Tyler felt his dinner, barley soup, climbing up his throat, and swallowed convulsively. Many of the faces around him looked similarly ill, white and frightened, but Tyler spotted plenty of exceptions: smug faces, vindicated faces. Father Ryan, eyes bright with excitement, nodding vigorously at Anders’s words. And Tyler, who had not experienced true fury since the early, starving days of his childhood in the Almont, suddenly felt rage contract within him. In all of this, where was God? Why did He remain silent?
“Backsliders,” Anders intoned solemnly. “Repent your works.”
Tyler looked up and found the Holy Father’s gaze locked on him.
“Ty?” Wyde asked in an undertone, his voice plaintive. “Ty? What do we do?”
“We wait,” Tyler replied firmly, his eyes pinned on the river of scarlet at his feet. “We wait for God to show us the way.”
And yet even this statement sounded hollow to Tyler’s ears. He looked toward the dome of the chapel, toward heaven, waiting for some sign. But none came, and a moment later he saw that the gallery was empty. The Mace had disappeared.
When Kelsea had finished with Arliss, she dismissed Andalie and returned to her own chamber alone. She was tired of people today. Everyone seemed to have constant demands, even Arliss, who knew better than anyone how strapped the Crown was for men and money. Arliss wanted to provide armed protection for a small portion of farmers to stay out in the Almont until the eleventh hour. Kelsea could see the argument; with the Almont emptied, the entire autumn crop harvest would be lost. But she had no idea where to get the manpower. Bermond would howl if she asked for even a fraction of his soldiers, and though Kelsea disliked the old general, she knew that he was indeed stretched extremely thin. Perhaps a fourth of the Tear army was deployed in and around the Argive Pass, making sure that the Mort didn’t open it up as a potential supply line. The rest of Bermond’s men were scattered across the eastern Almont, busily moving refugees inward toward New London. Hall’s battalion was entrenched on the border. There were simply no more men to spare.
Kelsea left Pen behind in the antechamber without a word, drawing the curtains closed behind her. Andalie had made her a mug of tea, but Kelsea ignored it. Tea would only keep her awake. She brushed her hair and rearranged her desk, feeling restless and exhausted but not at all sleepy. What she really wanted to do was return to her library, to the continuing puzzle of Lily Mayhew. Who was she? Kelsea had gone through more than ten of Carlin’s history books now, looking for any reference to either Lily or Greg Mayhew, but there was nothing, not even in the books published closest to the Crossing. Whoever the Mayhews were, they seemed to have faded into obscurity, but still the riddle of Lily seemed infinitely solvable compared to the problem on the eastern border. Kelsea was certain that if she could only find the right book, the answer would present itself and Lily would become clear. But no solutions were forthcoming for the problem of the Mort.
She couldn’t go back to the library now. Pen needed his sleep. Kelsea had gone to bed early for the last three nights, but Pen still looked very ragged. She had begun to wonder whether he ever slept, or whether he simply sat there on his pallet, sword across his knees, as the night turned into morning. There was no reason for him to be so vigilant; Mace now had well over thirty Queen’s Guards under his command, and the Keep itself was more secure than ever. But still, the image of Pen sitting there, motionless, staring into the darkness, was strangely persuasive. Kelsea didn’t know how to make him sleep, when she barely slept herself.
After a moment’s thought, she tiptoed toward the mirror. She had deliberately avoided looking for the past week, and although she ascribed this to Carlin’s strictures about vanity, the real reason was much simpler: she was terrified.
Except for a few moments of rogue longing, Kelsea had more or less resigned herself to the fact that she would spend her life with a round, friendly farm girl’s face, good-natured but unremarkable. She had often wished that she were beautiful, but it simply wasn’t in the cards, and she had come to terms with her appearance as best she could.
Now she felt a deep ripple of fear as she studied her face in the mirror, remembering something Carlin had once said: “Corruption begins with a single moment of weakness.” Kelsea couldn’t remember what they had been talking about, but she seemed to remember Carlin looking at Barty, judgment in her gaze. Now, staring at herself in the mirror, Kelsea knew that Carlin was right. Corruption didn’t happen all at once; it was a gradual, insidious process. Kelsea neither felt nor saw anything occurring, but change had crept up on her back.
