The Invasion of the Tearling

by Erika Johansen

  Coryn had begun tapping his fingers on his sword. Elston appeared to be thinking of creative ways to disembowel the ambassador, and Kibb placed a warning hand on his shoulder. But Mace . . . Kelsea was glad that Kattan could not see Mace’s expression, for there was murder there.

  “What of an alliance without marriage?”

  “My master is not interested in such an alliance.”

  “Why not?”

  “The King of Cadare cannot have an alliance on an equal footing with a woman. Marriage ensures that Your Majesty is seen to submit her will to my master in all things.”

  Mace moved in sharply, blocking off Kelsea’s right side. She blinked in surprise, for she had sensed no threat from the ambassador or his guards. It took a few moments for her to see it: Mace had actually moved to protect the ambassador. Some of Kelsea’s anger ebbed away then; she smiled at Mace, and felt a rush of affection when he smiled back.

  Turning back to Kattan, she asked, “Would your master expect to share my throne?”

  “It is difficult for one man to govern two kingdoms, Majesty. Rather, my master would appoint a”—Kattan paused for a moment, searching for language—“castellan, yes? A castellan, to oversee your throne on his behalf.”

  “And I would live in Cadare?”

  “Yes, Majesty, with my master’s other wives.”

  Elston had begun to crack his knuckles now, slowly and obtrusively, one at a time. Kattan, clearly sensing the thin ice beneath him, did not elaborate on the further joys of living in the King’s harem, but merely waited silently for Kelsea’s response.

  “This is the only offer you bring?”

  “My master has not empowered me to make any other offer, Majesty.”

  Kelsea smiled gently. If she were the ruler Carlin had been trying to train, she might have taken Kattan’s deal, distasteful as it was. But she could not. An entire life seemed to flash before her eyes, the life of a Cadarese concubine outlined clearly, before she pushed the thought out of her head. If it would save the Tearling, she would gladly give up her own life, stick a knife in her heart tomorrow. But this . . . she could not.

  “I refuse.”

  “Yes, Majesty.” Kattan looked up, his black eyes twinkling with sudden amusement. “I cannot say that I am surprised.”

  “Why not?”

  “We have heard all about Your Majesty, even in Cadare. You have a will.”

  “Then why offer?”

  “It is my job, Majesty, to carry the master’s wishes and offers. Incidentally, this offer will remain open until my master withdraws it.” The ambassador leaned a few inches closer, lowering his voice. “But for your sake, I am glad that you do not accept. You are not such a woman, to be content in my master’s harim.”

  Kelsea met his smiling eyes and felt her mouth twitch back. She found him attractive, she realized . . . attractive in a way that only the Fetch had been before. It was a wonderful feeling, almost like freedom. “Will you be staying with us long, Lord Ambassador?”

  “Sadly, Majesty, I am to report back to my master as soon as negotiations are concluded. We will beg your hospitality for one night only.”

  “A pity.” But Kelsea knew it was probably for the best. She already spent far too much time thinking about the Fetch, and another handsome man would only be a further distraction. Deep in her mind, a small voice rose in protest: would she never deserve any pleasure for herself? But Kelsea smothered it easily. Whenever she needed a cautionary tale, her mother was always there, waiting in the back of her mind.

  Mace cleared his throat, reminding Kelsea of her duties as a hostess: Cadarese hospitality had well-defined rules, and they would expect to share at least one meal with her before they left.

  “Well, gentlemen, we have—” Kelsea began, but she got no further, for the doors at the other end of the throne room suddenly exploded in commotion.

  Kelsea’s guards drew in tight. Her memory doubled back to that terrible day of her crowning, and the muscles of her shoulder tensed automatically, bunching up beneath her scar. Something was happening at the doors; a group of Queen’s Guards and Tear army had coalesced into a huddle. Several men shouted to be heard.

  “What is it?” Mace called across the room.

  No one answered him. An argument was clearly going on, army men bickering with the Guard. But finally a group won through, two men hauling a third between them. They approached the throne slowly, haltingly, followed closely by soldiers and guards.

  “Good Christ,” Mace muttered. Kelsea, whose eyesight was not good, had to wait a few moments, but as the three men came closer, her mouth dropped open.

