“What is that?” Kelsea asked.
The Red Queen pushed herself to her feet, holding the silver key in her left hand.
“It looks like a child,” she murmured, unlocking Kelsea’s cell and throwing the door wide open. “But it’s not.”
She held out her right hand, and there were Kelsea’s sapphires on her palm. Kelsea gaped at this offering. The Red Queen’s face was calm, but her eyes were wide with panic.
“Help me,” she whispered. “Help me, please.”
A giggle echoed down the corridor, and the Red Queen jumped. Leaning out of her cell, Kelsea saw a small form, too small to be anything but a child, at the foot of the stairwell. But this child’s chin was smeared with red, and it wore a bib of blood.
“You are good at hide-and-seek,” the child lisped, her thin voice echoing down the hall. “But I have found you now.”
“What is it?” Kelsea whispered.
“One of his. Please.” The Red Queen grabbed Kelsea’s hand and pressed the sapphires into her palm, and Kelsea realized, astonished, that she was speaking not in Mort, but in Tear.
“Please. They are yours. I give them back.”
Kelsea stared at the sapphires in her hand. She had spent so many months longing for her jewels, longing for the ability to punish and retaliate. But now that she had them in hand, she felt exactly the same. All of the power she had drawn from the sapphires, all of that ability to channel her anger into force, it was gone. But there was something there, for now she realized that she could actually tell them apart. The two jewels might appear identical, but they were different, utterly different, two discrete voices inside her head . . .
She had no time to analyze the difference. The child—a little girl, Kelsea saw now—was coming down the corridor, loping on all fours like a wolf, her teeth bared and face twisted in a snarl.
The Red Queen ducked behind Kelsea, clutching her shoulder in an iron grip of terror. Kelsea wondered what she was supposed to do in the two seconds before the child reached them, how on earth she was supposed to have time to make a plan, let alone act . . .
And time slowed down.
Kelsea saw this quite clearly. The child, which had been coming along the corridor at great speed, was suddenly reduced to the lazy velocity of the mud turtles of the Reddick. She moved only by inches.
No hurry at all, Kelsea thought, marveling. I have all the time in the world.
She looked down at her sapphires. Different, yes, but connected, wed to each other somehow. One of them was William Tear’s sapphire; it spoke to her clearly, not in words but in a flow of images, of ideas, speaking of the good and the light. Tear’s sapphire, which had allowed him to master time, to bring them all safely across the Atlantic and God’s Ocean. Carlin had always said that Tear’s settlers were lucky to stumble on the new world, the equivalent of hitting a bull’s-eye on a dartboard in the pitch-black. But that wasn’t true at all. William Tear had known exactly where he was going. There was no luck involved, because—
“It came from here,” Kelsea whispered, feeling the very rightness of the idea. A piece of Tear sapphire had somehow found its way into the old world, and Kelsea saw its journey clearly, like a story inside her head: passed down from Tear to Tear, hidden and smuggled, sometimes to the far corners of the earth, concealed from the powerful, guarded from the weak. Centuries of Tears, all of them fighting to hold back the darkness, to keep it at bay. Tear’s sapphire dealt in time; it had allowed her to slow the ravening child before her, to lengthen the hallway until it was nearly infinite, to see into the past.
How could I ever have thought they were identical?
The difference was like a chasm in her mind. The other jewel’s voice was low and hectoring, speaking of petty slights and jealousies and desires, of sneaking and spying, anger and violence. This sapphire had also been passed down through generations of Raleighs, but it had never really belonged to any of them, not even to Kelsea.
Row Finn?
She thought so. Once he saw what Tear’s sapphire could do, he would surely have tried to make his own. But he had not succeeded, not entirely, because this jewel was not independent. Kelsea could feel the bond between the two; Tear’s sapphire governed in some way that she couldn’t fully understand. Kept separate, Row’s jewel could do very little, but together . . .
