The Invasion of the Tearling

by Erika Johansen

  “No. I think he means to retire for the rest of the night.” Tyler turned and started down the hall, but he only made a few steps before a hand fell on his shoulder.

  “What’s in the bag?” Overbite asked.

  “My Bible.”

  “And what else?”

  “My new robes,” Tyler replied, amazed at how easily the lie came to him. “The Holy Father has granted me a bishopric.”

  Both of them drew back, trading anxious glances. In the hierarchy of the Arvath, the Holy Father’s personal aides, even the acolytes, carried more weight than any priest. But a bishop was another matter; even the least powerful of the bishops’ college was no one to argue with. As if by mutual consent, the two acolytes bowed and back away.

  “Good night, Your Eminence.”

  Tyler turned and limped down the hallway. He guessed he had two minutes, at most, before they realized that his story was absurd. The Holy Father didn’t keep spare sets of bishops’ robes around to hand out like candy. And the other woman might raise the alarm at any time.

  Tyler paused at the top of the staircase, looking down at its concentric squares as one would face a mortal enemy. His leg was already throbbing, bright flashes of pain that traveled like a current from hip to toe. He wished he could take the lift, which ran a limited service at night to serve the Holy Father’s level. They might agree to lower him down to the brothers’ quarters. But he would have to wait for the lift to come—the platform was stowed on the lowest floor of the Arvath at night—and if the alarm was raised while he was still on it, he would be stuck, held between floors until Anders’s guards came to take him. No, it would have to be the stairs, and considering the way Tyler’s leg felt at the moment, he wouldn’t get far before he had to hop.

  Tyler grimaced, clenched his tongue between his teeth, and started downward, leaning heavily on the handrail. His satchel bounced against his hip with each step, rhythmic drumming that did nothing to help his arthritis. One floor down; he clutched the bag, trying to keep it still, and felt the sharp contours of the wooden box inside.

  I am part of God’s great work.

  This thought had not crossed his mind in a long time. He thought of the woman, Maya, and felt a wave of sick guilt crash through him. He had left her there, in front of a table full of morphia, to endure whatever punishment Anders might mete out. Two floors down. Now Tyler was hopping in earnest, holding his bad foot suspended in midair and clutching the handrail for dear life, using a tiny leap to propel himself down each step. His good leg was beginning to ache as well now, long-unused muscles threatening to cramp. He didn’t know what would happen if the leg seized before he finished the staircase. Three floors down. Both of his legs bellowed in protest, but he ignored them. Four floors down. The adrenaline had returned now, blessedly, singing all through his bloodstream as he began the final set of stairs, and against all odds, Tyler found himself grinning like a boy. He was a bookkeeper and an ascetic . . . a year ago, who would have guessed that he would be here, hopping like a bunny rabbit down the stairs? Rounding the second corner of the staircase, he caught a glimpse of slumped shoulders two flights down, a man’s nearly bald head. His grin died in its tracks.

  Seth.

  Tyler paused, hearing a muffled sound high above. One moment more, and then the silence shattered in a deep thrum of bells. The alarm. Shouts echoed down the staircase, and now Tyler could hear pounding feet several floors up. They had not wanted to wait for the lift either. Tyler began hopping again, rounding the corner to the final flight of stairs. As he came closer, he saw that Seth was asleep but perspiring, his skin waxy in the dim light. Seth was not healing. He was not meant to. Once every priest in the Arvath stopped having nightmares, once Seth had outlived his usefulness, the Holy Father would simply have him removed, as neatly and cleanly as he had removed Tyler’s books. Tyler reached the landing, and now he was confronted by the placard around Seth’s neck: “Abomination.” The word seemed to reach deep into Tyler, opening a broad vista of things that should not be. When God’s Church had sprung up after the Crossing, it had been a hard church, a reflection of its times, but a good church. It did not achieve its ends through hatred, through shame. And now—

  “Seth,” Tyler whispered, not knowing that he would speak until the words were out. “Seth, wake up.”

