The words were said offhandedly, but the tone was wrong. Looking back at the Red Queen as she descended the stairs, Kelsea again received an impression of deep unhappiness, of a woman on the edge of something. She had heard that tone often enough in her own voice during those last few doomed weeks in the Keep.
She didn’t try to talk to Emily during the journey downstairs. There were too many people in the hallways, too much chance of being overheard. So close to the date, Emily had said, and only now did Kelsea allow herself to consider that there might be a prison break under way. She hoped for it, and hoped against it; if the Holy Father was preparing to move against the Keep, Mace had bigger problems. Kelsea longed to give Emily a message, to warn Mace, to warn Andalie, who needed to know that she and Glee were no longer safe. And how had the Holy Father found out about Andalie, anyway? Was there another traitor in the Queen’s Wing?
I must get out of here, Kelsea thought. No matter what it costs. My kingdom is wide open.
When they passed her neighbor’s cell, Kelsea snuck a glance inside and found him at his desk, hard at work by candlelight, his face less than an inch from the canvas. She could see only a fraction of his profile, but enough to tell her that he was much younger than she had taken him for. Bald, yes, but a closer look at his head suggested that his hair had been shaved. Kelsea longed for a decent look at him, but the man did not acknowledge either her or Emily as they went past.
As Emily shut the door of her cell, Kelsea grasped her arm and gestured her closer, meaning to tell her about Andalie, ask her to get a message to Mace. But Emily drew back, placing a finger to her lips, and departed. Kelsea wanted to scream in frustration. As the light from Emily’s torch disappeared, Kelsea lit one of her own candles, placing it carefully on the floor beside the bars. It was a waste of wax, but the thought of Mace, Pen, Andalie, all of them, going blithely about life in the Keep while a deathweight hung over their heads . . . these visions had undone her, and she could not bear to sit in the dark.
A drinker of blood.
If the Red Queen was telling the truth—and though Kelsea did not trust the woman, she believed the desperation in the Red Queen’s voice—then Kelsea had loosed a nightmare upon the world. She seemed to feel the slickness of blood on her hands.
“I have done murder before,” she murmured, and strangely, it was not Thorne or the jailor she thought of now, but Mhurn. Killing him had been a mercy . . . or so she had thought at the time. The silence of her cell bore in upon her, and after a moment she got to her knees, clutching the bars.
“You there! The man with the drawings!”
Silence from the next cell.
“How long have you been here?”
More silence. How to make him speak? Kelsea thought for a moment, then ventured, “I have seen your cannons on the battlefield. Extraordinary pieces of equipment.”
“You’ve seen them fired?” he asked.
Kelsea frowned, thought about lying, then replied, “No. They never used them on us.”
The man began to laugh, bitter and hollow. “That’s because they couldn’t. They were never able to make them fire. My design was sound, but the Red Queen’s chemist was supposed to come up with an answer to gunpowder, and it didn’t work.”
Kelsea sat back from the bars. All of the time and energy they had expended on the cannons, on finding a way to disable them; she could have kicked herself.
“You got played,” the man said, then, after a long pause: “Was the Tear army really wiped out?”
“Yes.”
“The general?”
“Bermond was killed,” Kelsea replied. Intellectually, she knew that she should grieve a lifelong soldier, but she could not; Bermond had been reactionary, a thorn in her side. “His second commands what’s left of my army. Not really enough even to make a decent city police force.”
“That’s a misfortune. It takes generations to build a good army from scratch.”
“We have three years.” Perhaps less, her mind remarked. At the thought of the Holy Father commanding an armed legion, she felt something burn inside her. Even if the Holy Father failed, there was Row Finn, Finn and his creatures, coming along right behind.
“Three years, eh?” Her neighbor chuckled. “Good luck.”
“Why are you in here?” Kelsea asked, more to keep the conversation going than anything else. She didn’t want to sit alone in the dark. “You’re a slave, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I was told that the Red Queen treats exceptional slaves like free men. You’re a gifted engineer. Why are you in a dungeon?”
