The Queen of the Tearling

by Erika Johansen

  Then the soldiers began to move. Only a few at first, then several more, and more after that. Despite Thorne, who had begun to hiss at them in a furious undertone, the two commanders took keys from their belts and began to unlock the cages.

  Javel released his breath, staring at this phenomenon. He’d never seen the cages opened once they’d been locked; he supposed no one but the Mort had. He knew of several people, including himself, who had followed the shipment all the way to the Argive Pass. But few dared to cross the Mort border, and no one followed the shipment all the way to its final destination in Demesne. If the Mort army found any Tear hanging around the cages, they would kill him outright as a saboteur.

  One by one, men and women began to clamber out of the cages. The crowd received them into what seemed to be an enormous embrace. An old woman ten feet from the Census table simply collapsed and began weeping on the ground.

  Thorne braced both arms on the table, his voice acid. “And what of Mortmesne, then, Princess? Will you bring the Red Queen’s army down on us all?”

  Javel turned back to the Queen and was relieved to find that she was simply a girl again, just a teenager with an unremarkable face and disheveled hair. His vision, if that’s what it had been, was gone. But her voice had not diminished; if anything, it was louder now, clear anger ringing across the Keep Lawn. “I haven’t named you a foreign policy adviser, Arlen Thorne. Nor have I ridden halfway across this kingdom to engage in pointless debate with a bureaucrat on my own front lawn. I consider the good of my people first and foremost in this, as in everything.”

  The Mace leaned over to whisper in the Queen’s ear. She nodded and pointed at Thorne. “You! Overseer! I hold you responsible to see that each child is returned to his family. Should I hear complaint of a lost child, it will rest at your feet. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Lady,” Thorne intoned colorlessly, and Javel was suddenly very glad that he couldn’t see the man’s face. The Queen might think she’d leashed this particular dog, but Arlen Thorne had no leash, and she’d find that out soon enough.

  “Praise for the Queen!” someone cried from the far side of the cages, and the crowd roared its approval. Families were reuniting in front of the cages, people calling joyfully to each other across the expanse of the lawn. But most of all, Javel heard weeping, a sound he hated. Their loved ones were being returned; what the hell did they have to cry about?

  “There will be no more shipments to Mortmesne!” the Queen shouted, and the crowd answered in another incoherent roar. Javel blinked and saw Allie’s face floating just behind his closed eyes. Some days he feared he had forgotten her face; no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t come clear in his mind. He would fixate on one feature he thought he remembered, something easy like Allie’s chin, and then it would shimmer and blur like a mirage. But every so often would come a day like this, when he could recall every angle of Allie’s face, the curve of her cheekbone, the determined set of her jaw, and he would realize that the forgetting had actually been a kindness. He looked up at the sky and saw, relieved, that it was purpled with dusk. The sun had disappeared behind the Keep.

  “Vil!” he called across the bridge. “Aren’t we off duty?”

  Vil turned to him, his round face astonished. “You want to leave now?”

  “No . . . no, I was just asking.”

  “Well, hold it together,” Vil replied, his voice shaded with mockery. “You can drown your sorrows later.”

  Javel’s face flamed, and he looked at the ground, clenching his hand into a fist. A hand clapped on his back; he looked up and saw Martin, his friendly face sympathetic. Javel nodded to show that he was all right, and Martin scuttled back to his position.

  Two Queen’s Guards, one large and one small, both cloaked in grey, were moving around the cages with a bucket. Elston and Kibb, most likely; the two of them were inseparable. Javel couldn’t tell what they were doing, but it didn’t really matter. Most of the cages were empty now. Thorne had instituted some sort of careful procedure at the children’s cages, releasing the children one at a time and questioning parents who came forward before handing off a child. Probably a good idea; there was a loose confederacy of pimps and madams down in the Gut who catered to all tastes, and they weren’t above snatching a child from time to time. Javel, who spent plenty of time in the Gut, had thought more than once about trying to find the people who did these things, trying to bring them to some sort of justice. But his resolve always weakened as night fell, and besides, that was a charge for someone else. Someone brave.

