Oh, what may man within him hide,
Though angel on the outward side.
—Measure for Measure, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (pre-Crossing Angl.)
August dawned bright and burning. The city stank with the heat; whenever Kelsea went out on her balcony, she could smell sewage and the less pungent but still unpleasant smell of animal flesh left to rot in the sun. Without grazing fields, many of the animals that the evacuees had brought with them were beginning to die of starvation. After a quick consultation with Mace, Kelsea had ordered that all farm animals in and around the city, save for milking cows and goats, be immediately slaughtered and their meat cured for siege. This decree had earned her no points with the cattle farmers of the Almont, but their anger seemed preferable to the disease that would surely spread if animals died and rotted on the banks of the Caddell, contaminating the city’s water supply.
Javel, Dyer, and Galen left for Demesne on the second of August. They departed in the dark of night, quickly and quietly, so quietly that even Kelsea did not know until they were already gone. She was furious, but Mace merely pointed out to her, in his usual laconic manner, that she had put him in charge of the operation, and there was nothing Kelsea could say to that.
On the fourth of August Kelsea found Andalie alone in her chamber and closed the door, leaving Pen outside. She had spent days quietly working up the courage for this, but before Andalie’s questioning gaze, she nearly lost her nerve. She and Pen had slept together three more times, and while it had certainly gotten better, each time an unpleasant truth had been weighing more and more heavily on Kelsea’s mind.
“Andalie, can I ask you a favor?”
“Yes, Lady.”
“When you go to the market, do you . . . do you ever hear of black-market items being available down there?”
Andalie’s gaze sharpened. “What is it you’re seeking, Lady?”
“I want . . .” Kelsea peeked toward the door, making sure that Pen hadn’t somehow slunk back into the room. “I want contraception. I’ve heard it’s out there.”
If Andalie was surprised, she didn’t show it. “It is out there, Lady. The question is how to distinguish the true from the false. And the true is always very expensive.”
“I’ve got the money. Can you do it? I don’t want anyone to know.”
“I can do it, Lady. But I wonder if you’ve considered the consequences.”
Kelsea frowned. “You have moral objections?”
“God, no!” Andalie chuckled. “I would’ve taken the stuff myself, but we never had the money. It was all I could do to feed all of my children two meals a day. I do not condemn you, Majesty. I simply mean that even I have heard the tone of the city. The people want an heir. I don’t know what happens if you take a contraceptive and it is discovered.”
“Public opinion is the least of my concerns right now. I’m nineteen. This kingdom doesn’t own every part of me.”
“They will disagree with you on that. But regardless, I can get the syrup, if that’s what you want.”
“It is,” Kelsea replied firmly. “When do you go to market?”
“Thursday.”
“I’ll give you the gold. I appreciate this.”
“Be careful, Lady,” Andalie cautioned. “I know all about the wildness of youth, believe me. But regret has a terrible ability to follow you, long after youth has vanished.”
“Yes.” Kelsea had been looking down at her feet, but now she abruptly looked up at Andalie, nearly begging. “I only want to be able to have a life, that’s all. A life, just like any other girl my age would have. Is that so terrible?”
“Not terrible at all, Majesty,” Andalie replied. “But though you may wish for an ordinary life, you will not have it. You are the Queen of the Tearling. There are some things you cannot choose.”
A few days later, Kelsea finally got up the courage to run an errand she’d been putting off for nearly a month. Gathering up Mace, Pen, and Coryn, she left the Queen’s Wing, traveled up three flights of stairs, turned left, then right, then left again, and entered a large, windowless room on the twelfth floor of the Keep.
Elston stood up from an armchair just inside the doorway. For once, Kibb was not with him. Although Kibb appeared to have completely recovered in a physical sense, Mace was still wary, still testing Kibb to see if anything had changed.
“Enjoying yourself, Elston?”
“More than you can imagine, Lady.”
The room was lit by many torches, and at its center was a steel cage that stood almost to the ceiling. The bars were thin, but they looked to be extremely strong. In the center of the cage, Arlen Thorne sat in a simple wooden chair, his head tipped back, his gaze focused on the ceiling. The chair was the only furniture in the cage.
“He doesn’t even have a cot?” Kelsea asked Mace in an undertone.
“He can sleep just fine on the floor.”
“What about a blanket?”
Mace’s brow furrowed. “What is this sudden sympathy for Thorne, Lady?”
“Not sympathy, concern. Even worse criminals would deserve a blanket.”
“Have you come to gloat, Majesty?” Thorne called from the center of the room. “Or will you merely mumble to each other all day over there?”
“Ah, Arlen. How the mighty have fallen.” Kelsea moved to stand ten feet from the bars, and Pen followed, placing himself between Kelsea and the cage. For a moment, she was distracted by Pen’s lithe swordfighter’s form, which she now saw in an entirely new light; the sex was getting better, and it was difficult, these days, to keep from picturing him naked. But they had agreed to keep this thing in the dark, and in the dark it would stay. “Coryn, can you find me something to sit on, please?”
“Lady.”
“How goes the invasion, Majesty?” Thorne asked.
“Poorly,” Kelsea admitted. “The Mort are pushing inward from the border. My army won’t hold for long.”
Thorne shrugged. “The inevitable result.”
“I’ll give you this, Arlen: at least you don’t feign remorse.”
“What is there to be remorseful about? I played the hand I was dealt as well as I could. Bad luck is bad luck.” Thorne leaned forward, his bright blue eyes piercing in the dim room. “How did you find out about my special shipment, Lady? I have always wondered. Did someone talk?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know?”
“Magic.”
“Ah, well.” Thorne sat back. “I have seen magic worked, once or twice.”
“Don’t you care about anything, Arlen?”
“Care is a liability, Majesty.”
Coryn reappeared with a chair, and Kelsea sat down in front of the cage. “What of Brenna? Surely you care for her. Or have I been misinformed?”
“Brenna is a useful tool, and she enjoys being used.”
Kelsea’s mouth twisted in distaste, but then she remembered the spitting, raging woman down in the dungeon. Perhaps there was something in what Thorne said.
“How did Brenna come to be what she is?”
“Environment, Majesty. My Brenna and I grew up in the worst hell imaginable.” Thorne tipped his head toward Mace, his mouth twisting with malice. “You know what I’m talking about. I saw you there.”
“You are mistaken,” Mace replied tonelessly.
Thorne smiled. “Oh no, Captain of Guard, I am sure it was you.”
In the next instant the mace lashed against the bars, a deafening clatter of steel on steel in the confined space.
“Keep talking, Thorne,” Mace said in a low voice, “and I will end you.”
“What do I care for that, Captain? You or the rope, it makes no difference to me.”
“And what about when I send that pet of yours to Mortmesne, to Lafitte?” Mace grasped the bars, pressing against the cage, and Kelsea was suddenly glad that she could not see his face. Mace never allowed himself to be rattled so easily; Thorne must have touched a very deep nerve. “Albinos are a curiosity, you know. Such women will always draw customers.”
“You have no reason to harm Brenna.”
“But I will do it, Thorne, if you drive me there. Keep your mouth shut.”
Thorne raised his eyebrows. “You support this, Majesty?”
Kelsea was uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, but she nodded firmly. “I support whatever Lazarus chooses to do.”
“See, I knew it. Kelsea the virtuous. Kelsea the selfless.” Thorne shook his head, chuckling. “Those poor deluded bastards out there have worked themselves into a frenzy over you, Majesty. They think you’ll save them from the Mort. A clever act, yours, but I always knew you were no better than the rest of us.”
