When the Killians’ audience was over, Kelsea watched the pair retreat. She hadn’t liked most of the nobles she’d met today. They were dangerously complacent. Even the inadequate old concept of noblesse oblige had fallen by the wayside in this kingdom, and the privileged refused to look beyond their own walls and gardens. It was a problem that had contributed greatly to the Crossing; Kelsea could almost feel Carlin hovering somewhere close by, her face pinched in its old disapproval as she spoke of the ruling classes of times long gone.
Mace was peering toward the end of the hall, and as the Killians disappeared and Kelsea’s guard began to relax, he called a sharp command to remain at attention. A solitary man was trudging toward the throne, his face nearly hidden under a thick black beard. At the edge of Kelsea’s vision, Andalie made an involuntary movement, her hands stiffening.
Kelsea tapped her fingers on the silver arm of her throne, debating, while the man was searched. She looked to Andalie, who was staring at her husband with deep, dark eyes, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
Mace had descended to the foot of the dais and taken up what Kelsea thought of as his ready pose, a stance so casual that one who didn’t know Mace might think him lounging. But if Andalie’s husband should move a muscle in the wrong direction, Mace would have him down. The husband seemed to know as well; his eyes twitched toward Mace and he halted of his own volition, announcing, “I am Borwen! I come to demand the return of my wife and children!”
“You demand nothing here,” Kelsea replied.
He glowered at her for a moment. “Ask, then.”
“You’ll address the Queen properly,” Mace growled, “or you’ll be removed from this hall.”
Borwen took several deep breaths, his right hand creeping to his left bicep and feeling it gently, as though for comfort. “I ask Your Majesty for the return of my wife and children.”
“Your wife is free to leave, of her own volition, at any time,” Kelsea replied. “But if you wish to ask her anything here, you’ll first account for the marks on her skin.”
Borwen hesitated, and Kelsea could see countless excuses tumbling through his head. He mumbled a reply.
“Repeat!”
“Majesty, she wasn’t an obedient wife.”
Andalie snickered softly. Kelsea shrank from the sound, which held murder. “Borwen, are you a believer in God’s Church?”
“I go every Sunday, Majesty.”
“A wife is to be obedient to the husband, yes?”
“Such is the word of God.”
“I see.” Kelsea leaned back, studying him. How on earth had Andalie ended up wed to this creature? It would have taken a braver woman than Kelsea to ask her. “And did your manner of correction make her obedient?”
“I was within my rights.”
Kelsea opened her mouth, not knowing what would come out, but fortunately she was stalled by Andalie, who stood to her full height and said, “Majesty, I pray you, do not place myself or any of my children under this man’s dominion.”
Kelsea reached out and clasped her wrist. “You know I wouldn’t.”
Andalie looked down, and Kelsea thought she saw a flash of warmth in those grey eyes. Then she was simply Andalie again, her face blank and cold. “I know it.”
“What would you have me do here?” Kelsea asked.
“I care little, so long as he never comes near my children again.”
Andalie’s tone was as flat as her expression. Kelsea stared at her for a moment, a terrible picture forming in her mind, but before it could take shape, she whipped back to Borwen. “Denied. On the day your wife wishes, she can return to you with my blessing. But I won’t compel it.”
Borwen’s black eyes blazed, and a strange, feral sound emerged from his beard. “Is Your Majesty ignorant of the word of God?”
Kelsea frowned. The crowd, which had seemed sleepy, was fully awake now, looking between her and Borwen as though the conversation were a tennis volley. Any reply she made would get back to the Church, and she couldn’t lie; there were too many people in this hall. She arranged her words carefully before speaking. “History is full of failed kingdoms that purported to be ruled solely by the word of God. The Tearling is not a theocracy, and I must look to more sources than the Bible.” She felt her voice sharpening, but couldn’t stop it. “The word of God aside, Borwen, it seems to me that if you truly deserved the sort of obedience you crave, you would be able to compel it with some lever besides your fists.”