Her nose was transforming, that was the first thing. It had always sat in the middle of her face like a squashed mushroom, too big for its surroundings. But now, to Kelsea’s searching eyes, her nose had lengthened, become tapered, so that it emerged quite naturally and gracefully from the ridge between her eyes. The rounded, slightly piggish upturn had softened at the tip. Her eyes were still a bright cat’s green, the shape of almonds. But the pockets of flesh around them had been steadily eroding, and now the eyes themselves seemed larger, dominating Kelsea’s face in a way they never had before. Perhaps the most noticeable change was Kelsea’s mouth, which had always been full-lipped and flat, too wide for her face. Now it too had shrunk, the top lip thinning slightly so that the bottom looked fuller, a deep healthy pink. Her cheeks had dropped weight as well, so that her face was oval rather than round. Everything seemed to fit better than it had before.
She wasn’t beautiful, Kelsea thought, not by any stretch. But she was no longer plain either. She looked like a woman someone might actually remember.
At what cost?
Kelsea shrank from the question. She was no longer afraid that she might be sick, for she had plenty of energy, and the image before her was the very picture of health. But beneath the initial pleasure she felt, looking at this new woman, there was a sense of great falsity. Here was beauty blooming from nowhere, beauty that reflected no change inside.
“I’m still me,” Kelsea whispered. That was the important thing, wasn’t it? She was still fundamentally herself. And yet . . . several times lately, she had caught Mace giving her hard looks, as though trying to analyze her face. The rest of the Guard, well, who knew what they talked about once they retreated to their quarters at night? If things continued in this vein, they might well think her a sorceress, just like the Red Queen. They were still worried about the trance she’d had, that night in the library; whenever Kelsea stumbled these days, there seemed to be several guards at her arm to hold her up. She closed her eyes and saw, again, the pretty pre-Crossing woman with the sad eyes, the deep lines around her mouth. The bruises.
Who are you, Lily?
No one knew. Lily had vanished into the past with the rest of humanity. But Kelsea couldn’t be satisfied with that. Her sapphires operated outside of her control, their actions inconsistent and maddening. But they had never shown her anything she didn’t need to see.
What makes you think it’s the sapphires? They’ve been dead for weeks.
Kelsea blinked at that. True, the sapphires had done almost nothing since the Argive. But Kelsea was not like Andalie; she had no magic of her own. All of her power, everything extraordinary that she had ever done, was bedrocked on these two pieces of blue stone, both of which could fit comfortably in her pocket. Kelsea risked another look in the mirror, and almost flinched at the calmly attractive woman she saw there.
How can the jewels be dead? They’re transforming your face!
“God,” Kelsea whispered, shuddering. She whirled away from the mirror, almost as if preparing to flee, and stopped short.
A man stood in front of the fireplace, a tall black silhouette against the flames.
Kelsea opened her mouth to shout for Pen, then held back, drawing a long, shaky breath. The Fetch, of course; it was well known that no doors kept him out. She tiptoed a few steps closer, and then, as the firelight crossed his profile, she started. The man before her was not the Fetch, but all the same,
she found herself physically unable to scream, or to make any sound at all.
He was beautiful. There was no other word. He reminded her of the drawings of Eros in Carlin’s books of mythology. He was tall and thin, not dissimilar to the Fetch in build, but that was where the similarity ended. This man had a sensualist’s face, slightly hollowed cheekbones tapering to a full-lipped mouth. His eyes were deep-set but somehow wide, their color indeterminate; by a trick of the firelight, the eyes seemed to gleam a deep red for a moment, before fading.
Tear heir.
Kelsea shook her head to clear it. He hadn’t spoken out loud, she was sure. But still, his voice echoed inside her head, a low hum with a clear Tear accent. Her pulse sped up and her breath shortened, as though both reactions had been set to a metronome. Her palms, dry as a bone moments before, had begun to sweat.
