“You always found me pretty?”
Pen shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, Lady. Some women are defined by their appearance, but you have never been one of them.”
Kelsea didn’t know how to take that. Pen had begun to look uncomfortable now, and she wondered if he was being deliberately obtuse. “But do you—”
“You seem tired, Lady. I should let you sleep.” Pen turned away and headed for the door.
“Pen.”
He turned back, though he seemed unwilling to meet her eyes.
“You could sleep in here. With me.”
Pen’s eyes snapped to hers, and his face suddenly seemed to drain of all color, as though Kelsea had slapped him. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away. “Lady, I’m a Queen’s Guard. I can’t.”
This was an outright lie, one that made blood darken Kelsea’s cheeks. Her mother’s entire Guard had tumbled in and out of bed with the Queen. If Arliss was to be believed, even Mace himself had done so.
Pretty, indeed, Kelsea thought. So pretty that even with no cost attached, he wants no part of me. Blood roared in her ears, and she felt a terrible realization creeping up on her: the knowledge of how badly she had just humiliated herself. It took only a moment for humiliation to ignite into anger.
“You’re full of shit, Pen. You could. You just don’t want to.”
“Lady, I’m off to bed. In the morning—” Pen swallowed again, convulsively, and Kelsea felt a moment of grim satisfaction; at least he was embarrassed as well. “In the morning, we’ll forget about all of this. Sleep well.”
Kelsea smiled at him, but the smile felt bitter and frozen. She had made the worst possible choice for this little experiment: the one guard she would have to see constantly, day in and day out. Pen went back into his antechamber and prepared to pull the curtain.
“Pen?”
He paused.
“Despite your active social life, I’ll need you at your best in the coming weeks. Whoever she is, tell her to let you get more sleep.”
Pen’s face froze. He jerked the curtain shut, and she heard the distinctive thump of his body falling onto the mattress, then silence. A deep, wounded part of her mind hoped that he would lie awake for hours, but within a few minutes he began to snore.
Kelsea had never felt further from sleep. She stared at the lit candle on her bedside table, willing herself to blow it out, but she couldn’t seem to work up the energy. The entire odd evening seemed to beg for analysis, but she didn’t even have the energy for that. Her body was still a mess of involuntary reactions. She rolled over and punched the pillow, hating the frenzy inside her. She reached down to touch herself, then realized it would be no good right now. She was too angry, too ashamed. What she really wanted was to hurt someone, to—
Flay skin and crush bones.
The handsome man’s words echoed inside her head. He had offered immortality, but that was only a word. Immortality for Kelsea would not solve the problems of the Tearling. He was imprisoned, the man had said, a prison without walls. He wanted Kelsea to set him free.
Kelsea took her sapphires in her palm and stared at them for a thoughtful moment. Perhaps the man didn’t know that they barely worked anymore, that Kelsea didn’t truly command them. Flay skin and crush bones . . . but whose skin? Whose bones? She hated Pen in this moment, but she knew that he had not done anything wrong. Pen did not deserve her hatred. There was no one to harm but herself.
Kelsea raised her left arm, staring at it. She had already endured terrible pain . . . the knife in her shoulder, the wound from the hawk . . . but what her mind dug up instead was Lily Mayhew. Lily’s life was relatively comfortable for her times, but even in that brief moment of memory, Kelsea had sensed something terrible in Lily’s future, an oncoming trial by fire. She studied the smooth white skin of her forearm, trying to focus, imagining the layers of flesh beneath. Just a scratch . . . it would barely hurt, but Kelsea sensed her subconscious mind revolting at the idea, all the same.
Flay skin and crush bones.
“Just the skin,” Kelsea whispered, staring at her arm, focusing all of her will on a tiny inch of flesh. She had borne worse; surely she could handle this. “Just a scratch.”
A shallow line of red appeared on her forearm. Kelsea bore down, watching the line deepen, her breath hissing through her teeth as the skin parted with a sting, allowing a thin line of blood to well up and hold. At the sight of the blood, Kelsea smiled wide. She felt connected to her body, to each nerve. Pain was not pleasant, certainly, but it was good to feel something more than helplessness. She blotted her arm on the sheet and turned on her side, barely feeling the sting of the wound, not hearing the rumble of Pen snoring in the next room at all. She was too busy staring at the fireplace, thinking of Mortmesne.
