The Invasion of the Tearling

Thorne shrugged. “She’s a woman terrified of dying, of ceasing to exist. I noticed it often, though it’s a quality she tries desperately to hide. Perhaps your jewels would help?”


Kelsea’s mind went immediately to Kibb, lying on the sickbed covered in sweat. She thought of Row Finn’s offer: a way to destroy the Red Queen. Mace said it had been years since anyone had tried to assassinate her; everyone assumed it could not be done. Was it possible that the Red Queen was still physically vulnerable somehow? But even if Row Finn knew of that vulnerability, what good could such information do Kelsea now? An army of at least fifteen thousand lay between New London and Demesne.

“But this is conjecture, Majesty,” Thorne continued. “The Mort have designated her un maniaque … what we would call a control freak. You, your sapphires, these things are variables, and the Red Queen is not a woman who is comfortable with variables, not even pleasant ones.”

Kelsea stared at him, fascinated and disgusted at the same time. “Did you sleep with her, Arlen?”

“She wished me to. She sleeps with a man, and then feels that he is hers, neatly categorized and collected. But I am part of no one’s collection.”

Thorne stood up and stretched. His arms were so long that he nearly reached the top of the cage. “Why delay my execution until Sunday, Majesty? I’m tired of waiting, and I’m certainly tired of Elston’s company. Why not simply do it now?”

“Because even in death, Arlen, you will be useful. Your execution will be a public event, and announcements will go out to all corners of the kingdom. The people want this, and I will give it to them.”

“Ah, the pleasure of the mob. It’s a wise move, I suppose.”

“You don’t fear death?”

Thorne shrugged. “Do you play chess, Majesty?”

“Yes, but not well.”

“I play a great deal of chess, and I play well. I don’t often lose, but it has happened. Always in such games, there is a point at which you realize you will be bested, that checkmate is four or ten or twelve moves away. One school of thought says you should make the best endgame you can, fighting until the bitter finish. But I have never seen any point in that. I have done the math, and I was checkmated from the moment your people grabbed my Brenna. All moves since then have been the pointless scurrying of pawns.”

“What is Brenna to you?” Kelsea asked. “Why does she mean so much, when all other people mean nothing?”

“Ah … now that story will cost you my life, Majesty. Are you willing to trade?”

“No. But I will bring Brenna up here and allow you to say good-bye.”

“Not good enough.”

“Then we’re done.” Kelsea stood up from the chair. “If you change your mind, let Elston know.”

She made it halfway to the door before Thorne called, “Glynn Queen?”

“Yes?”

“I will not tell you the tale of my life, and neither will Brenna. But your Mace might do so, if you could force it from him.”

Kelsea turned, considered him for a moment, then replied, “You are transparent, Arlen. You only want to drive a wedge between us.”

Thorne’s lips thinned in a smile. “Perceptive, Majesty. But curiosity is a terrible thing. I believe my wedge will burrow deeper over time.”

“I thought you were done.”

“Even the checkmate phase has its entertainments.” Thorne sat back down in his chair, giving her a tiny wave of farewell. “Good day, Glynn Queen.”

INCREASE THE DOSAGE.”

“What?”

“Increase the dosage!” the Queen snapped, doing her best to force her voice through the thick pane of glass.

Medire nodded and hurried around the examination table, on which was strapped a slave from Callae. The slave didn’t know it, but she was already dead. The only question was how long it would take. A thin line of reddish foam had begun to work its way from the corner of her mouth, and she gasped for breath, her fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. The Queen wondered if the woman was making noise; the pane of glass was almost perfectly soundproof, one of Cadare’s finest achievements. She checked the watch in her hand and found that nearly seventy seconds had elapsed.

The woman gave a final gasp, her mouth rounding like that of a fish. Then her eyes fixed on the ceiling and she was still. Medire reached for her wrist, monitored the pulse for a moment, and nodded at the Queen, who checked her watch again.

“Seventy-four seconds,” she told Emmene, who stood beside her with his pen and paper.

“Better than the last trial.”