“Carlin,” Kelsea whispered. Somehow, Carlin had known, because Row’s sapphire had lain around Kelsea’s neck all through her childhood—she could almost see all the days of her youth reflected in its glassy surface—while Carlin had kept Tear’s sapphire hidden away. And the Fetch had known, too, for he had deliberately withheld Tear’s sapphire while Kelsea was being tested. Row’s sapphire was capable of small things; in several quick blinks of memory, Kelsea saw the Caden assassin lying on the floor of her bathroom; the Mort camp spread out below her eyes; the woman in the Almont, screaming as her children were taken away. She had been able to see things far away, to defend her own life. These were useful bits of magic. But once the two were a pair again . . .
“Oh,” Kelsea gasped, horrified. An entire phalanx of images marched in front of her eyes now: hundreds of soldiers in the Mort army, gone in a spray of blood and bone; the vast web of cuts and slices that had covered her; General Ducarte’s face, twisted in agony; a set of open, bleeding cuts on the backs of Mace’s hands; and worst of all, Arlen Thorne, who had suffered an even worse life than that of the Red Queen, but somehow deserved no mercy, because . . .
But Kelsea could not even remember what reason she had cobbled together for mutilating Thorne. She remembered doing the deed, remembered black wings opening inside her, a darkness so inviting that a newly crowned Kelsea Glynn, one who seemed years younger in hindsight, had longed to lose herself inside it. But only madness waited there, the same madness that Finn and his ilk had always wanted to inflict on the Tearling . . . greed and callousness, lack of empathy, a narrowing of mind until only one lonely voice was left, surrounded by a void into which it could howl only a single word: Me.
With a cry of disgust, Kelsea yanked Finn’s sapphire away from Tear’s and held it up before her eyes, thinking I want none of this, I want no part of it, I want my own self back—
Something enormous wrenched inside her, as though muscle were peeling away from bone, and she suddenly understood. The Red Queen couldn’t use the sapphires, not because they belonged to Kelsea, but because there was nothing left to use. Kelsea had drained them dry. The two sides, Tear and Finn, had been warring inside her for months. For a moment Kelsea felt as though her own flesh were pulling apart, as though she would literally split down the middle with the force of that wish to have Row gone, to be Kelsea Glynn again . . .
And then it was done. The great divide inside Kelsea seemed to seal itself closed. She was still angry, yes, but it was her anger, the engine that had always powered her, not to punish but to fix, to right wrongs, and the relief of that was so great that Kelsea threw back her head and howled. The scream echoed up the corridor, but to Kelsea it seemed much more powerful than sound, as though it must shake the Palais to its stone foundations. For a moment, she expected the entire building to come crashing down around them.
When she opened her eyes, she found that the child had covered more than half of the distance. Row’s sapphire still dangled in front of Kelsea, not dark now, but bright and sparkling, its many facets gleaming, as though asking whether she would like to put it on again, just to try, just to see—
She wrapped her fist around the jewel, blocking out that light, and shoved it back into the Red Queen’s hand. An old memory occurred to her: speaking to the Fetch beside a campfire, back when she knew nothing and understood nothing, not even the real import of her own words.
“Keep it, Lady Crimson. I’d rather die clean.”
She didn’t know whether the Red Queen heard her; the woman remained frozen beside her, her eyes wide, almost mad. Only the faintest twitch of her fingers indicated that she registered the necklace,
was beginning to close her hand into a fist.
Casting around, Kelsea found that the page, Emily, was still lying unconscious at their feet, a large blue bruise in bloom at her temple. She could be no help, but beside her limp, curled fingers lay a long dagger, beautifully made. Kelsea grabbed it and found that it was more length than she was used to; Barty’s knife, confiscated from Kelsea long ago in the Almont, had been at least two inches shorter. But this was at least a weapon that she could wield.
“It’s strong,” the Red Queen told her, her words slow and distant. “Stronger than a man.”
“Then you’ll have to help me,” Kelsea replied.
The Red Queen merely stared at her.
“Help me! Do you understand?”
“With this?” The Red Queen lifted Finn’s sapphire.
“No. Put that away.”
The Red Queen tucked the sapphire away, and Kelsea felt relieved when it was out of her sight.
“I have magic, but it’s no match for this creature,” the Red Queen admitted. “So what then?”