“I never claimed to be virtuous or selfless,” Kelsea snapped back. “And I hardly know how you can claim any sort of high ground.”
“But I make no secret of what I am, Kelsea Raleigh—I suppose it’s Glynn now, isn’t it? These delusions the rest of you suffer . . . so much work and architecture to convince yourself that you’re better, more pure. We all want what we want, and there’s very little we won’t do to get it. Call yourself whatever you like, Queen Kelsea, but you’re a Raleigh through and through. No altruists in that line.”
“I don’t want to die, Arlen, but I would lay down my life for any of these men, or they for me. That’s a real thing, sacrifice, but you will never understand it.”
“Oh, but I do understand it. I have a piece of information that Your Majesty would find valuable, so valuable that I have thought, many times, that I could likely trade it for my own life. But I will not do that.”
“What information?”
“First, my price: the life and welfare of Brenna.”
Mace began to bark, but Kelsea cut him off. “Define welfare.”
“Brenna is known as my charge. When I’m gone, many people will seek to unleash their wrath on her as well. She needs protection.”
“Don’t try to paint your albino as an innocent, Thorne. She’s a dangerous creature.”
“She has been unfortunate, Majesty. Brenna and I were raised as animals. But for luck, even your Mace might have turned out just like us.”
Mace lunged toward the bars, his big hands grasping for Thorne. Thorne didn’t flinch; even Mace’s long arms couldn’t reach far enough through the bars.
“What?” Thorne asked. “Don’t want to reminisce with me? Not even about the ring?”
“Elston.” Mace turned, snarling. “Keys.”
“Elston, don’t you dare.”
“Let us have him, Lady!” Elston replied eagerly, moving forward and pulling the keys from his belt. “Please, I beg you!”
“Sit down, Elston! And you, Lazarus, enough. This man will die in front of the people he’s wronged. Not you.”
Mace had started forward again, but now he stopped. “You will execute him?”
“Yes. I’ve decided. Next Sunday, in the circus.”
“Thorne has wronged me, Lady,” Elston said quietly. “My grievance is as good as any in the Tearling. Let me be the one.”
“Good Christ, grow up!” Thorne snapped. “It was an accident. I’d no idea what you were. Twenty years later, and you still can’t move on with your life!”
“You flesh-peddling—”
“Enough!” Kelsea shouted, losing patience. “Out of here now! Everyone but Pen!”
“Lady—”
“Out, Lazarus!”
Mace had the good grace to look a bit ashamed as he departed, taking Elston and Coryn with him. The door closed with a thump.
“Thank God for small favors,” Thorne muttered. He collapsed into the chair, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes.
Kelsea was disturbed. The conversation had taken a sharp turn into uncharted territory. Mace had given her the impression that the albino was an odd remnant of Thorne’s past, a fetish that he carried around with him like a good-luck charm. But unless Thorne was playing some deeper game here—and Kelsea couldn’t imagine what it might be—what she was seeing now was a wholly altruistic act, one that did not accord with Arlen Thorne at all.
“Where did you grow up, Arlen?”
“You will execute me next Sunday, Majesty. I don’t owe you a biography.”
“Perhaps not. But if something terrible was truly done to you as a child, perhaps I could prevent it from happening to others.”
“What happens to others is their own concern. I only care what happens to Brenna.”
Kelsea sighed. The altruism, if that was what it was, would clearly extend no further. “Assuming that I like what you’re selling, what is it that you want me to do with her?”
“I want a place for Brenna here.”
“In the Keep?” Kelsea asked incredulously.
“There’s nowhere else she would be safe, Majesty. You cannot hide her; she’s too recognizable. I want her in a safe structure, decently fed and clothed, and protected by a loyal guard who cannot be suborned with bribes.”
“Even the most loyal guard can be turned, Arlen. You destroyed one of mine.”
“Morphia destroyed Mhurn, Lady, just as it has destroyed so many fools who try to hide from the here and now. I am merely the man who found the corpse, dusted it off, and made of it what I could.”
“God, you’re cold, Arlen.”
“So I’m told, Majesty. But the fact remains that only a fool blames the dealer.”
Kelsea took a deep breath and blanked all thoughts of Mhurn out of her mind. “What makes you think Brenna would accept my protection? She doesn’t seem to care for me much.”
“An understatement, Lady, I’m sure. But she will accept.”
“And what do you offer in return?”
“A bargaining chip against the Red Queen.”
Kelsea eyed him skeptically.
“Ours has been a long acquaintance, Majesty. No one knows the Red Queen well, but I venture to say I know her better than most men who live to tell the tale.”
“Is your bargaining chip one that would turn her away from us, send her army home?”
“No, Majesty. If it were, we would be dickering for my life as well as Brenna’s.”
“If your information won’t save the Tearling, then what do I care?”
“Only you can say, Lady.” Thorne shrugged. “But I myself have never regretted acquiring a piece of leverage. Such things often come in handy when we least expect it.”
Kelsea winced, feeling herself maneuvered. This man was a liar, one of the best in the Tear . . . and yet she believed him. He seemed resigned to his fate. And in the scheme of things, what he asked was very small.
“I don’t break my word, Majesty, and I’ve heard tell that you don’t either.” Thorne’s bright blue eyes glimmered through the bars of the age. “I’m not trying to cheat you. An honest bargain: the safety and care of my Brenna for a good piece of information. Do you accept?”
Dealing with the devil, Kelsea thought. She should call Mace in here, get his opinion. But somehow this seemed like a decision that should belong to her alone. She considered for a moment longer, then sighed and nodded. “We have a bargain, Arlen.”
Thorne offered a hand through the bars for her to shake, but Kelsea shook her head. “Not a chance. What’s your information?”
“Your two sapphires, Majesty. She wants them, more than you can possibly imagine.”
“These?” Kelsea looked down, but her hand had already gone instinctively to clutch the sapphires, and now they were hidden from view. “Why didn’t she simply demand them from my mother as part of the Treaty? She could have done so.”
“I don’t think she wanted them so badly in those days, Majesty. At any rate, she wanted slaves more. But she and I have had a long and fruitful business relationship, and while you were in hiding, I saw her longing for those jewels grow like a fever. She was just as desperate for news of them as she was for your head, and each year that your uncle failed to lay hold of them, she held him in more contempt.”
“What does she want with them, exactly?”
“She never told me, Majesty.”
“Care to hazard a guess?”
Thorne shrugged. “She’s a woman terrified of dying, of ceasing to exist. I noticed it often, though it’s a quality she tries desperately to hide. Perhaps your jewels would help?”
Kelsea’s mind went immediately to Kibb, lying on the sickbed covered in sweat. She thought of Row Finn’s offer: a way to destroy the Red Queen. Mace said it had been years since anyone had tried to assassinate her; everyone assumed it could not be done. Was it possible that the Red Queen was still physically vulnerable somehow? But even if Row Finn knew of that vulnerability, what good could such information do Kelsea now? An army of at least fifteen thousand lay between New London and Demesne.
“But this is conjecture, Majesty,” Thorne continued. “The Mort have designated her un maniaque . . . what we would call a control freak. You, your sapphires, these things are variables, and the Red Queen is not a woman who is comfortable with variables, not even pleasant ones.”
Kelsea stared at him, fascinated and disgusted at the same time. “Did you sleep with her, Arlen?”
“She wished me to. She sleeps with a man, and then feels that he is hers, neatly categorized and collected. But I am part of no one’s collection.”