Color rose in Borwen’s face, and his eyes squinted down to black slits. Dyer, at the foot of the dais, advanced a few steps to stand in his path, one hand on his sword.
“Is there a recorder here?” Kelsea asked Mace.
“Somewhere. I sent him into the crowd, but he should be listening.”
Kelsea raised her voice and spoke over the hall. “My throne won’t tolerate abuse, no matter what God says about it. Husband, wife, child, it makes no matter; the one who lays violent hands on the other will account for it.”
She focused on Borwen again. “You, Borwen, as the first offender before me, won’t be punished. You provide the example around which I structure my law. But if you ever come before me again, or before any member of my judiciary, on a similar charge, the law will deal heavily with you.”
“I’ve been charged with nothing!” Borwen shouted, his heavy face crimson with rage. “I come to reclaim my stolen wife and children, and find myself put upon! It’s no justice!”
“Have you ever heard of the equitable doctrine of clean hands, Borwen?”
“No, and I care not!” he snarled. “I’m a man robbed, and I’ll say so before all the Tearling, if I must, to gain justice!”
Mace moved forward, but Kelsea snapped her fingers. “No.”
“But Lady—”
“I don’t know what’s gone on here in the past, Lazarus, but we don’t punish people for words. We’ll ask him to leave, and if he doesn’t, you can remove him as you like.”
Borwen was breathing hard now, great hoarse gasps; the sound reminded Kelsea of a slumbering brown bear that she and Barty had once come upon in the woods. Barty had given Kelsea a signal, and they had quietly reversed their steps. But the man in front of Kelsea was something entirely different, and she thought suddenly that she would enjoy fighting him, even with her bare hands, even if she took a beating for it.
I have too much anger in me, Kelsea realized. But the thought was a proud one: whatever her other failings, she knew that the anger would always be there, a deep and tappable well of force. Carlin would be disappointed, but Kelsea was the Queen now, not a frightened child, and she had learned much since leaving the cottage. She would be able to stand before Carlin and account for herself . . . not without fear, perhaps, but at least without the debilitating certainty that Carlin always knew best. Carlin had been right about many things, but even she had limitations; Kelsea saw them clearly now, outlined in bright colors. Carlin was without passion, without imagination, and Kelsea had plenty of both. Looking at the man below her, she saw an easy way out.
“Borwen, you’ve taken too much of my time with this nonsense, and you’ll leave my hall now. You’re free to charge my throne with any sort of injustice, but know that I will match it with your wife’s account of you. The choice is yours.”
Borwen’s mouth worked, but words had deserted him. His black eyes rolled like those of a cornered animal, and he slammed one large fist into his other hand, glaring up at Andalie. “Still haughty as ever, aren’t we? Does she know where you were raised? Does she know you have Mort blood?”
“Enough!” Kelsea pushed herself up from the throne, ignoring the protest from her shoulder. Her sapphire had come roaring to life; she felt it, a small, violent animal beneath her dress. “You’ve reached the end of my patience. You’ll leave this hall immediately, or I’ll allow Lazarus to remove you by any means he likes.”
Borwen backed away, smiling triumphantly. “Mort she is! Infected!”
“
Lazarus, go.”
Mace leaped toward Borwen, who turned tail and sprinted toward the doors. Appreciative laughter rippled from the crowd as he fled up the aisle. Andalie reseated herself beside Kelsea, her face as blank as ever. Once Borwen disappeared, Mace stopped his halfhearted pursuit and returned, his eyes sparkling with mirth. But Kelsea rubbed her own eyes wearily. What next?
“Lady Andrews, Majesty!” the herald cried.
A woman stormed toward the throne. Today her hair was covered by an elaborate hat, bright purple velvet decorated with purple silk ribbons and peacock feathers. But Kelsea recognized that pinched, displeased mouth with no difficulty at all.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered to Mace. “Didn’t we pay her for the damned tiara?”
“We did, Lady. Overpaid, actually. The Andrews are a house of chiselers, and Arliss didn’t want them to have any cause for complaint.”
