The Invasion of the Tearling

For a moment, Kelsea was reminded of Mhurn, whose chronic exhaustion had hidden an addiction to morphia. She blinked and saw deep scarlet blood, dripping over her knife hand, then shook her head to clear it. Pen would never be so stupid. “Well, have you been sleeping enough?”


“Certainly.” Pen smiled, a private type of smile that had nothing to do with the conversation, and in that moment Kelsea became sure of something she’d only suspected: Pen had a woman somewhere. Two weekends a month, Mace took Pen’s place in the antechamber; Queen’s Guards didn’t usually get time off, but a close guard was a special matter, since he had no downtime. Mace was good company, but Kelsea could always sense Pen’s absence. She’d been wondering lately what he did in his spare time, and now, somehow, she knew.

A woman, Kelsea thought, a trifle bleakly. She could ask Mace about it–surely he would know–but then she cut that impulse off at the knees. It wasn’t her business, no matter how curious she was. She didn’t know why she felt so unhappy, for it wasn’t Pen she thought of at night. But he was always there, and she had grown to depend on him. She didn’t like the idea of him spending time with anyone else.

She’d been staring at Pen so long and so alertly that he straightened up in his chair now, looking alarmed. “What?”

“Nothing,” Kelsea muttered, ashamed of herself. “Get more sleep if you can.”

“Yes, Lady.”

Once the miners had received their coin, they bowed and followed Bennett away. The money had enlivened them, for they chattered like children as they headed for the doors. Kelsea leaned back in her chair and found a steaming mug of tea sitting on the table beside her.

“You’re a wonder, Andalie.”

“Not really, Lady. I’ve yet to see the moment when you don’t want tea.”

“Sir.” Kibb appeared in front of the throne, an envelope in his hand. “Colonel Hall’s latest report from the border.”

Mace took the envelope and offered it to Kelsea, who had just picked up her tea. “I don’t have hands. Just read it to me, Lazarus.”

Mace nodded stiffly, then began to open the envelope. Kelsea noticed small red spots blooming in his cheeks, and wondered if she should have said please. Mace stared at the message for a very long time.

“What is it?”

“Majesty!” Father Tyler jumped forward, so unexpectedly that several of Kelsea’s Guard moved forward to intercept him, and he backed off, hands in the air. “I’m sorry, I’d forgotten. I have a message from the Holy Father.”

“Can it wait?”

“No, Lady. The Holy Father wishes to have dinner with Your Majesty.”

“Ah.” Kelsea narrowed her eyes. “I thought he might have some complaints.”

“I wouldn’t know, Lady,” Father Tyler replied, but his eyes darted away from hers. “I’m only the messenger. But I wondered if the Mace and I might sort it out now, before I need to leave.”

Kelsea was not anxious to meet the new Holy Father, whose priests had already begun to give entire sermons on her shortcomings: her lack of faith; her socialist taxation policies; her early failure to get married and begin breeding an heir. “What if I don’t want to dine with him?”

“Lady.” Mace shook his head. “The Holy Father’s a bad enemy to have. And you may need the Arvath if it comes to siege.”

“For what?”

“Housing, Lady. It’s the second largest building in New London.”

He was right, Kelsea realized, though the idea of requesting assistance from God’s Church made her skin break out in gooseflesh. She put down her tea. “Fine. Give me that letter, Lazarus, and work it out with the good Father. Let’s have His Holiness in here as soon as possible.”

Mace gave her the paper and then turned to Father Tyler, who visibly quailed, backing away. Kelsea scanned the letter and then looked up, pleased. “We’ve scored a tactical victory on the Mort flats. The Mort camp is disbanded. Colonel Hall estimates their recovery time at two weeks.”

“Good news, Majesty,” Elston remarked.

“Not all good news,” Kelsea replied, reading further. “The Mort supply route remains intact. The cannons are undamaged.”

“Still, you’re playing for time,” Pen reminded her. “Delay is important.”

Playing for time. Kelsea looked around the room and saw, or fancied she saw, the same question in every face. When the time ran out, what then? There was no anxiety here; her Guard clearly expected her to produce another miracle, as she had in the Argive. Kelsea wished she could hide from them, from the calm trust in their eyes.

Mace finished up with Father Tyler and returned to his place beside the throne. The priest raised his hand in farewell to Kelsea, and she waved back as he headed off toward the doors.

“What’s next?” she asked Mace.

“A group of nobles is waiting outside to see you.”

Kelsea closed her eyes. “I hate nobles, Lazarus.”