Even small gestures of kindness have the potential to reap enormous rewards. Only the shortsighted man believes otherwise.
—The Glynn Queen’s Words, AS COMPILED BY FATHER TYLER
The Cadarese ambassador, Ajmal Kattan, was a charmer: tall, sharp-witted, and handsome, with almond-colored skin and a blinding white smile. Kelsea liked him immediately, despite Mace’s warning that this was exactly the sort of ambassador the King of Cadare always sent to women: smooth and plausible and seductive. Kattan’s Tear was imperfect, but even his accent was engaging, riddled with pauses before long words and a sharp drop on the penultimate vowel. He had brought Kelsea a beautiful chess set carved from marble, kings and rooks and bishops with intricately detailed faces, and she accepted the gift happily. After their return from the Argive, she had sent several Keep servants to clean out Carlin and Barty’s cottage, and among assorted other things, they had brought back Carlin’s old chess set. Both Arliss and Mace were good players; Arliss could beat Kelsea two times of three. But Carlin’s set was old, whittled—by Barty, no doubt—of plain wood and beginning to show its wear. It had great sentimental value to Kelsea, but the new set would be more durable for play.
Mace had warned Kelsea that the Cadarese placed great value on appearances, and as such, she had not wanted to conduct this meeting in the large central room of the Queen’s Wing that usually served for such functions. At her urging, Mace had finally relented and moved the throne back down to the massive audience chamber several floors below. When not filled with people, the chamber felt ridiculously cavernous, so they had also thrown this audience open to the public. Tear nobles had more or less stopped attending Kelsea’s audiences once they realized that no gifts would be dispensed from the throne, and Mace and Kelsea had decided on a simple, fair system: the first five hundred people who came to the Keep Gate could attend the audience, so long as they submitted to a search for weapons. Kelsea had found that clothing was a fairly reliable index of wealth; some of the people who stood in front of her were clearly of the entrepreneurial class, probably dealing in lumber if not something less legal. But the majority of the audience was poor, and Kelsea had the regrettable thought that most of them had come here for entertainment. Her first few public audiences had featured quite a bit of talk and some occasional catcalling from the crowd, but Mace had taken care of that, announcing that anyone who captured his attention could look forward to a private conference. Now Kelsea barely heard a peep.
“My master begs that you will honor him with a visit,” the ambassador said.
“Perhaps one day,” Kelsea replied, seeing Mace frown. “At the moment, I have too much to do.”
“Indeed you have the full plate. You have provoked the Ageless Queen. My master admires your bravery.”
“Has your master never provoked her?”
“No. His father did, and received a painful reminder. Now we pay twice as much in glass and horses.”
“Perhaps that’s the difference. We were paying in humans.” A moment later Kelsea remembered that the Cadarese also sent slaves to Mortmesne, but the ambassador did not seem to take offense.
“Yes, we’ve heard this as well. You forbid human traffic within your borders. My master is greatly entertained.”
There was an insult wrapped in the last statement, but Kelsea made no attempt to unpack it. She needed help from the Cadarese king, and she could not offend the ambassador by questioning him in front of his aides, but neither did she have time to engage in the lengthy and circuitous prelude to serious discussion that was fashionable in Cadare. This morning, a message had arrived from Hall, with bad news: General Ducarte had taken command of the Mort army. Everyone in the Queen’s Wing seemed to know a horror story about Ducarte, and although the border villages had already been evacuated and Bermond was now beginning to clear out the eastern Almont, even a successful evacuation would accomplish nothing if Ducarte got to New London. The city’s defenses were weak. The eastern side had a high wall, but that wall was too close to the Caddell River, built on watery ground. The western side of the city had nothing. Her mother had trusted the natural defense of the Clayton Mountains to protect the west against a prolonged siege, but Kelsea was not so sanguine. She wanted a western wall around the city, but Mace estimated that they had less than two months until the Mort reached the city. Even if she conscripted every stonemason in New London, they would never build it in time.
