Javel followed his gaze and found that some sort of commotion was building down at the next intersection. Another riot. The streets of Demesne were full of them. The rebels rioted, Demesne’s security forces broke them up, and then another riot began the next day. Galen said that the city was heading for open revolt.
Dyer walked up the street, away from the trouble, and Javel followed. His mind was a tumult: two parts hangover, two parts Allie, and a tiny, uncertain corner that had begun to turn Dyer’s words over, to examine them like a raw jewel unearthed from a mine.
You might still be useful.
He had been useful once. Before the drink had gotten hold of him, and long before Arlen Thorne had shown up with his poisonous bag of bribes, there had been a Gate Guard named Javel, ordinary but competent, content to simply do his job well and go home to his wife at the end of the day.
Serve the Queen, or serve your own nonsense.
He had not thought of the Queen in weeks, not since they had seen her go by in the wagon. But he realized now—and felt a fool for not realizing it before—that the two Gate Guards had thought of nothing else. The Queen could have stretched Javel’s neck for treason, just as she had done to Bannaker and the Arvath priest, or even mutilated him, as she had done to Thorne. But she had not. Death would have been a kindness to Javel, but there was no way for the Queen to know that, and now here he was, miserable perhaps, but alive and free, while the Queen rotted in a Mort dungeon. Javel considered this a moment longer, dodging a cart that had come trundling down the footpath, then hurried to catch up to Dyer.
“I’ll leave tomorrow.”
Dyer halted, and Javel, who had prepared himself for a sarcastic remark, looked up and found the Queen’s Guard honestly considering him, perhaps for the first time. After a long moment, Dyer pulled the sealed letter from his pocket again and offered it to Javel.
“Keep it close and show it to no one until you reach New London. It should get you past the Gate Guard and into the Queen’s Wing. Present it to Devin, him that was left in charge of the wing.”
Javel took the letter, sliding it into the inner pocket of his shirt. They began walking again, narrowly missing a splash of mud from a passing wagon. Dyer’s gaze was distant, almost sorrowful, and Javel knew that he was thinking of the Queen. Javel would be thinking of Allie, this night and many nights after, and the thoughts would undoubtedly be painful, but she was no prisoner.
“Will you be able to get her out?” Javel asked quietly.
Dyer slammed a fist into his palm. “I don’t know, Gate Guard. But dear God, if we fail . . .”
Javel peeked at Dyer’s face, wary of the rage he sensed in the man, fuel just waiting for a match. But what he saw there was more alarming still.
Dyer was crying.
Chapter 7
The Fall
It is difficult to fight the cult of sycophancy that has sprung up around the Glynn Queen. Too many historians fail to question her decisions. This historian, however, finds that the Glynn Queen made several disastrous mistakes. The Tearling is invested in the myth of the infallible ruler, but the fact remains that the Glynn Queen abandoned her kingdom at a crucial point, leaving it in the charge of the Mace, who then abandoned it as well. These decisions had catastrophic results, and true historians should admit that fact.
—An Alternate History of the Tearling, Ethan Gallagher
“I am under assault,” the Red Queen remarked. “Each day, it grows closer.”
They were standing on a balcony, the highest in the Palais, so far above the rest of the turrets that Kelsea could turn in a wide circle and see everything, unobstructed, in all directions. Demesne stretched out like a carpet beneath them, a vast tapestry of red brick and grey stone, and beyond it lay the Champs Demesne, a massive open field encircling the city. Mortmesne was a far greener country than the Tearling; much of the land was covered with pine forest, but even the farming fields had abundant greenery, rather than the dirt base that Kelsea was used to seeing in the Almont. It was an extraordinary land, this, and Kelsea could only regret the bitter history that divided Mort and Tear, made them enemies. The waste was terrible.