Thorne stood up and stretched. His arms were so long that he nearly reached the top of the cage. “Why delay my execution until Sunday, Majesty? I’m tired of waiting, and I’m certainly tired of Elston’s company. Why not simply do it now?”
“Because even in death, Arlen, you will be useful. Your execution will be a public event, and announcements will go out to all corners of the kingdom. The people want this, and I will give it to them.”
“Ah, the pleasure of the mob. It’s a wise move, I suppose.”
“You don’t fear death?”
Thorne shrugged. “Do you play chess, Majesty?”
“Yes, but not well.”
“I play a great deal of chess, and I play well. I don’t often lose, but it has happened. Always in such games, there is a point at which you realize you will be bested, that checkmate is four or ten or twelve moves away. One school of thought says you should make the best endgame you can, fighting until the bitter finish. But I have never seen any point in that. I have done the math, and I was checkmated from the moment your people grabbed my Brenna. All moves since then have been the pointless scurrying of pawns.”
“What is Brenna to you?” Kelsea asked. “Why does she mean so much, when all other people mean nothing?”
“Ah . . . now that story will cost you my life, Majesty. Are you willing to trade?”
“No. But I will bring Brenna up here and allow you to say good-bye.”
“Not good enough.”
“Then we’re done.” Kelsea stood up from the chair. “If you change your mind, let Elston know.”
She made it halfway to the door before Thorne called, “Glynn Queen?”
“Yes?”
“I will not tell you the tale of my life, and neither will Brenna. But your Mace might do so, if you could force it from him.”
Kelsea turned, considered him for a moment, then replied, “You are transparent, Arlen. You only want to drive a wedge between us.”
Thorne’s lips thinned in a smile. “Perceptive, Majesty. But curiosity is a terrible thing. I believe my wedge will burrow deeper over time.”
“I thought you were done.”
“Even the checkmate phase has its entertainments.” Thorne sat back down in his chair, giving her a tiny wave of farewell. “Good day, Glynn Queen.”
Increase the dosage.”
“What?”
“Increase the dosage!” the Queen snapped, doing her best to force her voice through the thick pane of glass.
Medire nodded and hurried around the examination table, on which was strapped a slave from Callae. The slave didn’t know it, but she was already dead. The only question was how long it would take. A thin line of reddish foam had begun to work its way from the corner of her mouth, and she gasped for breath, her fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. The Queen wondered if the woman was making noise; the pane of glass was almost perfectly soundproof, one of Cadare’s finest achievements. She checked the watch in her hand and found that nearly seventy seconds had elapsed.
The woman gave a final gasp, her mouth rounding like that of a fish. Then her eyes fixed on the ceiling and she was still. Medire reached for her wrist, monitored the pulse for a moment, and nodded at the Queen, who checked her watch again.
“Seventy-four seconds,” she told Emmene, who stood beside her with his pen and paper.
“Better than the last trial.”
“Much better. But we should refine it even further if we can.”
Oddly enough, the Queen owed this newest discovery to the Tearling. More than eleven hundred soldiers had died of snakebite at Lake Karczmar, and the recovered bodies had arrived in Demesne bloated black, pumped full of toxin. The toxin had been difficult to harvest, and several soldiers had died collecting specimens, but the rewards were worth it. Not only did the venom kill quickly via both injection and ingestion but it also had a sweet taste, easily hidden by wine or mead. So many poisons were bitter; this one would be a valuable addition to the Queen’s collection.
“Your Majesty.”
Beryll had come in behind her, his soft tread inaudible. He rarely came down to her laboratory; Beryll was the most efficient man the Queen had ever known, but he didn’t have the stomach for her experiments. He kept his eyes carefully away from the glass.
“What is it?”
“A rider from General Ducarte. The army has broken the Tear line in the Almont and begun to move down the Crithe. The Tear are in retreat.”
The Queen smiled, a more genuine smile than she had produced in weeks. There had been so little good news lately. “Send some heralds out to announce it, here and in Cite Marche. That should stop their squabbling up there.”
“The General estimates that he will advance at least three miles per day.”
“Ducarte’s estimates are always accurate. Send him my congratulations.”
Beryll consulted the letter in his hand. “He also reports that the villages in the eastern Almont were evacuated in advance of the army’s arrival. There was no plunder; all the army found were a few sick animals left behind. The rest of the Almont may be abandoned as well.”
“So?”
“Ducarte’s soldiers grow restless, Majesty. Spoils are a part of their compensation.”
“I don’t care about spoils,” the Queen muttered, her voice petulant. Gold, slaves, livestock, lumber . . . these things would matter greatly to the army, yes, but they no longer mattered to her. What she wanted was in New London.
Still, she reflected, this news had not come a moment too soon. Production had slowed in all sectors of the Mort economy, but the hardest hit came in mining, where the casualty rate among slaves had always been high. The Queen’s suggestion that the foremen drive their slaves a bit less harshly had been met with thinly veiled ridicule. Mining in Mortmesne was a numbers game, defined by dangerous conditions and heavy turnover. The mill needed grist, and each day it seemed as though a rash of new complaints poured in from the mining communities in the north.
Fingers tapped on the glass behind her. Medire, his eyebrows raised, motioned toward the woman, asking if they were done. The Queen nodded and turned away as he threw a cloth over the corpse. Beryll was still waiting expectantly.
“What?”
“Also a message from Lieutenant Martin in the north. Three more attacks in Cite Marche. His intelligence suggests that rebels are planning to move on to other cities, including Demesne.”
“Nothing about the man Levieux?”
“Nothing in the note, Majesty.”
“Wonderful.” The Queen wondered if she truly had made a tactical error in removing Ducarte to the front. Surely he would have produced some results by now. But it was too late; Ducarte was nearly halfway across the Almont, and he would not take kindly to being yanked back and forth.
“What do I have tonight?”
Beryll closed his eyes, consulting memory. He was over ninety years old, had fallen victim to multiple frailties, but his mind remained strong and regimented. “You have dinner with the Bells, but they won’t be here until six. You have plenty of time.”
“I need a nap.”
“You take too many naps, Majesty,” Beryll murmured, in a tone of heavy disapproval.
“There’s nothing else to do. I don’t sleep at night anymore.”
This was true. It was the dream, which never left her lately: the inferno, the man in grey, the girl. The Queen found herself unable to shake a sense of impending disaster.
“Why not take one of Medire’s concoctions?” Beryll asked.
“Because then I would need to take them habitually, Ryll. I have no wish to become dependent.”
“You are dependent on me, Majesty.”
The Queen chuckled. The rest of her servants maintained a formal distance, necessary but often tiresome, but Beryll had been with her since he was seven years old, when she had selected him from a pit of Mort nobles awaiting execution. His parents had already died in the uprising, and the Queen had been moved by the solitary child, his face full of a pain that the Queen recognized and still dimly remembered from her youth: abandonment and loss.
“I do depend on you, Ryll. It has been a long lifetime, you and me.”
“I would not have traded it for the wide world, Lady.” Beryll smiled, his stiff resolve breaking for a moment, and in the smile the Queen glimpsed the child she had lifted from the blood-puddled pit. She had reached down and extended a hand, and the boy had grasped it . . . the memory hurt. Time seemed to stretch over such an unbridgeable distance lately. The Queen cast around for something to lighten the mood. “At any rate, Medire isn’t half the pharmacist he thinks he is. I’ve heard some ugly rumors about side effects. Rashes and spots.”
“It makes the pages uneasy, Majesty, knowing that you don’t sleep. Their anxiety then passes further down the chain.”