She opened her mouth to speak, and he put a finger to his lips.
We meet in the quiet, Tear heir.
Kelsea blinked. Behind the curtain drawn over the doorway, she could still hear Pen moving around, getting ready for bed. He hadn’t heard a thing.
Nothing to say?
She peeked down at her sapphires, but they lay dark and quiescent against the black silk of her dress, silk that now hung loosely on Kelsea’s frame. Her mind tilted dizzily, and she felt intoxicated, as though she should slap herself awake. She met the man’s eyes and a thought arrowed out of her, as cleanly as breathing.
Who are you?
A friend.
Kelsea thought not. Andalie’s warnings recurred to her, but she didn’t need Andalie to know that this man didn’t come in friendship. His gaze seemed to pin her where she stood, and she had the sense that all of his attention was focused on her, that nothing was so important to him as Kelsea Glynn at this moment. Handsome as sin, Andalie had warned, but she had failed to do him justice. Kelsea had never had any man seem utterly absorbed in her before, and it was a seductive feeling.
What do you want? she asked him.
Only to help you, Tear heir. Do you wish to know of the Mort Queen? Of the movements of her army? Where she is weak? I can tell you all of these things.
Free of charge, I suppose.
Wise child. Everything has a price.
What’s the price?
He pointed to her hand, which had crept up, almost unconsciously, to clutch her two sapphires. You hold jewels of enormous power, Tear heir. You could do me a great service.
Enormous power? After the Argive, Kelsea supposed that was true, but what good was all the power in the world if she couldn’t control it, couldn’t summon it on command? Inconsistent power would not mitigate the Mort army’s massive advantage in size and weaponry.
What power?
I have seen one jewel alter time and create miracles. But the other has the power of flesh, and you have a strong will, Tear heir. You will be able to flay skin and crush bones.
Kelsea considered this idea for a moment, darkly fascinated. She closed her eyes and saw it suddenly: the Almont, stretched between horizons, and the Mort army cowering, fleeing before her . . . was it possible?
The man in front of her smiled, as though he had read her mind, and gestured toward the fireplace. Look and see.
Kelsea found a wide mirage in front of the flames, a broad vista of salt flats and black water that could only be western Mortmesne. Lake Karczmar, it must be, where the Mort army lay massed at the base of the Border Hills. But now the hillside was in chaos, treetops aflame and men in black uniforms fighting wildly. A pall of smoke covered the trees.
Here are your soldiers, Tear heir. They will fall.
The Tear were being pressed back now, overwhelmed by superior numbers and forced back up the hillside. Hall’s battalion, Kelsea realized, and they were going to die. Pain sliced through her, and she reached out toward the mirage, wanting to grasp them, to carry them away.
The man snapped his fingers and the mirage winked out, leaving only firelight. She thought of calling for Pen, but the stranger’s gaze seemed to hold her frozen.
The Mort Queen has vulnerabilities. They are exploitable. And the service I ask in return is very small.
Thinking of Andalie’s warning, Kelsea shook her head. I want no part of you.
Ah, but that’s not true, Tear heir. I have watched you for some time. You long to be an adult, but those around you often treat you like a child. Is it not so?
Kelsea didn’t reply. The man stepped forward, giving her every chance to back away, and placed a hand around her waist. His hand was warm, and Kelsea immediately felt the skin beneath turn hot and feverish. Pressure echoed deep in the pit of her stomach.
I will never treat you as a child, Tear heir. I have never cared whether you were pretty or plain. I have known myriad women, but I will treat you as unique.
Kelsea believed him. It was the voice, its hollow tones so smoothly confident that they seemed to weave certainty out of thin air. She met his eyes and found them understanding, full of some sort of dark knowledge of Kelsea that he had no business having. For a moment she was tempted, so strong was the pull of being an adult with a life of her own, of making terrible mistakes the way everyone else was allowed to. And this man would be a good choice, for he had been the ruination of many women, she had no doubt.