To the west, Kelsea could just glimpse the twin peaks of Mount Ellyre and Mount Willingham, their summits nearly hidden under the haze of the late autumn day. Both mountains were already covered with snow, but Kelsea’s eyes were locked on the divide between them: the Argive Pass. The longing to be back in her own land, standing on Tear soil, was so sharp that it wrenched something inside her.
“My army can’t stop this rebellion,” the Red Queen continued, bringing Kelsea back to herself. “Look down there.”
Following her gaze, Kelsea saw an enormous plume of smoke in the north section of the city below.
“What is that?”
“My armories,” the Red Queen replied tonelessly. “Always, these rebels are able to get past my soldiers. The precious few that are left, anyway. More of my army desert to join this Tear lunatic every day.”
“Levieux?”
“You know the name?”
“I have heard it,” Kelsea replied carefully.
“Why would a Tear want to do this to me?”
Kelsea turned to face her and realized, astonished, that the Red Queen was serious. “You invaded our country.”
“I withdrew.”
“This time, yes. The last time, your pet general left a trail of rape and slaughter. And even if any Tear could forget that, they would not forget seventeen years of the shipment.”
The Red Queen shook her head. “Populations are pawns, Glynn. It is but the movement of pieces.”
“Surely you know that people don’t think of themselves that way?” But a moment later, Kelsea wondered if the Red Queen did know it. She had spent more than a century disconnected from her own populace. The beginnings of sympathy that had been stirring in Kelsea’s mind faded and disappeared.
“People don’t think of themselves as pawns. The suffering wreaked by the shipment—relatives divided, spouses taken from each other, children torn from parents—do you think anyone can forget?”
“They will.”
“No,” Kelsea replied firmly. “They won’t.”
“People have been trafficked since the dawn of time.”
“That doesn’t make it better. It makes it worse. We should have learned something by now.”
The Red Queen stared at her for a long moment, her gaze almost wistful. “Who raised you, Glynn?”
“A good man and woman.” Kelsea felt her throat tighten, as always when she thought of Barty and Carlin. She hesitated to say their names, then realized that there was no point in keeping secrets. No one could harm them any longer. “Bartholemew and Carlin Glynn.”
“Elyssa’s tutor. I should have known.”
“Why?”
“The rigid morality. Far too rigid for Elyssa; Lady Glynn fell out of favor before you were born.” The Red Queen shook her head. “Anyway, I envy you.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do. You were raised to believe in something. Many things.”
“And you believe in nothing?”
“I believe in myself.”
Kelsea turned back to the edge. Far below, a dark tide emerged from the gates of the Palais: soldiers, heading for the inferno on the north side of Demesne. Was the fire truly the Fetch’s work? What could he possibly want with this place?
No one had connected Kelsea with the death of the jailor. There had been an uproar when he was found, a huge increase in traffic through Kelsea’s corridor, but she had not been questioned. Strass had clearly not been well liked; the furor over his death soon died down. Life in the dungeon went on as always, with Kelsea turning the strange rock over and over in her hand, trying to sort out what had happened. Her invisible fellow prisoner, the weapons designer, had lapsed back into silence.
“Why did you bring me out here?” she asked the Red Queen.
“Because we have lost contact with Cite Ma
rche. The last three envoys I sent up the Cold Road have not returned.” The Red Queen stared at Kelsea, almost hungrily. “So what news, Glynn? What do you know of him now?”
“Not as much as you’d like.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t speed up the past. I’ve only seen the boy.”
“And what is he like?”
“Cruel,” Kelsea replied, and for a moment she was right back there with Katie, standing frozen in the industrial row of Tear’s town in the dead of night. “Spiteful.”
“What else?”
“I’m not sure.” Kelsea closed her eyes, thinking of the Town graveyard, the torn-open graves. Katie had not yet put two and two together, but then, Katie didn’t know her best friend as well as Kelsea did. “He dabbles.”
“In what?”
“The occult. I think he means to raise the dead.”
“Well, he’s figured it out now,” the Red Queen replied bitterly, gesturing toward the northeast. “Every new group of refugees arrives with some terrible tale. These children cannot be killed by swords. Only magic will reach them.”