But Cadare had many masons, the best stoneworkers in the New World. Even if the King was unwilling to supplement the Tear army with his own forces, perhaps Kelsea could get him to lend her some of his craftsmen. At the very least, she needed him to stop sending horses to Mortmesne; there was a saying, only lightly exaggerated, that a sick Cadarese mare could outrun a healthy Tear yearling. Better horses weren’t much use to the Mort up in the Border Hills, but once they got down into the Almont, superior cavalry would be a crushing advantage. She needed these negotiations to bear fruit.
“Shall we get down to business, Ambassador?”
Kattan’s eyebrows rose. “You move quickly, Majesty.”
“I’m a busy woman.”
Kattan settled in his chair, looking a bit disgruntled. “My master wishes to discuss an alliance.”
Kelsea’s heart leapt. A murmur ran through the audience chamber, but Mace did not react; he was too busy staring at the ambassador with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
“My master likewise wishes to reduce his tribute to the Mort,” Kattan continued. “But neither Cadare nor the Tearling is strong enough to do so alone.”
“I agree. What would the terms of this alliance be?”
“Slowly, slowly, Majesty!” Kattan insisted, waving his hands, and that was Kelsea’s real clue that she would not like what was coming: the ambassador felt the need to wend his way into it. “My master recognizes your bravery in defying the Mort, and would reward you accordingly.”
“Reward me how?”
“By making you first among his wives.”
Kelsea froze, dumbfounded, hearing several of her Guard mutter around her. She swallowed hard and managed to reply, though it felt as though her throat were full of moths. “How many wives does your King have?”
“Twenty-three, Majesty.”
“Are they all Cadarese?”
“All but two, Majesty. Those two are Mort, gifts from the Ageless Queen.”
“What are the ages of these wives?”
The ambassador looked away and cleared his throat. “I am not sure, Majesty.”
“I see.” Kelsea wanted to kick herself. She should have seen it coming. Mace had told her that the Cadarese were isolationists, that their assistance would come with heavy strings. But she didn’t think that even Mace had foreseen such an offer. She scrambled to think of a counterproposal. “What is the value of being the first wife?”
“You sit immediately beside the master at table. You have first pick of all gifts delivered to the palace. Once you have produced a healthy son, you have the right to refuse the master’s attentions if you wish.”
Coryn had begun tapping his fingers on his sword. Elston appeared to be thinking of creative ways to disembowel the ambassador, and Kibb placed a warning hand on his shoulder. But Mace . . . Kelsea was glad that Kattan could not see Mace’s expression, for there was murder there.
“What of an alliance without marriage?”
“My master is not interested in such an alliance.”
“Why not?”
“The King of Cadare cannot have an alliance on an equal footing with a woman. Marriage ensures that Your Majesty is seen to submit her will to my master in all things.”
Mace moved in sharply, blocking off Kelsea’s right side. She blinked in surprise, for she had sensed no threat from the ambassador or his guards. It took a few moments for her to see it: Mace had actually moved to protect the ambassador. Some of Kelsea’s anger ebbed away then; she smiled at Mace, and felt a rush of affection when he smiled back.
Turning back to Kattan, she asked, “Would your master expect to share my throne?”
“It is difficult for one man to govern two kingdoms, Majesty. Rather, my master would appoint a”—Kattan paused for a moment, searching for language—“castellan, yes? A castellan, to oversee your throne on his behalf.”
“And I would live in Cadare?”
“Yes, Majesty, with my master’s other wives.”
Elston had begun to crack his knuckles now, slowly and obtrusively, one at a time. Kattan, clearly sensing the thin ice beneath him, did not elaborate on the further joys of living in the King’s harem, but merely waited silently for Kelsea’s response.
“This is the only offer you bring?”
“My master has not empowered me to make any other offer, Majesty.”
