The Invasion of the Tearling

by Erika Johansen

With Bermond’s message still clutched in her fist, Kelsea left Arliss’s office and stormed down the hall to her own chamber. Closing the curtain on Pen, she wandered over toward the fireplace. The portrait of the handsome man still leaned on the wall, covered with a dropcloth. Kelsea had found that the picture made her a bit uneasy; the man’s eyes did indeed follow her wherever she went, and he seemed to be smirking at her. Andalie, too, disliked the man in the portrait intensely. If she, or Glee, had had any more visions, Andalie kept them to herself, but she treated the portrait like poison, and she was the one who had draped a sheet over the man’s face.

  Now Kelsea pulled off the sheet and stared at the portrait for a very long time. If nothing else, the man from the fireplace was extremely handsome, enjoyable to gaze at. Andalie said that the man was evil, and he was; Kelsea could sense it even in the portrait, the hint of cruelty in his smile. But, Kelsea realized, that was also part of the draw. She’d had several dreams about the man now, barely remembered dreams in which she had been naked before him on what felt like a bed of fire. Always, Kelsea woke up just before physical contact, her sheets soaked with sweat. It was different from what she felt for the Fetch, who, despite his misdeeds, seemed fundamentally decent. This man’s wickedness pulled at her, magnetic. She drew a finger down the canvas, debating. He had said he knew how to defeat the Red Queen. Kelsea had only half believed him, but the Mort were here now, and she could no longer afford not to grasp at straws. The man had said that he wanted freedom. He had said he would come when she called.

  Kelsea sat down in front of the fire, crossing her legs beneath her. The fire was strong, and the heat baked her face.

  I am only keeping my options open, she told herself firmly. There’s nothing wrong with that.

  “Where are you?” she whispered.

  Something seemed to gather darkly in front of the flames, like coal dust compacting, and a moment later he appeared, just in front of the mantel, tall and substantial. Kelsea’s reaction to his presence was even stronger now than it had been before, a flurry of pulse and nerves that she fought to force down. Lust made her stupid, she saw now . . . and she could not afford to be stupid with this creature.

  Where do you come from? she asked him. Do you live in the fire?

  I live in dark, Tear heir. I’ve waited long years to see the sun.

  Kelsea pointed to the portrait. This picture is very old. Are you a ghost?

  He surveyed the portrait, a humorless smile crossing his face. You might think of me as a ghost, but I am flesh. See for yourself.

  He placed a hand on Kelsea’s chest, just above her breasts. Her shoulders hitched involuntarily, but he didn’t seem to notice, giving her a searching look. You are stronger, Tear heir. What has happened to you?

  I want to bargain.

  What, no time for pleasantries? He smiled, and Kelsea was alarmed by her own response to that smile. Pleasure makes life bearable, you know.

  Kelsea shut her eyes, focusing, then hissed as a new slice opened on her forearm. It was a deep one, and painful, but it steadied her, calming her pulse, the ache in her breasts. You said you knew how to defeat the Queen of Mortmesne.

  So I do. She is not invulnerable, though she would like to be.

  How can she be beaten?

  What do you offer in return, Tear heir? Yourself?

  You don’t want me. You want your freedom.

  I want many things.

  What can a creature like you possibly want in the physical world?

  I still take joy in physical things. I must sustain myself.

  Sustain yourself on what?

  He grinned, though a flare of red sparked in his eyes. You are quick, Tear heir. You ask the right questions.

  What do you want? Be explicit.

  Shall we draw up a bargain, like the treaty that wrecked your mother?

  Did you appear to my mother this way as well?

  Your mother was beneath my notice.

  He meant this as a compliment to Kelsea, she could tell, and it worked, creating a tiny, warm glow inside her. But she pressed on, knowing that she could not afford to be sidetracked. If we’re to bargain, I want the terms clearly defined.

  Fine. You will set me free, and I will tell you of the Red Queen’s vulnerability. Have we a bargain?