He remained silent for a long moment. Kelsea’s heart sank, and she grasped the bars again, feeling the stone dig into her knees. “Please talk to me. I’ll go mad in the quiet.”
“The plea of a queen is no small thing, I suppose. Even a queen in a dungeon.” A chair scraped on stone as the man got up from his desk, and Kelsea heard the rustling of paper. “It doesn’t matter anyway. They search my cell once a week, just to make sure I’m not building anything too creative. But when they moved me in here, they simply grabbed all of my stacks of drawings and plans. So far this has escaped them, but it’s the real reason I’m here. Have a look.”
A moment later, a crumpled sheet of paper landed in front of Kelsea’s cell. She stretched out to grab it, then opened and smoothed the paper on the stone floor. It had the look of an advertisement, but when Kelsea brought her candle closer, she saw that it was a political flyer, beautifully lettered in both Mort and Tear.
People of Mortmesne!
Do you tire of being slaves? Do you tire of working endless days to satisfy the whim of a corrupt few? Do you tire of watching your sons go to war and come home empty-handed, if they come home at all? Do you wish for something better?
Join our fight.
“You belonged to the rebellion,” Kelsea murmured. It was a clever piece of business, this flyer. Blunt and simple language, but she guessed that its appeal would be very broad.
“I didn’t belong to the rebellion,” her neighbor replied. “I only did this work for them from time to time, making advertisements so that I could earn a few marks for myself.” His voice was laced with self-mockery. “It was a wonderful way to rebel without putting myself in any real danger.”
“Yet here you are,” Kelsea remarked absently, still examining the flyer. The paper was ordinary enough, normal highstock, the same thickness as Arliss had used for her Bill of Regency. But something about the text struck her as odd. Kelsea held the candle as close to the paper as she dared, squinting as she examined individual letters. The two e’s in Mortmesne appeared identical, exactly the same size, with no variation whatsoever. Even the color consistency of the black ink was the same. Kelsea’s eyes jumped from one word to another, vowel to vowel, consonant to consonant, looking for flaws, looking for faults . . .
“Great God,” she breathed.
The flyer had not been lettered by hand, but printed.
Ewen had never imagined that the Tearling could be so vast. He had grown up in New London and had never been outside the city. Always, he had thought of the kingdom as the distance between the Caddell River and the horizon. But when the Queen’s Guard reached the end of the Caddell, the land kept going. Eventually the Crithe River, too, stopped being a river and turned into just grass. There were mountains in the distance, mountains that Ewen had never seen, drawing nearer. This was a serious business, going to rescue the Queen, and Ewen understood that. But all the same, he felt as though he were on a grand adventure.
They had built camp in the cup between two high hills. The Mace had placed Ewen on guard duty, looking out toward the west, in case anyone should approach. They had seen several large parties of people, and from Coryn, Ewen knew that they were refugees from the city, returning home. If he saw anyone approach, he was to keep them away from the camp, for no one was supposed to know that the Mace had left New London. Ewen took his guard duty very seriously, but all the same, he wish
ed there was time to sketch. He’d brought his paper and leads in his saddlebags. He’d never known how much of the world one could see out here, from hill to hill.
The Mace was in the center of camp now, holding a meeting with General Hall and the man from Mortmesne. Ewen hadn’t been chosen to attend the meeting, but he wasn’t offended. He didn’t know why the Mace had brought him along on this journey in the first place, but he was happy to be here; it saved him from thinking of Da. Two months ago, Da had died, and the next morning Ewen, with his three brothers, had put Da into the ground. Ewen tried not to think of that day, but it often came back to him. He had cried, but that was all right; Peter had cried too. Ewen did not like to think of Da lying there in the light brown box, only a layer of oakwood to protect him from the dark underground.
“Ewen!”
He turned and found the magician, Bradshaw, coming up the hill behind them.
“They want us to come back down.”
Ewen nodded, gathering up his cloak and canteen. Bradshaw waited, and they walked down to the camp together. Ewen liked Bradshaw; he could make things disappear and come back, and he was always able to guess what Ewen had in his pockets. But Bradshaw was patient as well, willing to explain the things that Ewen didn’t understand.
