The Invasion of the Tearling

“You started off with all of us.”


“No. That morning with the hawk, you remember? That’s when I first knew I was the Queen, and it was just you and me.”

Mace glanced sharply at her. “What are you planning, Lady?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you. You scheme.”

Kelsea veiled her thoughts, willing them out of her face. “When the sun comes up, I mean to go down to the bridge and try to parlay.”

“The terms were nonnegotiable.”

“Nothing is nonnegotiable, Lazarus, not if I have something she wants.”

“She wants this city and all of its goods in plunder.”

“True, it may not work. But I have to try. I’ll take only four guards with me, including yourself and Pen. Choose the other two.”

“Perhaps not Pen.”

She halted, turning to face him. They were near the bottom of the staircase now, only a few turns to go, and Kelsea lowered her voice, mindful of the people who were undoubtedly below. “Something to say, Lazarus?”

“Come now, Lady. A besotted man makes a poor close guard.”

“Pen’s not besotted.”

The corners of Mace’s mouth twitched.

“What?”

“For a woman with remarkably clear vision in most areas, Lady, you are stone-blind in others.”

“My private life is not your business.”

“But Pen’s professional life is, and just because I’ll tolerate some things in the safety of the Queen’s Wing doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate them elsewhere.”

“Fine. It’s up to you whether he comes or not.” But Kelsea winced at the thought of Pen’s reaction to being left behind. Was Mace right? Was Pen in love with her? It seemed impossible. Pen had his woman, and although Kelsea had her occasional possessive moments, the woman served a purpose, allowed Kelsea to feel as though she was doing no harm. She didn’t want Pen invested in their arrangement. She wanted it to be private, something that never needed to be dragged into the light of day. She wished Mace had not said anything.

No point in fretting over it, she reminded herself. Everything ends in a few hours.

The portrait gallery was full of people, at least several families sleeping on the stone floor. But a few sharp bellows from Mace did the trick; parents scrambled to their feet, grabbed their children, and were gone. Kelsea shut the door at the far end of the gallery, and then it was just the two of them again, Mace and Kelsea, the way it had been at the beginning.

Kelsea went to stare at her mother’s portrait. If her mother had been standing before her, Kelsea would have grabbed her by the throat, torn her hair out by the roots until she screamed for mercy. But how much of their current nightmare was really her mother’s fault? Kelsea thought longingly of those early days in the Keep, days when blame had been clear-cut.

“Why did she give me away, Lazarus?”

“To protect you.”

“Bullshit! Look at her! That’s not the face of an altruist. Sending me away for fostering was utterly out of character. Did she hate me?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“What is the point of this little expedition, Lady? To whip yourself with your mother?”

“Ah, hell, Lazarus,” Kelsea replied wearily. “If you’re not going to talk to me, then go back upstairs.”

“I can’t leave you down here.”

“Of course you can. As you pointed out yourself, no one here can harm me.”

“Your mother thought the same thing.”

“Queen Elyssa! Nothing but trash in the finest silk. Look at her!”

“Call her all the names you like, Lady. She still won’t be the villain you wish her to be.”

Kelsea whirled to stare at him. “Are you my father, Lazarus?”

Mace’s mouth twisted. “No, Lady. I wish I was. I wanted to be. But I am not.”

“Then who is?”

“Has it ever occurred to you that you might not want to know?”

No, that had not occurred. For a moment, Kelsea pondered the worst people it could be: Arlen Thorne? The Holy Father? Her uncle? Anything seemed possible. And did blood really matter so much? She had never cared about her father’s identity; her mother was the important one, the one who had wrecked a kingdom. Kelsea stopped pacing, looked up, and found the portrait of the Beautiful Queen staring down at her. The favored child sat on her lap, smiling brightly, no dark corners, and behind the Beautiful Queen’s skirts was the other, the dark child, the bastard, not loved and not special. Parentage did matter, Kelsea realized, even if it shouldn’t. Pain stabbed into her vitals and she cried out, doubling over. It felt as though someone had kicked her right in the guts.

“Lady?”

Another blow, and now Kelsea shrieked, cradling her stomach. Mace reached her in two steps, but he could do nothing.