Kelsea smiled gently. If she were the ruler Carlin had been trying to train, she might have taken Kattan’s deal, distasteful as it was. But she could not. An entire life seemed to flash before her eyes, the life of a Cadarese concubine outlined clearly, before she pushed the thought out of her head. If it would save the Tearling, she would gladly give up her own life, stick a knife in her heart tomorrow. But this . . . she could not.
“I refuse.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Kattan looked up, his black eyes twinkling with sudden amusement. “I cannot say that I am surprised.”
“Why not?”
“We have heard all about Your Majesty, even in Cadare. You have a will.”
“Then why offer?”
“It is my job, Majesty, to carry the master’s wishes and offers. Incidentally, this offer will remain open until my master withdraws it.” The ambassador leaned a few inches closer, lowering his voice. “But for your sake, I am glad that you do not accept. You are not such a woman, to be content in my master’s harim.”
Kelsea met his smiling eyes and felt her mouth twitch back. She found him attractive, she realized . . . attractive in a way that only the Fetch had been before. It was a wonderful feeling, almost like freedom. “Will you be staying with us long, Lord Ambassador?”
“Sadly, Majesty, I am to report back to my master as soon as negotiations are concluded. We will beg your hospitality for one night only.”
“A pity.” But Kelsea knew it was probably for the best. She already spent far too much time thinking about the Fetch, and another handsome man would only be a further distraction. Deep in her mind, a small voice rose in protest: would she never deserve any pleasure for herself? But Kelsea smothered it easily. Whenever she needed a cautionary tale, her mother was always there, waiting in the back of her mind.
Mace cleared his throat, reminding Kelsea of her duties as a hostess: Cadarese hospitality had well-defined rules, and they would expect to share at least one meal with her before they left.
“Well, gentlemen, we have—” Kelsea began, but she got no further, for the doors at the other end of the throne room suddenly exploded in commotion.
Kelsea’s guards drew in tight. Her memory doubled back to that terrible day of her crowning, and the muscles of her shoulder tensed automatically, bunching up beneath her scar. Something was happening at the doors; a group of Queen’s Guards and Tear army had coalesced into a huddle. Several men shouted to be heard.
“What is it?” Mace called across the room.
No one answered him. An argument was clearly going on, army men bickering with the Guard. But finally a group won through, two men hauling a third between them. They approached the throne slowly, haltingly, followed closely by soldiers and guards.
“Good Christ,” Mace muttered. Kelsea, whose eyesight was not good, had to wait a few moments, but as the three men came closer, her mouth dropped open.
On the left was her Jailor, Ewen, his open, friendly face now scuffed with bruises, one eye swollen shut. On the right was Javel, the prisoner from the Argive. His wrists were manacled, but he appeared to be unharmed.
Between them, nearly unconscious, bound with thick rope and bleeding from multiple wounds, was Arlen Thorne.
Ewen recognized the man the moment he saw him. He didn’t need the silence at the top of the dungeon stairs, where two soldiers were supposed to be on duty at all times. He didn’t need the swift intake of breath by the woman in Cell Two or the way her eyes blazed as she stared up through the bars. He didn’t even need the glimpse of the knife tucked behind the man’s back. A tall, starving-thin man with bright blue eyes, the Queen had said . . . and when Ewen looked up and saw the scarecrow, he simply knew.
Still, he was determined to handle things the right way. The scarecrow had a knife, and Ewen had three prisoners to think about. He was big enough to knock the scarecrow flying, and it was good to know that he would need no weapons to do so. But he also knew that he was big enough to accidentally kill the scarecrow with such a blow. Da had always warned Ewen to remember his own size, and the Queen, Ewen reminded himself, wanted this man alive.
“Good afternoon,” the scarecrow greeted Ewen, leaning over the desk.
Javel, the prisoner in Cell Three, sat bolt upright from his cot.
“How can I help you, sir?” Ewen asked. From the corner of his eye he saw that his other two prisoners, Brenna and Bannaker, had moved up to stand at the bars. The torchlight played cruelly over the now-healing welts that covered Bannaker’s body, but his face was sly and expectant.
