The Fate of the Tearling

by Erika Johansen

  But could she find them? As she emerged, blinking, into the sunlight, and surveyed the broad horizon of the city before her, Kelsea felt daunted. It was a bigger world, this New London, and there was nothing comparable to the Queen’s Guard. Swordcraft was not valued. Her guards might not stand out at all.

  But how could she not try? Something extraordinary had happened, a schism in the timeline of the world, and Kelsea suddenly realized that, more than anything, she had been longing for someone to talk to, someone who had been there with her. She still remembered the past, and if she remembered, surely others would as well. Even if they didn’t believe her about Katie and Row and the rest of it, they could at least talk about the Keep, about old times, about the world they all knew.

  Two days later, she saw Pen.

  She was at the grocer, looking for grapes—though it was early for them to be in season—when she caught sight of him, walking past just outside the window. Her heart gave a great leap and she dashed out of the grocer, shouting his name.

  He did not turn around. He had a leather rucksack slung over his shoulder, and Kelsea followed the rucksack through the crowd, calling after him. He did not seem to hear her, and this made Kelsea wonder all over again if she were crazy, if this was only the most extensive and vivid dream anyone had ever had. Finally, she caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder.

  “Pen!”

  He turned and looked at her with no recognition at all. “I’m sorry?”

  “Pen?” she asked uncertainly. “Isn’t it you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “but I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. My name is Andrew.”

  Kelsea stared at him for a long moment. It was Pen, in every detail . . . but he had a different name.

  “I wish you a good day,” he told her, patting her shoulder, and then turned and walked away.

  Kelsea followed. She was not foolish enough to approach him again—the lack of recognition in his face seemed to have frozen her heart—but she could not just let him disappear, not once she had found him. Keeping well back, she followed him through several streets, until he turned in at a small stone cottage, set well back from the road. As he headed up the front steps, a door opened, and Kelsea saw a woman standing there, a pretty blonde woman with a baby balanced on one hip. Pen kissed her, and they went inside and shut the door.

  Kelsea stood for a long time, staring at Pen’s house. She had never felt so alone in her life, not even in the cottage with Barty and Carlin. Barty, at least, had loved her. Perhaps Carlin had too, in her own way. But Pen did not know her. He had never known her. And now a truly horrible thought struck her: what if all of her Guard were this way? What if all the people who had loved her, fought with her, taken care of her, would think of her as a stranger now? She had always told Mace that she would be willing to sacrifice anything for her kingdom, but here was a price she had never considered: being alone.

  Eventually, she turned her steps from Pen’s cottage and forced herself to walk away, back toward home. She had been busy lately, preparing to move out of her mother’s house and into a tiny flat closer to the library. It would be the first home she had ever had to herself, and the idea had thrilled her . . . but now all of her bright pleasure in having a place of her own seemed as ersatz and meaningless as a rainbow. For a rogue moment, she wished she had died in the Keep; at least then she would have had all of them around her. They would have been together.

  Twice more she went back to the Tear museum, to stare at the glittering sapphires in their case. Even through glass, Kelsea’s fingers itched to lay hold of them, to take the jewels and reset everything, even wreck the kingdom, if it came to that, if only she could have her life back again, her family around her—

  She had not returned to the museum for a fourth visit, but it didn’t matter. The damage was already done.

  Over the next few weeks, without even meaning to, Kelsea began to ask her colleagues at work if they had ever met a man named Christian. She had thought it would be a common enough name, but it turned out not to be; there were few churches in New London, and at any rate the name seemed to have fallen out of favor, even among the devout. Kelsea didn’t know why she was looking for Mace; even if she found him, it could only mean a repeat of the same terrible scene she’d had with Pen. But she felt that she had to know. Some of her Guard had never been born, perhaps, but some of them might still be out there, and knowing that, Kelsea could not leave it alone.

  It turned out that even in this New London, Mace cut a recognizable figure. It took Kelsea only a few inquiries to discover that a man named Christian McAvoy was the head of the city constabulary. This Christian McAvoy was a big man, well over six feet tall, and he was generally considered an excellent police officer, hard but fair. You didn’t want to lie to the man, for he would always know.

  For two weeks, Kelsea dithered. She wanted to see him, but did not want see him. She was drawn to the idea, yet terrified. But in the end she went.

  She went on her lunch break from the library, taking a taxi wagon across town. She would not bother Mace, she told herself; she only wanted to see him. It would do her good to see him, to know that he truly existed, that he, like Pen, was happy in this new place. That Kelsea had done him some good. She did not want to disrupt his life. She only wanted to see him.

  But when the time finally came, when the tall man with Mace’s face emerged from the police station and looked straight through Kelsea, as though she didn’t exist, she knew that she had made a terrible mistake. All of the strength left her limbs. She was standing just across the street, on the stairs of the building opposite the station, and as Mace hurried down the street, she collapsed onto the stairs, burying her head in her hands.

  I remember them all. I remember them all, but they don’t remember me. They never will.