  On the left was her Jailor, Ewen, his open, friendly face now scuffed with bruises, one eye swollen shut. On the right was Javel, the prisoner from the Argive. His wrists were manacled, but he appeared to be unharmed.

  Between them, nearly unconscious, bound with thick rope and bleeding from multiple wounds, was Arlen Thorne.

  Ewen recognized the man the moment he saw him. He didn’t need the silence at the top of the dungeon stairs, where two soldiers were supposed to be on duty at all times. He didn’t need the swift intake of breath by the woman in Cell Two or the way her eyes blazed as she stared up through the bars. He didn’t even need the glimpse of the knife tucked behind the man’s back. A tall, starving-thin man with bright blue eyes, the Queen had said . . . and when Ewen looked up and saw the scarecrow, he simply knew.

  Still, he was determined to handle things the right way. The scarecrow had a knife, and Ewen had three prisoners to think about. He was big enough to knock the scarecrow flying, and it was good to know that he would need no weapons to do so. But he also knew that he was big enough to accidentally kill the scarecrow with such a blow. Da had always warned Ewen to remember his own size, and the Queen, Ewen reminded himself, wanted this man alive.

  “Good afternoon,” the scarecrow greeted Ewen, leaning over the desk.

  Javel, the prisoner in Cell Three, sat bolt upright from his cot.

  “How can I help you, sir?” Ewen asked. From the corner of his eye he saw that his other two prisoners, Brenna and Bannaker, had moved up to stand at the bars. The torchlight played cruelly over the now-healing welts that covered Bannaker’s body, but his face was sly and expectant.

  “The Queen has ordered me to transfer all three of your prisoners to the central New London Jail,” the scarecrow told Ewen. He had a low, somehow unpleasant voice, and Ewen didn’t even question how this man had gotten past the soldiers at the top of the stairs. He guessed they were already dead. “I’m to escort them myself.”

  “This is the first time I’ve heard about a transfer,” Ewen replied. “Give me a moment to note it in the book.”

  He pulled out the logbook and began to ink up his pen, trying to think. Da had always told Ewen that he had the ability to be clever; it would just take some time and work. After Ewen finished with the book, the scarecrow would expect him to get up and walk over to the cells with his keys. If Ewen could only get the scarecrow to walk in front, it would be easy to disarm him . . . but something told Ewen not to be too sure even of that. The scarecrow was skinny, yes, but he looked quick. He wore the black uniform of the Tear army. If he was a soldier, he might have another knife hidden somewhere.

  “Your name, sir?” Ewen asked.

  “Captain Frost.”

  Ewen wrote as slowly as possible, his face screwed up as though in concentration. He couldn’t simply launch himself at the scarecrow while seated at the table; the table itself would flip over and act as a shield, if it didn’t kill the man outright. Ewen also had to make sure the man’s knife didn’t get into any of the cells. Da had told Ewen that prisoners could use any sharp object to pick a lock.

  Javel had moved up to stand at the bars of Cell Three, and Ewen, who had grown accustomed to the man’s dull, expressionless face, was shocked at what he saw there now. Javel’s expression was that of a hungry dog. His eyes, deep and dark, were glued to the scarecrow’s ba
ck.

  There could be no more delays. Ewen pushed back his chair and got up, pulling the ring of keys from his belt. He came around the right edge of the table, where it would be only natural for the scarecrow to move out of his way, to go in front of him. But the scarecrow merely backed away a single step and pressed up against the wall, sweeping a hand toward the cellblock.

  “After you, Master Jailor.”

  Ewen nodded and moved forward, his heart thumping in his chest. He warned himself to be on guard, but even so he was taken by surprise, had only the barest fraction of a second to sense the hand around his neck, the knife coming for his throat. He reached up and batted the knife away, heard it clatter to the ground in the far corner behind him.

  The scarecrow jumped on Ewen’s back, wrapped his arms around Ewen’s throat and squeezed. Ewen bent double, trying to throw the scarecrow over his shoulders, but the man clung to him like a snake, his arms pressing tighter and tighter around Ewen’s neck until the cells in front of Ewen were covered with black spots that bloomed wide when he tried to focus. He sought for air, but there was none. Blood was roaring in his ears, but he could still hear the woman, Brenna, hissing encouragement. Bannaker, too, was holding the bars of his cell, hopping up and down in his excitement. And then there was Javel, silent, his eyes wide and unhappy, his hands outstretched as though to ward something off. The agony in Ewen’s chest had become a fire that burned everything now, his arms and legs and head, and he didn’t have the strength to pry the man loose.