“When we take the Tearling, I’ll sleep fine.”
“As you say, Majesty,” he replied, in a tone that stopped just short of disbelief.
Beryll left her when they reached the top of the stairs, heading off toward the throne room, and the Queen continued slowly on her way, perusing the two messages that Beryll had handed her. Ducarte’s note was like the man himself, brief and to the point: the invasion was proceeding as it should, the bulk of the Mort army moving steadily across the Almont Plain. But Martin’s words had been written hastily, the tone bordering on panic: three of his interrogators had been snatched off the street and found hung from the city walls four days later. Two Crown armories had burned to the ground. Vallee had taken an arrow in the knee from a sniper. Martin’s anxiety would not help matters. As soon as Ducarte reached New London and got his fill of whatever he wanted there, she would put him back on this . . . this . . .
Rebellion.
Her mind shied away from the word, but after a moment’s thought, she was forced to acknowledge its essential truth. She had a rebellion on her hands, and none of her people were equal to quelling it.
In the wide, high-ceilinged corridor that led to her chambers, the Queen found five pages in a cluster, talking in low voices.
“Surely there’s something else you could be doing with your time,” she remarked acidly, and was pleased to see them jump at her voice. “Go and make yourselves useful.”
They left, with quietly murmured apologies that the Queen did not acknowledge. Her pages behaved respectfully, but all of them occasionally betrayed the impudence of youth, impatience at having to wait on a woman they considered old. The Queen paused before entering her chamber, examining herself in one of the floor-length mirrors that stood beside the door. She was not young, no, not like these girls with their wrinkle-free eyes and upright breasts. But neither was she old. She was a grown woman, a woman who knew what she was about.
I am changeless, the Queen thought proudly. Still vulnerable to weapons and wounds, certainly, but age, that relentless double-edged blade of decay and disease, would never touch her again. The Queen sobered, frowning. She would never grow old, but all the same, time had been growing on her lately: a sense of time as power, as a force that exerted incredible pressure. Her life had been long, but much of it had flown past unexamined. Only recently had the Queen begun to feel the passing years on her shoulders, nothing so simple as mere time . . . now it was history.
She went on into her chambers, closing the door behind her. Beryll would bring her some hot chocolate, and that would put her to sleep for an hour or so, at least. The room was nice and warm, perfect for napping. She would—
The Queen nearly tripped as her feet connected with a dull, lifeless heap on the ground. She looked down and found Mina, one of her pages, sprawled on the floor, her neck wrung so neatly that her head faced backward.
The Queen spun around and stared at the fireplace. A roaring blaze was going, a pillar of flame so strong that she could feel its heat all the way across the room.
“No—,” she began, and then a hand clamped around her throat.
“You are faithless, Mort Queen,” the voice hissed in her ear.
She tried to scream, but the dark thing’s hand had already begun to squeeze, forcing her windpipe closed. She summoned everything she had and forced it away, shoving it across the room, where it landed on a table in the far corner, breaking the wood with a dull crunch.
The Queen darted behind the sofa, trying to force breath down her abraded throat, her eyes never moving from the dark mass that was just beginning to uncoil itself in the corner. Suddenly it whipped to its feet in a strange, unnatural motion, like that of a slingshot, and the Queen shrieked. A painted clown leered at her from the shadows, pale face and lips twisted in a grin. Its eyes were a bright, burning crimson.
The Queen struck again, pushing it back toward the ground. But she could strike no more than a glancing blow. The thing’s flesh was strange, shifting; she could not grasp its outline, could not find limbs or organs or tissue. There was nothing for her mind to lay hold of.
A bright jet erupted from the fire, coming straight toward her. She dove to the ground, rolling away toward the wall, and felt a rush of warm air as the sofa burst into flames behind her. The room suddenly stank of scorching fabric. The Queen tried to scramble to her feet, but a hand grabbed her arm and flung her across the room, into the wall. Something crunched deep within her shoulder, and the Queen screamed, a loud, hoarse cry. She sank to her knees and found that she could not push herself back up. Heat baked her face; the enormous carpet in front of the hearth had now caught fire as well. Her shoulder was a thicket of agony.
Fists thudded against the door, and the Queen heard a babble of voices outside. But she could not wait for them, nor could they help. She found it again, coming for her now, moving silently through the smoke. It grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to her feet, and the Queen hissed as strands ripped from her head. The dark thing pulled her up and dangled her on her tiptoes.
“We had a bargain, Mort whore.”
“The girl,” she gasped. “I can still get the girl.”
“The girl is mine already. She was an even easier mark than you.” It smiled wide, shaking her back and forth. She screamed again; her shoulder felt as though it was tearing in half. “She belongs to me, and I have no further use for you, Evelyn Raleigh. None at all.”
The chamber door burst open, the lock flying across the room. The dark thing’s attention was diverted, only for a moment, but in that moment the Queen suddenly saw it clearly: a shining silver shape in her mind, bones limned in red light. She found its rib cage, grabbed hold, and squeezed, catching its entire midsection in the vise of her mind. The dark thing snarled, but the Queen bore down, tighter and tighter, until it released her hair and dropped her back down to her feet. Its red eyes were only an inch from hers now, and the Queen shuddered at the disdain she saw there: disdain not just for herself but for everyone, all of humanity, whatever might get in its way.
“You cannot kill me, Mort Queen,” it whispered, its deep red lips parting in a grimace. Its breath stank of blood, of decayed flesh. “You are not strong enough. The girl will set me free, and I will not need fire to find you.”
The Queen sensed her guards bounding through the doorway now, vague shapes against the smoke. Beryll, too; she could feel him, loyalty and anxiety rolled up into one, all the way across the room. The dark thing squirmed within her grasp, a terrible feeling, as though worms were writhing together in her mind. She tried to crush it, but she simply didn’t have the force.
“Get the fire out!” she screamed at her guards. “All of the fire! Put it out!”
Her guards obeyed instinctively, rushing over to the bed to grab the linens. The dark thing tried to break free, but she tightened her hold again. Its outline was extraordinarily clear in her mind, but the edges were painful, a current like lightning moving beneath her hands.
Power, the Queen thought dizzily. How did it acquire so much?
The dark thing giggled, a lunatic chortle that almost made her lose her grip. “You will never have what you seek, Mort Queen. You will never be immortal.”
“I will,” she panted. She thought she felt something weakening in its ribs, but could not be sure. The sizzling sensation beneath her hands made everything difficult to judge. “I will.”
“I have seen your flight, you know. Pursued by a man in grey, the girl at your side. I have seen the cataclysm behind you.”
The Queen closed her eyes, but she could not shut the words out.
“The immortal need not flee, Mort Queen. But you, you will flee, and die, and all the accoutrements of hell will await you. Believe me, Mort Queen, for I have been there.”
The Queen bared her teeth as she felt something give inside its body, some small fault cracking open. The dark thing emitted a high screech, and the Queen howled in triumph. Blood trickled from her nose, but she barely noticed. She had hurt it. Only a bit, but that was enough. The dark thing was not immortal either. Perhaps she didn’t have enough power to kill it, but it could be killed.
Dimly, she sensed her guards bringing the fire under control. But they were ignoring the hearth.
“All of the fire, damn you! The fireplace as well!”
Over the dark thing’s shoulder a shadow loomed, a shadow that turned into Beryll, coming toward them with a wooden chair grasped in his hands like a club. He swung it at the dark thing’s head, and the Queen felt the impact ricochet all through her, the dark thing’s outline shuddering inside her mind. It hissed, turned its head, and found Beryll.