Lady?”
Kelsea looked up and found Mace standing in the doorway. Andalie gave her hair a hard tug, and Kelsea winced.
“The Holy Father is here.”
Andalie set down the brush. “It will do, Lady. I could’ve done a better job with more time.”
“His Holiness won’t appreciate it anyway,” Kelsea muttered, her voice petulant. She had been dreading this dinner all week, but her discomfort in this moment had nothing to do with the Holy Father. What she saw in the mirror was beyond belief. Mace had said nothing about it, and neither had Pen, but Andalie, who did her hair every day, could hardly fail to notice. Kelsea’s hair had grown at least eight inches in the past week, and it was now below her shoulders. She was no longer worried about being ill, but even illness would have been something definite, something known. Andalie must have seen some of Kelsea’s upset, for she put a firm hand on Kelsea’s shoulder and murmured, “It will be all right.”
“I’ve had an interesting report from Mortmesne, Lady,” Mace continued.
“The army?”
“No, the people. Mort discontent has been spreading ever since you stopped the shipment, and now there’s apparently a protest movement afoot. Right now, it’s concentrated primarily in Cite Marche and the northern market villages, but cells are already spreading south toward Demesne.”
“Led by whom?”
“A man no one has ever seen, named Levieux. Apparently, he’s very anxious to conceal his face.”
“The Fetch?”
“Possible, Lady. We’ve heard nothing from the Fetch since he left that little bit of decor on the Keep Lawn. Arliss has received many tax payments from noble estates in the past month, but we’ve had no complaints of robbery or harassment. Something keeps him busy.”
Kelsea took a deep breath that she hoped was unobtrusive. “Well, if it keeps him from stealing my taxes, so much the better.”
“Also, the Red Queen has given an odd set of orders. No one, throughout the entire Palais, is allowed to light a fire in any fireplace.”
Kelsea’s mind went immediately to the handsome man who had appeared in her chamber. Given the loyalty of her Guard—and despite the mistakes of the past, Kelsea did consider that a given—there was certainly no way for a stranger to simply waltz into the Queen’s Wing. The man had departed via the fire; it seemed a reasonable assumption that he had come from the fire as well. The handsome man had mentioned the Red Queen, hadn’t he? Kelsea struggled to remember his exact words. If the Red Queen was afraid of this creature, he must be dangerous indeed.
You already knew he was dangerous, her mind mocked gently. Ten minutes of conversation and he nearly had your dress off.
“Does this mean anything to you, Lady?” Mace asked. Kelsea had not been as careful as she should have been; Mace had always had a gift for reading her face, even in the mirror.
“No. As you say, it’s odd.”
Mace watched her for another moment. When Kelsea said nothing, he moved on, but she knew that she hadn’t deceived him. “Be careful with the Holy Father, Lady. He’s nothing but trouble.”
“You can’t be concerned about violence.”
Mace opened his mouth an
d then closed it. “Not tonight.”
He was going to say something else. Kelsea thanked Andalie and headed for the door, Mace and Pen trailing behind her. For the past two days she had done her best to make no eye contact with Pen, and he seemed just as happy to have it so. But this state of affairs could not hold for long. Kelsea wished she could think of a way to punish Pen, to make him feel as much regret as she did. And then she realized that her appearance wasn’t the only thing that had changed. She was different now. The handsome man’s words about cruelty recurred: It takes only the right application of pressure to coax it out.
I’m not cruel, Kelsea insisted. But she didn’t know whom she was trying to convince.
“God’s Church holds a vast amount of sway in this kingdom, Lady, like it or not,” Mace continued as they headed down the hallway. “Watch your temper tonight.”
“Telling me to watch my temper is the first and best way to wake it up, Lazarus.”
“Well, I’ve put Father Tyler between you. At least have a care for him.”