“Good old brute strength. You help me hold her down, and I shove this dagger in her heart.”
The Red Queen shook her head. “These are not the monsters of the pre-Crossing fiction. They are something else.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
The girl was only two feet away now, preparing to spring. Kelsea tightened her grip on the dagger, murmuring to herself, almost a prayer.
“I put my trust in fiction.”
Then the girl was upon them, and Kelsea felt her pulse jump, time losing its elasticity and snapping back into itself. She had expected the girl to attack her first, since she was armed, but the child ignored Kelsea and sprang for the Red Queen, knocking her flat. The Red Queen forced her away, but Kelsea sensed that the blow was weak; the Red Queen was faltering. Kelsea grabbed the girl’s hair, yanking her backward, but she was astounded at the strength of the child; she came, but her hands did not release the Red Queen’s shoulders and the Red Queen came with her, all three of them tumbling on the hard stone. The dagger flew from Kelsea’s hand, clattering to the floor behind her. She detached herself from the pile and scrambled after it, while behind her, the Red Queen continued to grapple with the girl, cursing in Mort.
The dagger had landed against the bars of Simon’s cell. Kelsea grabbed it and looked up to see Simon in front of her, inches away, crouching behind his bars. She had never gotten a good look at him before, and now, despite everything behind her, she froze in shock.
He was General Hall.
But no, she had left Hall in New London, while this man had been imprisoned here for a long time. Hall’s brother had gone in the shipment, long ago . . . but Kelsea got no further, for a shriek echoed behind her. The girl had dug her nails into the Red Queen’s collarbone, and her mouth was less than an inch from the Red Queen’s shoulder. The Red Queen was trying to beat her away, with no success. Her eyes rolled in desperation. Tucking her head low, Kelsea ran at the girl and tackled her, breaking her from the Red Queen and knocking her across the flagstones. The child recovered almost immediately, but Kelsea was ready; she jumped on the girl’s left arm, pinning it down, and shoved an elbow up underneath the child’s throat, holding her dangerous teeth away.
“Help me!” she shouted at the Red Queen. “Her other arm!”
The Red Queen crawled over. She was injured; Kelsea’s mind registered the fact, but there was no time to do anything about it. The girl was writhing beneath her, trying to buck her off, and her strength was unbelievable. Even with the two of them pinning her arms, Kelsea nearly lost the dagger again.
“She’s too strong!” she shouted. “Hold her, will you?”
The Red Queen nodded, and a moment later Kelsea felt some of the girl’s wild strength diminish.
“I’ve got her,” the Red Queen hissed. “But not for long. Hurry up!”
“Father!” the child screamed. “Father, help me!”
One of his, Kelsea’s mind repeated, and again she wondered how on earth the boy Rowland Finn, charming and selfish, had traveled the long road to this place. Her hands shook, but she held fast to the dagger, planting one of her knees in the girl’s rib cage to stop her wriggling.
“Stop, Majesty!” Simon shouted from his cell. “She’s a child!”
“No child,” Kelsea panted. She took a good grip on the dagger. Rogue thought—What if Carlin could see me now?—drifted through her head, but she ignored it and brought the dagger down. The blade slipped smoothly into the center of the girl’s chest.
The child screamed, a terrible sound, both human agony and the wretched squealing of an animal caught in a trap. Her body bucked and spasmed, and both Kelsea and the Red Queen were hurled backward. Kelsea heard a hollow boom as her head hit the bars of Simon’s cell, such a resounding impact that her teeth clattered together. There was no pain; Kelsea waited for it, but before it could come, she tumbled into the dark.
