Kelsea’s jaw clenched. “And what of that?”
“Think it over, Lady. There are worse things than becoming your mother.”
Kelsea’s temper snapped, and for several seconds, she hovered within inches of picking Mace up and heaving him over the wall. She could do it, she knew. . . . Thorne’s execution had awakened something inside her, some creature that stalked through her daily life, looking for any excuse to spring. This creature was predatory, implacable, and it did not want to go back to sleep.
Mace stepped forward, reaching out to take her shoulder. Mace never touched her unless there was a security issue, and Kelsea was so surprised that she stilled immediately, feeling her anger retreat.
“Take your jewels off, Lady,” Mace pleaded. “Let them go. For all the good they’ve done, it’s not worth what’s happening to you. I’ll hide them away. No one will ever find them. Build your throne, your legacy, on something else.”
For a moment, Kelsea wondered whether he was right, whether the jewels were the real problem. The dreams, the voices, Lily’s inexorable invasion . . . some part of Kelsea’s own life seemed to have gotten lost en route. The way her guards eyed her now, when they thought she wasn’t looking: tentative, suspicious, sometimes even fearful. The feeling of helplessness when she looked in the mirror and found Lily’s face staring back at her. Everything had gone bad somehow, and Kelsea wasn’t even sure when it had happened.
But the sapphires . . . what Mace asked was impossible. It didn’t even matter that the sapphires did nothing anymore, that they seemed to be lifeless. They were hers, and now Kelsea found herself staring a hard truth in the face: she had her own narcotics. They merely took a different form.
“No,” she finally replied. “You can’t ask me for that.”
She felt his eyes on her, their weight nearly physical.
“Are we going to have a problem, Lazarus?”
“I suppose that depends on you, Lady. I’m a Queen’s Guard. I’m sworn.”
A throat cleared behind Kelsea, and she whirled, furious that anyone dared to interrupt. But it was only Coryn, standing at the top of the steps.
“We’ll continue this at a later time,” she told Mace.
“I can hardly wait.”
She gave him a sharp glance, feeling her temper trying to awaken again, but then it subsided. It was only Mace, after all, Mace who always said the true thing that Kelsea didn’t want to hear. She put one hand to her temple, which was suddenly throbbing, clamoring for attention. She felt as though her mind was being pulled in two directions, past and future lying opposite each other on a straight track. At one end lay Lily Mayhew and the strange Englishman who had brought them all to the new world, built a colony, and given the kingdom its name, and at the other end was the Mort army, breaking the walls of her city. Kelsea could see each step clearly: the breach of the wall, the black masses pouring in, the orgy of slaughter and violation and brutality that would follow. Men, women, children . . . no one would be spared. The Sack of New London, they would call it, a horror that would decimate the Tearling for generations. How could there be no alternative? Could she destroy the Mort army as she had destroyed Thorne? She could try, but the terrible consequences if she failed . . . Kelsea turned back to the horizon, and though it was only her imagination, the black cloud seemed closer. Madness beckoned, and Kelsea felt that it would embrace her, if she allowed it . . . a deep, dark nothingness that would wrap her like a cloak and take all dilemmas away.
“What is it, Coryn?”
“We’ve had word from the Cadarese. They will not offer assistance. Further, the King’s offer of marriage is withdrawn.”
Kelsea felt a bitter smile stretch her lips. “Is Kattan here?”
“No, Lady.”
“Kattan’s the First Ambassador,” Mace told her, “the man for happy times and sweet offers. When they want to cut and run, they send some poor bastard who may or may not survive the trip.”
“The Cadarese messenger did leave a present, Lady,” Coryn added.
“What is it?”
“A stone bowl. For fruit.”
Kelsea began to giggle. She couldn’t help it. Mace was smiling now, too, but it was a tired smile, worlds removed from his normal grin. “The Cadarese are isolationists, Lady. This is their way.”
“I suppose there will be no good news,” Kelsea replied, her laughter subsiding. “It just isn’t that kind of day, is it?”
“Nor that kind of month, Lady.”