They entered the audience chamber to find Father Tyler waiting with his usual timid smile. But tonight the smile betrayed anxiety as well, an anxiety that Kelsea read easily. Father Tyler’s two worlds were colliding, and Kelsea, who had long suspected that she saw a different man than the one who lived in the Arvath, wondered if he dreaded the evening as much as she did. She needed the resources of the Arvath now, but she didn’t like the idea of going to the Holy Father with hat in hand.
I’m not, she reminded herself. We’re here to trade.
“Hello, Father.”
“Good evening, Majesty. May I introduce His Holiness?”
Kelsea turned her attention to the new Holy Father. She had pictured an old man, shrunken and shriveled, but this man was no older than Mace. He didn’t radiate Mace’s vitality; rather, Kelsea got no impression from him at all. His features were thick and heavy, the eyes dark, opaque pits, and upon seeing her, his face remained immobile. Kelsea had never received such an impression of blank nothingness from anyone. After a few seconds, she realized that God’s mouthpiece was not going to bow; rather, he expected her to bow to him.
“Your Holiness.”
Seeing that Kelsea would not bow either, the Holy Father smiled, a functional lifting of the corners of his mouth that did nothing to change the lifelessness of his face. “Queen Kelsea.”
“Thank you for coming.” She gestured toward the enormous dining table, which had been laid out for ten people. “Have a seat.”
Two acolytes, one tall and one short, followed at the Holy Father’s elbow. The tall one had the pointed face of a weasel, and he seemed vaguely familiar to Kelsea. He was clearly the favored assistant; it was he who drew the chair out, then pushed it back in after the Holy Father had seated himself. Both acolytes stationed themselves behind the Holy Father’s chair; they would not be eating, were clearly meant to fade into the landscape, but Kelsea’s attention returned to the tall acolyte several times over the course of dinner. She had seen him before, but where?
“No guards?” she whispered to Pen as they sat down.
“The Holy Father always travels with a complement of four armed guards, Lady,” he whispered back. “But the Captain insisted they remain outside.”
Father Tyler was seated on Pen’s other side, only one seat from Kelsea. The Holy Father blinked in surprise when he took his place.
“Do you always eat with so many of your Guard, Majesty?”
“Usually.”
“Are security concerns so great?”
“Not at all. I prefer to eat with my Guard.”
“Perhaps when you begin a family, that will change.”
Kelsea narrowed her eyes as Milla began to ladle soup into her bowl. “My Guard are my family.”
“But surely, Majesty, one of your first duties is the production of an heir?”
“I have more pressing concerns right now, Your Holiness.”
“And I have many worried parishioners, Majesty. They would have both heir and spare as soon as possible. Uncertainty is bad for morale.”
“You would have me get pregnant as my mother did, then, under the table?”
“Certainly not, Majesty. We don’t preach wanton sexuality, though it’s undeniable that your mother was guilty of such. We would have you married and settled.”
Pen nudged her with his foot, and Kelsea realized that the entire table was waiting for her to begin eating. She shook her head. “Forgive me. Please start.”
Milla’s tomato soup was usually quite good, but tonight Kelsea could barely taste it. The remark about her mother had been too crude, too overt. The Holy Father was trying to goad her, but to what end? His two acolytes stood behind him, motionless, but their eyes were constantly moving, clocking the room. The entire evening already felt wrong. Father Tyler was taking careful spoonfuls of soup, but Kelsea saw that he was eating nothing, that each spoonful went right back into the bowl. Father Tyler never ate much; he was an ascetic. But now his eyes were sunken in dark pockets of flesh, as though bruised, and Kelsea wondered, again, what had happened to him.
The Holy Father hadn’t even picked up his spoon. He merely stared at his soup bowl, his eyes empty, as the others ate. This was so rude—particularly since Milla hovered anxiously ten feet from the table—that Kelsea was finally forced to ask, “Is there something else we can bring you, Your Holiness?”
“Not at all, Majesty. I simply don’t like tomato.”
