The Invasion of the Tearling

How to get hold of them?

From the dark thing, she knew that she could not simply snatch the things off the girl’s neck, not without suffering a terrible consequence. The dark thing had been working on the girl, that much was obvious, but the Queen had no idea how far that work had progressed, what the girl could do. Did she present an actual threat? It seemed unlikely, not with her crown city under the knife. But the dark thing was an extraordinary liar, one of the best the Queen had ever encountered. Who knew what the girl might have learned, what she believed? The Queen couldn’t know, and not knowing tormented her. She had few vulnerabilities left, but in this moment, she was excruciatingly aware of those which remained, and it seemed unfair that they should come to the forefront now, when she was so close to holding the solution in her hand.

Now she heard a new sound: the gathering roar of her soldiers. What could the girl hope to accomplish by coming here? Did she seek martyrdom? The girl had already demonstrated a marked weakness for the grand gesture, although such demonstrations were so revealing that the Queen felt they constituted weakness in themselves. The din outside grew louder, and the Queen drew herself up straight, casting around the tent to make sure that everything was ready. Ducarte had procured a low table for her to eat meals on, an extravagance that would now come in handy. She would kill the girl, certainly, but first they would have a conversation. There were so many things the Queen was curious about. For a moment, she considered drawing the flaps of her tent, so that she could watch as the girl approached. But no: the girl was coming as a supplicant, and the Queen would treat her as one. She remained standing, hands at her sides, though her heartbeat kept climbing and her leg went like mad beneath her dress.

“Majesty!” Ducarte called.

“Come!”

Ducarte pulled back the flap of the tent, creating a doorway, and the girl ducked through. The anxiety that had been growing on the Queen in the past ten minutes suddenly crystallized, and when the girl straightened, revealing her face to the light, it took all of the Queen’s years of control to keep from taking a step backward.

Before her stood the woman from the portrait. Everything was the same: hair, nose, mouth, even the lines of deep sorrow around her eyes.

Is it a trick? the Queen wondered. But how could that be? She had smuggled the portrait from the Keep more than one hundred years ago. Her eyes dropped to the girl’s stomach and she was relieved to notice at least one difference: this girl was not pregnant. But otherwise, the detail was exact, and the Queen felt suddenly as though something had been stolen. The portrait, the woman, these things were hers alone; the girl had no right to stand here wearing the woman’s face. She stood straight, her posture defiant, with no hint of begging about her, and this deepened the Queen’s unease, her sense that something had been tilted askew.

“The Queen of the Tearling,” Ducarte announced, rather unnecessarily, and the Queen flicked her hand toward the door.

“Perhaps I should stay, Majesty.”

“Perhaps not,” the Queen replied. She had spotted another difference now, and this one steadied her, lessened her sense of disorientation: unlike the woman in the portrait, the girl had deep green eyes, the same Raleigh eyes that the Queen had once wished for with all her heart. Both sapphires lay on the girl’s chest, just as Andrew had reported, and once the Queen had noticed them, she could not tear her gaze away.

“Majesty, the New London Bridge—”

“I know all of this, Benin. Go.”

Ducarte left, dropping the flap of the tent behind him.

“Please, sit.” The Queen offered the far chair, and after a moment’s hesitation, the girl stalked forward to take it. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the Queen wondered at this. What did the girl cry for? Not herself, surely; she had already proven that she had no interest in her own safety. Perhaps she was merely tired, but the Queen thought not. Grief sat on her plainly, like a raven perched on her shoulder.

The girl was studying the Queen now, staring at each of her features in turn, as though trying to dissect her face and put it back together. She recognizes me, the Queen thought for a fearful moment. But how could she? How could anyone? This wasn’t the woman from the portrait. This girl was only nineteen years old.

“How old are you, really?” the girl asked abruptly, in Mort. Good Mort, hers, with only the barest hint of an accent.

“Far older than you,” the Queen replied steadily, pleased to hear that her voice betrayed none of the upheaval in her thoughts. “Old enough to know when I have won.”

“You have won,” the girl replied slowly. But her eyes continued to dart across the Queen’s face, as though seeking clues.

“Well?”

“I’ve seen you before,” the girl mused.

“We all have visions.”