“No!” the Queen shrieked. But it was too late. Her concentration had broken. The dark thing pulled free of her, grabbed Beryll by the throat, and snapped the old man’s neck with one quick twist of its hands. Beryll went down without a sound, and at that moment the fire went out, plunging the room into darkness. The bright shape in the Queen’s mind flickered, faded, and finally disappeared. She sank to the floor, panting, clutching her dislocated shoulder.
“Majesty!” her guard captain shouted. “Where are you?”
“I’m fine, Ghislaine. Light a candle. Only a candle, mind.”
Confusion and stumbling followed her words. The Queen crawled sideways, leaning on her good shoulder and groping with the bad, until she reached Beryll’s limp, still-warm body beside the wall. As the thin glow of candlelight began to illuminate the room, she found his wide eyes staring up at her. Beryll had lived a long life, yes, and he was an old man, but the Queen could only see the child she had pulled from the pit: a tall, skinny child with intelligent eyes and a ready smile. Something contracted inside her, and she wanted to cry. But that was unthinkable. She had not shed a tear in over one hundred years.
The Queen looked up and found her guards circled around her, waiting, clearly frightened; they thought they would be blamed for this disaster. Blame needed to be taken, for certain, and after a moment’s thought, the Queen realized where the culpability lay.
“My pages. Get them in here.”
When the five women were all lined up before her, the Queen looked them over, wondering where the treachery lived. Juliette, who came from one of Demesne’s best families and clearly intended to be Queen here one day? Bre, who had once taken a whip for ruining one of the Queen’s dresses? Or perhaps Genevieve, who liked to make rebellious comments in order to win the approval of the others. The Queen had never felt her own age so heavily as when she saw the five of them in front of her, a solid wall of unrelenting youth.
“Which of you lit the fire?”
She saw many emotions flit across their faces: surprise, thoughtfulness, indignation. All of them eventually settled into exaggerated expressions of innocence. The Queen frowned.
“Mina is dead, but it wasn’t Mina. She’s never been able to light a decent fire to save her life. You know me, ladies. I am not fair. If no one admits guilt, you will all face punishment. Who defied my express command by lighting a fire?”
No one answered. The Queen felt as though they stood united against her. She looked down at Beryll’s body and suddenly realized the truth of things: there was no loyalty anymore. Beryll, Liriane . . . her own people were all dead now, and she was surrounded by grasping young strangers. The bubble of anger inside her head abruptly deflated, lapsing into sorrow and exhaustion, a strange sense of futility. She could punish them all, yes, but what would that prove?
“Dismissed, all of you. Get out.”
The guards went, but the five pages merely stood there, their eyes wide and confused. Blonde, redhead, brunette, even a dark, exotic Cadarese named Marina. What on earth had possessed the Queen to choose these women? She should have had men all along. Men came at you directly, with raised fists. They didn’t sneak up on your back with a knife.
“We’re dismissed, Majesty?” Juliette ventured, in a tone of disbelief.
“Go. Find me a replacement for Mina.”
“What of the corpses?”
“Get out!” the Queen screamed. She felt her own control slipping, inch by inch, but there was no way to rein it in. “Get out of here!”
Her pages fled.
The Queen shuffled over to her desk, her movements strangely hunched as she tried to protect her shoulder. It was badly dislocated; probing beneath her skin, the Queen sensed the outlines of the problem, a contortion of the musculature. Setting it straight would hurt like a bastard, but the Queen had bigger problems. The dark thing’s face hovered in front of her, eyes bright and gleeful. It thought it had the girl now, and the girl was all it wanted. Worse, it had called the Queen by name.
How could it know? she raged inwardly. No one could know; she had covered her tracks too well. Evelyn Raleigh was dead. But still, the dark thing had called her by name.
Evie! The voice echoed in a corner of her mind, her mother’s voice, always a trifle impatient, always exasperated at what was lacking in her daughter. Evie, where did you get to?
The Queen sat down at her desk. Moving carefully to spare her dislocated shoulder, she opened a drawer and took out a small portrait in a sanded wood frame. The portrait was the only tangible thing left to remind the Queen of her early life, and sometimes she toyed with the idea of throwing it away. But it had been too important to a young and desperate girl, and it had taken on the quality of a talisman; for a brief time, the Queen believed, the portrait had even kept her alive. Whenever she tried to discard it, something always held her back.
The woman in the portrait was not the Queen’s mother, but when the Queen was young, she would have given the world to make it so. The subject was a brunette, heavily pregnant, her skin browned from long hours spent in the sun. This portrait was old; the woman wore clothing too shapeless to be from anything but the Landing era, and a primitive bow was strung across her back. Her face was beautiful, but it was not the easy, careless beauty of any Raleigh queen. This woman had suffered; there were scars on her collarbone and neck, and her face was lined with long-healed pain. But there was no bitterness there. She was laughing, and her eyes radiated kindness. Flowers were woven in her hair. When the Queen was young, she would spend hours staring at this picture, her guts knotted in jealousy . . . not of the woman, but of the child in her belly. She wished she knew the woman’s name, but even in the Keep gallery, the picture had never been labeled.
Evie! Why do you make me wait?
“Shut up,” the Queen whispered. “You’re dead.”
Thinking of the past was a mistake. She tossed the picture back in the drawer and slammed it shut. If the dark thing had no use for her anymore, then she held no leverage. She could not prohibit fires forever; sooner or later, what had happened today would happen again. And if the girl actually did manage to set the dark thing free somehow, there would be no defense. The last remnants of memory disappeared from her mind, and she turned all of her thoughts to the present. The girl, the girl was the problem, and no matter what the dark thing said, the Queen did not consider the girl an easy mark. She could not offer Elyssa’s bargain, for the girl had refused to send Mortmesne a single slave. For a strange, wistful moment, the Queen wished that she could sit down with the girl, speak to her as an equal. But the jewels made such a friendly discussion impossible. The Queen hesitated for a moment longer, considering, and then pressed the gold button on the wall.
A few moments later Juliette entered the room, her steps hesitant, her eyes pinned to the floor. A smart girl, Julie, not wanting to push her luck. “Majesty?”
“Prepare my luggage for travel,” the Queen told her, turning toward the fireplace. She reached behind her back and grasped her left wrist in her right hand. “At least several weeks’ worth. You will accompany me. We leave tomorrow.”
“For what destination, Majesty?”
The Queen took a deep breath and yanked her left arm backward, snapping her neck and upper torso forward at the same time. The pain was sudden and excruciating, consuming her entire shoulder in fire, and a scream climbed up the back of the Queen’s throat. But she kept her mouth shut tight, and a moment later there was the satisfying crack of the musculature popping back into place. The pain quickly faded, retreating into a dull ache that could easily be cured with drugs.
The Queen turned back to Juliette, her smile pleasant, although her brow was wet with perspiration. Juliette’s expression was horrified, her face drained of color. The Queen took a step forward, just to see what would happen, and had the pleasure of watching Juliette scuttle backward, almost through the doorway.
“Pack for warm climate and some rough living.”
“Where are we going, Majesty?” Juliette quavered. Had the Queen really found her intimidating a few minutes ago? There was nothing to fear, not from one so young.
“To the front, Julie,” she replied dismissively, moving to look out the western window. “To the Tearling.”