General Hall had always hated this plan. For one thing, they were relying on Levieux, the phantom of Mortmesne, and nothing that Hall had heard about Levieux was a comfort. He claimed to be able to guide them through the Palais to the dungeons, even to the Queen’s cell, but would not tell them how he knew the way. There was nothing to even say whether this was the real Levieux, since no one ever saw the man. One of Levieux’s people was a Cadarese, and though Hall had never met any Cadarese, he knew they were not to be trusted. Worst of all, this entire operation relied upon a mob, and despite Levieux’s claim that he had given his people clear instructions, Hall knew that no one could truly direct a mob. The northern and western ends of Demesne were now on fire, more than ten city blocks burning out of control, and the local fire brigade was nowhere to be found. A force assailed the city’s northern gate, drawing what little enforcement Demesne still had, but what this force was or where it came from, Levieux refused to say. Hall’s operations were designed with certainty in mind, elimination of all variables achieved through repeated testing. This plan was madness, and they would only get one shot. It was too much to risk for one woman, even a Queen, but there was no talking to the Mace, who seemed to be in the grip of a fixed delusion that if they could only get the Queen out, all would somehow be well. No one could convince him otherwise, but Hall, who prided himself on realism, was prepared for disaster.
But so far, things had gone without a hitch. The Palais gates were open and unguarded, so the Mace’s plant had at least done her job. There was no sign of any security, and this made Hall uneasy; surely the woman couldn’t have suborned an entire Gate Guard? Levieux’s mob had already flooded the Palais, and Hall could hear the sounds of wreckage echoing throughout the upper floors: breaking glass and wood. Their little band—Levieux and four of his people, Hall and Blaser, and eight of the Queen’s Guard—had gone in the other direction, down several flights of stairs, following Levieux toward the dungeons. But they met no resistance, met no one of any kind. Their route was stunningly easy, and Hall didn’t trust it.
Then there was the smell. Hall had been a soldier far too long to miss that copper tang in the air. Blood had been spilled here, plenty of it, and not long ago either. They didn’t see a single body, but as they progressed down the stairs, they saw floors and hallways dappled with puddles of red.
The Mace’s plant was supposed to be at the bottom of the stairs, ready to open the doors to the dungeons, but she was nowhere to be seen. Instead they met a pair of iron gates that looked as though they had been hit with a ram. The bars were warped, and one of the doors dangled by the barest grace from a single hinge.
“What in hell did that?” Blaser whispered.
“Ready for anything, now,” the Mace said. He had pulled out his namesake weapon, and his face was pallid, almost ghastly, in the dim torchlight. If something had happened to the Queen, Hall wasn’t sure what it would do to the Mace.
“Come on, let’s get it done.”
They crept down the staircase, the only sound the flick
er and crack of their torches. Hall had been worried that Levieux and his people would be a nuisance, but he needn’t have been; they were the quietest of the bunch. Hall didn’t hear a single scrape or footstep.
“Sir,” Kibb said quietly. “Got a blood trail here.”
Hall looked down and saw it: every few risers, a small, dark sparkle of blood dotted the grey stone. In all of his worries over this venture, he had never thought that the Queen might be in real danger. She was a valuable prisoner, a bargaining chip; even if the Red Queen chose to have her beaten for spite—such things went on in the Mort dungeons all the time—the Queen would not face death or serious injury.
But at the sight of the blood, something seemed to tighten in Hall’s heart. In the past few weeks, he had revisited his angry words to the Queen many times. He had called her a glory hound. He owed her an apology, but there had been no chance.
“Blood’s running in her direction,” Levieux muttered, and Hall thought that even he was unnerved. Levieux was a cool customer; Hall had met with him only twice, during meetings in the Keep, but he had never seen the man rattled until now. The sick feeling in Hall’s midsection seemed to double. He had known that this plan was too easy, that something was bound to go wrong.
But please, he begged the universe, anyone, not so wrong as this.
The rumors Hall had heard about the Mort dungeons were not exaggerated. It was bone-cold down here, even to a soldier who had slept rough in the outdoor winter on several campaigns. Many of the cells they passed contained not even the standard pallet of the New London Jail. Most of the torches on the walls had long since burned out, and there were long stretches during which the torches carried by Levieux and Coryn provided the only light.
No guards, no jailors, Hall thought. What in holy hell happened here?
Whatever it was, it was clear that no one cared whether these prisoners lived or died. Only some of them appeared to have blankets, and many were coughing, hollow chesty coughs that Hall judged symptomatic of pneumonia. Some of them cried for water, displaying empty buckets through the bars as Hall went by.
The Fate of the Tearling Page 28