  Kelsea hesitated. Things were moving too quickly. The Mort were hampered by their siege equipment; by Hall’s estimates, Kelsea had at least a month before they reached the city. That was not long, but it was enough time to reflect, to make a good decision. And now a new worry struck Kelsea: even if she was somehow able to destroy the Red Queen, would that necessarily translate to defeating her army? Would it die with the head cut off, or would it simply grow a new one, hydra-like?

  Too many unknowns here, Kelsea, Carlin whispered, and Kelsea knew she was right.

  I will consider it, she told the man before her. He blinked, as though fatigued, and Kelsea realized that he looked less substantial, somehow. . . . Squinting, she saw that the fire behind him was clearly visible, flames flickering dimly through both his clothing and the area where his rib cage should have been. His face, too, had turned pale with fatigue.

  Noticing the direction of Kelsea’s gaze, the man frowned. He closed his eyes for a moment, seeming to solidify right in front of her, becoming more opaque. When he opened his eyes, he was smiling again, a smile of such warm, calculating sensuality that Kelsea took a step back. Her arousal instantly darkened, became tinged with an edge of fright.

  What are you?

  His gaze darted behind Kelsea, over her left shoulder, and his face compacted into a snarl, lips drawing back from his white teeth. His eyes gleamed red, burning with a sudden, blazing hatred that made Kelsea stumble backward, her feet tangling in her dress. She braced herself to land on her tailbone with a hard thud, but before she could, someone caught her beneath the arms. When Kelsea looked up, the last of the fire had gone out and the man was gone, but arms remained around Kelsea from behind, and she struggled, kicking against the floor.

  “Easy, Tear Queen,” a voice murmured in her ear, and Kelsea quieted.

  “You. How did you get past Pen?”

  “He’s unconscious.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Of course. I put him out for a bit, only long enough for us to do some business.”

  Business. Of course it would be business. “Let me go. I’ll light a candle.”

  The Fetch released her, giving her a firm push up, and Kelsea shuffled her way to the bedside table. Her cheeks were still flushed, and she could feel the blood burning there. She took her time about lighting the candle, trying to get some control back, but as she fumbled around on the table for her matches, his voice echoed behind her.

  “Two inches to your left.”

  So he does see in the dark, Kelsea thought, irritated. When she finally lit the candle and turned to face him, she expected to see the man she remembered, all amused mouth and dancing eyes. But his face was grave in the candlelight.

  “I knew he would come here, sooner or later. What did he ask for?”

  “Nothing,” Kelsea replied. But she knew that the blush on her cheeks would give her away. She had never been able to lie well, and certainly not to the Fetch.

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Let me give you some friendly advice, Tear Queen. I have known this creature for a very long time. Don’t give him anything. Don’t even converse with him. He will only lead you to grief.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Once he was a man, a powerful man. You would know him as Rowland Finn.”

  The name rang a bell, deep in Kelsea’s mind. Carlin had mentioned Finn once, something to do with the Landing . . . what had it been?

  The Fetch stepped closer. He was staring at her face, Kelsea realized, cataloguing the changes, and she dropped her chin, peeking up at him as she pretended to study the floor. He looked healthy, if somewhat leaner than the last time Kelsea had seen him. His face was slightly tanned,
as though he’d been in the south. He still pulled at her, as much as he ever had, and the pull was accompanied by a sick sense of loss, deep in Kelsea’s stomach. All the lust that had governed her body in the last few minutes had transferred easily to the Fetch, and now she realized how hollow her earlier reactions had been; what she felt for this man dwarfed anything she would ever feel for anyone else. She had dreamed of the day when she would see the Fetch again, when she would greet him not as a round-faced girl but as a pretty woman, perhaps even a beautiful one. But she didn’t like the way he was staring at her, not at all.

  “Who are you, Fetch? Do you have a real name?”

  “I have many names. All are useful.”

  “Why not tell me the real one?”

  “A name is power, Tear Queen. Your name was once Raleigh, and now it’s Glynn. Did the change mean nothing to you?”