Lady Andrews halted at the foot of the steps. She was much older than she’d seemed in the dim light of the throne room, perhaps as old as forty, and her face appeared to have been pulled unnaturally taut. Cosmetic surgery? There were no plastic surgeons in the Tearling, but it was rumored that Mortmesne had revived the practice. Tear nobles might dare the journey, particularly nobles like this one. Lady Andrews wore a saccharine smile, but her eyes said it all.
She hates me, Kelsea realized with some bemusement. Didn’t the woman have anything to worry about besides her hair?
“I’ve come to swear fealty before Your Majesty,” Lady Andrews announced. She had a distinctive voice, so raspy and hoarse that Kelsea wondered if she was a smoker, like Arliss. Or perhaps it was merely excessive drink.
“I’m honored.”
“I bring Your Majesty a gift, a gown of Callaen silk.”
The gown was beautiful, made of a bright royal blue silk that gleamed in the torchlight. But when Lady Andrews held it up, Kelsea saw that it was perhaps three sizes too small, tailored for a tall, slender woman like Lady Andrews herself. After considering it for a moment, Kelsea decided that the woman had sized the gown deliberately out of spite, just for the joy of having it be too small when Kelsea tried it on.
“Thank you,” Kelsea replied, feeling a small smile play on her lips. “How kind.”
Arliss took the dress and placed it among the steadily growing stack of gifts. Some of them were truly dreadful, given by people who apparently had the same taste in art as the Regent. But all of the gifts were at least valuable in materials; no one was quite brave enough to give Kelsea something that was junk. She had already decided to sell most of them, but Arliss was well ahead of her. He eyed the blue gown with a calculating gaze for a moment before making a note in his little book.
“I’ve also come to ask what Your Majesty means to do about Mortmesne.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Lady Andrews smiled, that deceptively sweet smile that seemed built to hide gnashing teeth. “You’ve violated the Mort Treaty, Majesty. I own lands toward the end of the Crithe, in the eastern Almont. I have much to lose.”
Kelsea snuck a glance at Mace and found him staring out across the crowd. “I have more to lose than you, Lady Andrews. More land, and my life as well. So why don’t you let me worry about it?”
“My tenants are alarmed, Majesty. I can’t say I blame them. They stand right in the path to New London, and they suffered cruelly in the last invasion.”
“I’m sure you cared deeply then as well,” Kelsea murmured. Her sapphire gave a sharp burn against her chest, and she suddenly saw a picture in her mind: a tall tower, its doors closed, its gates barricaded. “Did you and your guard go out to defend them?”
Lady Andrews opened her mouth, then paused.
“You didn’t, did you? You remained in your tower and left them to their own devices.”
The older woman’s face stiffened. “I saw no point in dying with them.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“What is your grievance with the shipment, Majesty?”
“My grievance?”
“It’s a fair system. We owe Mortmesne.”
Kelsea leaned forward. “Do you have children, Lady Andrews?”
“No, Majesty.”
Of course not, Kelsea thought. Children conceived by this woman would only be cannibalized by her womb. She raised her voice. “Then you don’t risk much in the lottery, do you? You have no children, you don’t look strong enough for labor, and you’re really too old to appeal to anyone for sex.”
Lady Andrews’s eyes widened in fury. Several feminine giggles echoed across the hall behind her.
“I’ll listen to complaints about Mortmesne and the lottery from people who actually have something to lose,” Kelsea announced to the hall. “People with a stake in the shipment can come and raise this issue with me any time I hold audience.”
She turned back to Lady Andrews. “But not you.”
Lady Andrews’s hands had clutched into claws. The nails were long hooks, manicured a bright purple. Deep pockets of red had emerged in the fleshless crescents beneath her eyes. Kelsea wondered if the woman would actually try to strike with her bare hands; it seemed unlikely, but Kelsea wasn’t sure. Neither was Mace; he’d moved a few inches closer, and now he stared at Lady Andrews with his most forbidding expression.
