The Invasion of the Tearling

“Like trying to dam up God’s Ocean, eh, Majesty?”


“Just like that, General.” She grinned at him, a grin so ferocious that Bermond recoiled against his chair. “The first wave of refugees will reach the Almont proper tomorrow. Give them some guards, and then begin moving the rest. I want those villages cleared out.”

“And what happens if my army is as weak as you seem to think, Majesty? The Mort will make straight for New London, just as they did in your mother’s time. Mort soldiers get a salary, but it’s a pittance; they build their wealth on plunder, and the good plunder is right here. If I can’t keep them from crossing the border, do you really think you can keep them from sacking the city?”

Something was wrong with Kelsea’s eyes. A thick cloud seemed to obscure her vision, light at the corners and heavy in the center. Was it her sapphires? No, they had been quiet for weeks, and now they hung dark and still against her chest. Kelsea blinked rapidly, trying to clear her head; it wouldn’t do to show weakness in front of Bermond now.

“I’m hoping for help,” she told him. “I have opened negotiations with the Cadarese.”

“And what good will that do?”

“Perhaps the King will lend us some of his troops.”

“Fool’s hope, Lady. The Cadarese are isolationists, always have been.”

“Yes, but I’m exploring all options.”

“Lady?” Pen asked quietly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Kelsea muttered, but now spots were dancing across her field of vision. She was going to be ill, she realized, and she could not do that in front of Bermond. She stood up, grabbing at the table for balance.

“Lady?”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, shaking her head, trying to clear it.

“What’s wrong with her?” Bermond asked, but his voice was already growing faint. The world suddenly smelled like rain. Kelsea clenched the table and felt the slickness of polished wood slipping beneath her fingers.

“Grab her, man!” Mace barked. “She’ll fall!”

She felt Pen’s arm around her waist, but his touch was unwelcome, and she shook him off. Her vision blurred entirely and she glimpsed unfamiliar surroundings: a small compartment and a grey, threatening sky. Panicked, she closed her eyes tightly and then opened them again, looking for her audience chamber, her guards, anything that was known. But she saw none of them. Mace, Pen, Bermond … they were all gone.





CHAPTER 2


LILY


“It is merely crossing,” said Mr. Micawber, trifling with his eye-glass, “merely crossing. The distance is quite imaginary.”

—David Copperfield, CHARLES DICKENS (pre-Crossing Angl.)

HER EYES OPENED on a deep grey world, storm clouds promising certain rain. In the distance, through the windshield, she could see a bleak sky dominated by a line of dark grey silhouettes.

Manhattan.

The car hit a bump crossing the bridge, and Lily looked out the window, annoyed. Greg was in charge of their household finances, but Lily had overheard him telling Jim Henderson that he paid a good chunk of money to the utilities every month to use the bridge. In return, they were supposed to maintain the paving. But they never did as good a job as they should have, and lately Lily had noticed bumps and potholes that took longer and longer to repair. Still, the trip beat taking the public bridge; their Lexus was begging to be carjacked on a public roadway. Security regularly patrolled this bridge and its connecting roads, and officers would appear in moments if Jonathan pressed the panic button. A few potholes were a small price to pay for safety.

The bridge ended, and Lily looked eagerly out the window as the high walls tapered down to a low barrier. She came into the city less and less often, and it seemed like things were worse every time, but she still liked to visit. Her own house in New Canaan was beautiful, a stately colonial with white columns, just like those of all of her friends. But even an entire town could get old when everything was the same. Lily dressed more carefully for her rare trips outside the wall than she did for her own dinner parties; dangerous or not, this excursion always seemed like an event.