“The Queen has ordered me to transfer all three of your prisoners to the central New London Jail,” the scarecrow told Ewen. He had a low, somehow unpleasant voice, and Ewen didn’t even question how this man had gotten past the soldiers at the top of the stairs. He guessed they were already dead. “I’m to escort them myself.”
“This is the first time I’ve heard about a transfer,” Ewen replied. “Give me a moment to note it in the book.”
He pulled out the logbook and began to ink up his pen, trying to think. Da had always told Ewen that he had the ability to be clever; it would just take some time and work. After Ewen finished with the book, the scarecrow would expect him to get up and walk over to the cells with his keys. If Ewen could only get the scarecrow to walk in front, it would be easy to disarm him . . . but something told Ewen not to be too sure even of that. The scarecrow was skinny, yes, but he looked quick. He wore the black uniform of the Tear army. If he was a soldier, he might have another knife hidden somewhere.
“Your name, sir?” Ewen asked.
“Captain Frost.”
Ewen wrote as slowly as possible, his face screwed up as though in concentration. He couldn’t simply launch himself at the scarecrow while seated at the table; the table itself would flip over and act as a shield, if it didn’t kill the man outright. Ewen also had to make sure the man’s knife didn’t get into any of the cells. Da had told Ewen that prisoners could use any sharp object to pick a lock.
Javel had moved up to stand at the bars of Cell Three, and Ewen, who had grown accustomed to the man’s dull, expressionless face, was shocked at what he saw there now. Javel’s expression was that of a hungry dog. His eyes, deep and dark, were glued to the scarecrow’s back.
There could be no more delays. Ewen pushed back his chair and got up, pulling the ring of keys from his belt. He came around the right edge of the table, where it would be only natural for the scarecrow to move out of his way, to go in front of him. But the scarecrow merely backed away a single step and pressed up against the wall, sweeping a hand toward the cellblock.
“After you, Master Jailor.”
Ewen nodded and moved forward, his heart thumping in his chest. He warned himself to be on guard, but even so he was taken by surprise, had only the barest fraction of a second to sense the hand around his neck, the knife coming for his throat. He reached up and batted the knife away, heard it clatter to the ground in the far corner behind him.
The scarecrow jumped on Ewen’s back, wrapped his arms around Ewen’s throat and squeezed. Ewen bent double, trying to throw the scarecrow over his shoulders, but the man clung to him like a snake, his arms pressing tighter and tighter around Ewen’s neck until the cells in front of Ewen were covered with black spots that bloomed wide when he tried to focus. He sought for air, but there was none. Blood was roaring in his ears, but he could still hear the woman, Brenna, hissing encouragement. Bannaker, too, was holding the bars of his cell, hopping up and down in his excitement. And then there was Javel, silent, his eyes wide and unhappy, his hands outstretched as though to ward something off. The agony in Ewen’s chest had become a fire that burned everything now, his arms and legs and head, and he didn’t have the strength to pry the man loose.
Stinging pain arrowed up from Ewen’s palm. He thought for a moment and then realized that he was still clutching his ring of keys, gripping them hard enough to draw blood. The world had turned to a dark, bruised purple, and Ewen suddenly realized that without air to breathe, he was going to die, that the scarecrow would kill him. Da was dying, Ewen knew, but Da was dying of old age, of sickness. This wasn’t the same. Javel’s unhappy face swam before him, and without warning Ewen’s mind made one of its odd connections: Javel didn’t want this to happen. Javel was a prisoner, yes, a traitor. But somehow, he was not the scarecrow’s friend.
All of Da’s old lectures about jailbreak echoed through Ewen’s head, but before he could think about them, he had already flung the keys toward Cell Three. He watched them clang off the bars and land just between them, saw a dirty hand scrabbling for them on the ground.
Then the purple world darkened to black.
