The Invasion of the Tearling

Fury coiled inside Kelsea, a sick fury that seemed to come from nowhere, descending like an animal with ragged claws and needle teeth. She tasted blood on her tongue.

A dark slash opened just above Thorne’s left eye. He cried out, clapped a hand to his forehead, and Kelsea watched with pleasure as blood spilled between his fingers and ran down his cheek. The crowd broke its silence now, howling in delight, pushing toward the scaffold. Kelsea leaned forward, heedless of Pen’s restraining grip on her dress, and grasped Thorne’s hair, tipping his head back. Bright blue eyes stared up at her from a face tacky with blood.

“I have news for you, Arlen. We’re on my chessboard now.”

Another slice appeared across Thorne’s cheek, opening all the way from his hairline to the corner of his mouth. Thorne groaned, and Kelsea felt that winged thing inside her growing, heaving, desperate to break its bonds. She slashed at Thorne’s neck, dangerously near the jugular, and watched crimson bloom across the white linen of his shirt. Thorne screamed and the sound was music to Kelsea’s ears, the crowd’s approval roaring around her, lifting her up. She saw herself as they must see her: a beautiful woman, long dark hair snapping in the wind, a figure of great power and … was it terror? Kelsea hesitated, seeing the scene before her from another angle, as though a third person stood beside her, observing dispassionately. Thorne was bleeding from half a dozen deep wounds. He had fallen to his knees. The crowd had pushed farther up against the scaffold in its eagerness now, some of them shinnying up the supports and reaching for Thorne, their hands grasping at his legs. But they shied away from Kelsea. Even the most eager took care that their hands should not come within range of her, not even to brush the hem of her dress. Terror, yes … it must be, and Kelsea’s mind went out to the black shadow of the Mort army, somewhere in the floodplain between the Caddell and the Crithe.

My kingdom, she thought, and the wings inside her spread wide, prepared for some unimaginable flight. Briefly her mind skipped backward, to that night when Kibb had lain dying, when she had snatched him back. That was power, yes, but it would not save the Tearling. Her kingdom was laid bare, ripe for slaughter, and she had nothing to offer but this darkness. The black wings folded, enclosing Kelsea in their embrace, and she nearly sighed at the relief she found there, a bottomless fathom where no light ever shone, where all choices were easy because all choices were one.

She returned to Thorne, pushing past his skin, seeking the meat beneath. Her mind had sharpened into a killing blade and she launched into the creature in front of her, slashing everything within her reach, feeling a sweeping excitement as tissue shredded away from bone. Thorne howled, his body becoming misshapen as the inner upheaval played out across his skin. Blood gouted from his nose, spattering the hem of Kelsea’s dress, but she barely noticed. She was already digging into the meat of his chest, looking for his lungs. She found one, constricted it, and felt it pop with sickening ease. More blood poured from Thorne’s mouth, and at the sight of scarlet dripping down his chin, Kelsea felt it again: a fainting sort of pleasure, akin to what she felt when Pen touched her at night. But this was more visceral, like a punch to her core. Thorne’s other lung collapsed and he fell forward, writhing, on the scaffold. The crowd screamed with delight, and the sound lifted Kelsea up. Her entire body felt charged, electric.

“I am the Queen of the Tearling!” she shouted, and the crowd immediately fell silent. Looking over them, their open mouths, their wide eyes, all fixed on her, Kelsea felt as though she held the world in her hands. She had felt so before, but could not remember when. She placed her boot on Thorne’s neck and pressed down, hard, liking the way he writhed, liking the feel of his neck beneath her boot.

“The price of treachery in my Tearling! Mark and remember it!”

Thorne’s neck snapped. He gave a final gagging cough and seemed to seize, his spine arching. Then he was gone. Kelsea felt him go, like leaves in a wind, but the wild darkness inside her didn’t diminish. Instead, it pushed harder, demanding that she find another traitor, more blood. Kelsea drove it back, sensing that here was a seductive thing, to be carefully controlled. She looked down at Thorne’s corpse, at the muddy mark of her boot on his neck. The darkness in her mind faded to white, then disappeared.

“To the Queen!” a woman’s voice shouted.

“To the Queen!”

Kelsea looked up and saw cups upraised all across the crowd. They had come prepared to celebrate when the deed was done. She had given the crowd what they wanted, what they needed … but still Kelsea hesitated, a trickle of anxiety fermenting in her belly now.