  Anyone but me.

  Kelsea was exhausted. She clutched the hilt of Mace’s sword, trying to look regal and unconcerned, but her heart was hammering and her muscles felt drawn with fatigue. She reclasped the necklace around her throat and found that she hadn’t imagined it: the sapphire was burning, as though it had been heated in a forge. For a few moments there, arguing with Arlen Thorne, she had felt as though she could reach out and break the sky in half. But now all of that power had gone, drained away, leaving her muscles slack. If they didn’t get inside soon, she thought she might fall off her horse.

  The sun had disappeared, and the entire lawn beneath the Keep was bathed in shadow, the temperature sinking rapidly. But they couldn’t go yet; Mace had sent several guards out into the crowd on various errands, and so far none of them had come back. Kelsea was relieved to see so many of her mother’s Guard alive, though she’d already done a quick count and realized, her heart sinking, that Carroll wasn’t there. But several new guards had shown up as well, men who hadn’t been with them on their journey. There might be as many as fifteen guards surrounding her now, but Kelsea couldn’t be sure without turning around. Somehow it seemed very important not to look back.

  Perhaps a third of the people who’d originally been on the lawn had drifted away, likely fearing trouble, but most stayed. Some families were still tearfully reuniting with their loved ones, but others were merely spectators now, watching Kelsea curiously. The pressure of their eyes was a monstrous weight.

  They expect me to do something extraordinary, she realized. Now, and every day for the rest of my life.

  The idea was terrifying.

  She turned to Mace. “We need to get inside.”

  “Only a moment more, Lady.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “Your Majesty’s rescuer said a true thing, and one that’s stayed with me. Often the direct way is the right way, for reasons that can’t be foreseen.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Mace pointed to the edge of the circle of guards, and Kelsea saw four women and several children waiting there. One of them was the woman who had been screaming down in front of the cage. A small girl, perhaps three years old, was clutched in her arms, and four other children surrounded her. Her long hair fell over her face as she bent to her daughter.

  “Your attention!” Mace called.

  The woman looked up, and Kelsea’s breath caught. It was the madwoman from her dream, the one who had held the destroyed child in her arms. She had the same long, dark hair and pale complexion, the same high forehead. If the woman spoke, Kelsea thought she would even recognize the voice.

  But I’ve never been able to see the future, Kelsea thought, bewildered. Not once in my life. As a child, she’d often wished for the sight; Carlin had told her several stories of the Red Queen’s seer, a truly gifted woman who had predicted many great happenings that eventually came to pass. But Kelsea had only the present.

  “The Queen requires a service corps!” Mace announced, and Kelsea jumped, refocusing her attention on the scene in front of her. “She’ll require—”

  “Hold.” Kelsea held up her hand, seeing the sudden fear in the eyes of the women. Mace’s idea was a good one, but if he mishandled that fear, all the bribes in the world would be of small use.

  “I will command no one into my service,” she announced firmly, attempting to look each of the four women in the eye. “However, f
or those who join my household, I promise that you and your loved ones will receive every protection at my disposal. Not only protection, but all that my own children will one day receive. Education, the best of food and medical care, and the ability to learn any trade they choose. I also give you my word that anyone who wishes to leave my service will be allowed to do so at any time, without delay.”

  She tried to think of something else to say, but she was so tired, and she’d already discovered that she loathed making speeches. A statement about loyalty seemed necessary here, but what was there to say? Surely they all knew that in service to her, they would be in a position to bring about her death, and more likely to see their own. She gave up, spread her hands wide, and announced, “Make your choice in the next minute. I can delay no longer.”

  The women began to deliberate. For most of them, this seemed to consist of staring helplessly at their children. Kelsea noted the lack of men and guessed that Mace had specifically chosen women without husbands. But that wasn’t entirely true; her gaze went back to the madwoman from her dream, and then out into the crowd, searching for the husband. She found him standing some ten feet back, his feet spread and his muscled arms crossed.