  But Seth continued to dream, his lips fluttering in the half-light.

  “Seth!”

  Seth woke with a jerk and a low cry. He looked up with bleary eyes.

  “Ty?”

  “It’s me.” Tyler grabbed the placard and pulled it over Seth’s head. Footsteps thundered above them; the Holy Father’s guards could not be more than two floors away now. Tyler threw the placard over the edge of the railing, where it fluttered downward for a moment before disappearing from sight.

  “Come on, Seth.” He got an arm around Seth’s waist and pulled him off the stool. Seth hissed in pain, but did not draw away.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Away from here.” Tyler pulled him down the hallway. “I can’t carry you, Seth. My leg’s bad. You have to help.”

  “I’ll try.” But Seth firmed up his own arm behind Tyler’s back, lending support as the two of them limped along. Tyler’s mouth stretched in a grim smile.

  What a pair we make. Old, lame, and mutilated.

  But even this bit of gallows humor pricked at his memory, and now Tyler recalled something from his childhood, an illustration from one of Father Alan’s tapestries: Jesus Christ, King of the Jews, on the road to Galilee, leading the blind, helping the lame, offering comfort to the leper. Tyler used to sit and stare for long minutes at that tapestry, the only art in Father Alan’s house that did not depict a God of wrath. The Jesus in the tapestry had been mild and benevolent of face, and though the miserable of the world were crowded around him, he did not turn away.

  This is my God, Tyler had realized, and now, hobbling down the high stone hallway more than sixty years later, he felt exalted at the memory. His broken leg buckled beneath him and he thought he would pitch forward, bringing Seth down with him, both of them tumbling over the flagstones until they fetched up against the wall. But then Tyler felt them: invisible hands gripping his legs, bolstering his knee, helping him to run.

  “Seth!” he gasped. “Seth! He’s with us!”

  Seth gave a choked laugh, his hand clenched tightly on Tyler’s thin ribs. “What, even now?”

  “Of course now!” Tyler began to laugh as well, his voice high and hysterical. “Great God, only a little farther!”

  The shouts behind them grew louder, and now Tyler could feel the footsteps of their pursuers beneath his feet, vibrating against the stone floor as they poured from the staircase. In every doorway there seemed to be a brother just roused from sleep, staring at Tyler and Seth with wide eyes, but no one moved to stop them in their clumsy progress down the hallway. The invisible hands were gone now and the two of them were supporting each other, their shuffling, limping gaits somehow finding symmetry, a three-legged race that carried them along. When they reached Tyler’s door, they both limped inside, and Tyler shot the bolt.

  It took the Holy Father’s guards nearly two minutes to find a piece of wood solid enough to break down the door. When the heavy oak rectangle finally tore free of its hinges, several guards crashed into Father Tyler’s quarters, falling over each other in their haste and ending up in a pile on top of the busted door. They were quick to recover, to straighten up and look around, swords drawn, ready to meet resistance.

  But all they found was an empty room.

  Kelsea dragged herself up the last flight of steps, trying not to pant. She was carrying less weight, but the miraculous change to her exterior had not gotten her into good condition. Mace was beside her; Pen had gone on leave for the weekend. Kelsea had had no opportunity to speak privately to him before he left, but she couldn’t help wondering whether he would go to see the other woman. It was none of her business, Kelsea told herself, and
yet five minutes later she would find herself thinking about it again. She had wanted this thing to mean nothing to either of them, but was quickly discovering that it didn’t quite work that way.

  She reached the top of the stairs and found herself gazing over the high wall that bordered New London’s eastern side. From here, she could look out across the Caddell and over the Almont, now mottled green and brown in the late summer.