When Ewen woke up, his head and chest were aching. His neck stung as though it had been scraped with a brick. He opened his eyes and saw the dungeon’s familiar ceiling above him, grey stones caked with mold. Da always said that whoever had built the Keep had done a good job, but it had become harder and harder over the years to prevent seepage from the moat.
What had woken him up?
The noise, of course. The noise to his right. Snarling sounds, like a dog would make. A thick thud, like a baker’s fist sinking into dough. They had lived right next to a bakery when Ewen was growing up, and he loved to stand on his toes and watch the bakers through the windows. He wanted to close his eyes and go back to sleep, just as he would have on a Sunday morning long years ago, before he began to apprentice with Da in the dungeon.
The dungeon!
Ewen’s eyes snapped open. Again he saw the familiar pattern of mold on the ceiling.
“STOP!” a woman shrieked, her voice echoing around the stone walls. It hurt Ewen’s ears. He looked to his right and saw the ghost-woman, clutching the bars, screaming. On the floor beneath her, Javel was crouched over the scarecrow, pinning him down. Javel was laughing, dark laughter that made Ewen’s arms prickle. As he watched, Javel reared back and hit the other man squarely in the face.
“I have only one question for you, Arlen!” Javel’s high cackle drowned out the woman’s scream. Another blow landed, and Ewen winced. The scarecrow’s features were awash with dripping red.
“Can you do the math? Can you, Arlen? Can you, you flesh-peddling bastard?”
Ewen struggled to sit up, though his head pounded so hard that he groaned and blinked tears from his eyes. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out. He cleared his throat and found new agony, roaring pain that barreled down to his chest and back again. But he was able to produce a weak croak. “The Queen.”
Javel paid no attention. He hit the scarecrow again, this time in the throat, and the scarecrow began to cough and gag.
Now Ewen spotted his keys, still stuck in the lock of Cell Three, dangerously close to the reach of Bannaker. He crawled over and retrieved them, then approached Javel cautiously from behind.
“Stop,” Ewen whispered. He couldn’t seem to raise his voice. His throat felt as though someone had set it on fire. “Stop. The Queen.”
Javel didn’t stop, and Ewen realized then that Javel meant to hit the scarecrow until he was dead. Ewen took a deep, painful breath and grabbed Javel beneath the arms, hauling him backward off the unconscious man. Javel snarled and turned on Ewen, attacking him with his fists, but Ewen accepted this with patience; the Queen would not wish Javel to be hurt either. Ewen certainly didn’t want to hurt him; Javel had been a good and well-behaved prisoner, and even when Ewen had thrown him the keys, he had not fled. Ewen kept his arms around Javel in a bear hug, dragging him toward the wall, not letting go even when Javel hit Ewen in his right eye, snapping his head backward and sending sparks across his vision. He threw Javel up against the wall, hard enough for the man’s head to rap against the stones. Javel groaned softly and rubbed his scalp, and Ewen took the moment of sudden silence to croak, “The Queen wants this man alive, do you hear? She wants him alive.”
Javel looked at him with bleary eyes. “The Queen?”
“The Queen wants him alive. She told me so.”
Javel smiled dreamily, and Ewen’s stomach tightened with worry. Even after Da’s many lectures about minding his size, Ewen had injured one of his brothers while wrestling, rolling Peter into a fence post and breaking his shoulder. He might have thrown Javel against the wall too hard. Javel’s voice, too, was odd, hazy, seeming to float somewhere over their heads. “Queen Kelsea. I saw her, you know, on the Keep Lawn. But she was older. She looked like the True Queen. I don’t think anyone else saw.”
“What’s the True Queen?” Ewen asked, unable to help himself. Whenever Da told fairy stories, it was always the queens that Ewen liked best.
“The True Queen. The one who saves us all.”
A shrill cackle echoed behind them, and Ewen whirled, certain that the scarecrow had only been shamming, that he had somehow recovered his knife. But it was only the woman, Brenna, clutching the bars of her cage, grinning happily.
