The Invasion of the Tearling

“Oh …” The woman looked off into the corner, her eyes turning vague again. “All of them. Other priests. The ones who visit. They never stop at looking.”


Something turned over in Tyler’s stomach.

“You won’t touch, will you?”

“No.”

“Want a hit?”

“No, thank you.” Tyler pulled the ancient Bible from his bag, fingering the edges of the cover, touching the pages. It felt very solid in his hand. “What’s your name?”

“Maya.”

“Tyler! What brings you to me so late at night?”

But the Holy Father already knew. His face radiated good humor. He wore a hastily tied robe of black silk, and his hair was mussed, but he made no attempt to repair his appearance, and Tyler remembered suddenly that there was a second woman here, that the Holy Father kept two. He had forgotten to include the women in his calculations, and their presence would make his enterprise more dangerous. For a moment Tyler considered begging off, lying to the Holy Father and then simply leaving the Arvath under the cover of night. But then, thinking of his books, he screwed up his courage, set his face in grim lines, and announced, “It’s done, Your Holiness.”

“The Queen took the substance?”

“Yes.”

“So late?”

“The Queen sleeps little these days, Your Holiness.”

This, at least, was true. Tyler, who had spent several recent nights on his favorite sofa in the Queen’s library, had been awakened more than once by the Queen herself, touring her bookshelves, touching each book in turn. She wandered the wing, trailed doggedly by Pen Alcott, but always she came back to her library for solace. She and Tyler were alike that way, but whatever the Queen was looking for, she did not find it. Except for the times when she fell into her strange catatonic states—and thank God the Holy Father knew nothing of those—she seemed to sleep very little. “She took it in tea, perhaps an hour ago.”

“Well, this is splendid news, Tyler!” The Holy Father clapped him on the back, and Tyler had to fight not to shrink away. Maya was staring at the two of them now, her eyes narrow and sharp.

“My books, Your Holiness?”

“Well, I think we’ll wait and make sure the deed is done, Tyler. You understand.” The Holy Father grinned, a predator’s grin that consumed his whole face.

Tyler’s hands tightened on his Bible, but he nodded. “May I not even have a glimpse of my books, Your Holiness? I have missed them.”

The Holy Father stared at him, a moment that seemed very long. “Certainly, Tyler. Come with me. They’re in my bedchamber.”

From the corner of his eye, Tyler saw Maya’s mouth drop open in dismay. Her presence could wreck everything, but there was no turning back now. The moment the Holy Father turned away, Tyler swung the Bible with all of his strength, the way a woodsman would swing an axe. The heavy book connected solidly with the Holy Father’s head and knocked him sprawling, but the blow had not been enough; the Holy Father pushed himself to his hands and knees, drawing deep breath, preparing to shout.

“Please, God,” Tyler breathed. He limped forward, raised the Bible, and brought it straight down on the back of the Holy Father’s head. The Holy Father dropped soundlessly to the rug, and this time he lay still.

Tyler looked up and found Maya staring at him with wide eyes. He tucked the Bible back into his bag, raising his hands to show that he meant her no harm. “My books. He was lying, wasn’t he? They’re not here.”

“They took them out a week ago. Down to the basement.”

This, more than anything else, told Tyler that the promise of a reward had been a lie. If he’d done the deed, the Holy Father would have … what? Killed him? Tyler considered the man on the ground for a moment—he was breathing, Tyler noticed gratefully—before he saw the clear path, the smart move: the Holy Father would have handed him over to the Mace.

“Thank you, God,” Tyler breathed, “that I did not do it.”

“You’re the Queen’s priest,” said Maya.

“Yes.” Tyler edged toward the door, listening, but there was no noise from outside. Still, he should leave now, before the Holy Father regained consciousness, before the woman raised the alarm. He grasped the handle, but her voice stopped him.

“Is the Queen good?”

Tyler turned and saw that Maya’s eyes had filled with alarming need. He had seen similar desperation long ago, out in the country, when dying parishioners would ask a still-unordained Tyler to take their final confessions. For some strange reason of her own, Maya needed him to answer yes.

“Yes, she’s good. She wants to make things better.”

“Better for who?”

“For everyone.”