  Kelsea blinked, for his question made her think not of Barty and Carlin, nor even of her own mother, but of the Mort Treaty, the signature in red ink at the bottom. The Queen of Mortmesne, her true name hidden from the world. Why did she hide it so closely? Kelsea was Glynn now, but she had also been Glynn as a child, because the entire world was looking for a girl child named Raleigh. But why would a woman as powerful as the Red Queen need to hide her birth name from anyone? Was she so anxious to leave the past behind?

  Who is she, really?

  The Fetch had wandered over to her desk, fingering the papers there. “You’ve lost weight, Tear Queen. Don’t you eat enough?”

  “I eat plenty.”

  “Then stop trying to hide your face. Let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”

  There was no help for it. Kelsea turned for his inspection, keeping her eyes on the floor.

  “You have transformed,” the Fetch stated flatly. “Is this what you wanted?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pointed to her sapphires. “My knowledge of those things is not extensive. But this isn’t the first time I’ve seen them grant a wish. You performed a great feat in the Argive. What else have you been able to do?”

  Kelsea firmed her jaw. “Nothing.”

  “I know when you’re lying, Tear Queen.”

  Kelsea recoiled. His tone was eerily reminiscent of Carlin’s when she caught Kelsea committing minor infractions: sneaking an extra cookie from the kitchen, or dodging chores. “Nothing! I have dreams sometimes. Visions.”

  “About what?”

  “The pre-Crossing. A woman. What does it matter?”

  His eyes narrowed. “When, in our acquaintance, have you ever been the one to decide what matters?”

  Kelsea’s composure seemed to buckle beneath her, like a beam made of weak wood. “I’m not a child in your camp anymore! Don’t talk to me like that!”

  “In my eyes, Tear Queen, you are a child. An infant, even.”

  Angry tears sprung to Kelsea’s eyes, but she fought them, swallowing great gulps of air, the bleak thought recurring in her mind: This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

  “What does she look like, this pre-Crossing woman?” the Fetch asked.

  “She’s tall and pretty and sad. She hardly ever smiles.”

  “Her name?”

  “Lily Mayhew.”

  The Fetch smiled then, a slow, genuine smile that undermined Kelsea’s anger, washing away its foundations like the tide. “Is there a girl there? A girl with long reddish hair?”

  Kelsea blinked. Running quickly through Lily’s memories, she shook her head, and was shocked by the disappointment in the Fetch’s face. He had needed her to say yes, needed it badly.

  “Who is Lily Mayhew?”

  The Fetch shook his head. His eyes glimmered, almost with tears, though Kelsea refused to believe that, when she had never seen this man moved by anything. “Only a woman, I suppose.”

  “If you’re only going to ask questions and give no answers, then fuck off.”

  “The mouth on you, Tear Queen.”

  “I mean it. Speak plainly or get out.”

  “All right.” He sat down in her armchair and leaned back, crossing his legs, all trace of emotion gone. “There is a protest movement growing in Mortmesne.”

  “I’ve heard about it. Lazarus has sent them some goods.”

  “They need more support.”

  “Support them, then. My kingdom barely has the cash to arm itself.”

  “I do support them. I’ve funneled a considerable amount of my own wealth in that direction.”

  “Ah. So it is you. Levieux, is it? The old? Did you never think of funneling some of that wealth into the Tear?”

  “Until very recently, Tear Queen, I would sooner have invested my money in magic beans. Now I’m committed to these people, who agitate for a more equitable Mortmesne. But they require victories to keep going. Open support from the Tearling would be good for morale.”

  “What of Cadare?”

  “The Cadarese have already begun to sabotage their tribute to Mortmesne, which is a useful distraction. But the Mort hold the Cadarese in small esteem, whereas you’re a figure of much curiosity over there, particularly among the poor.”

  “I’ll consider it. I need to talk to Lazarus.”

  “You know the Mort have broken through the border.”

  “Yes.”

  “What will you do when they come?”

  “The entire population will be in New London by then. It’ll be a tight fit, but the city can hold them, at least for a time. I have an entire battalion laying in supplies for siege and fortifying the back side of the city.”

  “They will breach the walls eventually.”

  Kelsea frowned. “I know that.”

  “And what will you do?”