  The idea was so hopeless that Kelsea began to weep. She had bargained for this, she told herself; she had done a great thing, an important thing, more important than any one life. Her kingdom was now a thriving economy, with open trade and a free flow of information. The Tearling had laws, codified laws, and a judiciary to enforce them. Church had been cleaved from state. The kingdom was dotted not only with bookstores but with schools and universities. Every worker earned a living wage. People raised their children without fear of violence. It was good, this country, and all Kelsea had been forced to trade for it was everything. She suddenly remembered yelling at the Fetch, telling him that he had deserved his fate: to watch all of those he knew and loved die around him. She hadn’t known, hadn’t understood. She sobbed harder, so lost that at first, she didn’t feel the gentle hand on her back.

  “Are you all right, my child?”

  Kelsea wiped her eyes, looked up, and saw Father Tyler.

  “It’s all right for you to be here,” he assured her, mistaking her look of alarm. “God’s house is open to all, especially the grieving.”

  “God’s house,” Kelsea murmured. She hadn’t even noticed the tiny cross on the roof of the building behind her. Father Tyler’s face was pale, but not the thin, starved pallor that Kelsea remembered; she would wager that this Father Tyler was no longer an ascetic. He bore little resemblance to the timid, frightened creature of the Arvath.

  “Would you like to come inside?” he asked. “Even for a few minutes, to get out of the sun?”

  Kelsea did want to, but she knew that she could not. Father Tyler treating her as a stranger as well . . . it would be more than she could bear.

  “God’s house is not for me, Father,” she said heavily. “I am not a believer.”

  “And I’m not a Father,” he replied, smiling. “I’m just a Brother. Brother Tyler. This is my church.”

  “What is your church called?”

  “It has no name,” Father Tyler—she could not think of him as Brother—replied. “Parishioners come whenever they want. I give sermons on Sundays. Sometimes we go out and do good works.”

  “Bully for you,” Kelsea m
uttered uncharitably. She would have given her entire world to see Father Tyler, but all she was left with was Brother Tyler, a smiling man of God who didn’t know her from Adam.

  “Who do you grieve for?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it does.” He sat down beside her, wrapping his arms around his knees. Kelsea would have wagered house and lot that he no longer suffered from his terrible arthritis, and wondered how that miracle had been achieved. But of course, the Tearling was now full of doctors. Central New London even had a hospital.

  “Have you lost a loved one?”

  Kelsea hiccupped laughter, for it was somehow worse than loss. Everyone around her continued, oblivious, happy in this new world. She had not been left alone so much as left behind, and she could not imagine a loneliness more vast.

  “Tell me, Father,” she asked, “have you ever met someone who lost their entire life?”

  “Yes, but never someone so young as you. And that makes it a tragedy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How old are you, child? Eighteen, nineteen?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Well, there it is. You’re a healthy young woman—you are healthy, aren’t you?”

  Kelsea nodded.

  “You’re a healthy young woman, with your whole life ahead of you, and yet you sit here weeping for the past.”

  I’ve already lived my life. But Kelsea did not say it. She had not burdened Pen or Mace with the past they could not know; she would not burden Father Tyler either.

  “The past colors everything,” she told him. “Surely a man of God and history knows that.”

  “How do you know I’m a man of history?”

  “A guess,” Kelsea replied wearily. She was in no mood for this, for tiptoeing around a man she had once known well, pretending not to know him at all. She lifted her bag onto her shoulder.

  “I have to go, Father.”

  “A moment more, child.” His keen gaze swept over her. “You’ve lost everything, you say.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then look around you.” He swept an arm before him. “All these people. Surely you should be able to find something new to care about.”

  Kelsea blinked, alarmed at the optimism in his words. How could anyone possibly be that resilient?

  “Your advice is good, Father,” she finally replied. “But it’s advice for someone else. I thank you for the place to rest.”

  “Of course, child.” He waved toward the building behind him. “You are welcome at any time, to come back and talk.”

  “Thank you.”

  But Kelsea knew she wouldn’t return, and she didn’t look back as she descended the church steps. She still felt slightly dizzy, as though the ground had been yanked from under her.

  All of these things that are gone now . . . where did they go? Are they still out there somewhere?

  She wished she had not come to the police station. Only pain had awaited her there, just as she had known it would. Even Mace was lost to her now.

  Surely you must be able to find something new to care about.

  But what could that be? She had already achieved her life’s great work. She had saved the Tearling, and now she was no longer a queen, only an ordinary young woman. There were no more heroics to be done. What could she possibly do as Kelsea Raleigh? She liked her job at the library; she loved her little flat. Was that everything? How could it not be an empty life, after watching kingdoms rise and fall?

  There are upsides, too, her mind remarked, in a flat, dry voice that Kelsea recognized as Andalie’s. No one wants to murder you now, do they? You haven’t killed anyone yourself. You’ve been cruel to no one.

  True. The Queen of Spades, the shadow of vengeance that had fallen over Kelsea almost from the moment she had taken her throne . . . she was gone, buried in the distant past. Kelsea could feel her absence, like a splinter that had been withdrawn, and she felt certain—as certain as she could be of anything in this new world—that the Queen of Spades would never trouble her again. There was gain there, great gain, perhaps . . . but Kelsea did not trust herself to see it clearly. The past stood in the way.

