The Invasion of the Tearling

Scanning the Mort camp, Kelsea finally found what she was looking for: a crimson tent located near the center. Though it was only a tiny speck of red among all that black, something tolled inside Kelsea like a funeral bell. The Red Queen was leaving nothing to chance this time; she had come herself, just to make sure the job was done right. Torches surrounded the tent, but after a moment Kelsea noticed something odd: these torches were the only fire she could see in the Mort camp. It was just after dinner, but the perimeter was dark. Kelsea considered this fact for a moment before tucking it away.

“Did everyone make it inside the city?” she asked.

“They did, Lady,” Mace replied, “but the army was decimated in the last attempt to hold the Mort from the bridge.”

Kelsea’s stomach roiled, and she peered down at the New London Bridge, cursing her poor eyesight. “What keeps the Mort off the bridge?”

“A barricade, Lady.” Colonel Hall stepped forward, emerging from a group of army men farther down the wall. A thick bandage swaddled his right arm, from which the sleeve had been cut away, and he had taken a nasty wound across the jaw. “It’s a good barricade, but it won’t hold forever.”

“Colonel Hall.” Kelsea smiled, relieved to see him alive, but sobered at the sight of his injuries. “I’m sorry for the loss of General Bermond, and your men. All of their families will receive full pensions.”

“Thank you, Lady.” But Hall’s mouth twisted wryly, as though acknowledging how little a pension meant in this moment.

Mace poked her lightly in the back, and Kelsea remembered. “I formally invest you as general of my armies. Long life to you, General Hall.”

He threw his head back and laughed, and though Kelsea did not think the laughter was meant to be unkind, it rang in her ears. “Above all, let us have niceties, Lady.”

“What else do we have now?”

“Glory, I suppose. Death with honor.”

“Precisely.”

Hall came a bit closer, paying no attention to Pen, who moved to block him. “May I tell you a secret, Lady?”

“Certainly.” Kelsea patted Glee’s back and set her on the ground, where the child wrapped an arm around Kelsea’s knee.

Hall lowered his voice. “It’s a real thing, glory. But it pales in comparison to what we sacrifice for it. Home, family, long lives filled with quiet. These are real things too, and when we seek glory, we give them up.”

Kelsea did not reply for a moment, realizing that Bermond’s death must have hit Hall harder than she had expected. “Do you think I sought this war?”

“No, Lady. But you are not content with the quiet life.”

Mace grunted beside her, a soft sound that Kelsea recognized as agreement, and she fought the urge to kick him. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“This entire kingdom knows you now, Queen Kelsea. You’ve brought us all to disaster, to satisfy your own notions of glory. Of better.”

“Be careful, Hall,” Pen warned. “You don’t—”

“Shut up, Pen,” Mace growled.

Kelsea swung around, furious. “Have you turned on me for good now, Lazarus?”

“No, Lady. But it’s not wise, particularly in wartime, to silence the voice of dissent.”

Kelsea’s face burned, and she turned back to Hall. “I didn’t end the shipment for glory. I never cared about that.”

“Then prove me wrong, Majesty. Save the last remnants of my men from an unwinnable fight. Save the women and children—and the men as well—from the nightmare they will surely face when the Mort break the walls. You cut a man to pieces, rather than watch him die a simple death by the noose. Prove me wrong and save us all.”

Hall turned back to the edge, dismissing her in a single movement. Kelsea’s face had gone numb. She felt alone suddenly, alone in a way she hadn’t been since her earliest days in the Keep. She looked over the faces of her Guard, clustered around the stairwells that fed the inner wall. Mace, Coryn, Wellmer, Elston, Kibb … they were loyal, they would lay down their lives for her, but loyalty wasn’t approval. They thought she had failed.

“Look, Lady.” Mace gestured over the edge.

The regimented lines of Mort had not moved, but as Kelsea squinted in the dying light, she saw that there was movement down there, a clutch of figures in black cloaks darting through the lines, bearing torches, wending their way toward the front.

Mace had pulled out his spyglass. “The one in the middle is the Red Queen’s personal herald. I remember that little bastard.”

The herald was a wisp of a man, so slight that he could easily have blended into the night in his cloak. But his voice was a thick bass that echoed off the walls of the Keep, and his Tear was perfect, without even the slightest Mort accent.

“The Great Queen of all Mortmesne and Callae extends greetings to the Heir of the Tearling!”

Kelsea gritted her teeth.

“My message is as follows. The Great Queen assumes that you realize the futility of your situation. The Great Queen’s army will find it an easy matter to break the walls of your capital and take whatever it wishes. No Tear will be spared.