  She leaned over to Mace. “Why the dark-haired woman in blue?”

  “If convinced, Lady, she’ll be the most loyal servant you have.”

  “Who is she?”

  “No idea. But I’ve a knack for these things, just take my word.”

  “She may not be entirely sane.”

  “Many women behave so when their young children ship. It’s those who let them go without a murmur that I distrust.”

  “What of the husband?”

  “Look closely, Lady.”

  Kelsea stared at the woman’s husband, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He watched the proceedings balefully, a tall dark-haired man with an unkempt beard and broad arms that revealed him to be a laborer of some kind. His black eyes were narrowed in a pouty way that was easy to read: he didn’t like to be cut out of decisions. Kelsea returned her gaze to his wife, whose eyes darted between her husband and the group of children around her. She was very thin, with arms like twigs; blackened marks on her forearm revealed where her husband had hauled her away from the cage. Then Kelsea spotted more bruises: one high up on her cheek and a large dark smudge on her collarbone when her daughter pulled at the neck of her dress.

  “Christ, Lazarus, your eyes are sharp. I have a mind to take her with us either way.”

  “I think she’ll come on her own, Lady. Watch and wait.”

  Pen and one of the new guards had already maneuvered themselves between the burly black-eyed man and his wife. They were very quick, very competent, and despite the danger all around her, Kelsea felt almost hopeful . . . perhaps she would survive. Then the hope collapsed, and she was merely exhausted again. She waited a few more moments before announcing, “We’ll enter the Keep now. Those who wish to accompany me are welcome.”

  Kelsea watched the madwoman out of the corner of her eye as the company began to ride down the slope. The woman pulled her children close to her, gathering them until they surrounded her like a broad skirt. Then she nodded, murmuring some kind of encouragement, and the entire group began to move down the lawn. The husband leaped forward with an incoherent yell, but halted at the point of Pen’s sword. Kelsea jerked her horse to a stop.

  “Keep riding, Lady. They’ll control him.”

  “Can I take children from their father, Lazarus?”

  “You can do whatever you like, Lady. You’re the Queen.”

  “What will we do with all these children?”

  “Children are good, Lady. They make women predictable. Now keep your head down.”

  Kelsea turned to face the Keep. Although she found it difficult to let her guards handle everything behind her—she heard raised voices arguing and the muted sounds of a scuffle—she knew that Mace was right: interference would show a lack of faith in her Guard. She rode on, keeping her gaze resolutely forward, even when a woman’s voice rose in a shriek.

  As they approached the cages, Kelsea saw that a crowd fanned in an outer ring beyond her guards. The people had pressed so close that some of them were lined up against the horses’ flanks. All of them seemed to be speaking to her, but she could understand none of their words.

  “Archers!” Mace barked. “Eyes on the battlements!”

  Two of her guard produced bows and nocked arrows. One of them was very young and fair; Kelsea thought he might be even younger than she. His face was white with anxiety, his jaw clenched in concentration as he stared up at the Keep. Kelsea wanted to say something reassuring, but then Mace repeated, “On the battlements, dammit!” and she clamped her mouth shut.

  When they drew level with the cages, Mace grabbed hold of Rake’s bridle and brought the horse to a sudden stop. He signaled to Kibb, who presented a flaming torch. Mace offered it to Kelsea. “The first page in your history, Lady. Make it good.”

  She hesitated, then took the torch and rode toward the nearest cage. The crowd and her guards shifted like a single great organism to allow her access. Mace had sent Elston and Kibb ahead to the cages with a bucket of oil; hopefully they’d done it properly, or she was about to look extremely stupid. She took a good grip on the torch, but before she could throw it, her eye happened on one of the two cages built for children. The fire inside her chest reignited, spreading heat across her skin.