“No, I suppose not.” Kelsea began to wipe a tear from her cheek and saw that her hand was bleeding.
“Are you all right, Lady?”
“I’m fine. We should arm everyone in the city who’s fit to hold a sword.”
“We don’t have the steel.”
“Wooden swords, then, anything. Just give them weapons.”
“To what end?”
“Morale. People don’t like to feel defenseless. And when the refugees come in, I want all the families with children moved to the Keep.”
“There’s not enough room.”
“Then do the best you can, Lazarus.” Kelsea rubbed her temples. Lily was calling her, tugging at her mind, but Kelsea didn’t want to go back, didn’t want to watch Lily’s life play out inside her head. The present was bad enough.
“We should get you back inside, Lady. You have a fugue coming on.”
She turned to him, surprised. “How do you know?”
“Just the look you get. We know the signs now.”
“When is Pen back?”
Mace gave her an inscrutable look. “His leave is over tonight, but he likely won’t be back until after you fall asleep.”
“That’s fine.”
“Be careful, Lady.”
She whipped around, meaning to snap at him: it was none of his business whom she slept with! But she kept quiet. Pen did not belong to her, after all. If he belonged to anyone, it was to Mace.
“Lady!”
“Christ God, Coryn, what? Another messenger?”
“No, Lady.” Coryn raised his hands. “It’s the magician now. He says he must speak to you.”
“Who?”
“The magician who performed at your dinner. Bradshaw.”
But the man who emerged from the staircase was not the impeccably neat performer that Kelsea had seen at dinner that night. Bradshaw had been badly beaten. Both of his eyes were puffed with dark bruising, and there were red scrapes across his cheeks.
“Majesty,” he panted. “I must beg you for asylum.”
“What?”
“The Holy Father has placed a price on my head.”
“You’re joking.”
“I swear to you, Majesty. One hundred pounds. I have been on the run for days.”
“I have no love for the Holy Father, Bradshaw, but it seems unlikely that he would place an open bounty on a man’s head.”
“I’m not the only one, Majesty! The old priest, Father Tyler. The Holy Father offers a bounty for him as well.”
Kelsea felt her stomach sink, a slow roll, as she realized that she had not seen Father Tyler for several days. Arliss and his siege preparations had kept her far too busy to notice, but now she counted backward and found that it had been at least three days since Father Tyler had last come to the Keep.
“Where is he?” she asked Mace.
“I don’t know, Lady,” Mace replied, his face troubled. “This is the first I’ve heard of this.”
“Find him, Lazarus. Find him right now.”
Mace went to confer with Coryn, and Kelsea was left with the magician. Mace had left her unguarded, she realized suddenly, and this was perhaps the truest indication that he knew the real score: Kelsea was in no physical danger from anyone anymore. Her Guard was only a polite fiction. An idea glimmered at the edges of her mind for a moment, something to do with the Mort, but when she reached out to grasp it, the idea was gone, subsumed in worry over Father Tyler. The magician had been able to outrun his pursuers; w
hat could Father Tyler do? He was an old man with a broken leg.
“Does the Holy Father have some prior grievance with you?” she asked the magician.
“No, Majesty, I swear to you. I never saw him before that night at the Keep. Word in the Gut is that the Holy Father has excommunicated all performers of my trade. But I’m the only one for whom he offers a bounty.”
So this was not about Bradshaw. The Holy Father might hate magicians, but the bounty was a slap aimed directly at Kelsea.
“How much danger are you really in?”
“Less than another might be without my gift of vanishing. But I can’t outrun them forever, Majesty. I’m too well known in the city. I swear to you, I will be of use to you.”
Kelsea laughed and gestured over the wall. “Look out there, Bradshaw. I have no need of an in-house performer now.”
“I understand, Majesty.” The magician stared at the ground for a long moment, then squared his shoulders and spoke quietly. “I’m no performer.”
“What does that mean?”
Bradshaw leaned closer. If Mace had been nearby, he would never have allowed it, but he was still deep in conference with Coryn, and so Bradshaw was able to hunch over Kelsea, hiding her from the rest of her Guard.
