The Invasion of the Tearling

“Yes. He commands.”


The Queen nodded for a moment, her face deep in thought, then turned and looked back over the city walls behind them. Following her gaze, Aisa saw that every available surface of the boundary wall was packed with people, all of them staring at the bridge. The Queen scanned the wall for a long moment before looking down again, and Aisa knew that she had been searching for someone, a face she did not find. The Queen sighed, her eyes full of sorrow, a sadness that Aisa recognized: she had seen it in Maman’s eyes more times than she could number.

“I’m sorry.”

The Mace jerked at his horse’s reins with one hand, reaching out for the Queen with the other, but then they both froze, horse and rider. A moment later Aisa felt her own muscles seize, an odd, sick feeling, as though a mild cramp had spread across her entire body. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Pen and Elston too had frozen, Pen already off his horse and in the very act of charging forward. Aisa had been part of late-night discussions among the Guard, had heard their recountings of the strange power the Queen wielded; each guard seemed to have his own conjecture on what the Queen’s magic meant, how far it could go. But Aisa had never heard of anything like this. She tried to speak, found that her throat would not even allow her to make a sound.

“I’m sorry,” the Queen repeated. “But none of you can protect me where I’m going.”

She dismounted, walked over to Mace, and looped the reins of her mare around his outstretched hand. The Mace stared down at her, immobile, but his eyes were terrible, twin pools of hurt and fury.

“Forgive me.” The Queen grasped the Mace’s motionless hand for a moment, smiling sadly. “I’m the Queen, you see.”

The Mace’s mouth twitched, but nothing came out.

“You’re my Regent, Lazarus. It’s been arranged. I trust you to look after these people and keep them safe.”

The Queen stared at the Mace for another long moment, then turned to the three of them, Aisa and Elston and Pen. “You can’t guard me any longer. So do this for me: guard my Regent.”

Aisa stared at her, bewildered, for the idea of anyone guarding the Mace seemed laughable. The Queen moved over to General Hall, and for a moment Aisa thought that the general might be able to stop her, but then she spotted the cords standing out on his throat and understood that he was held immobile as well.

“Retreat from the bridge immediately, General, and prepare for siege. If the Mort don’t come, you will know that I succeeded.”

Now she moved toward Pen, whose pleasant face had frozen in a rictus of agony. The Queen placed a light hand against his cheek for a moment; Aisa saw her shoulders heave with a single deep breath, and then she turned and darted into the shadows of the barricade.

In the Queen’s wake, the guards could do nothing but stare at each other. Aisa thought that she was the only one who remained calm; the eyes of the other three were wide with panic. Pen appeared to be the worst of all; he would have followed the Queen anywhere, Aisa knew, and the Queen had known too. There were other soldiers in the barricade; surely they would be able to stop her … but then, staring at the maze of debris, Aisa realized how foolish that hope was. The Queen was powerful, more powerful than Maman, maybe even as powerful as the Red Queen herself. No one would stop her, not if she didn’t want to be stopped.

Beneath Aisa’s feet, the ground began to shake. A moment later, she realized that she could move again, that the strange hold on her muscles had released. But the ground was now heaving so violently that she lost control of Sam and fell from his back, landing with a painful thud on the cobbles.

“We can still catch her up!” the Mace shouted. “Come on!”

Pen was already gone; he had left his horse behind and charged into the barricade. Aisa pushed herself up from the ground, aware now of a deep, distant cracking, like thunder, to the east. She followed the Mace and Elston into the barricade, trying to keep up with the grey of their cloaks, pulling her knife as she went. As always, the knife was a cold comfort in her hand, and only now, in her extremity, did Aisa realize where that comfort sprang from: the hope that she would meet Da. She hated Da, and she loved him, but someday, somehow, she hoped to meet him with a knife in her hand.