All the way up the stairs, Ewen kept his eyes on the Mace’s back. He was scared, but there was no question of not following; Ewen knew that much from Da. When you were summoned by the Captain of Guard, you simply went. The Mace carried a large grey bundle under his arm, and he hadn’t even looked at Ewen since they’d left the dungeon. Worse yet, the Mace had left another jailor to take Ewen’s place while he went upstairs. The new man was not as big as Ewen, but he was certainly smart, with quick eyes that darted around the dungeon. The one remaining prisoner, Bannaker, had completely recovered from his injuries, and Ewen, knowing that Bannaker would be dangerous when fully healed, had moved him to Cell Two. But the first thing the new jailor did was to walk over to Cell Two and check its locks, and this made Ewen angry: as though he would leave a cell unlocked, with a prisoner inside! The new man then sat down at the desk as though he owned the place, putting his feet up, and at that moment Ewen knew that the Queen was going to remove him from his post. He had been a good jailor for almost five years, but the Queen must have found out that he was slow. With each stair that Ewen climbed, he became more sick to his stomach. Their family had been jailors in the Keep forever, all the way back to Da’s grandfather. Da had only given up the job because he could no longer walk. Ewen couldn’t bear to tell Da this news. He felt naked without his ring of keys.
But they did not leave the staircase at the ninth floor, the Queen’s Wing. Rather, they kept on going, several floors up, and the Mace led him into a large room that was lit up like Christmas, more than a dozen torches lining the walls. Two Queen’s Guards, one large and one small, sat in chairs just inside the door, and in the center of the room was a tall cage, but Ewen couldn’t make out what was inside.
“Morning, boys.”
“Good morning, sir,” they both replied, standing up. The smaller man had eyes so light that they seemed white, and they reminded Ewen of the woman Brenna. Three Queen’s Guards had removed her from the dungeon several days ago, which had relieved Ewen no end. Bannaker’s eyes might plot escape every moment, but still he seemed less dangerous than the woman. A witch, Ewen was sure of it, powerful and terrible, just as Da had always described them in stories.
“El. Keys.”
The big guard came forward into the light, and Ewen recognized him now: the man with the scary teeth. He tossed the keys to the Mace, who slammed them against the bars, a metallic clanging that hurt Ewen’s ears.
“Wake up, Arlen! It’s your big day.”
“I’m awake.” A ghostly thin shape unfolded itself from the ground inside the cage, and Ewen recognized the scarecrow. But he was dressed differently now, in a white linen shirt and trousers, and even Ewen knew what that meant: it was the uniform of a prisoner sentenced to death.
“Are you going to behave, Arlen?” the Mace asked.
“I’ve made my bargain.”
“Good.” The Mace unlocked the cage. “Tie him up.”
Ewen was beginning to wonder if the Mace had forgotten that he was there, but now those sharp eyes found him. “You! Ewen! Over here.”
Ewen moved forward, almost tiptoeing.
“Listen carefully, boy, for we haven’t much time.” The Mace pulled the bundle from beneath his arm and shook it out, and Ewen saw that it was a long grey cloak. “You showed great courage in capturing this man, and the Queen is grateful. So today, you will be a Queen’s Guard.”
Ewen stared at the grey cloak, mesmerized.
“You and Elston will transport this prisoner to the New London Circus. Elston is in charge. Your only job is to guard the prisoner, to make sure he doesn’t escape. Do you understand?”
Ewen swallowed, found his throat almost too dry to speak. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Here.” Mace held out the cloak. “Put it on and come help us.”
The deep grey fabric was soft, softer than any clothing Ewen had ever owned. He fastened the cloak around his shoulders, trying to puzzle out what was happening. He knew that he could not be a Queen’s Guard; he was not smart enough. But they were waiting for him beside the cage, so he hurried over and stood at attention. The short guard had already tied the prisoner’s wrists.
“We’re taking him out the Gate.”
“Christ, they’ll slaughter him before she can execute him.”
“Maybe, but she wants to give them a show.”
Together, the three of them marched the prisoner between them, out the door and down the stairs. Here, at least, was something that Ewen understood, lessons learned from years in the dungeon. He kept his eyes on the scarecrow’s back, looking for the smallest twitch, the slightest sign that his prisoner meant to bolt. When the prisoner coughed, Ewen put a quick hand on his arm. As they descended the staircase, Ewen checked the position of his knife, and found it right where it should be, tucked into his belt.
One job, Da had always said, and one job only, Ew: make sure they don’t run. The rest is for someone else.
At the bottom of the stairs, they came around the corner toward the Keep Gate and Ewen saw a group of people on horses. The Queen was there, sitting atop a brown horse, dressed in a long black dress that draped over the horse’s flank. Ewen thought about bowing, then decided not to when the other three guards did not. He might not be a real Queen’s Guard, but he could act like one.
“El, tie him down,” the Mace ordered. “Make sure no one can pull him off.”
Beside the horses was a broad, open wagon. Ewen helped the big guard lift the prisoner into the wagon bed, then climbed in himself, thinking: No one has ever escaped on my watch. He held the idea firmly in his mind as the big guard shackled the scarecrow to the wagon. Ewen had never let a prisoner get free, and it would not happen now. Da was right. The rest was for someone else.
The Keep Gate opened before them, bright sunlight splashing the dark walls. But the sound . . . Ewen looked out and saw people, hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, waiting beyond the moat. As the bridge lowered, the roar seemed to double in volume. The sound was frightening, and it hurt Ewen’s ears, but then he reminded himself that he was a Queen’s Guard, and Queen’s Guards were not frightened. He stood up straight, grasping the side of the wagon for balance as it began to roll.
It took Ewen only a few minutes to figure out what all the noise was about: the scarecrow. They screamed his name, Thorne, mixing it in with curses and threats. Many people threw things: eggs, fruit, even a fresh lump of dog shit that narrowly missed Ewen and landed in the bed of the wagon. Ewen wished he had been able to ask Da what the scarecrow had done, but Da was far too sick to visit the dungeons now. Ewen hadn’t seen him in several weeks.
They left the Keep Lawn and proceeded down the Great Boulevard. Here, someone had placed wooden barriers to keep people out of the center of the road, but the mob crowded up against the barriers, nearly knocking them over, shrieking at the wagon the entire way. When the procession passed Powell’s Sweet Shop, Ewen saw Mr. and Mrs. Powell out front. Powell’s had always been his favorite shop, ever since he was little, when Mum used to take him and his brothers every Sunday if they had been good in church. Mrs. Powell was nicer to Ewen than she was to his brothers; she would always stick a few extra pieces of taffy into his bag. But now Mrs. Powell’s face was twisted and dark. Her eyes met Ewen’s, but she did not seem to recognize him, nor did she stop screaming, high furious cries that meant nothing.
“Hey, Ew! EW!”
Ewen looked around and saw his brother Peter, clinging to the top of a lamppost with one hand, waving wildly with the other. Peter pointed beneath him, and Ewen saw that they were all there: Arthur and David, his two younger brothers, and Da. Even from this vantage, Ewen could see that Da was leaning heavily on Arthur’s arm, that he would have fallen over without help. Ewen longed to wave at Da, but he could not; he was a Queen’s Guard, and he sensed the Mace watching him, looking for him to make a mistake. Da didn’t wave; he was too weak. But his old eyes were gleaming, and he smiled as Ewen went by.
As they left the boulevard and entered the twisting labyrinth of streets that led to the Circus, Ewen finally turned his attention back to the wagon. The crowd followed, screaming blood and murder behind them, but Ewen no longer heard them. He had never imagined that one single moment of life could be so important. He was a Queen’s Guard, and Da had seen, and Da was proud.