Kelsea shrugged. A man who didn’t like tomato was to be more pitied than despised. She ate mechanically for a few minutes, breathing slowly in and out between spoonfuls, but she was unable to ignore the Holy Father, who seemed to be lurking in wait across the table. Since he clearly wished to make her angry, Kelsea tried to smooth her temper, a mental exercise akin to laying a velvet carpet across a field of spikes. She didn’t want to ask this old liar for help, at least not outright, not as a supplicant. But she couldn’t wait all night for an opening to come up in the conversation.
Movement over Elston’s shoulder distracted her. Her Guard had just admitted the magician, a sandy-haired man of medium build. The last time Kelsea had seen him, she had been a frightened girl riding through the city, but she had not forgotten, and at her request, Mace had tracked the magician down. His name was Bradshaw, and until now he had been strictly a street performer; an engagement at the Keep would be quite an opportunity for him. Kelsea’s attention was drawn to his fingers, which were long and clever, even in the quotidian acts of removing hat and cloak. Mace didn’t rate the magician as a particular threat to Kelsea’s person, but as always, he remained wary of all things magical, and had warned Kelsea that security might tighten in odd ways over the course of the evening.
Kelsea’s instincts had been right. When she finally finished her soup and set down her spoon, the Holy Father pounced.
“Majesty, at the request of my congregation, I must bring up several unpleasant matters.”
“Your congregation? You still give sermons?”
“All of humanity is my congregation.”
“Even those who want no part of it?”
“Those who want no part of God’s kingdom are the most in need, Majesty.”
“What’s the first unpleasant matter?”
“The destruction of the Graham castle some months ago.”
“I understand it was gutted by an accidental fire.”
“Many of my congregation believe that fire to be no accident, Majesty. Indeed, the prevailing belief is that the fire was set by one of your own guards.”
“Prevailing belief is very convenient. Have you any proof?”
“I do.”
Kelsea drew a sharp breath. Mace, on her right, had frozen, but the Holy Father only continued to stare blandly at Kelsea; he seemed to have no fear of Mace at all. Kelsea considered asking the Holy Father to produce his proof, but discarded the idea. If he really did have something linking Mace to the fire, there was nowhere else to
go. She shifted ground.
“An assassination attempt on the Queen is treachery. I believe the common law states that treachery renders the traitor’s lands forfeit.”
“So it does.”
“Lord Graham put a knife to my throat, Your Holiness. Even in the unlikely event that one of my Guard was involved with that fire, his property was mine to burn.”
“But not the people inside, Majesty.”
“If they were on my property, they were trespassing.”
“But your ownership of that property depends entirely on your own accusations of treachery.”
“My accusations,” Kelsea repeated. “What else would you call Lord Graham’s actions?”
“I don’t know, Majesty. As you say, there’s so little proof. What do we know? Only that you had a young, attractive lord in your chamber in the early evening, and you killed him.”
Kelsea’s mouth dropped open.
“Perhaps you had your eye on his lands all along.”
Pen pushed back from the table, but Kelsea grabbed his arm and whispered, “No.”
“Lady—”
“Do nothing.” Meeting Pen’s gaze was a mistake; in that moment, Kelsea seemed to live her humiliation all over again. This was her oldest friend, the guard who had been kind to her long before any of the others, but all Kelsea could see was the man who had turned her down. How could they ever get back to where they had been before? She turned back to the Holy Father and found him watching her and Pen with an interested gaze.
“So this is the story your priests tell from the pulpit, Your Holiness? Young Lord Graham was a victim of my wanton sexuality?”
Elston and Dyer began sniggering.
“Majesty, you misunderstand me. I am only a mouthpiece for my congregation’s concerns.”
“I thought you were the mouthpiece for God.”
The shorter acolyte gasped.
“Such a statement would be blasphemous, Majesty,” the Holy Father replied, his tone gently reproving. “No man can speak for God.”
“I see.”
She didn’t see, but at least she had gotten him off the subject of Mace and the fire. Milla took the pause in conversation as an opportunity to bring the main course: roast chicken with potatoes. Kelsea snuck a glance at Pen and found him staring with cold fury at the Holy Father. All of her Guard were angry now, even Mace, whose mouth had tightened. Kelsea tapped her nails on the table, and they returned their attention to the food, though some of them appeared to have difficulty swallowing.
The Invasion of the Tearling Page 13