  She said nothing, kept her eyes away from the fireplace. The Fetch didn’t press her further, only leaned his chin on one fist, watching her with clear amusement. “Your mind is a fascinating thing, Tear Queen, always moving.”

  She nodded, wandering across the room to her desk. She realized that she was trying to put herself front and center, trying to force him to notice her, the way she always noticed him. She suddenly found herself loathsome. She was the same Kelsea she had always been, and he hadn’t wanted her before. If he suddenly wanted her now that she had a pretty face and a pretty body, what did that make him?

  I can’t win. Her old appearance had been genuine, and had gained her nothing. But her new appearance was worse, hollow and false, and anything that she gained by it would carry that falsity like a disease. If this was the work of her jewels, then Kelsea didn’t want it anymore.

  “You grow pretty, Tear Queen.”

  Kelsea flushed. The statement, which might have pleased her moments before, now made her feel sick.

  “What will you do with your new beauty? Catch yourself a rich husband?”

  “I won’t share my throne, not with anyone.”

  “What about an heir?”

  “There are other ways to get one.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Practical, Tear Queen.”

  Kelsea looked toward the curtain, thinking of Pen. If the Fetch’s laughter hadn’t woken him, he really must be out cold.

  “Your guard is fine. I’ll wake him on my way out. If it’s any consolation, he was a tougher mark than your uncle’s guards ever were; at least Alcott stays awake on duty.”

  Seeing an opportunity to change the subject, Kelsea jumped on it. “I suppose I should thank you for my lawn ornament.”

  The Fetch’s face sobered, turning thoughtful. “Thomas died well, though it galls me to admit it. He died like a man.”

  Dying well. Kelsea closed her eyes and saw again the Mort coming, crossing the Caddell and breaching the walls. She turned away, staring at the fireplace. Where was the handsome man, Rowland Finn, now? Where had he gone back to?

  “Don’t think about him, Tear Queen.”

  She whirled to face him. “Do you read minds?”

  “I don’t need to. You’ve never hidden anything f
rom me. I can’t stop him from coming here as he pleases, but I repeat my caution: give him nothing. Nothing he asks for, no house room in your mind. He’s a seductive creature, I know—”

  Kelsea started in surprise, feeling caught.

  “—and even I was deceived once, long ago.”

  “How long?” Kelsea blurted out. “How old are you?”

  “Too old.”

  “Why haven’t you died?”

  “A punishment.”

  “What are you being punished for?”

  “The worst of all crimes, Tear Queen. Now be quiet and listen.”

  Kelsea winced. He had used Carlin’s tone again, the tone one would take with a wayward child, and Kelsea felt a sudden desperation to prove him wrong, to show him that she wasn’t a child anymore. But she didn’t know how.

  “Row Finn, the man, was a liar,” the Fetch continued. “He’s a liar still. The Mort Queen gave in; she was a fool. Are you a fool as well?”

  “No,” Kelsea mumbled, though she knew she was. She had become pretty, and she no longer felt like a child. But she was the worst fool in the world for thinking that these things would make a difference to the Fetch. He was still as far beyond her reach as he had ever been.

  “You’ve impressed me, Tear Queen. Don’t ruin it all now.” The Fetch stood from the chair, pulling something from his pocket, and Kelsea saw that it was his mask, the same dreadful mask he liked to wear about the countryside. He meant to leave now. This was all she would have.

  Good riddance, a voice whispered inside her head. But Kelsea recognized that for what it was: her mind’s sad attempt at self-defense. The Fetch would disappear now, leaving her with nothing. She longed for something to hold on to, and on the heels of that longing came anger. She was the most powerful woman in the Tearling, and still this man was able to wreck her with only a few words. Was this really the way it would always be?

  Not always. Not forever, please God. Give me some light at the end.

  She took a deep breath, and when she spoke, she noted with pleasure that her voice had strengthened, become hard. “Don’t ever come here uninvited again. You’re not welcome.”

  “I’ll come and go as I please, Tear Queen. I always have. You just make sure I don’t have to come for you.” He drew the mask over his head. “We made a deal.”