For the first few minutes, Kelsea had been able to convince herself that the crowd was merely expressing healthy anger. Seventeen years of the lottery required some outlet, and Thorne was the perfect target, for he stood nonchalantly in the wagon, smiling as though he had not a care in the world, as though he were going to a Sunday picnic rather than his own death. The crowd hurled objects at Thorne, howling like animals, and by the time the procession reached the Circus, Kelsea could no longer deceive herself about what was going on here. This was not a crowd, but a mob, and it was only winding itself up as the procession continued.
The Circus was New London’s unofficial plaza, a wide oval of broken paving stones at the center of the city. It was a convenient place for meetings, for it stood at the intersection of five streets and its perimeter was dotted with pubs. But today the plaza was dominated by a high wooden structure: a scaffold, built by contractors in the past week. The platform was taller than Kelsea had expected, perhaps ten feet high, and the scaffold itself seemed to loom over the crowd below.
Three long, twisted ropes, ending in nooses, dangled from the crossbar. Two of them were already occupied, tightened around the necks of Liam Bannaker and Brother Matthew. Kelsea had expected some pushback from the Arvath; technically, only the Holy Father could sentence one of his people to death. But there had been nothing from the Holy Father for days, no complaints or demands. He was waiting for something, Mace said, but if Mace knew what the something was, he kept it to himself.
Kelsea had hoped that the sight of the rope would touch Thorne, even a little, but he continued to smile broadly, and the crowd screamed louder, and their fury fed his smile, and his smile fed their fury, until it sounded as though the world was ending. Everywhere she looked, Kelsea saw clean hate, eyes and faces and mouths burning with it. Even the evacuees—men and women in the thick, patched trousers and loose shirts of the Border Hills and eastern Almont—had come into the city to see Thorne hang. But Thorne seemed not to care.
There must be something, Kelsea thought, her eyes pinned on him. Something that would break him.
She turned to Mace, but he was keeping a careful eye on the boy, Ewen, watching to see that he did not get distracted. Mace thought all of this energy expended on Ewen was a waste of time, but there were some things that you could never explain to Mace. For perhaps the thousandth time, Kelsea wondered what had happened to him, to make him so immune to kindness. In this respect, at least, Thorne had won the chess match: Kelsea never really stopped wondering about Mace anymore, about the strange childhood where Mace and Thorne and Brenna had somehow intersected. But if she asked Mace, he wouldn’t tell, and if she ordered him, she would be a tyrant and he wouldn’t tell anyway. Thorne had refused to speak another word, even to the last, but Kelsea had kept her end of the bargain. Brenna was now installed in the Keep proper—five floors below the Queen’s Wing, to Kelsea’s relief—and each day one unfortunate guard had to go down, bring her food, and guard her chamber for the day. Mace had begun to treat the duty as a punishment for small infractions by the Guard, and according to him, it had been surprisingly effective. Kelsea could ask Brenna about Mace’s origins, perhaps, but she couldn’t imagine that the albino would be willing to tell her anything. She had considered bringing Brenna down here today, but in the end decided that such a move would be too cruel. Now she wished she had done it, just to see the look on Thorne’s face. Maddening, to have so many questions to which the answers were hidden by a single pitiless mind.
Kelsea was pleased to see that Ewen’s size, at least, was an advantage here. After they stopped the wagon, Ewen held Thorne’s arms tightly while Elston dealt with the knots. Normally, it would have been Kibb with Elston, as always, but Mace was still testing Kibb, trying to analyze what had changed since his illness. Kibb was different, even Kelsea could see it. He sang less, laughed less, seemed more introspective. From time to time Kelsea would catch him staring at her, puzzled, as though trying to decipher some code that only the two of them understood.
At the foot of the scaffold, Kelsea dismounted and headed up the stairs to the platform, surrounded by her Guard. The crowd howled around her, a sound for nightmares, but she no longer minded, for the cacophony fit her mood. After months spent hunting for Thorne, this should have been her day of triumph, but somehow everything had gone wrong. Thorne had not stood trial, and Kelsea could feel Carlin’s certain disapproval, like a low headache at the back of her mind. Eight days ago, the Mort had crossed the Crithe, and no amount of ingenuity from Hall or Bermond could hold back their numbers; soon Kelsea would have to evacuate the sprawling camp outside the city and move the refugees inside. Whenever she closed her eyes now, she saw the Mort: a faceless black horde, waiting, at the end of the New London Bridge. What did they wait for? Kelsea shrank from the answer.
She beckoned her herald, Jordan, who had hung back from the group of Queen’s Guards in clear discomfort. The guards were not unkind to him, certainly, but there was little doubt that Jordan was a mouse among hawks.
“See if you can get them to settle down.”
Jordan moved to the front of the scaffold and began yelling, waving his arms. His deep voice was strong enough to make the wood thrum beneath Kelsea’s feet, but still, it took a few minutes for the crowd to fall into an uneasy silence, one broken by hisses and muttering. Elston and Ewen had moved Thorne to the pinnacle of the scaffold, where he stood with bound hands, staring far over the crowd.
“Arlen Thorne, Brother Matthew, and Liam Bannaker.” Kelsea was pleased to hear her words ring across the Circus and bounce back again from the wall of pubs. “You are guilty of treason, and the Crown has sentenced you to death. Should you have anything to say before you hang, the Crown is listening.”
For a moment, she thought that Thorne might speak. He scanned the crowd, and Kelsea knew without knowing that he was looking for Brenna, for the damnable albino who had such an incomprehensible hold on him.
Speak, Arlen!
But he said nothing, and then the moment was past. Kelsea felt it blow right by her, a cold wind of withered promise.
“Beast!” a woman screamed, and then they all began again, howling and cursing. There was nothing more to accomplish here; Kelsea nodded to Mace and Coryn, who stepped forward without ceremony and shoved both Bannaker and the priest off the scaffold.
Bannaker’s neck broke instantly, a quick crack like a slap, and his limp body swung back and forth in decreasing arcs before the crowd. But Brother Matthew struggled, choking, against his noose. The crowd had begun to fling items again, making a game of it now, trying to hit the two dangling men. Most of these objects bounced harmlessly off the wooden facing, but one piece fell near Kelsea with a dull crack: a misshapen brick, its edges worn. Beside the brick, a playing card lay facedown on the platform, no doubt left by some worker on break from construction. Not knowing why, Kelsea bent down and picked it up. Turning it over, she saw that it was the queen of spades.
Kelsea stared at the card, transfixed: a tall woman dressed all in black, holding weapons in both hands. The Queen’s all-knowing gaze pinned Kelsea where she stood, as though she knew every thought in Kelsea’s mind.
But no, Kelsea thought, that isn’t it at all. The nights of slicing her own flesh open, the incident with Kibb, the steadily growing sense of her own power . . . all of it had been narrowing to a point, distilling Kelsea to her essentials. She squeezed her hand into a fist, feeling the playing card crumple inside.
I am her: the tall, dark woman with death in each hand. She is me.
“Be silent!” she shouted.
A hush fell over the crowd, as quick and sharp as a curtain dropping. Brother Matthew still convulsed, gagging, at the end of his rope, but Kelsea didn’t mind the counterpoint. She moved up toward the edge of the scaffold, so far out that Pen, close as always, grabbed a handful of her dress. It felt as though there were yards of extra material in the small of Kelsea’s back now, where the fabric had always stretched tight for her entire life. She had transformed, become something more than herself, become extraordinary.
The queen of spades.