“Look.”
Bradshaw raised his right palm and held it perfectly still. After a moment, the air above his palm began to shimmer, as cobblestones did in high heat. The shimmer solidified into a knife, a silver knife with an old and intricate handle.
“Try it, Majesty.”
Kelsea grasped the knife, found it solid in her hand.
“They say you have magic, Majesty, in your jewels. But there is other magic in the Tear. My family is full of such gifts.”
Kelsea snuck another quick look at Mace. He would not like it, she knew; he distrusted magicians, all of their ilk. And yet the man had meant no harm that night; Kelsea had hired him to perform. There were larger considerations here, too: the Holy Father might have paid off the nobles of New London, but the truly devout would never tolerate something as prosaic as a bounty from the Arvath.
“I will take you in,” she told the magician. “But the Queen’s Wing won’t be a safe haven for very long. When the Mort come, you may wish you had simply disappeared for good.”
“Thank you, Majesty. I will take no more of your time.”
Bradshaw whirled, with his unnatural acrobat’s grace, and was off toward Mace before Kelsea could tell him that she was not busy, far from it, that she had nothing better to do than stare out at the horizon and watch a ghastly destruction play out over and over in her mind. That cloud on the horizon belonged to her. She was the one who had brought it here. She shivered, sensing again the tickling fingers of Lily’s mind, nearly a physical thing, worming its way inside her own. Lily’s life was hurtling toward some calamity, and she needed something from Kelsea, something Kelsea could not see yet. And now Kelsea saw that there was no difference which vision she lived in. Past or future, in either direction lay only terror. She turned back to the horizon and restarted the count of her own mistakes, preparing to suffer through them again, one at a time. Preparing to scourge.
Bastards aren’t worried about us anymore, that’s for sure,” Bermond muttered. “No real sentries out there, just the hawks.”
Hall grunted in agreement, but didn’t look up from his helmet. A sword had grazed his chin two days before, slicing the helmet’s clasp clear off. Hall had rigged a substitute by sewing on an extra piece of leather, but now the fit was imperfect. The helmet kept threatening to slide off his head.
Still, it could have been worse. He would have a scar, but his winter beard would easily cover it. The stupid clasp had probably saved his teeth, if not his life. The clasp seemed like something Hall should have kept, a good-luck charm to carry in his pockets, but it was lost now, perhaps three miles up the Caddell.
“Stop fucking with that thing, Ryan, and have a look.”
With a sigh, Hall dropped his helmet and pulled out his spyglass. He hadn’t slept in three days. The last two weeks had been a blur of pitched battles and retreat as the Mort army pushed them inexorably southwest, across the Crithe and back toward the lower Almont. Sometimes Hall couldn’t tell whether he was asleep or awake anymore, whether the war he fought was real or merely taking place inside his own head. The Mort had taken both banks of the Caddell several days ago, and now the river was crossed with several portable footbridges, ingenious mechanisms that Hall could not help admiring, even while he schemed ways to bring them down. The footbridges allowed the Mort to hold not only both sides of the river but the water itself, to move straight up the riverbed without effectively dividing their forces. The bridges appeared to be made of solid oak, reinforced with steel in the center to keep them from snapping under the army’s weight, but they disassembled quickly for transport. Someone in Mortmesne was a hell of an engineer, and Hall wished he could speak to him for just a few minutes, even now while the world came down around their ears.
Hall’s spyglass caught and held on a flag on the south side of the Caddell. Most of the Mort camp was either black or a deep stormcloud grey, but this flag was bright scarlet. Hall stood up from his crouch, disregarding the threat of Mort archers, and focused the lens. The red flag was planted on top of a deep crimson tent.
“Sir. Ten o’clock on the south side of the river.”
“What? Oh hell, look at that.” Bermond set down his spyglass and rubbed his temples. He hadn’t slept in days either. Even the blue plume on his helmet, a sign of rank to which Bermond was ridiculously attached, hung limply in the hazy sunlight. “All we need now.”
“Maybe it’s not really her, only a ruse by the Mort.”
“You think it’s a ruse?”