  Everything I’ve done so far can be undone. But if I do this, there’s no going back. If the shipment did not come, the Red Queen would invade. Kelsea thought of Mhurn, her handsome blond guard, of his tale about the last Mort invasion. Thousands had suffered and died. But here in front of her was a cage built especially for the young, the helpless, built to carry them hundreds of miles from home so that they could be worked, raped, starved. Kelsea closed her eyes and saw her mother, the woman she had pictured throughout her childhood, the white queen on the horse. But the vision had already darkened. The people who cheered the Queen were scarecrows, gaunt with long starvation. The wreath of flowers on her head had withered. Her horse’s mouth was rotting away with disease. And the woman herself . . . a crawling, servile thing, her skin white as a corpse and yet bathed in shadow. A collaborator. Kelsea blinked the image away, but it had already propelled her onward to the next step. Barty’s story of Death recurred in her head; it had never really left her since that night beside the campfire. Barty was right; it was better to die clean. She reared back and flung the torch at the children’s cage.

  The movement pulled the wound in her neck wide open, but she stifled a cry as the crowd roared and the undercarriage ignited. Kelsea had never seen fire so hungry; flames spread over the floor of the cage and then began, improbably, to climb the iron bars. A burst of heat blew across the lawn, scattering the few people who had ventured too close to the cage. It was like being in front of a lit oven.

  The crowd surged toward the fire, shrieking curses. Even the children were screaming, infected with their parents’ hysteria, their eyes lit red. Watching the flames, Kelsea felt the wild thing inside her chest fold its wings and disappear, and was both relieved and disappointed. The sensation had been like having a stranger inside, a stranger who somehow knew everything about her.

  “Cae!” Mace called over his shoulder.

  “Sir?”

  “Make sure the rest burn.”

  At Mace’s signal, they rode on, leaving the cages behind. When they reached the drawbridge, the stink of the moat hit Kelsea’s nostrils: a rank smell, like rotting vegetables. The water was a deep, dark green, and a layer of nearly opaque slime had gelled on the surface. The fetid smell grew stronger the farther they progressed across the bridge.

  “Is the water not drained?”

  “No questions now, Lady, forgive me.” Mace’s eyes were darting everywhere, over the Keep’s surface and into the darkness ahead, across the moat to the far side, lingering on the guards who lined either side of the bridge. These gu
ards made no move to stop the procession, and several of them even bowed as Kelsea went by. But when the crowd tried to follow her into the Keep, the men grudgingly moved into action, blocking off the bridge and herding people back to the far bank.

  Ahead, the Keep Gate was a dark hole with vague flickers of torchlight inside. Kelsea shut her eyes and opened them again, an action that seemed to take all of her strength. Her uncle was waiting inside, but she didn’t know how she could stand in front of him now. Her bloodline, once a secret source of pride, now seemed little more than a cesspool. Her uncle was filth, and her mother . . . it was like sliding down the face of a precipice from which all handholds had vanished.

  “I can’t face my uncle tonight, Lazarus. I’m too tired. Can we delay?”

  “If Her Majesty will only be quiet.”

  Kelsea laughed, surprising herself, as they passed through the grim archway of the Keep Gate.

  Two hundred feet away, the Fetch watched the girl and her entourage cross the bridge, a small smile playing on his lips. It had been a clever thing, taking the women from the crowd, and all but one of them had followed her into the Keep. Who was the father? The girl displayed a prickly intelligence that could never have come from Elyssa. Poor Elyssa, who had needed most of her brains to decide which dress to wear in the morning. The girl was worth ten of her.

  Beside the moat, the children’s cage flamed, a towering pyre in the dusk. One of the Queen’s Guard had been left behind to fire the rest of the cages, but the people (and several soldiers) were far ahead of him. One by one, each cage went up in a gust of flame. People shouted for the Queen, and the air remained thick with the sound of weeping.

  The Fetch shook his head in admiration. “Bravo, Tear Queen.”