  Beneath the city’s walls, just on the far side of the Caddell, lay the refugee camp: more than a mile of tents and hastily built shelters spread across the banks of the river. From this distance the people in the camp were antlike, but there were more than half a million of them down there. The Caddell provided plenty of water, but sewage was becoming a problem, and despite the huge stores that Mace had brought in, the camp would soon run out of food. It was the height of harvest season, but no one was farming the Almont. Even if the Tearling somehow made it through the invasion, fruit and vegetable stores would be decimated for years. Some families in the north, near the Fairwitch, had elected to remain and take their chances, and so had a few isolated villages on the Cadarese border. But most of the Tearling was now crammed in and around New London, and Kelsea sensed the kingdom before her as a vast wasteland under a grey sky, nothing but deserted villages and empty fields, haunted.

  Perhaps ten miles distant, sprawled near the horizon, was the Tear army, a cluster of tents that had faded from long use. The army was massed on the banks of the Caddell, at the point where the river suddenly bent to begin its twisting journey around New London. Her army appeared unimposing, even to Kelsea, and it was not helped by comparison with what lay on the horizon: a vast, dark cloud, the subtle haze reflected from many miles of black tents, black banners, and the innumerable hawks that now soared over the Mort camp at all times. Hall had caught the Mort napping beside Lake Karczmar, but that would never happen again, for now the Mort had come up with some sort of sentinel species to overfly their camp. Unlike most Mort hawks, which would not cry out, these birds emitted an ungodly shriek whenever any of Bermond’s soldiers tried to approach. Several scouts had been caught in this manner, and now Bermond was forced to keep an eye on the Mort from a distance, but not for long. They were coming, and they were coming fast. Hall’s missives came without judgment, but Bermond’s were a constant stream of reprimands, and Kelsea knew that he was right. She had made a great mistake, one that her entire kingdom would suffer for, and although she was not certain that all other options would not have been greater mistakes, this one seemed to demand punishment. Every day she came out here to watch the Mort approach, to see the black cloud on the horizon draw nearer. It seemed no more than what she deserved.

  “They’re trying to cut the Caddell,” Mace remarked beside her.

  “Why? There’s nothing on either side now.”

  “If they come up the bank and try to cross the river in front of the city, they would lose considerable numbers to our archers. But if they hold both banks, they can come with defenses ready, be impervious to arrows. Then they can simply focus on scaling the walls and taking the bridge.”

  Even Mace was a pessimist now. There was no hope anywhere, unless Kelsea could make it herself. The thought sickened her. When she looked in the mirror this morning, a beautiful brunette stared back at her, but not just any brunette. Lily’s hair, Lily’s face, Lily’s mouth . . . the two of them were not identical, not by any means, but individual pieces were beginning to match. Kelsea and Lily were sharing a life; now it seemed they would share a face as well. But Kelsea’s eyes had never changed; they were still Raleigh eyes . . . her mother’s eyes, twin spots of deep green carelessness that had brought down an entire kingdom.

  “Glory to the Queen!”

  The shout came from below, from the bottom of the inner wall, where several members of her Guard had blocked the stairwell. Kelsea peered over the edge and found a crowd of people gathered at the foot of the stairs. They waved furiously, a sea of upturned faces.

  They think I can save them. Kelsea dug up a confident smile and waved back, then returned her attention to the Almont. She had never had any options, but that fact would earn her no leniency. When she was judged—as she surely would be, by history if nothing else—there would be no mitigating circumstances. She stared at the dark sprawl on the horizon, not allowing herself to look away. Almost without thinking, she opened up a new wound on her calf, feeling a grim satisfaction as blood trickled down toward her ankle.

  Punishment.

  “Sir!”

  Mace leaned over the edge of the staircase. “What?”

  “Messenger from General Bermond.”

  “Send him up.”

  Kelsea turned away from the Almont as Bermond’s messenger reached the top of the stairs. Army messengers really were extraordinary; the man had run up five flights of stairs, but he was barely even out of breath. He was young and lithe, a sergeant by the copper pin at his collar, and his eyes widened as he caught sight of Kelsea. But this effect was no longer gratifying, if it ever had been. She signaled the man to speak, then turned back to the Almont.