“What do you know of him?”
“He’s a drinker of blood,” the Red Queen replied flatly.
Kelsea blinked in surprise, but said nothing.
“I used to offer him children, from the shipment, in return for his help. None of them ever came back.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I was on the run.”
“From your mother?” This much, at least, Kelsea had drawn from the woman’s mind. There was a great betrayal there, though the exact circumstances had not come clear.
“Yes. From the Cadarese as well.” The Red Queen shook her head, as a dog would shake off water. “At any rate, the dark thing gave me shelter, saved me from starvation in the Fairwitch.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He thought I could set him free.” The Red Queen grinned bleakly. “But it wasn’t me, Glynn. It was you.”
“I did what I had to do to save my kingdom.”
“Temporary salvation at best, Glynn.”
“Why did you really bring me out here? To gloat?”
“No,” the Red Queen replied, suddenly subdued. “I wanted to talk to someone.”
“You have an entire kingdom at your disposal.”
“I can’t trust them.”
“You can’t trust me, either.”
“But you are not double-faced, Glynn. This entire castle, these people, all of them look for ways to tear me down.”
“People have always plotted against you. That’s the nature of being a dictator.”
“I do not care about that. It’s the artifice I can’t stand. You may despise me, Glynn, but your hate is open and clear. These people, they smile, but underneath . . .” The Red Queen’s voice hoarsened, her hand tightening on the balcony railing, her knuckles white. Tear legend said that the Red Queen had been born without a heart, but nothing could be further from the truth. What Kelsea was now seeing were the first cracks in decades of iron self-control. She considered putting a hand on the Red Queen’s shoulder, then wondered what she was doing. There was no friendship with this woman.
Why do I give her so much leeway?
Because you were inside her head.
Kelsea nodded, recognizing the truth of this. The sapphires provided the ultimate experience in empathy. It was impossible to hate someone after having watched the long tale of her life: the mother, beautiful and terrible, who had rejected Evelyn Raleigh for years . . . until the time came when the mother needed something to sell. Then the girl had been thrown into the whirlwind. The Red Queen had made her own terrible decisions, but the deck had been stacked against her from birth.
You’ve made your own terrible decisions, Carlin whispered darkly. Who are you to judge?
Kelsea closed her eyes, beset by images: the screaming mob in the New London circus, their faces so twisted by hate that they appeared not human but monstrous; Row Finn’s smile as he stood in front of the fireplace; Arlen Thorne’s face, bleeding from multiple seams as he died in agony; and, last of all, Kelsea’s own hand holding a knife, her fingertips running red with blood.
“Who raised you?” she asked suddenly, opening her eyes, willing the images to be gone.
“Don’t you know?” the Red Queen asked.
“I didn’t see it all,” Kelsea admitted.
“I had a nursemaid, Wright. She was a very smart woman, but she scared me too. She seemed to take it as her job to teach me that life was going to be hard.”
Like Carlin, Kelsea thought, marveling. She had caught flashes of this woman in the Red Queen’s mind; her hair was long and dark, not white like Carlin’s, but there was a similarity. Both women had sharp, hawklike eyes.
“My mother was happy to leave me to Wright. Elaine took all of her time.”
“Who was your father?”
“I don’t know.” The Red Queen looked sharply at Kelsea. “I didn’t want to know. Do you want to know yours?”
Yes, Kelsea began to say, then No. She did want to know, but that was only her academic curiosity speaking. She wouldn’t like the answer, or Mace would have told her.
“Never mind, Glynn. I had not meant to say so much to you, but it has been a long time since I had anyone to talk to. Not since Liriane.”
“Your seer. Was she as gifted as they say?”
“More. We were friends, or I thought we were.” The Red Queen’s brow furrowed in sudden confusion. “Such women are difficult to know, which brings me to the matter. I have received a most interesting offer from your pope.”
