“Why not lumber?” Kelsea asked. “I thought the surrounding kingdoms valued Tear oak.”
Lear glared at her; she had interrupted him again. “Not enough. Mort pine is of poorer quality than Tear oak, but you can build with it if you need to. Negotiations failed, and the Mort army made straight for New London. The road to the capital was wholesale rape and slaughter, and the Mort left a trail of burned villages in their wake.”
Kelsea thought of Mhurn’s story, of the man who had lost his wife and child. She stared up at the night sky. Where were the rest of her guards now?
“The situation was desperate. The Mort army was about to breach the walls of the Keep when Queen Elyssa finally came to an agreement with the Red Queen. The Mort Treaty was signed only a few days later, and it’s kept the peace ever since.”
“And the Mort? Did they withdraw?”
“Yes. Under the terms of the treaty, they left the city several days later and withdrew across the countryside. Strictly speaking, there were no further casualties.”
“Lear,” the Fetch cut in. “Have some more ale.”
Kelsea’s insides warmed with pride. Why had Carlin never told her any of this? This was the sort of tale she’d always wanted to hear. Queen Elyssa, the hero! She imagined her mother, barricaded in the Keep with the Mort hordes just outside and her food stores dwindling, sending secret messages back and forth to Demesne. Victory snatched from the very jaws of disaster. It was like something from one of Carlin’s books. And yet . . . and yet . . . as she looked around the table, she saw that none of the men were smiling.
“It’s a good story,” she ventured, turning to Lear. “And you told it very well. But what does it have to do with me?”
“Look at me, girl.”
She turned and found the Fetch staring at her, his gaze as grim as the rest.
“Why haven’t you begged for your life?”
Kelsea’s brow furrowed. What on earth did he want from her? “Why would I beg?”
“It’s the accepted course for captives, to offer everything in return for their lives.”
He was playing with her again, Kelsea realized, and the idea set off a flare of anger deep inside her. She drew a long, shaky breath before replying, “You know, Barty told me a story once. In the early years after the Crossing, there was a Tear farmer whose son took gravely ill. This was before the British ships arrived in the Tearling, so there were no doctors at all. The son grew sicker and sicker, and the father believed that he would die. He was consumed by grief.
“But one day a tall man in a black cloak showed up. He said he was a healer, that he could cure the son’s illness, but only for a price: the father must give him one of the son’s fingers to appease the man’s god. The father had his doubts about the man’s abilities, but he thought it a good bargain: one useless little finger for his son’s life, and of course the healer would only take the finger if he succeeded. The father watched for two days as the healer worked over his son with spells and herbs, and lo and behold, the son was cured.
“The father tried to think of a way to go back on the bargain, but he couldn’t, for the man in the black cloak had begun to frighten him very much. So he waited until his son was asleep, then he fetched a knife and sliced off the little finger of the boy’s left hand. He wrapped the hand with cloth and staunched the bleeding. But without antibiotics, the wound soon became infected with gangrene, and the son died all the same.
“The father turned to the healer, furious, and demanded an explanation. The healer drew off his black cloak to reveal a terrible darkness, a scarecrow shape of nothing. The father cowered, covering his face, but the shape only announced, ‘I am Death. I come quickly, I come slowly, but I am not cheated.’ ”
Lear was nodding slowly, the first smile she had ever seen flickering about his mouth.
“What’s your point?” the Fetch asked.
“Everyone dies eventually. I think it’s better to die clean.”
He watched her a moment longer, then leaned forward and held up the second necklace so that the sapphire swung back and forth above the table, catching the firelight. The jewel seemed very large, so deep that Kelsea could look beneath its surface and see something moving, dark and far away. She reached for it, but the Fetch pulled the necklace back.
“You’ve passed half of the test, girl. You’ve said all of the right things. We’re going to let you live.”
The men around the table seemed to relax all at once. Alain took the cards out and began shuffling them again. Howell got up and went for more ale.
“But,” the Fetch continued in a low voice, “words are the easy part.”