  “Majesty, the general wishes to report that the Argive Pass has fallen.”

  Mace grunted beside her, but Kelsea kept her gaze pinned on the black cloud on the horizon, trying not to blink.

  “The Mort have already begun to bring supplies through the Argive; this will cut their resupply time considerably. Last night over a thousand reinforcements also came down the Pass. They will reach the Mort line by tomorrow. The entire Mort army has now crossed the Crithe and taken the north bank of the Caddell, and the vanguard will soon push the Tear away from the southern bank as well. The general estimates that this will happen in no more than three days. He believes they mean to follow the Caddell all the way to New London.”

  The messenger paused, and Kelsea heard the gulp of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  “Continue.”

  “General Bermond wishes me to report that the Tear army has now lost over two thousand men, more than a third of its forces.”

  Kelsea’s eyes refused to stay open any longer, and she blinked, momentarily blotting out the horizon. But when she opened her eyes, the cloud was still there.

  “What else?”

  “This is all I have to report, Majesty.”

  No good news. Of course not. “Lazarus, how long until the Mort reach the walls?”

  “My guess, less than a week. Don’t let the distance deceive you, Lady. Even with Bermond doing all he can, the Mort are capable of advancing two or three miles a day. They’ll be here by the end of the month, no later.”

  Kelsea looked down at the refugee camp, that sprawling mess of hardship, inadequate shelter, the beginnings of starvation. That responsibility lay at her feet as well. She turned back to the messenger. “Advise Bermond that we’ll move the refugees inside the city. It will take at least five days. Bermond is to hold the Mort off the camp until evacuation is complete, then retreat and hold the bridge.”

  The messenger nodded.

  “Well done. Dismissed.”

  He scampered down the stairs and out of sight. Kelsea turned back to the Almont. “Arliss should be in charge of evacuating the camp. His people know names and faces down there.”

  “Lady, I assure you—”

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out, Lazarus? His little minions are all over that camp, dealing narcotics like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “There is no tomorrow for these people, Lady.”

  “Ah. I knew it.” Kelsea turned to face him, feeling her temper grind into terrible life. But beneath was something even worse than anger: shame. She craved Mace’s approval, always had, in the same way she had always longed for accolades from Barty. But Barty had approved of her without reservation. Mace made his approval more valuable, forcing Kelsea to earn it, and the knowledge that she had failed cut very deep. “I knew that sooner or later you would tell me that I fucked it all up.”

  “Done is
done, Lady.”

  This was worse; not only did Mace not approve, he didn’t even want to discuss it. Kelsea’s eyes watered, but she forced the tears back, furious. “I suppose you think I’m just like her.”

  “You spend too much time dwelling on your mother, Lady. That’s always been a weakness of yours.”

  “Of course it has!” Kelsea shouted, mindless of the guards nearby. “She overshadows everything I try to do here! I can’t make a move without being hampered by her mistakes!”

  “Perhaps, Lady, but don’t deceive yourself. You make your own mistakes as well.”

  “Is this about Thorne?”

  His gaze slid away from hers, and Kelsea narrowed her eyes. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Listen to me, Lady. Listen very carefully.” Mace’s face had paled, and Kelsea suddenly realized that the granite expression she had mistaken for resignation was actually anger, a deep, quiet anger that was somehow worse than the blustering rage she had seen from Mace once or twice before. “You have done many things that I would not have done. You are reckless. You do not consider all consequences, nor do you take advice from people who are more informed than you. And yet I have never condemned any of your actions, until now.”

  “Why?” she hissed. “What makes Thorne so important?”

  “It’s not Thorne!” Mace roared, and Kelsea shrank back. “Stop being a child for once! It’s you, Lady. You have changed.”

  “This?” Kelsea ran a hand down her face and neck. “This is what concerns you?”

  “I wouldn’t care if you transformed into the Beautiful Queen herself, but your new face is not the issue, Lady. You are different.”

  “Less naive.”

  “No. More brutal.”