3. The Thirteenth Count
Ashford Cross came to life in a way that only happened once every ten years.
Fern was twelve the last time she had seen this many Rootfolk she didn’t know and marveled at them shuffling along the Gatewalk—a narrow space between a congestion of shops and homes.
They chattered excitedly, wondering how many people would see an elevation this time around.
Eight years ago, there had only been one elevation.
Participation in the Count was mandatory across the valley; folks came from near and far to attend. No one was immune—except for the Deadwoods.
Her wonder faded as shouts from the Thornspine gate caught her attention.
Tall black iron columns rose from the dark cobbles, weaving together to create an arch armed with sharp teeth that jutted toward the bleary crimson fog above.
Beyond the gate was Thornspine road, which was the main artery traveled.
A screech of iron scraped against stone, grating in her ears.
Travelers pushed and shoved, yelling at one another as they tried squeezing through.
Stemblood guards tried keeping the peace, a few used heavy batons to beat back Rootfolk attempting to scale the high stone wall that enclosed all of Ashford Cross.
Families clutched children’s hands, elderly Rootfolk leaned on walking sticks, trying to avoid the chaos.
“It’s like this every Count,” Corvus said with a shake of his head. “As if we all aren’t going to the same place.”
“Is there no order on the Thornspine?” Fern asked. “Guards and the like, directing travelers?”
“I doubt there was time to prepare, considering…” Her mother trailed off, clutching the fabric of her dress just above her heart. She looked at her Bonded, but it was impossible to see her expression through the veil hiding her blight.
I may not be able to see what she’s thinking, but I sure can feel it.
“Mira?” Corvus stopped and grabbed her hands. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you think she got enough of the draught?” she whispered.
Fern could feel her father’s eyes on her. She gritted her teeth.
“Honestly?” He scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know.”
“Does it matter?” Fern snapped. “It’s not as if you could have hid me forever.”
They stood there for a long moment; their silence drowned out by the sea of people.
Fern stared at the crowd, avoiding her parents’ uneasy looks and nonverbal conversation.
Everyone who could be tested was dressed in their finest attire to impress High Blackwell and his retinue; their cotton and hemp garments tailored beautifully despite being crafted with humble materials.
A group of people bumped into them from behind. They muttered apologies as they hurried past toward the square, clutching worn travel bags close to their bodies. The jostling seemed to break whatever spell held her parents frozen.
“Come,” her father said, shaking himself from his worry. “Standing here won’t change what’s already done.”
Sprout flew overhead as they walked the winding cobbled roads past tanneries, apothecaries, and butchers.
Shop windows and doors were shuttered, and market stalls stood empty; the whole of Ashford Cross paused for the Count.
Even so, people still drifted toward the displays, murmuring over goods they rarely saw in the smaller towns and villages.
Thornvale’s capital always had more—more to buy, more to want, more to remind them of how little they truly possessed.
“Through the alley,” her father said, his gaze snagging on a scuffle that had broken out ahead between Rootfolk. He gripped Fern’s shoulder and steered her to the right. “Best to avoid that mess.”
“Are you sure, Corvus?” her mother asked, eyes darting between Fern and the alley. “Fern may be afraid…”
Fern’s brows pinched together. Why would I be afraid?
“Mira, you know we don’t need to avoid them.” He guided them along. “The Count is the only time Stembloods aren’t patrolling. It’s the only time they can get help.”
Before Fern could ask who he meant, she saw them.
Deadwood.
Her throat tightened. I’ve never seen so many at once.
At least twenty. Maybe more. Her mother had been wrong—fear didn’t rise in her at all. Dragging a corpse so close to the Withering had stripped that away. What settled in her chest was pity—grief for the way these people were forced to live.
Her father’s voice echoed in the back of her mind—his stubborn certainty that Deadwood were people, not monsters. For the first time, true understanding of their situation took root within her.
As they walked, the full scope of their misery became clear as she looked closer. Some had crooked branches in place of fingers; others were missing a leg or an arm. But all of them looked despondent, hopeless.
Oathblight covered every inch of skin she could see through their tattered clothes, but a few were completely black with blight. No vines, no thorns—just black. Like Mother’s eye. What if hers doesn’t fade?
