The Invasion of the Tearling

Jordan moved to the front of the scaffold and began yelling, waving his arms. His deep voice was strong enough to make the wood thrum beneath Kelsea’s feet, but still, it took a few minutes for the crowd to fall into an uneasy silence, one broken by hisses and muttering. Elston and Ewen had moved Thorne to the pinnacle of the scaffold, where he stood with bound hands, staring far over the crowd.

“Arlen Thorne, Brother Matthew, and Liam Bannaker.” Kelsea was pleased to hear her words ring across the Circus and bounce back again from the wall of pubs. “You are guilty of treason, and the Crown has sentenced you to death. Should you have anything to say before you hang, the Crown is listening.”

For a moment, she thought that Thorne might speak. He scanned the crowd, and Kelsea knew without knowing that he was looking for Brenna, for the damnable albino who had such an incomprehensible hold on him.

Speak, Arlen!

But he said nothing, and then the moment was past. Kelsea felt it blow right by her, a cold wind of withered promise.

“Beast!” a woman screamed, and then they all began again, howling and cursing. There was nothing more to accomplish here; Kelsea nodded to Mace and Coryn, who stepped forward without ceremony and shoved both Bannaker and the priest off the scaffold.

Bannaker’s neck broke instantly, a quick crack like a slap, and his limp body swung back and forth in decreasing arcs before the crowd. But Brother Matthew struggled, choking, against his noose. The crowd had begun to fling items again, making a game of it now, trying to hit the two dangling men. Most of these objects bounced harmlessly off the wooden facing, but one piece fell near Kelsea with a dull crack: a misshapen brick, its edges worn. Beside the brick, a playing card lay facedown on the platform, no doubt left by some worker on break from construction. Not knowing why, Kelsea bent down and picked it up. Turning it over, she saw that it was the queen of spades.

Kelsea stared at the card, transfixed: a tall woman dressed all in black, holding weapons in both hands. The Queen’s all-knowing gaze pinned Kelsea where she stood, as though she knew every thought in Kelsea’s mind.

But no, Kelsea thought, that isn’t it at all. The nights of slicing her own flesh open, the incident with Kibb, the steadily growing sense of her own power … all of it had been narrowing to a point, distilling Kelsea to her essentials. She squeezed her hand into a fist, feeling the playing card crumple inside.

I am her: the tall, dark woman with death in each hand. She is me.

“Be silent!” she shouted.

A hush fell over the crowd, as quick and sharp as a curtain dropping. Brother Matthew still convulsed, gagging, at the end of his rope, but Kelsea didn’t mind the counterpoint. She moved up toward the edge of the scaffold, so far out that Pen, close as always, grabbed a handful of her dress. It felt as though there were yards of extra material in the small of Kelsea’s back now, where the fabric had always stretched tight for her entire life. She had transformed, become something more than herself, become extraordinary.

The queen of spades.

“You have come to watch this man die!” she announced. “But I know you, people of the Tearling! You do not come to watch a hanging! You come for blood!”

“Aye!” hundreds of voices shouted back.

“Make him bleed, Lady!”

“Give him to us!”

“No.” Something seemed to be unfurling inside Kelsea, unfolding stealthily, like a dark pair of wings opening in the night, and she wanted to spread them wide, feel their span. Always she had been a child of the light, loving the warm sun through the cottage windows, when it felt as though all things were right and kind. But the world was also full of darkness, a cold gulf that beckoned. The people hungered for violence, and suddenly Kelsea wanted, more than anything, to give it them.

Corruption. Carlin’s voice, a dim echo, long ago in the morning gleam of the library. Corruption begins with a single moment of weakness.

But Kelsea was not weak. She was strong … stronger than Carlin could ever have imagined. Her entire being seemed to be filled with bright light.

“Arlen.”

It was only a whisper, but Thorne jerked around to face her, a marionette pulled by invisible strings.

I own him, Kelsea realized, her mind a dark marvel. Every cell, every molecule. I could force him to speak. I could force him to tell me everything I want to know.

But that was nonsense. The time for talk had come and gone.

“Lady?”

Mace touched her arm, and Kelsea turned to see that he was offering the third noose in one hand. But she ignored it, staring at Thorne, memorizing his form, learning his outlines. He watched her placidly, and Kelsea saw that he felt no regret, even now. In the bleak white landscape of his mind, he was certain that he had acted justifiably, that no man would have done any better. Seventeen long years of facilitating the shipment … but no, Thorne’s role had been even worse. Deep within his mind, Kelsea found a bright flash of memory: a hand holding out a pen, a smooth, persuasive voice, speaking in murmurs. I’m afraid you have no choice, Majesty. There’s no better option.