“Were you at the meeting?” Ewen asked.
“No. I was sent to find a deer for dinner. I think they believe I talk to animals as well.”
“Do you?” Ewen asked, thinking how wonderful that would be.
“No.”
Feeling chastised, Ewen didn’t say anything else.
The camp was a bustle of activity. There were twelve Queen’s Guards, eight soldiers who had come in with General Hall, and then several more men who had come with the man from Mortmesne. Elston and Kibb were cooking the deer, and the air was heavy with the smell of roasting meat. The rest of the men milled around the fire like hungry vultures. Ewen heard snatches of conversation as he and Bradshaw walked the perimeter: the Queen, the Mort rebellion, something about an orphan. Ewen knew of no orphans among the Guard, though now that Da was dead, he supposed he was an orphan himself. On another day, he might have asked Bradshaw, but now he thought it best to stay quiet.
“You two!” the Mace barked. “Over here!”
Ewen and Bradshaw followed him to the tent at the center of the camp. Inside, the small folding table was covered with maps and surrounded by chairs from the just-finished meeting. As the Mace sat down, Ewen saw that he had dark circles around his eyes. Normally, Ewen would not even dare guess what the Mace was thinking, but now he thought he knew. The first night out of New London, they had ridden hard, and so it was not until dawn that the Mace had noticed Aisa missing. The entire Guard had taken the news badly, though none so badly as Venner, who pitched what Da would have called a fit, cursing and throwing things from his saddlebags. The Mace did not say a word, but his silence frightened Ewen. He had worried that the Mace might blame him, or blame Bradshaw; after all, they had been the last to see her. But no one said anything, and gradually Ewen realized that he was not in trouble.
“We need to do this quickly,” the Mace said. “Sit down.”
They sat.
“Levieux confirms that the Queen is still in the Palais dungeons. But we cannot enter Mortmesne via the Argive. General Hall tells me that a legion of Mort remained behind, to hold the eastern end of the pass. They mean to regulate traffic from now on. So we will be moving straight east, crossing over the border hills.”
Not all of this made sense to Ewen, but he nodded anyway, following Bradshaw’s lead.
“You two will not be going with us.”
Bradshaw drew an angry breath, but Ewen merely waited. He hoped he was not to be sent home, for he loved it out here. In the Keep, he could not help thinking of Da, who had worked in the dungeons for his entire life.
The Mace frowned. “Andalie’s little one is only three years old, and I am not a man to base strategy around a child’s dreams. But the fact remains that Glee is often correct.”
“She does have a gift,” Bradshaw ventured.
“This is my dilemma. Levieux says that the Queen is in the Palais dungeons; he saw her there himself, and I trust his word. Glee says the Queen is in Gin Reach, and Andalie tells me that Glee is correct. So what am I to do?”
“Where is Gin Reach, sir?” Bradshaw asked.
“It’s a tiny village in the southern Almont, just north of the Dry Lands, a way station for fools who mean to cross the open desert and try to get into Cadare without paying the King’s tolls. There can’t be more than two hundred souls in the town, and I don’t know what the Queen would ever be doing there, but all the same . . .” The Mace’s voice trailed off.
“You must cover your bases,” Bradshaw supplied.
“Yes. As strange as it sounds, I want the two of you to go down to Gin Reach and simply keep your eyes open. Look for anything out of the ordinary.” The Mace rustled through his saddlebags and tossed Bradshaw a bag of coin. “That should keep you in a good room for three weeks. If nothing happens and you see nothing, then come home.”
“What if we see something?”
“Then use your judgment. Our priority is the Queen. If we recover her, we mean to head for the Keep as soon as possible, and we won’t have time to come looking for you down in the Dry Lands. If anything should happen, send word back to this camp. Several of the Guard and most of Hall’s people will stay here.”
Ewen didn’t like the sound of this errand. It seemed as though they would be all alone in a tiny village in the desert. Bradshaw might have magic, but neither of them knew how to wield a sword.
“You will leave tonight, quietly, after dinner. Follow the irrigation system off the Crithe. A good night’s ride and a bit, due south, should see you down to Gin Reach.”