Kelsea waited. He spoke lightly, but his eyes were grave in the firelight.
“I don’t think you’ll survive long enough to truly rule this kingdom. You’re bright and good-hearted, perhaps even brave. But you’re also young and woefully naive. The protection of the Mace may extend your life beyond its appointed time, but he can’t save you. However . . .”
He took Kelsea’s chin in one hand, spearing her with his black gaze. “Should you ever gain the throne in truth, I expect to see your policies implemented. They’re much in need of refinement, and likely doomed to failure in execution, but they’re good policies, and they show an understanding of political history that most monarchs never take the trouble to achieve. You’ll rule by the principles you’ve outlined, and you’ll attempt to cure the blight on this land, no matter what it costs you. This is my test, and if you fail, you will answer to me.”
Kelsea raised her eyebrows, trying to hide the shiver that passed through her. “You think you could get to me once I’m in the Keep?”
“I can get to anyone in this kingdom. I am more dangerous than the Mort, more dangerous than the Caden. I’ve stolen many things from the Regent, and he’s been under my knife. I could’ve killed him many times over, but that I had to wait.”
“For what?”
“For you, Tear Queen.”
Then he was up and gone from the table in one fluid motion, and Kelsea was left staring after him, her face burning where his fingers had been.
Chapter 4
The Road to the Keep
O Tearling, o Tearling,
The years you have seen,
Your patience, your sorrow,
You cry for a Queen.
—“Lament for the Mothers,” ANONYMOUS
Kelsea woke with an aching head and a parched mouth, but it wasn’t until breakfast that she realized it was her first hangover. Despite the discomfort, she was charmed to experience something that she’d only read about in a book. An upset stomach was a small price to pay for fiction made real. The party had gone on well into the night, and she couldn’t remember how much mead she had drunk. It was tasty stuff; she should avoid it in the future.
Once she was dressed, the Fetch produced a shaving mirror so that she could look at the long, ugly gash that wandered down the right side of her neck. It had been neatly sewn closed with fine black thread.
“Good stitchery,” Kelsea told him. “But it will scar anyway, won’t it?”
The Fetch nodded. “I’m not God, nor am I the queen’s surgeon.” He gave her a mocking bow. “But it won’t fester, and you can tell people that you took the wound in battle.”
“Battle?”
“It was a battle getting all that armor off you, and I’ll tell the world so.”
Kelsea smiled, put down the mirror, and turned to him. “Thank you, sir. You’ve given me many kindnesses, my life not the least of them. I plan to grant you clemency.”
He looked at her for a moment, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“You don’t want clemency.”
He smiled. Kelsea marveled at the change in him; the grim man she’d seen last night seemed to have vanished with the sun. “Even if you pardoned me, Tear Queen, I’d simply throw it away by stealing something else.”
“Have you never wanted another life?”
“There’s n
o other life for me. Anyway, clemency wouldn’t begin to repay your debt. I’ve given you a greater gift than you know.”
“What gift?”
“You’ll find out. In return, I expect you to keep it safe.”
Kelsea turned back to the mirror. “Great God, tell me you didn’t impregnate me while I slept.”
The Fetch threw back his head and roared with laughter. He placed a friendly hand on Kelsea’s back, making her skin prickle. “Tear Queen, you’ll either be dead within a week or you’ll be the most fearsome ruler this kingdom has ever known. I see no middle ground.”
While she brushed her hair, Kelsea glanced at herself in the mirror. She had seen her own reflection in the pond at home, but this was very different; the mirror showed her what she really looked like. It wasn’t good. She thought her eyes were very nice, almond-shaped and bright green, part of her Raleigh heritage. Carlin had told her that all of her mother’s family had the same cat-green eyes. But her face was as round and ruddy as a tomato, and—there was no other word for it—plain.