“No,” Hall replied after a moment’s thought. “She’s here, come to finish what she started.”
“Morale’s hanging by a threat already. This might snap it.”
Hall turned his spyglass west, toward New London. The Queen’s refugee camp sprawled in front of the city, a vast acreage of tents and tarps, and now it was a frenzy of activity as Census people evacuated the last occupants into New London. Stone walls ringed the city, a perimeter set just off the edge of the Caddell, some ten feet high. But these walls had been hastily constructed on soft riverbank ground; they would not stand up to assault. Everything was a holding action. One more day to finish the evacuation, and then Bermond would pull the army back to New London, and they would all settle in for siege. A thick cloud of smoke hung over the city; they were slaughtering and roasting all of the animals, curing the meat for the long haul. The army had also been hoarding water, knowing that once the Mort reached the walls, the Caddell would be cut off. Good preparations, but still, a holding action. There was only one way for a siege to end.
“Still, Mort morale might be weak as well,” Bermond mused hopefully. “The Mort like their plunder, lad, and we’ve given them none. I hate to admit it, but the Queen had a good idea with her evacuation. There must be some grumbling going on in their camp by now.”
“Not enough,” Hall replied, and gestured toward the crimson tent. “If they were grumbling, she’d put a stop to it.”
He didn’t want to mention the Red Queen by name. An old superstition from his childhood on the border, where every child knew that if you spoke of the Red Queen, she might appear. Names made a thing real, far more real than that distant spot of scarlet . . . and yet once his men spotted the tent, Hall knew that the fear would sweep through the remainder of the Tear army like an evil wind.
Bermond sighed. “How do we keep them off for one more day?”
“Pull back. Mass at the entrance to the bridge and build a barricade.”
“They have siege towers.”
“Let them try. We have oil and torches.”
“You’re in fine form today. What did you do, sneak off to Whore’s Alley last night?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I
had a dream.”
“A dream,” Bermond repeated, chuckling. “About what?”
“About the Queen,” Hall replied simply. “I dreamed that she lit a great fire that wiped the land clean. The Mort, the Red Queen, the wicked . . . all of the Tear’s enemies were swept away.”
“Never knew you to be a man for portents, Ryan.”
“I’m not. But all the same, it put me in a good mood.”
“You place far too much faith in a naive child.”
Hall did not reply. Bermond would never see the Queen as anything but an upstart, but Hall saw something else, something he could not quantify.
“They’re coming again,” Bermond muttered. “Put your helmet on. See if you can push them down toward the muddy part of the bank. Their footwork isn’t nearly as fearsome as their steel, and they’ll have trouble on soft ground.”
Hall signaled to the men behind him to get ready. A detachment of Mort had emerged from the camp, spreading out along the north bank of the Caddell. Time and time again they had pushed the Tear back with flanking maneuvers, an easy business with overwhelmingly superior numbers. This would be no different. Hall spared a final glance for the refugee camp behind him, the antlike frenzy of the final stages of the evacuation.
One more day, he thought, then drew his sword and led his men down the knoll toward the river. Bermond remained on the hilltop; his limp didn’t allow him to engage in close combat anymore. Hall’s men caught him up as he ran, surrounding him on both sides, Blaser right beside him. Blaser had taken a nasty wound to the collarbone on the shores of the Crithe, but the medics had stitched it up, and now Blaser was bellowing as they reached the bottom of the hill and ran into the Mort line. Hall felt the impact of an iron sword against his, all the way down his arm, but the pain was muted, as it always was in dreams. He regarded the assailant across from him, slightly bewildered, wondering for a moment what they were actually fighting about. But muscle memory was a powerful thing; Hall heaved the soldier away and sliced downward, finding the join between wrist and glove. The man shrieked as his hand was nearly severed.
“Hawks! Hawks!”
The shout had gone up behind Hall, on the knoll. He looked up and found at least ten hawks speeding over his head. Not sentries, these; they cruised the sky, spread equidistant, flying westward in silent formation. Specially trained, but for what?
The Invasion of the Tearling Page 33
