” Jeniah said. “The bramble didn’t hurt me. A few scratches, that’s all.”
Aon leaned in. “But . . . how do you feel?”
Jeniah wasn’t sure she understood the question. “I’m fine. I told you.” But she could tell by the look in Aon’s eyes that it was the wrong answer. “How should I feel?”
Aon took a cinnamon stick and stirred her own mug of cider. “Most people who go near the Carse . . . There’s something about it. People feel the urge to get away.”
“Well, I’m not surprised,” Jeniah said. “The mirebramble is very dangerous.”
But Aon shook her head. “It’s not just that. Their skin starts to crawl. And they don’t know quite why, but everything in their brains and in their hearts tells them they don’t want to be anywhere near.”
“You mean they feel scared?”
“No. Not exactly. They usually move away before they can feel truly scared.” Aon eyed the princess curiously. “But not you?”
Jeniah returned the girl’s inquiring stare. The princess had indeed felt scared when the mirebramble snagged her ankles and pulled her down. But that was to be expected. Aside from that . . .
“No,” the princess admitted.
“It’s because you’re part of the royal family. At least, I think so.”
Jeniah wasn’t sure what to make of this. She’d always been told that the people of the Monarchy were happy all the time and that it would be her job as monarch to make sure they stayed that way. Royal decree was keeping her from entering the Carse. Maybe something else kept the rest of the world out. If so, how would she find someone to explore on her behalf?
“You talk about it as if . . . well, as if the Carse has some sort of power over people.” Jeniah spoke calmly, but her heart thundered with hope. Was she right? Was there magic in the Carse?
“You could say that,” Aon said. “There’s a reason everyone avoids it.”
“You didn’t,” Jeniah said. “You didn’t even hesitate to help me.”
The girl looked away, almost as if she were ashamed. Then she said, “I . . . I was so sorry to hear about the queen. She’s always been good and kind.”
Jeniah studied Aon carefully. She couldn’t remember anyone—anyone who wasn’t royalty—ever offering her condolences before. Jeniah was beginning to suspect that, even if the Carse was able to drive people away, this girl wasn’t so easily influenced.
“Thank you,” Jeniah said. “If the Carse is so strange, I was fortunate you came along.”
“How long will you be in Emberfell, Your Highness?” Aon asked.
Jeniah’s lips pulled back. Her plan involved coming to Emberfell to seek someone who would enter the Carse and report back to her. But that was all she had. She found herself wishing now that she’d spent more time considering how to do that.
“You seem to know a lot about Dreadwillow Carse,” the princess said.
Aon shrugged. “Everyone around here knows about the mirebramble.”
“Do you know what’s inside the Carse?”
The girl stared into the flames. “Is it . . . Is it illegal to go in there?”
Jeniah shook her head, puzzled. This brave girl who’d rescued her only a short while ago suddenly seemed almost . . . scared. But that wasn’t possible. Was it? “No, not at all,” Jeniah answered. “You see . . . I came to Emberfell to find out what’s in the Carse. Can I trust you, Aon?”
The girl nodded. Jeniah folded her hands and told the story of the ancient warning and the dire consequences that would follow if she entered the Carse. She explained how she didn’t feel she could be a proper queen until she understood what was so dangerous about it.
Aon listened closely. When the princess was done speaking, she said, “The warning says no monarch can enter the Carse. But you’re not the monarch yet. You could enter if you wanted.”
Jeniah held up the opal ring on her finger. “Once I became Queen Ascendant, I became the monarch by royal law. My coronation after my mother’s death will be a formality, the event that confers on me the title ‘majesty.’ So I’m here to find someone else who will explore the Carse for me and learn its secrets. I need someone who—”
“I’ll go.” Aon hadn’t even hesitated.
The princess smiled. “I appreciate your eagerness, but I think someone older—”
“You won’t find anyone else,” Aon said. Then she swallowed hard. “Forgive me for interrupting, but no one else will go near the Carse. I’ve told you. It has ways of keeping people out.”
Jeniah studied the girl, whose eyes had filled with something familiar. Hunger, Jeniah thought. “But then how could you go?”
Aon said flatly, “Because I’ve been in there before.”
So the girl did know about the Carse.
“What have you seen?” Jeniah said quickly. “Is it dangerous?” Is it magical?
Aon gnawed on her lower lip. “Well . . . There’s the bog, of course. Dreadwillow trees, lots of them. And . . .” The girl paused. Then she said, “And I’ve heard singing.”
“Singing?” Did someone live in the Carse?
“I don’t know where it comes from,” Aon admitted. “It might just be the wind in the trees. But I’ve always wanted to find out. I’m sure if I were to just go in deeper, I’d know more. And I could see what else is there.”
Jeniah could hardly contain her excitement. Suddenly, the idea of learning what was in the Carse was very real. This could actually work. It was almost too easy.
And as quickly as she’d gotten her hopes up, they crashed down around her. Yes. Too easy. The more real the possibility of success became,
the more Jeniah’s plan seemed foolish. How could she ask a girl her own age to do something so dangerous? The mirebramble alone suggested that Dreadwillow Carse was more perilous than she’d first imagined, possibly even deadly. “I appreciate your offer, but I didn’t think this through. I’m sorry. I must return to Nine Towers. Please don’t tell anyone I was here.” She started to leave.
“You need my help, Princess,” Aon said, her voice insistent but also pleading. “You won’t find anyone else who can, I promise you. And if I don’t help, you’ll never know what’s in the Carse. I can do this.”
Jeniah wished she had just taken the cider, thanked the girl for her help, and gone off in search of someone else. But Aon had ignited something in the princess. Singing. The girl had heard singing. Jeniah had to know where it came from. And if she looked for an adult, there was every chance whoever she found would report back to Nine Towers and tell the queen what Jeniah was doing. She couldn’t have that. Aon, at least, seemed trustworthy. And if the girl’s knowledge of the mirebramble was any indication, she surely was clever enough to avoid the Carse’s other dangers.
The princess removed the clasp on her cloak—a jeweled medallion with bronze and chrome framework shaped like a falcon in flight—and handed it to Aon. “The royal crest. If anyone questions you, show them this. It says that you are my emissary and act on behalf of the Monarchy. This will give you entry anywhere.”
Aon held the crest tight to her heart. “I’ll need some time to prepare,” she said. “Two days, then I’ll go. I’ll send letters to the castle and tell you what I find.”
“When I have all the information I need,” Jeniah said, “I’ll issue a royal proclamation, praising your loyalty and bravery. Your name will be celebrated—”
“I don’t want praise,” Aon interrupted. “Or money or glory. If I do this for you, you must do something for me.”
Jeniah blinked. No one had ever demanded anything from her before. “And what’s that?”