The Fetch had given her some pins for her hair, beautiful amethyst pins in the shape of butterflies. Kelsea’s hair needed washing again, but the pins made it serviceable. She wondered if the Fetch had stolen them right out of some noblewoman’s hair. His smile deepened in the mirror, and Kelsea knew that he had read her mind. “You’re a rogue,” she remarked, clipping the last pin in place. “I should increase the price on your head.”
“Do so. It would only augment my fame.”
“What was your life before this? Despite the severity of my education, I think you have an even finer grasp of grammar and vocabulary than I do.”
He replied to her in Cadarese. “Of Tear, perhaps. But you’ll doubtless outshine me in Mort and Cadarese. I was late to begin learning both, and my accent is imperfect.”
“Don’t evade the question. I’ll find out when I get to the Keep anyway.”
“Then there’s no reason I should waste my valuable energy telling you now.” He reverted to Tear with a rueful smile. “I couldn’t remember the Cadarese for energy. I’m out of practice.”
Kelsea tilted her head and looked at him, questioning. “Is there nothing I can do for you or your men once I take the throne? Even a small thing?”
“Nothing comes to mind. Anyway, you have a monstrous task before you, Lady. I wouldn’t seek out any additional charge.”
“Since you won’t allow me to put a hold on your eventual decapitation, I suppose you would look foolish asking for a herd of sheep or a new crossbow.”
“I’ll collect on the debt someday, Tear Queen; don’t doubt it. And my price will be steep.”
Kelsea looked sharply at him. But his gaze was distant, outside her tent and over the trees. Toward the Keep.
All at once, she realized the great necessity of getting far away from him. He was a criminal, an outlaw, an indisputable threat to the very rule of law she hoped to establish. And yet she didn’t know if she would even have the will to imprison him someday, let alone give him the death sentence he surely deserved.
Some other man must come along and take my mind from him. A more acceptable man. That’s how it must work.
She set the mirror down. “Can I leave now?”
Mace (the Fetch told Kelsea) had made two more escape attempts in the night. Today, when they finally released him from his tent, he’d worked both legs free again. He was still blindfolded, but as they marched him forward, he delivered a sudden, vicious kick to Alain’s legs, and Alain went down to the ground, cursing and clutching his shin. Howell and Morgan hoisted Mace into his saddle, completing the operation with only minor mishap. They left his hands tied, and the murderous expression on his face remained plain beneath the blindfold.
Kelsea bade the Fetch and his men good-bye, an awkward sort of good-bye that seemed unnecessarily grave. She was gratified when Morgan seemed reluctant to see her go; he shook her hand in a manlike fashion and gave her an extra vial of anesthetic for her neck.
“What is this stuff?” Kelsea asked him, tucking the vial into her cloak. “It works wonders for a topical.”
“Opium.”
Kelsea raised her eyebrows. “Liquid opium? Is there such a thing?”
“You’ve led a sheltered life, Lady.”
“I thought opium was a controlled substance in the Tear.”
“That’s why God made the black market.”
The Fetch accompanied Kelsea and Mace for the first few miles, but insisted that Mace remain bound and blindfolded until they were some distance from the camp, so Kelsea had to lead Mace’s horse. Oddly enough, the Fetch had allowed them both to keep their stallions. Rake was a decent animal, but Mace’s stallion was a Cadarese beauty that must be worth a fortune. Kelsea wondered at this generosity, but didn’t ask.
Beneath her cloak, she wore Pen’s heavy armor. She’d been reluctant to leave it behind, and the Fetch agreed that she should keep it on. With some chagrin, Kelsea realized that she would need to get herself into more rugged physical condition, as armor would likely be part of her wardrobe for some time.
The Fetch halted atop a slope and pointed down to the countryside ahead, where a thin track wound its way through the yellow hills. “That’s the main road through these parts. It will eventually connect to the Mort Road, which takes you straight to New London. Whether you take the road or not is up to you, but even if you don’t, you should remain within sight of it. You’ll enter quagmire country late tonight, and without a sense of direction you might wander in a swamp forever.”
