The Invasion of the Tearling

Despite the three guards with her, Aisa felt very small and alone, and she was frightened, not of death but of failure. Last month the Mace had given her a horse, a pretty young stallion that Aisa had named Sam, and Fell had been teaching her to ride. But riding a horse was much more difficult than working with a knife or sword, and Aisa did not deceive herself that she was proficient. At any moment, she felt, Sam might throw her, and she would rather die than have that happen now, in front of all of these people, in front of the Mace, who had chosen her to come along on this dangerous errand. Aisa’s weapons were currently stowed in her belt, but if anyone so much as made a move in the direction of the Queen, she could be off the horse with her knife ready in two seconds flat.

The Queen rode tall and straight between the four of them, the dim light of dawn gleaming dully off her silver tiara. She looked very regal to Aisa, very much as a Queen should when going out to negotiate with her enemy. But the Queen’s hands were clenched on the reins, her knuckles fiercely white, and Aisa understood that all was not as it seemed. Before they left the Keep, the Mace had drawn the three of them aside, speaking in a low voice.

“She’s up to something. Watch her close. You see any sign that she’s going to bolt, raise the alarm and grab her. She can’t take all four of us at once.”

Aisa didn’t know what to make of this order, or, truly, of the Queen herself. She knew from Maman and the Guard that the Queen sometimes went into a trance, but nothing could have prepared her for last night: the Queen shambling from one room to another, her eyes sometimes closed, sometimes open, as she staggered forward, holding conversations with no one, even bumping into walls. The Mace had cautioned them not to worry, to simply let her be, and left her in the care of Pen. But Aisa did worry. In her own way, the Queen reminded her of Glee, who would wander in the same manner, following things that weren’t there, tormented by some other world that none of them could see. Sometimes Glee herself wasn’t entirely there, and Aisa had thought more than once that one day Glee might simply disappear, vanishing into her unseen world. Perhaps the Mace was worried that the Queen might do the same.

“Queen Kelsea!” a man shouted, and Aisa swung that way automatically, putting her hand to her knife. But it was only an old man standing near the front of the crowd, waving at the Queen. His was the first voice they’d heard raised above the murmur of the crowd; the city seemed to be stunned, all of them staring at the Queen with wide, lost eyes. After perhaps ten minutes of riding, Aisa also noticed another anomaly: they had passed many thousands of people, but she had not seen a single glass of ale, not even when they passed the Cove, New London’s notorious run of pubs.

Why, they’re scared sober! Aisa realized. They didn’t know that the Queen was going out to parlay, but Aisa suspected that it would have made no difference. She, like everyone, had seen the massive force spread across both banks of the Caddell. What could the Queen offer to counter? Aisa thought this was a fool’s errand, but she was proud to be chosen, proud to be with them. When the Mort came, she would not stand there defenseless, her eyes lost. She would fight to the end to keep them from reaching the Queen. As the Cove ended, her heart froze; for a moment, she thought she had seen Da, his tall form and black eyes burning, in the center of the crowd. But when the people shifted again, he was gone.

The Boulevard took its final turn and the New London Bridge appeared, a long stretch of stone before them. The vast crowds of people on either side began to melt away, and Aisa finally relaxed as the five of them guided their horses onto the bridge.

Ahead reared the barricade. Aisa was no engineer, but she saw the problem immediately: the barricade was nothing more than a hastily constructed mess of furniture and what appeared to be planks of lumber piled on both sides of the bridge. A thin aisle ran down the middle, so narrow that it would allow passage only in single file. But the entire structure was unwieldy; the low walls that bordered the bridge would not support the barricade’s height. The Mace said that the Mort had brought battering rams, and from the look of things, one good blow from a ram would send half the barricade straight over the sides of the bridge and into the Caddell.

The Queen had clearly come to the same conclusion, for she chuckled darkly at the mess before them. “Not going to hold, is it?”

“Not a chance, Lady,” the Mace replied. “There’s only one way to properly defend a bridge. Hall’s done his best with what he had, but a stiff breeze will take his barricade down.”

Aisa wondered what the one way could be, but General Hall had emerged from the barricade now, and she kept quiet. Hall had been in and out of the Keep several times in the past week, and Aisa liked to hear him speak: businesslike and to the point, with no nonsense or extraneous words. The Mace said that Hall had done hero’s work to hold the Mort back until all of the refugees were inside the city. For a moment, Aisa worried that the general would ask what she was doing here with the Guard, but his eyes merely noted her before moving on to the Queen.

“Majesty.”

“General. I’ve come to open negotiations with the Mort.”

“There’s a contingent of them waiting on the far end of the bridge, but they’re not dressed for embassy. They have two rams and they’re ready to begin.”

“Is Ducarte there?”