Her father untied a jute sack from his belt and handed out bread. The Deadwood didn’t push or shove as the Rootfolk had when they were simply trying to pass through a gate. Instead, they wept and whispered thanks, kissing her father’s feet as they passed through.
“One moment, Corvus.” Her mother reached into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out a handful of wooden chips. “They need this more than we do.”
“Aye.” Her father wiped away a tear. “There’s the woman I fell in love with.”
Fern’s eyes widened as she looked at the pile of chips. “Mother, that’s nearly a crown’s worth! Will we be alright?”
“We will be fine.” She placed a chip in one of the Deadwood’s hands.
Black eyes the size of saucers sparkled with wetness. “Thank you, kind lady.” The Deadwood brought his tree branch hand to dry, cracked lips. “Thank you.”
As they continued through the crowd, similar scenes played out.
Not once did Fern feel threatened or worried, barring the initial shock of seeing so many congregated.
Normally, they kept their distance or hid in the woods.
They were courteous and grateful. A question lingered in the back of her mind: Why do the Stembloods and Highbloods treat them so poorly?
They’re more civilized than the Rootfolk Mother and I meet in the market.
The quiet generosity in the alley felt like a distant memory as they stepped into the lively square at the base of Ashford Peak. Hundreds of Rootfolk had already gathered. Fern could hardly breathe as they pushed in, fronts touching backs, trying to squeeze closer toward the counting dais.
“Look,” her mother pointed toward the ceremonial area. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Fern craned her neck, standing on tiptoes.
She brushed an errant curl from her eyes and gasped.
Six black marble columns had been erected around the dais like grim sentinels.
Thin white branches curved up the pillars before threading together overhead, creating a pale canopy.
Red and white roses were adhered throughout, sparse at the top, then cascading down, making it look like a flowing river spilling out onto the ground.
It was more beautiful than the last Count.
Even the ceremonial pedestal was draped in the most stunning shimmering black fabric that looked as delicate as a spider’s web.
What made it truly breathtaking were the dangling wardcandles.
Lights had been woven across the area, and somehow, they’d been magicked to flicker between a maroon and rusted orange color.
One could hardly tell that the entire square was normally cast in shadow from the Stemblood tier reigning high above them.
The beautiful decorations became an afterthought when Fern lifted her gaze to the mountain itself.
Ashford Peak loomed above them, its sheer stone face carved into massive platforms that jutted out like the ribs of some ancient beast. The second tier stretched the widest—an entire cliffside city where hundreds of Stembloods lived.
Far above that, almost lost in the drifting crimson fog, the third tier rose like a crown.
That was where the Highblood families lived.
And higher still, perched at the very top of the peak beyond a long stairway, stood the Blackwell manor—where the ruling family watched over all of Thornvale. Distant and unreachable.
Fern swallowed. The tiers were so enormous they made her feel insignificant.
And despite how many lived above, only two blood carriages ever moved between tiers—sleek, wooden lifts that Highbloods and Stembloods used sparingly.
They rarely descended into Ashford Cross unless ceremony required it.
Most came only for the blood tithe or patrolling the lanes.
I wonder what it’s like to live in the sky.
“Ominous looking manor, eh?” her father whispered in her ear. “All red and glowing.”
Fern couldn’t help but agree. On a typical day, High Blackwell’s manor looked downright threatening.
A massive manse carved straight into Ashford Peak’s face adorned with creepy gargoyles and dying statues—at least that was what the paintings all showed.
Too far to see clearly. Today, glowing red against the fog, it looked like the Mother’s depths had opened above them.
Ready to steal the souls of everyone in the valley and return them whence they came.
She squinted, trying to get a better look, but the surrounding lights made it difficult to make out the details.
From where she stood, neck craned to see past the platform’s edge, the manor hardly looked bigger than a chip.
How could something so imposing appear so tiny?
The estate’s spires nearly kissed what lay beyond the fog.
Looks like nothing more than a child’s toy from here.
Tinkling bells hushed the crowd, and they murmured amongst themselves. It’s starting. Fern’s parents took her hands in theirs and squeezed.
“Look,” her father said. “Here comes the Grove Master.”