  Stinging pain arrowed up from Ewen’s palm. He thought for a moment and then realized that he was still clutching his ring of keys, gripping them hard enough to draw blood. The world had turned to a dark, bruised purple, and Ewen suddenly realized that without air to breathe, he was going to die, that the scarecrow would kill him. Da was dying, Ewen knew, but Da was dying of old age, of sickness. This wasn’t the same. Javel’s unhappy face swam before him, and without warning Ewen’s mind made one of its odd connections: Javel didn’t want this to happen. Javel was a prisoner, yes, a traitor. But somehow, he was not the scarecrow’s friend.

  All of Da’s old lectures about jailbreak echoed through Ewen’s head, but before he could think about them, he had already flung the keys toward Cell Three. He watched them clang off the bars and land just between them, saw a dirty hand scrabbling for them on the ground.

  Then the purple world darkened to black.

  When Ewen woke up, his head and chest were aching. His neck stung as though it had been scraped with a brick. He opened his eyes and saw the dungeon’s familiar ceiling above him, grey stones caked with mold. Da always said that whoever had built the Keep had done a good job, but it had become harder and harder over the years to prevent seepage from the moat.

  What had woken him up?

  The noise, of course. The noise to his right. Snarling sounds, like a dog would make. A thick thud, like a baker’s fist sinking into dough. They had lived right next to a bakery when Ewen was growing up, and he loved to stand on his toes and watch the bakers through the windows. He wanted to close his eyes and go back to sleep, just as he would have on a Sunday morning long years ago, before he began to apprentice with Da in the dungeon.

  The dungeon!

  Ewen’s eyes snapped open. Again he saw the familiar pattern of mold on the ceiling.

  “STOP!” a woman shrieked, her voice echoing around the stone walls. It hurt Ewen’s ears. He looked to his right and saw the ghost-woman, clutching the bars, screaming. On the floor beneath her, Javel was crouched over the scarecrow, pinning him down. Javel was laughing, dark laughter that made Ewen’s arms prickle. As he watched, Javel reared back and hit the other man squarely in the face.

  “I have only one question for you, Arlen!” Javel’s high cackle drowned out the woman’s scream. Another blow landed, and Ewen winced. The scarecrow’s features were awash with dripping red.

  “Can you do the math? Can you, Arlen? Can you, you flesh-peddling bastard?”

  Ewen struggled to sit up, though his head pounded so hard that he groaned and blinked tears from his eyes. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out. He cleared his throat and found new agony, roaring pain that barreled down to his chest and back again. But he was able to produce a weak croak. “The Queen.”

  Javel paid no attention. He hit the scarecrow again, this time in the throat, and the scarecrow began to cough and gag.

  Now Ewen spotted his keys, still stuck in the lock of Cell Three, dangerously close to the reach of Bannaker. He crawled over and retrieved them, then approached Javel cautiously from behind.

  “Stop,” Ewen whispered. He couldn’t seem to raise his voice. His throat felt as though someone had set it on fire. “Stop. The Queen.”

  Javel didn’t stop, and Ewen realized then that Javel meant to hit the scarecrow until he was dead. Ewen took a deep, painful breath and grabbed Javel beneath the arms, hauling him backward off the unconscious man. Javel snarled and turned on Ewen, attacking him with his fists, but Ewen accepted this with patience; the Queen would not wish Javel to be hurt either. Ewen certainly didn’t want to hurt him; Javel had been a good and well-behaved prisoner, and even when Ewen had thrown him the keys, he had not fled. Ewen kept his arms around Javel in a bear hug, dragging him toward the wall, not letting go even when Javel hit Ewen in his right eye, snapping his head backward and sending sparks across his vision. He threw Javel up against the wall, hard enough for the man’s head to rap against the stones. Javel groaned softly and rubbed his scalp, and Ewen took the moment of sudden silence to croak, “The Queen wants this man alive, do you hear? She wants him alive.”