“The True Queen,” she mimicked in a ghastly, cracked voice. “Fools. She goes to her death before the first snowfall. I’ve seen it.”
Ewen blinked and then cast a quick glance toward the ground. The scarecrow lay motionless, but Ewen was sure he had seen the man move. He turned back to Javel, who was still rubbing his head. “Will you help me tie him up? I have rope.”
“I can’t kill him, can I?” Javel asked sadly. “Not even now.”
“No,” Ewen replied in a firm voice, certain of this one thing. “The Queen wants him alive.”
Aisa trudged slowly down the hallway, a lit candle in one hand and the red leather-bound book in the other. Two weeks ago she had turned twelve, and Maman had given her permission to get up and read when she was wakeful. Maman didn’t have insomnia, but she seemed to understand Aisa’s misery at being stuck there, alone in the dark. She must have passed the request along to the Queen or the Mace as well, because now the guards ignored Aisa when they saw her wandering through the Keep in her nightgown, clutching her book.
She always went to the same place to read: the Arms Room. Venner and Fell were too important to work the night shift, so the room was always empty at night, save for the rare guard who came in to sharpen a sword or grab a replacement piece of armor. Aisa liked to take the five straw men that Venner kept there for beginning sparring, arrange them into a big pile in the far corner, and curl up with her book. It was a good reading spot, quiet and private.
She passed Coryn, leaning against the wall. He was in charge of the night guard this week. Aisa liked Coryn; he always answered her questions, and he had shown her the best way to grip a knife for throwing. But she knew better than to talk to him when he was on duty. She gave him a small wave with two of the fingers holding her book, and saw him smile in return. None of the other guards lining the corridor were her friends, so she kept her eyes down until she reached the Arms Room. The cavernous chamber, large and dark, should have frightened her; many dark rooms did. But Aisa loved the glitter of weapons in the candlelight, the tables and tables of swords and knives and armor, the slight residual smell of old sweat. Even the long, looming shadows cast by her candle didn’t frighten Aisa; all of these shadows seemed to have the tall, careful aspect of Venner, and they were a comforting presence in the dark. Aisa knew that she was becoming a better fighter every day; a few days ago she had even gotten through Fell’s guard with her knife, while the men lining the walls hooted and cheered. Aisa took it as a point of pride that several of the Guard spent their free time watching her spar. She was getting better, yes, but that wasn’t all. She sensed her own potential to be more than better. To be great.
Someday I’ll be one of the greatest fighters in the Tear. I’ll be the Fetch himself.
Aisa had told no one about this dream, not even Maman. Even if other people didn’t laugh, she knew that to speak the dream out loud would curse it, hex it somehow. She gathered the straw men in the far corner of the Arms Room, and when they were arranged just right, she collapsed contentedly and opened her book to its mark. She read for hours, through a great battle and the pleas of a woman who dreamed of holding a sword, and her mind raced ahead of her to the day when she would stride across the world, weapon in hand, finding evil and stabbing it out. These thoughts spun out before her, faster and faster, a grand dream, and finally Aisa slept. The candle continued to burn beside her for perhaps forty minutes until it guttered and died, leaving her in the dark.
She awoke to the sound of the door opening, of voices. Her first instinct, learned from earliest childhood, was to freeze, to make herself invisible. She had escaped from Da, but in waking moments, that never mattered. Some little part of her was always awake, waiting for his thick, ponderous movement in the dark.
Slitting her eyes open, she saw faint torchlight inching its way around the edge of the table. She drew her knees up, curling into the smallest ball possible. It was two men, she realized after a moment: one with a younger, lighter voice, and one with the older, roughened tones of a longtime Queen’s Guard. This second voice took her only a few seconds to identify: the Mace. Aisa had heard his angry growl often enough lately to recognize it now, even when he spoke calmly and quietly.
“Had a good break?” the Mace asked. His tone was pleasant, but Aisa heard unpleasantness just beneath it, lurking. The other man must have been able to hear it as well, because his voice, when he answered, was low and defensive.