“How will we know it?” Ewen asked.
“By asking, I suppose. Bradshaw is in charge.”
Bradshaw looked surprised by this, and Ewen was too. Aisa had told Ewen that the Mace didn’t like magic, though Ewen didn’t understand why. Surely the world was better when unusual things could happen.
“I am going to trust you, magician, though I trust none of your ilk.”
Bradshaw shrugged. “The Queen did me a good turn, Captain. I will do her one if I can.”
“Dismissed.”
The two men wandered out of the tent. Ewen had the feeling that Bradshaw was just as surprised as he was. Bradshaw could do many amazing things; perhaps that was why the Mace had chosen him. But after thinking about it for a moment, Ewen was fairly sure that the Mace didn’t expect anything to happen to them at all.
“Pack yourself up,” Bradshaw told him. “I’ll see about food and water.”
Ewen nodded and went to find his horse. From the noise around the campfire, he could tell that the deer was finally ready, but he had lost his appetite. He had been terrified of the very notion of Mortmesne, the wicked kingdom that Da spoke of in all of his fairy tales, but at the same time, he had been proud to be chosen to venture there. He knew he was not smart enough to be a Queen’s Guard, and he had been ready to bow out and go on the hunt for the witch, Brenna. There was honor in that. But this mission did not feel real.
As he neared the horses, he saw a solitary figure: Pen, sitting alone, facing east, on one of the rocks that bordered the corral. More than once, Ewen had heard others in the Guard say that Pen was the Queen’s favorite, and he had noticed that Pen did not seem himself since the Queen had left. Ewen thought it best not to talk to Pen, so he merely dug through the pile until he found his saddles and saddlebags, then took them over to his horse. Ewen was not a good rider; he had learned with his brothers when he was young, but he had never taken to it the way Peter and Arthur had. Bradshaw was not much of a rider either, and the two of them had often lagged behind on this journey, hurrying to catch up while the others rested. Now they were being sent away, off to some place Ewen had never heard of. His horse, Van, stared at him, almost as though h
e understood, and Ewen stroked Van’s neck for a long moment. It was one thing to go to Mortmesne himself, another to drag an animal there; at least Van would be out of danger as well.
When he slung his saddlebags over the horse’s back, his grey Guard cloak fell to the ground. They hadn’t been allowed to wear their cloaks on this journey, but Ewen had brought his anyway. It was the dearest item he owned, though he understood that it had never really belonged to him. He went to the Mace’s horse, folded the cloak, and draped it over the Mace’s saddle.
“Ewen.”
Pen was beckoning him over. Ewen touched the cloak one last time and then went to Pen. As he neared, he saw that Pen’s eyes were red, as though he’d been crying.
“You’re going to Gin Reach.”
Ewen nodded.
“I don’t think you’ll find anything there, and neither does the Captain. But if you do . . .” Pen was silent for a long moment. “If you do, you’re a Queen’s Guard now. A real Queen’s Guard, you understand? You protect the Queen, no matter the cost to yourself.”
Ewen was too bewildered to do anything but nod, and Pen clapped him on the shoulder.
“Draw me some pictures while you’re down there. When we all get back to the Keep, we’ll sit and have another look through your portfolio.”
Ewen smiled. Pen had been the first one to tell him that his pile of pictures had a name.
“Luck to you, Ewen.”
“And you,” Ewen replied. As Pen walked away, he tried to puzzle out what Pen had said. Queen’s Guards were supposed to lay down their lives to protect the Queen, and Ewen understood that. But Pen seemed to be talking about something different.
Bradshaw was approaching the corral now, a heavy pack over one shoulder. Ewen waited for him, still considering Pen’s words. There was a word for these things . . . it danced right on the edge of Ewen’s mind for a moment before he retrieved it. Sacrifice. That was what it was. For Pen, being a Queen’s Guard was a matter of sacrifice, and from the look of him, it was hurting him badly. Ewen hesitated for a moment longer and then, not quite knowing why, he grabbed his grey cloak from the Mace’s saddle and stuffed it back into his own saddlebag.
The Fate of the Tearling Page 21