  Javel looked at him with bleary eyes. “The Queen?”

  “The Queen wants him alive. She told me so.”

  Javel smiled dreamily, and Ewen’s stomach tightened with worry. Even after Da’s many lectures about minding his size, Ewen had injured one of his brothers while wrestling, rolling Peter into a fence post and breaking his shoulder. He might have thrown Javel against the wall too hard. Javel’s voice, too, was odd, hazy, seeming to float somewhere over their heads. “Queen Kelsea. I saw her, you know, on the Keep Lawn. But she was older. She looked like the True Queen. I don’t think anyone else saw.”

  “What’s the True Queen?” Ewen asked, unable to help himself. Whenever Da told fairy stories, it was always the queens that Ewen liked best.

  “The True Queen. The one who saves us all.”

  A shrill cackle echoed behind them, and Ewen whirled, certain that the scarecrow had only been shamming, that he had somehow recovered his knife. But it was only the woman, Brenna, clutching the bars of her cage, grinning happily.

  “The True Queen,” she mimicked in a ghastly, cracked voice. “Fools. She goes to her death before the first snowfall. I’ve seen it.”

  Ewen blinked and then cast a quick glance toward the ground. The scarecrow lay motionless, but Ewen was sure he had seen the man move. He turned back to Javel, who was still rubbing his head. “Will you help me tie him up? I have rope.”

  “I can’t kill him, can I?” Javel asked sadly. “Not even now.”

  “No,” Ewen replied in a firm voice, certain of this one thing. “The Queen wants him alive.”

  Aisa trudged slowly down the hallway, a lit candle in one hand and the red leather-bound book in the other. Two weeks ago she had turned twelve, and Maman had given her permission to get up and read when she was wakeful. Maman didn’t have insomnia, but she seemed to understand Aisa’s misery at being stuck there, alone in the dark. She must have passed the request along to the Queen or the Mace as well, because now the guards ignored Aisa when they saw her wandering through the Keep in her nightgown, clutching her book.

  She always went to the same place to read: the Arms Room. Venner and Fell were too important to work the night shift, so the room was always empty at night, save for the rare guard who came in to sharpen a sword or grab a replacement piece of armor. Aisa liked to take the five straw men that Venner kept there for
beginning sparring, arrange them into a big pile in the far corner, and curl up with her book. It was a good reading spot, quiet and private.

  She passed Coryn, leaning against the wall. He was in charge of the night guard this week. Aisa liked Coryn; he always answered her questions, and he had shown her the best way to grip a knife for throwing. But she knew better than to talk to him when he was on duty. She gave him a small wave with two of the fingers holding her book, and saw him smile in return. None of the other guards lining the corridor were her friends, so she kept her eyes down until she reached the Arms Room. The cavernous chamber, large and dark, should have frightened her; many dark rooms did. But Aisa loved the glitter of weapons in the candlelight, the tables and tables of swords and knives and armor, the slight residual smell of old sweat. Even the long, looming shadows cast by her candle didn’t frighten Aisa; all of these shadows seemed to have the tall, careful aspect of Venner, and they were a comforting presence in the dark. Aisa knew that she was becoming a better fighter every day; a few days ago she had even gotten through Fell’s guard with her knife, while the men lining the walls hooted and cheered. Aisa took it as a point of pride that several of the Guard spent their free time watching her spar. She was getting better, yes, but that wasn’t all. She sensed her own potential to be more than better. To be great.

  Someday I’ll be one of the greatest fighters in the Tear. I’ll be the Fetch himself.

  Aisa had told no one about this dream, not even Maman. Even if other people didn’t laugh, she knew that to speak the dream out loud would curse it, hex it somehow. She gathered the straw men in the far corner of the Arms Room, and when they were arranged just right, she collapsed contentedly and opened her book to its mark. She read for hours, through a great battle and the pleas of a woman who dreamed of holding a sword, and her mind raced ahead of her to the day when she would stride across the world, weapon in hand, finding evil and stabbing it out. These thoughts spun out before her, faster and faster, a grand dream, and finally Aisa slept. The candle continued to burn beside her for perhaps forty minutes until it guttered and died, leaving her in the dark.