“I’m sober.”
“That’s not my concern. I know you’ll never make that mistake again.”
“Then what’s your concern?” the younger man asked, his tone aggressive.
“You and her.”
Aisa curled into a tighter ball, listening closely. This would be about Marguerite, for certain. All of the guards, even Coryn, had a certain look on their faces when they watched Marguerite, even if she was just walking across a room. Aisa had been jealous for a bit, but then she remembered that Coryn was old, thirty-eight. Too old for Aisa, even in her fantasy life.
The Mace’s voice remained measured and careful, but there was still that tone, lurking underneath. “You can’t hide much from me, you know. I’ve known you too long. You’re not impartial. That’s fine; perhaps none of us are. But none of us have your job.”
“Leave off!” the younger man snarled.
“Don’t take your anger out on me,” the Mace replied mildly. “I haven’t done this to you.”
“It’s just . . . difficult.”
“You’ve noticed the change in her, then.”
“I never cared which face she wore.”
“Ah. So this isn’t new.”
“No.”
“That makes it worse, I think. Do you want me to choose another for your job?”
“No.”
Aisa’s brow wrinkled. Something pulled at her memory; the identity of the younger guard was right there, almost identifiable. She thought about leaning around the corner of the table and taking a peek, but she didn’t dare. The Mace saw everything; he would certainly see the tip of her head if it poked out. He was sneaky himself, but he would not take kindly to an eavesdropper. And if she got caught, they might not let her come in here to read at night anymore.
“My skills aren’t compromised,” the younger guard insisted. “It’s a nuisance, not a problem.”
The Mace remained silent for a long moment, and when he spoke again, Aisa was surprised to hear that his voice had softened. “You may think you’re the first one this has ever happened to, but I assure you that this is an old problem for close guards. I understand it well, believe me. I’m not sure that it doesn’t actually make you a better guard. You’d throw yourself in front of the knife without a thought, no?”
“Yes,” the younger man replied bleakly, and Aisa finally identified him: Pen Alcott. She crouched lower, trying to remember the rest of the conversation, to puzzle it out.
“What of that woman you’ve found?” the Mace asked. “Does she offer no relief at all?”
Pen laughed without humor. “Ten minutes of relief, every time.”
“We can find another shield, you know,” the Mace told him. “Several of them are ready. Elston would jump at the chance.”
“No. It would be a greater torment to be out of the room than in.”
“You say that now, but think, Pen. Think about when she takes a husband, or even just a man for the night. How will you feel then, being right outside the door?”
“She may not take either.”
“She will,” the Mace replied firmly. “She has her mother’s recklessness, and her mind grows older by the day. It won’t be long before she finds that outlet.”
Pen was silent for a long moment. “I don’t want to be replaced. Partial or no, I’m the best man for the job, and you know it.”
“All right.” The Mace’s voice lost its gentle edge and became iron-hard as he continued. “But mark me: I’ll be watching. And if I see one sign of impaired performance, you’re done, not just with your post but with this Guard. Do you understand?”
Silence. The pile of straw men began to collapse behind Aisa’s back, and she dug her heels into the floor, clutching her book, trying to keep the entire mountain from shifting down in an avalanche.
“I understand,” Pen replied stiffly. “I’m sorry to put you in this position.”
“Christ, Pen, we’ve all been there. You won’t find a man in her mother’s Guard who didn’t go through this at one point or another. It’s an old problem. A difficult thing.”
Aisa was losing ground. She pushed hard with her legs, pressing back against the corner, holding the pile of straw men in place. If they would only leave!
“Better get about it now. She’ll wake in a few hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Footsteps retreated toward the door.
“Pen?”
“Sir?”
“You’re doing a good job. She doesn’t mind having you a foot away, I can tell, and that’s really a remarkable accomplishment. I’m not sure she wouldn’t have killed anyone else by now.”
Pen didn’t reply. A moment later, Aisa heard the door open and close. She relaxed and felt one of the straw men topple to the ground on her right.