“His Holiness? Deal with that man and you’d better have a knife in one hand.”
The Red Queen smiled, but the smile did not touch her eyes. “I think your kingdom is in a great deal of trouble, Glynn. The pope is asking for mercenaries, an entire legion of my army.”
Something inside Kelsea seemed to turn over. She needed to warn them all, warn Mace . . . but of course, she could warn no one.
“For what purpose?”
“Who knows? But his hatred for you is plain.”
“Will you give him soldiers?” Kelsea asked through numb lips.
“Perhaps. It depends greatly on the value of the trade.”
“What trade?”
“The pope tells me that you, Queen Kelsea, have a seer of your own.”
Kelsea’s mouth dropped open. Who had talked? She whirled away, to look over the far parapet, but it was already too late.
“It’s true!” The Red Queen’s voice revealed genuine astonishment. “And the child, too?”
Something broke in Kelsea then. Before she knew it, she had crossed the balcony, grabbed the shoulders of the Red Queen’s velvet dress, and lifted her bodily off the ground, wondering if she actually had the strength to heave the woman over the side.
The Queen of Spades! her mind cried, but the sound was faraway, despairing.
“Don’t even think about it,” she snarled. “Don’t even think about touching them.”
“Be careful, Glynn. Think about what you’re doing.”
Kelsea paused. The air around her had grown taut, almost electric, her skin tightening uncomfortably. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. Her throat had closed.
“Put me down, Glynn.” The Red Queen patted Kelsea’s cheek, as one would do with a child. “Put me down, or I will choke you to death.”
After another moment, Kelsea relaxed her hold on the red velvet and lowered the woman to the ground. Her throat remained closed for perhaps ten more seconds—the slight, victorious twist of the Red Queen’s mouth told her that this was deliberate—and then loosened. Kelsea gasped, whooping as her lungs took in a great breath of air.
“You have balls, I give you that.” The Red Queen looked down at her dress, which now sported ripped seams beneath both arms. “I once whipped a page for ruining a dress of mine.”
“I’m not one of your servants.” Kelsea leaned on the parape
t, gasping. The pillar of smoke that bloomed from the burning armory was blurry now; her vision had doubled. She felt the start of a headache at her temples.
“You tipped your hand far too easily,” the Red Queen remarked, joining her at the edge. “I can hardly send soldiers to the Tearling now, to the pope or otherwise. I merely wanted to know whether the information was correct. Your dame of chamber and her youngest daughter! I’ve always thought the sight was hereditary, but I’ve had no chance to study it before.”
“Good luck with that. This particular seer would kill her child before seeing her in your hands.”
“You have bigger problems, Glynn. Benin tells me that the Holy Father has been double-dealing. He’s also made direct overtures to my army, behind my back.”
“Your soldiers want a seer?”
“No, my soldiers want their plunder. But a seer, a proven seer, would fetch a high price on the open market, high enough to compensate an entire legion. I no longer—” The Red Queen broke off, and Kelsea sensed that her words were costing her. “I no longer control my army, not completely.”
“How terrible for you.”
“Laugh if you like, Glynn, but this problem belongs to you as well, if my soldiers go rogue.”
Kelsea winced, thinking of the Keep, unguarded now, most of her army dead in the Almont. General Hall couldn’t have more than a hundred men at his disposal, no match for a legion of Mort. She thought she had bargained for three years of safety for her kingdom, but had she really accomplished anything at all? If only she could contact them! Something seemed to glimmer in the back of her memory, but then it was gone.
“You have nothing useful to give me on this thing, the Orphan?”
Kelsea shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Emily!” the Red Queen called, and the page appeared from the staircase in the center of the balcony. Her eyes darted briefly to Kelsea, then away, and Kelsea did not acknowledge her either. Ever since they had cleaned up the jailor, Emily had refused to answer any more questions.
“I’m done with her for now. Take her back downstairs.”
The Fate of the Tearling Page 20