  At the junction of the Great Boulevard—now called Queen Caitlyn’s Road—Kelsea climbed down from the wagon and began the slow walk back to work. Checking her watch, she was relieved to see that she had plenty of time. She had not been late again since that first morning, and Carlin had stopped checking her watch when Kelsea walked in the door, which was a relief. Carlin had not changed in the slightest; Kelsea wanted her approval badly, but Carlin was going to make her earn every inch. Just like old times. Kelsea felt tears threatening again, and walked faster. But beneath the tears, Father Tyler’s words beat against her brain.

  Your whole life ahead of you.

  She wished this idea would simply go away. To let go of the unrecoverable past and attempt to grasp a future . . . that would take courage, far more than she possessed. The past was too much a part of her.

  You’ve got guts, Queenie, Arliss whispered in her head.

  That was true; she had always had guts. But what she needed now was a concussion. How could she forget everything and start again, here, in this normal life?

  She turned up the library walk, miserably aware that she was crying again. She dug in her bag, but she hadn’t even been smart enough to remember a handkerchief.

  There was worse to come: Carlin was on the library porch, sitting in one of the chairs. She liked to eat her lunch outside when the weather was cool, and so the rest of the staff generally avoided the porch on principle. Kelsea tried to walk past as quickly as possible.

  “Kelsea?”

  Murmuring a curse inside her head, Kelsea turned back.

  “What’s happened to you?” Carlin asked.

  “Nothing,” Kelsea replied, ducking her head, and in that moment she realized that it could almost be true. Nothing had happened, nothing real outside her head . . . but could she ever accept that? She wiped her streaming eyes, then jumped as she felt Carlin’s hand on her shoulder.

  Of all of the odd moments Kelsea had experienced in the past weeks, this was perhaps the most unsettling. There was no tenderness in Carlin, never had been; she never touched anyone, except to discipline. But now, the hand on Kelsea’s shoulder did not pinch, and when she looked up, she found that Carlin’s stern, lined face was kind. Astonished, Kelsea suddenly realized that in this new Tearling, anything could be different. Even Carlin Glynn could change, become someone else.

  “Kelsea?”

  Swallowing her tears, Kelsea took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She was not a queen but a normal girl, a good citizen of the Tearling . . . her kingdom, which no longer needed saving, which had been made whole.

  “Kelsea, where have you been?”

  Acknowledgments

  Anyone who doubts the need for editors in publishing has never had a good editor. This book was by far the most difficult and demanding writing I’ve ever done, and at several points I would have been quite happy to destroy it and never write anything again. My good friend and editor Maya Ziv hung with me through the long, messy process of turning an ugly first draft into a book I can be proud of, and any failings that remain in the final draft are those of my own imagination. Maya only made me cut a few of the dirty words too!

  I am doubly fortunate to have not only a great editor but a great agent. Thank you, Dorian Karchmar, for always believing the Tearling was worth a lot of work, and no small amount of trouble on the side. There’s more than one Mace here; I appreciate the fact that you kept me safe, both personally and professionally, while I wrote these books. Everyone else at William Morris Endeavor has been unbelievably good to me as well; thank you to Jamie Carr, Laura Bonner, Simone Blaser, Ashley Fox, Michelle Feehan, and Cathryn Summerhayes.

  Thank you to everyone at HarperCollins, but particularly Jonathan Burnham, for giving me the extra time I needed to finish this book right. Thank you also to E
mily Griffin, continuity wizard Miranda Ottewell, Heather Drucker, Amanda Ainsworth, Katie O’Callaghan, Virginia Stanley, and Erin Wicks, for all of your help over the years, as well as plenty of tolerance for my, ahem, troublesome idiosyncrasies.

  Thank you to the many kind people at Transworld Publishers, particularly Simon Taylor, Sophie Christopher, and Leanne Oliver. Good people all, very nice to the uncouth American in their midst.

  Both family and friends have been supremely understanding about the Mr. Hyde I reveal under deadline. Thank you to my husband, Shane, for helping me keep my sanity—and not losing your own!—while I was under tremendous pressure. Thank you, Dad, for never telling me to settle down and quit studying the humanities. And most of all, thank you, Christian and Katie, for being you.

  As always, I am deeply grateful to all libraries and independent bookstores out there for their great love and support for these books, but I would like to give a particular shout-out to Copperfield’s Books in Petaluma, and to fantastic employees Amber Reed and Ray Lawrason, who steer me toward good books.

  My final word is for the readers.

  The Tearling is not an easy world, I know. Contrarian that I am, I am determined to make this kingdom echo life, where answers to our questions are not delivered neatly in a beautiful expositional package, but must be earned, through experience and frustration, sometimes even tears (and believe me, not all of those tears are Kelsea’s). Sometimes answers never come at all. To all of the readers who stuck with this story, understanding and sometimes even enjoying the fact that the Tearling is a gradually unfolding world, full of lost and often confounding history, thank you for your faith in the concept. I hope you feel that your patience was rewarded in the end.

  Now let’s all go and make the better world.

  About the Author

  Erika Johansen grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. She went to Swarthmore College, earned an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and eventually became an attorney, but she never stopped writing. She lives in England.