But weaker women than me, a voice spoke up quietly inside her. I’m not one to be taken in.
Carefully, she removed his hand from her waist. His skin was oddly dry, but even this was exciting in its own way; she couldn’t help wondering what such dry hands would feel like between her legs, whether they would elicit the same sensations as her own. She backed away from him, trying to regain some control of herself, some equilibrium.
What do you want? she demanded. Be explicit.
Freedom.
Who imprisons you?
Mine is not a dungeon of walls, Tear heir.
Speak more plainly or get out.
Admiration sparked in the man’s eyes. He moved closer, but stopped when Kelsea held up a hand.
I am imprisoned, Tear heir. And you have the power to set me free.
In exchange for what?
I offer you a chance to defeat the Mort Queen and achieve greatness. You will sit on your throne long after all you know has crumbled into dust.
Did you promise her the same thing?
This time it was his turn to blink. A stab in the dark, but a good one. The Red Queen’s extraordinary age had never been explained. And it stood to reason that a man—is he a man? Kelsea wondered for the first time—who would try this with one queen would certainly try it with another.
I have no wish to emulate the Red Queen.
You will say so, he replied, until the moment when her legions smash your army into rubble. The words were so close to what Kelsea had seen in her mind that she shivered, and saw that this gave him pleasure somehow. You’ll beg for the opportunity to be cruel.
I will not, she replied. And if you seek cruelty in me, you won’t find it.
Cruelty is in everyone, Tear heir. It takes only the right application of pressure to coax it out.
Leave, now, or I will call my guard.
I have no fear of your guard. I could wring his neck with little effort.
The words froze Kelsea, but she merely repeated, Leave. I am not interested.
He smiled. But you are, Tear heir. And I will be waiting when you call.
The man’s form dissolved suddenly, coalescing into a black mass that seemed to hover in the air. Kelsea stumbled backward, her heart thudding. The mass streamed like shadow into the fireplace, falling on the flames like a curtain, dimming them and then putting them out entirely, leaving the room cold and dark. In the sudden blackness, Kelsea lost her balance and landed against her bedside table, knocking it over.
“Shit,” she muttered, feeling her way around on the floor.
“Lady?” Pen asked from the doorway, and she gasped; for a moment she had forgotten the existence of anyone but her visitor, and that s
eemed the most dangerous development of all. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Pen. Just stupid.”
“What happened to your fire?”
“A draft.”
Even in the dark, she could hear Pen’s silent skepticism. His soft, catlike tread moved across the chamber toward the fireplace.
“Don’t bother.” She fumbled on the floor among the items that had fallen off the bedside table. “I’ll just light a candle.”
“Have you been practicing sorcery, Lady?”
Kelsea paused in the act of striking a match. “Why do you ask?”
“We’re not blind. We see what’s happening to you. Mace has forbidden us to speak of it.”
“Then perhaps you’d better not.” Kelsea lit the candle and found Pen a few feet away, concern in his face. “I’m not practicing sorcery.”
“You’ve become quite pretty.”
Kelsea scowled. Pleasure welled up in her, that Pen thought her pretty, but the pleasure was quickly subsumed under anger: she had not been pretty enough before! She felt as though she couldn’t win. Her heart rate was still elevated and her body felt frazzled. Pen’s handsome face was open, filled with the same honest concern as ever, but then Pen had always been good to her, all the way back to the Reddick Forest, when most of the Guard would probably have been just as happy to leave her behind. As Pen helped her up, Kelsea couldn’t help noticing other things. Pen was muscular; he had that whipcord body, well developed on top and lithe on the bottom, that Venner extolled as an absolute necessity for a top-notch swordsman. Pen was quick and strong and intelligent. And, perhaps even more important, he was trustworthy, exceptionally so, even in a cadre of guards chosen for their ability to keep their mouths shut. Anything that happened in this room would stay here.
“Pen?”
“Lady?”
“You think I’m pretty.”
He blinked in surprise. “I always found you so, Lady. But it’s true that your face has changed.”
The Invasion of the Tearling Page 12