“And you, hellcat?”
Aisa gave a small shriek. The Mace loomed over her, his hands clenched on the table edge. Despite her fright, Aisa couldn’t help staring at those hands, which were covered in scars. Venner and Fell had told her that the Mace was a great fighter, one of the greatest in the Tear. To have hands like that, he must have been battling for a lifetime.
That’s what I want to be, Aisa realized, staring fixedly at the three white scars across one knuckle. That dangerous. That feared.
“I’ve heard of your nightly wanderings, girl. Venner and Fell tell me you’ve a great gift for the knife.”
Aisa nodded, her face flushing slightly with pleasure.
“Do you come here every night?”
“Almost. I wish I could sleep in here.”
The Mace was not distracted. “You’ve heard something you shouldn’t. Something that could be very dangerous to the Queen.”
“Why?”
“Don’t play foolish with me. I’ve watched you, you’re a quick little thing.”
Aisa’s paused for a moment. “I am quick. But I won’t tell anyone what I heard.”
“You’re not an easy child.” The Mace looked closely at her, and Aisa shrank back. His eyes were terrible things, invasive, as though he were turning her inside out with his gaze. “What do you mean to do with your knife one day? If you’re as gifted as Venner and Fell claim?”
“I’ll be a Queen’s Guard,” Aisa replied promptly. She had decided this three days ago, at the very moment she had snuck under Fell’s guard and dimpled his jugular with her knife.
“Why?”
Aisa cast around for words, but nothing came, only the image, deep in her mind, of Da’s shadow on the nighttime wall. That was nothing she could tell the Mace about; even if she could explain Da to anyone, there were huge swaths of memory gone, dark patches where Aisa’s early childhood had simply disappeared. It would be an impossible tale to tell.
But this place, the Queen’s Wing, was safe, a well-lit shelter where they could stay forever. Maman said they were in constant danger here, but Aisa could live with the danger of swords. She understood that it was Maman, Maman’s queerness, that had somehow gotten them in here in the first place, but the Queen existed above Maman, a godlike figure dressed in black, and Aisa knew that she would never again have to see Da’s shadow on the wall.
She couldn’t tell any of this to the Mace. All she could say was, “I’d never do anything to hurt the Queen. I’d kill anyone who tried.”
The Mace’s arrowlike gaze pierced her for a moment longer, seeming to knife through her body. Then he nodded.
“I’m going to trust you, hellcat. More than that, I’m going to consider this your first test. Swordsmanship is an important quality for a Queen’s Guard, but there are other things just as crucial, and one of them is your ability to keep a secret.”
“I can keep a secret, sir. Probably better than most adults.”
The Mace nodded, pity in his gaze, and Aisa realized then that he must know all about Da. Maman sat right next to the Queen every day, brought her food and drink. They would have found out everything about her, and Da had been no secret in their neighborhood. Even when Aisa was little, no other children had ever been allowed over to their house to play.
“Captain?”
“What?”
“Even if I keep quiet, other people might find out. They might see it in Pen’s face, like you did.”
“Did you?”
“No, but I’m twelve.”
“It’s a fair point,” the Mace replied seriously. “But let’s just say that I see more in men’s faces than most. I think the secret will be safe for a while, just between you and me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Off to bed, hellcat.”
Aisa scrambled up, grabbed her book and candle, and left. In their family room, she placed the red leather book carefully on her bedside table and climbed into bed. But she couldn’t sleep yet; her thoughts were too full of all she’d seen and heard.
Pen Alcott was in love with the Queen. But the Queen couldn’t marry one of her Guard—even Aisa knew that, though she could not have said why. So Pen had no hope at all. She tried to feel some sympathy for him, but could only muster up a little. Pen got to stand right next to the Queen every day, his sword protecting her from the wide world. Surely that was reward enough.
Love was a real thing, Aisa thought, but secondary. Certainly love was not as real as her sword.