What does she see when she looks in the mirror? Kelsea wondered. How could a woman who looked so old still place so much importance on being attractive? She had read about this particular delusion in books many times, but it was different to see it in practice. And for all the anguish that Kelsea’s own reflection had caused her lately, she saw now that there was something far worse than being ugly: being ugly and thinking you were beautiful.
Lady Andrews recovered quickly, though her low voice still shook with anger. “And what have you to lose, Majesty? You spent your childhood in hiding. Has your name ever gone into the lot?”
Kelsea flushed, surprised into silence; this was something she’d never even considered. Of course her Glynn name had never been in the lottery, since no one knew that Kelsea Glynn existed. But was there even a lottery marker for Kelsea Raleigh? Of course not, no more than there had been a marker for Elyssa Raleigh or Thomas Raleigh or any of the countless parade of nobles who could afford to buy their way free of the lot.
Lady Andrews took another step forward now, undaunted by the proximity of Mace, her smile pure spite. “In fact, Majesty, you risk less than any of us, don’t you? If she invades again, you merely barricade yourself in your own tower, just as I did. Only your tower is even taller.”
Kelsea colored, thinking of the several rooms down the hallway filled with siege supplies: provisions and weapons, torches and barrels of oil. What could she do, promise to fight alongside the populace of New London? Seconds passed, and the people in the hall began to whisper. She looked to Mace and Pen, but found them stumped as well. Lady Andrews was grinning, the grin of a hunter with cornered prey, all perfectly shaped fangs. The thought of being cornered by this woman made Kelsea die inside, in some deep, dark place where none of Carlin’s lessons had penetrated.
In desperation, Kelsea grabbed her necklace and drew the sapphire out, clutching it tightly in one hand. She would take any answer it had, but the jewel gave her nothing, not even a hint of heat. The murmuring grew louder, echoing off the walls. Any moment now, someone would begin to laugh, and this creature would win.
“I was one of your villagers, Lady.”
Kelsea looked past Lady Andrews and saw that Mhurn had stepped forward. His face was white as ever, his bloodshot eyes pinned on Lady Andrews, but for once, his pallor was not from sleeplessness. It was from fury.
“Who the fuck are you?” Lady Andrews snarled at him. “A guard who dares to address a noble direct? You’d be whipped for that in my audience chamber.”
Mhurn ignored her. “We tried, you know. My wife had never learned to ride, and my daughter was ill. We had no chance to outrun the Mort on the horizon. We went to the gate of
the castle and begged for shelter, and I saw you up at the window, staring down at us. You had all those rooms, yet you refused to give us even a single one.”
Kelsea was suddenly overcome with memory: the day in the Almont, the farmers working in the fields and the tall tower of brick. Lady Andrews had begun to back away, but Mhurn advanced, and Kelsea saw the glint of tears in his eyes. “I’ve known the Queen barely a month, but I promise you, when the Mort come, she will try to cram the entire Tearling into this Keep, and she won’t care how recently they’ve bathed or how poor they are. She’ll make room for all.”
Lady Andrews stared at him, her mouth open wide, utterly speechless. Mace went to Mhurn and spoke to him in a low voice. Mhurn nodded and walked quickly behind the throne toward the guard quarters. Kelsea remembered the day, earlier this week, when she had passed Mhurn to go out on the balcony and been overwhelmed by suspicion. She looked around at the other guards stationed on the chamber, nineteen of them now, their faces hard. Did they all have similar stories? She felt suddenly wretched. Even if one of them was guilty, how could she suspect any of them?
“I demand punishment, Majesty!” Lady Andrews had recovered her voice. “Give me that guard!”
Kelsea burst out laughing, true laughter that rang across the audience chamber. It felt wonderful, more so as Lady Andrews’s face turned a bright, choleric purple.
“I’ll tell you what you do, Lady Andrews. You take your dress and get the hell out of my Keep.”
Lady Andrews opened her mouth, but for a moment nothing came out. In the space of seconds, a thousand tiny lines seemed to have sprung up in the taut skin of her face. Arliss had produced the dress and now offered it to Lady Andrews, though his lowered brows told Kelsea that they’d be discussing it later.
The Queen of the Tearling Page 32
