The Invasion of the Tearling

“If they come up the bank and try to cross the river in front of the city, they would lose considerable numbers to our archers. But if they hold both banks, they can come with defenses ready, be impervious to arrows. Then they can simply focus on scaling the walls and taking the bridge.”


Even Mace was a pessimist now. There was no hope anywhere, unless Kelsea could make it herself. The thought sickened her. When she looked in the mirror this morning, a beautiful brunette stared back at her, but not just any brunette. Lily’s hair, Lily’s face, Lily’s mouth … the two of them were not identical, not by any means, but individual pieces were beginning to match. Kelsea and Lily were sharing a life; now it seemed they would share a face as well. But Kelsea’s eyes had never changed; they were still Raleigh eyes … her mother’s eyes, twin spots of deep green carelessness that had brought down an entire kingdom.

“Glory to the Queen!”

The shout came from below, from the bottom of the inner wall, where several members of her Guard had blocked the stairwell. Kelsea peered over the edge and found a crowd of people gathered at the foot of the stairs. They waved furiously, a sea of upturned faces.

They think I can save them. Kelsea dug up a confident smile and waved back, then returned her attention to the Almont. She had never had any options, but that fact would earn her no leniency. When she was judged—as she surely would be, by history if nothing else—there would be no mitigating circumstances. She stared at the dark sprawl on the horizon, not allowing herself to look away. Almost without thinking, she opened up a new wound on her calf, feeling a grim satisfaction as blood trickled down toward her ankle.

Punishment.

“Sir!”

Mace leaned over the edge of the staircase. “What?”

“Messenger from General Bermond.”

“Send him up.”

Kelsea turned away from the Almont as Bermond’s messenger reached the top of the stairs. Army messengers really were extraordinary; the man had run up five flights of stairs, but he was barely even out of breath. He was young and lithe, a sergeant by the copper pin at his collar, and his eyes widened as he caught sight of Kelsea. But this effect was no longer gratifying, if it ever had been. She signaled the man to speak, then turned back to the Almont.

“Majesty, the general wishes to report that the Argive Pass has fallen.”

Mace grunted beside her, but Kelsea kept her gaze pinned on the black cloud on the horizon, trying not to blink.

“The Mort have already begun to bring supplies through the Argive; this will cut their resupply time considerably. Last night over a thousand reinforcements also came down the Pass. They will reach the Mort line by tomorrow. The entire Mort army has now crossed the Crithe and taken the north bank of the Caddell, and the vanguard will soon push the Tear away from the southern bank as well. The general estimates that this will happen in no more than three days. He believes they mean to follow the Caddell all the way to New London.”

The messenger paused, and Kelsea heard the gulp of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“Continue.”

“General Bermond wishes me to report that the Tear army has now lost over two thousand men, more than a third of its forces.”

Kelsea’s eyes refused to stay open any longer, and she blinked, momentarily blotting out the horizon. But when she opened her eyes, the cloud was still there.

“What else?”

“This is all I have to report, Majesty.”

No good news. Of course not. “Lazarus, how long until the Mort reach the walls?”

“My guess, less than a week. Don’t let the distance deceive you, Lady. Even with Bermond doing all he can, the Mort are capable of advancing two or three miles a day. They’ll be here by the end of the month, no later.”

Kelsea looked down at the refugee camp, that sprawling mess of hardship, inadequate shelter, the beginnings of starvation. That responsibility lay at her feet as well. She turned back to the messenger. “Advise Bermond that we’ll move the refugees inside the city. It will take at least five days. Bermond is to hold the Mort off the camp until evacuation is complete, then retreat and hold the bridge.”

The messenger nodded.

“Well done. Dismissed.”

He scampered down the stairs and out of sight. Kelsea turned back to the Almont. “Arliss should be in charge of evacuating the camp. His people know names and faces down there.”

“Lady, I assure you—”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out, Lazarus? His little minions are all over that camp, dealing narcotics like there’s no tomorrow.”

“There is no tomorrow for these people, Lady.”

“Ah. I knew it.” Kelsea turned to face him, feeling her temper grind into terrible life. But beneath was something even worse than anger: shame. She craved Mace’s approval, always had, in the same way she had always longed for accolades from Barty. But Barty had approved of her without reservation. Mace made his approval more valuable, forcing Kelsea to earn it, and the knowledge that she had failed cut very deep. “I knew that sooner or later you would tell me that I fucked it all up.”