Kelsea stared out across the land. The hills hid much of the road, but eventually the beige line reemerged in the country beyond, neatly bisecting the farming plains and marching toward another set of hills, these brown. Hundreds of buildings clustered across them, all of them overshadowed by a gigantic grey monolith. The Keep.
“Would you take the road?” she asked the Fetch.
He considered for a moment, then replied, “I would take the road. I’m not in such great danger as you are at the moment, but still, I find that the direct way is often the right way, for reasons that can’t be foreseen.”
“If he would only remove this blindfold,” Mace growled, “I could decide the best way and be damned to him.”
“You will not, if you please,” the Fetch replied, “remove the blindfold until I’m gone.”
Kelsea looked at him curiously. “Is there some grievance between you two?”
The Fetch smiled, but his eyes, staring at the Keep, had hardened. “Not in the way you mean.”
He turned his horse and extended a hand. It was a firm, businesslike handshake, and yet Kelsea knew that it was a moment that would be with her all her life, whether she saw him again or no.
“One more thing, Lady.”
Kelsea started at the title; she was so used to him calling her “girl.” The Fetch reached into his shirt and pulled out the second necklace, which Kelsea had forgotten all about. Again she felt the urgency of getting away from him, this man who made her forget everything that was ordinary and important.
“This necklace is yours; I don’t claim it for myself. But I’m going to hold on to it.”
“Until when?”
“Until you earn it back with your deeds.”
Kelsea opened her mouth to argue, thought better, and shut it. Here was a man who did almost nothing spontaneously; everything was deliberate, so the chances of changing his mind with words were slim. Reaching up, she found that her own necklace had escaped from her shirt again, and she tucked it back in.
“Good luck, Tear Queen. I shall watch you with great interest.” He gave her a smile of goodwill and rode away, his horse gaining speed as he went down the slope. Within a minute he was over the next hill and out of sight.
Kelsea stared at the path he left for a bit longer; what Mace didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. But after a few minutes even the dust from the Fetch’s passage had cleared, and Kelsea turned back to Mace, bringing her ho
rse up alongside his and working quickly on the knots binding his wrists. When his hands were free, Mace tore the blindfold off his head, blinking rapidly. “Christ, that’s bright.”
“You showed remarkable restraint, Lazarus. With your reputation, I thought you would chew through your bonds and murder several people on the way here.”
Mace said nothing, only rubbed his wrists, which still showed deep bruising from the ropes.
“You were very impressive at the river,” she continued. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“We should be moving along.”
Kelsea looked at him for a moment and then turned back toward the city. “You’re pledged to see me safely to the Keep, I know. But I release you from that pledge. You’ve done enough.”
“My vow was made to a dead woman, Lady. You can’t release me from it.”
“What if we ride to our death?”
“Then we’ll be a fey pair indeed.”
Kelsea turned her face back into the gentle sting of the wind. “Unless you have a better idea, let’s take the road.”
Mace looked out over the countryside for a moment, his eyes eventually returning to New London, and he nodded. “We’ll take the road.”
Kelsea clicked to her horse, and they set off down the hill.
After they’d ridden hard for several hours, the small path the Fetch had showed them fed into the Mort Road, a broad avenue some fifty feet wide. This road took the bulk of trading traffic between the Tearling and Mortmesne, and the dirt was so tamped down that there was barely any dust. The path was crowded, and Kelsea thought it fortunate that she was wrapped in the deep purple cloak the Fetch had given her. Mace’s Guard grey was gone, replaced by a long black cloak, and if he still had his mace (she hoped he did), he’d prudently tucked it somewhere out of sight. Most of the people traveling in the direction of the Keep were also cloaked and hooded, and all seemed to want to keep their business to themselves. Kelsea kept her eyes out for figures that might be the Caden, or any trace of the grey worn by her Guard. But after a while, they saw so many people that Kelsea was unable to concentrate on any one for very long, and she thought that Mace would have a better sense of hidden danger. She trusted his eyes and concentrated on the road ahead.
The Queen of the Tearling Page 9