“You have come to watch this man die!” she announced. “But I know you, people of the Tearling! You do not come to watch a hanging! You come for blood!”
“Aye!” hundreds of voices shouted back.
“Make him bleed, Lady!”
“Give him to us!”
“No.” Something seemed to be unfurling inside Kelsea, unfolding stealthily, like a dark pair of wings opening in the night, and she wanted to spread them wide, feel their span. Always she had been a child of the light, loving the warm sun through the cottage windows, when it felt as though all things were right and kind. But the world was also full of darkness, a cold gulf that beckoned. The people hungered for violence, and suddenly Kelsea wanted, more than anything, to give it them.
Corruption. Carlin’s voice, a dim echo, long ago in the morning gleam of the library. Corruption begins with a single moment of weakness.
But Kelsea was not weak. She was strong . . . stronger than Carlin could ever have imagined. Her entire being seemed to be filled with bright light.
“Arlen.”
It was only a whisper, but Thorne jerked around to face her, a marionette pulled by invisible strings.
I own him, Kelsea realized, her mind a dark marvel. Every cell, every molecule. I could force him to speak. I could force him to tell me everything I want to know.
But that was nonsense. The time for talk had come and gone.
“Lady?”
Mace touched her arm, and Kelsea turned to see that he was offering the third noose in one hand. But she ignored it, staring at Thorne, memorizing his form, learning his outlines. He watched her placidly, and Kelsea saw that he felt no regret, even now. In the bleak white landscape of his mind, he was certain that he had acted justifiably, that no man would have done any better. Seventeen long years of facilitating the shipment . . . but no, Thorne’s role had been even worse. Deep within his mind, Kelsea found a bright flash of memory: a hand holding out a pen, a smooth, persuasive voice, speaking in murmurs. I’m afraid you have no choice, Majesty. There’s no better option.
Fury coiled inside Kelsea, a sick fury that seemed to come from nowhere, descending like an animal with ragged claws and needle teeth. She tasted blood on her tongue.
A dark slash opened just above Thorne’s left eye. He cried out, clapped a hand to his forehead, and Kelsea watched with pleasure as blood spilled between his fingers and ran down his cheek. The crowd broke its silence now, howling in delight, pushing toward the scaffold. Kelsea leaned forward, heedless of Pen’s restraining grip on her dress, and grasped Thorne’s hair, tipping his head back. Bright blue eyes stared up at her from a face tacky with blood.
“I have news for you, Arlen. We’re on my chessboard now.”
Another slice appeared across Thorne’s cheek, opening all the way from his hairline to the corner of his mouth. Thorne groaned, and Kelsea felt that winged thing inside her growing, heaving, desperate to break its bonds. She slashed at Thorne’s neck, dangerously near the jugular, and watched crimson bloom across the white linen of his shirt. Thorne screamed and the sound was music to Kelsea’s ears, the crowd’s approval roaring around her, lifting her up. She saw herself as they must see her: a beautiful woman, long dark hair snapping in the wind, a figure of great power and . . . was it terror? Kelsea hesitated, seeing the scene before her from another angle, as though a third person stood beside her, observing dispassionately. Thorne was bleeding from half a dozen deep wounds. He had fallen to his knees. The crowd had pushed farther up against the scaffold in its eagerness now, some of them shinnying up the supports and reaching for Thorne, their hands grasping at his legs. But they shied away from Kelsea. Even the most eager took care that their hands should not come within range of her, not even to brush the hem of her dress. Terror, yes . . . it must be, and Kelsea’s mind went out to the black shadow of the Mort army, somewhere in the floodplain between the Caddell and the Crithe.
My kingdom, she thought, and the wings inside her spread wide, prepared for some unimaginable flight. Briefly her mind skipped backward, to that night when Kibb had lain dying, when she had snatched him back. That was power, yes, but it would not save the Tearling. Her kingdom was laid bare, ripe for slaughter, and she had nothing to offer but this darkness. The black wings folded, enclosing Kelsea in their embrace, and she nearly sighed at the relief she found there, a bottomless fathom where no light ever shone, where all choices were easy because all choices were one.
She returned to Thorne, pushing past his skin, seeking the meat beneath. Her mind had sharpened into a killing blade and she launched into the creature in front of her, slashing everything within her reach, feeling a sweeping excitement as tissue shredded away from bone. Thorne howled, his body becoming misshapen as the inner upheaval played out across his skin. Blood gouted from his nose, spattering the hem of Kelsea’s dress, but she barely noticed. She was already digging into the meat of his chest, looking for his lungs. She found one, constricted it, and felt it pop with sickening ease. More blood poured from Thorne’s mouth, and at the sight of scarlet dripping down his chin, Kelsea felt it again: a fainting sort of pleasure, akin to what she felt when Pen touched her at night. But this was more visceral, like a punch to her core. Thorne’s other lung collapsed and he fell forward, writhing, on the scaffold. The crowd screamed with delight, and the sound lifted Kelsea up. Her entire body felt charged, electric.
“I am the Queen of the Tearling!” she shouted, and the crowd immediately fell silent. Looking over them, their open mouths, their wide eyes, all fixed on her, Kelsea felt as though she held the world in her hands. She had felt so before, but could not remember when. She placed her boot on Thorne’s neck and pressed down, hard, liking the way he writhed, liking the feel of his neck beneath her boot.
“The price of treachery in my Tearling! Mark and remember it!”
Thorne’s neck snapped. He gave a final gagging cough and seemed to seize, his spine arching. Then he was gone. Kelsea felt him go, like leaves in a wind, but the wild darkness inside her didn’t diminish. Instead, it pushed harder, demanding that she find another traitor, more blood. Kelsea drove it back, sensing that here was a seductive thing, to be carefully controlled. She looked down at Thorne’s corpse, at the muddy mark of her boot on his neck. The darkness in her mind faded to white, then disappeared.
“To the Queen!” a woman’s voice shouted.
“To the Queen!”
Kelsea looked up and saw cups upraised all across the crowd. They had come prepared to celebrate when the deed was done. She had given the crowd what they wanted, what they needed . . . but still Kelsea hesitated, a trickle of anxiety fermenting in her belly now.
Who did those things? The queen of spades? Or me?
Mace placed a cup in her hand, and Kelsea suddenly understood that the drinking was a ritual. She raised the cup to the crowd, wondering if there were any specific words she was supposed to say. No; she was the Queen. She could make up her own words, her own ritual, and they would trump everything that had come before.
“The health of my people!” she shouted. “The health of the Tearling!”
The crowd roared the final words back to her and then drank. Kelsea took a sip and realized that although Mace had come prepared, he was no fool; the liquid in her cup was only water. But it tasted sweet somehow, and Kelsea drained it. When she turned to give the cup back, she found Mace still holding the noose in his other hand. Although his face was blank, Kelsea sensed disapproval beneath.
“Well, Lazarus?”
“You’ve changed, Lady. I never thought to see you bow to the will of the mob.”
Kelsea flushed. The realization that Mace could still do that, make her feel ashamed with a single cutting remark, was unwelcome. “I bow to no one.”
“That I can well believe.”
Mace turned away, and Kelsea grabbed his arm, desperate to make him understand. “I haven’t changed, Lazarus. I’ve grown older, that’s all. I’m still me.”
“No, Lady.” Mace sighed, and the sigh seemed to pass through Kelsea, a breath of doom on cold wings. “Tell yourself whatever pleasing stories you want, but you’re not the girl we took from the cottage. You’ve become someone else.”