The Invasion of the Tearling

Marguerite was teaching them fractions, and Aisa was bored. School was harder to get through on the days when she hadn’t had enough sleep the night before. The air of the schoolroom always seemed too warm, and it put Aisa into a semi-doze, awake and asleep at the same time.

“Two-fifths,” Aisa answered, feeling smug. Marguerite had been trying to catch her napping. Marguerite, who liked all children, didn’t like Aisa at all. Aisa seemed to create instinctive distrust in adults, as though they could sense that she was watching them, looking for errors and inconsistencies. But it was frustratingly hard to find mistakes in Marguerite. She was too pretty, and Aisa gathered from overheard conversations that she had been the Regent’s concubine, but even Aisa had to admit that neither of these things was Marguerite’s fault.

Something prodded Aisa sharply in the ribs: Matthew, sitting behind her, nudging with his foot where Marguerite couldn’t see. After a few more pokes, Aisa turned around, baring her teeth.

Matthew smiled wide, a malicious smile that spoke volumes: he had achieved his objective, broken Aisa out of her head. Her brother was the worst sort of bully: one who couldn’t stand the sight of other people sitting quietly and contentedly, one who simply had to ruin things. Maman made allowances for Matthew, said that Da had been hard on him and he wasn’t equipped to handle it well. Aisa thought that was nonsense. She had taken the worst from Da, even Wen admitted that, but it hadn’t turned her into a little prick who couldn’t leave other people alone.

Matthew’s foot nudged her again, digging right into the space between her ribs. Something struck inside Aisa, a thick, deep, gonglike reverberation, and before she could think, she whipped around and flung herself on Matthew, punching and kicking. He shook her off and ran, and without thinking Aisa got up and ran after him, out the door and into the hallway. Matthew was a year older and much bigger, but Aisa was quicker, and just as Matthew reached the end of the hallway, she launched herself at him and brought him down. They fell to the stone floor together, Matthew screaming and Aisa snarling. She got a fist up into Matthew’s throat, making him cough and gag, then bloodied his nose with a good, hard slap from the heel of her hand. She loved the sight of the blood against Matthew’s white, frightened face, but then a man’s hands were locked beneath her arms, hauling her backward. Aisa kicked her heels, but she could get no leverage on the smooth stone of the floor. None of this seemed real; even when Aisa looked up and saw Maman, the Queen, the rest of the Guard, the wide eyes of the crowd assembled in the audience chamber, it seemed only another phase of the insomnia, the hours before sleep that caught Aisa like a long, continuous fever dream. Any moment now she would sit up in the dark, mouth dry and heart pounding, and be pleased that nothing truly terrible had happened before she jerked awake.

“Majesty, I apologize!”

Maman, apologizing for her. She had embarrassed Maman. The Queen merely shook her head, but Aisa could sense irritation in the gesture, and this was almost as bad. Marguerite had arrived in the audience chamber now, and she bent over Matthew, shooting Aisa a venomous look as she did so. Whoever had laid hold of Aisa was now dragging her backward, toward the hallway, and Aisa’s mind conjured up a rogue memory of Da, who always pulled and tugged.

“Let go!”

“Shut up, brat.”

The Mace, Aisa realized, and that brought home the seriousness of what she had just done. She planted her heels on the ground, but that was no help; the Mace simply took one of Aisa’s arms and swung her around, clamping her wrist in an iron grip and dragging her down the hallway. Where was Maman? Aisa wondered frantically. Memory was growing stronger and stronger, overtaking fact; the Mace even smelled like Da at the end of the day, sweat and iron, and Aisa couldn’t go with him. She dug her heels in again, and when the Mace turned, she brought her foot up and around, launching a kick into his stomach. It caught him squarely, and even in her fright, Aisa felt a brief moment of satisfaction; it was no small thing to sneak a move on the Captain of Guard. The Mace coughed and bent double, but his other arm snapped forward and flung Aisa against the wall. She hit, hard on her shoulder, bounced off, and staggered to the ground, black spots in front of her eyes.

It took her a few seconds to recover, but Aisa came up ready, prepared to kick and scratch. But the Mace was leaning against the opposite wall, one hand on his stomach, watching her with that same speculative gaze.

“You have a great deal of anger in you, girl.”

“So?”

“Anger is a liability for a fighter. I’ve seen it many times. If he doesn’t let the anger go, or at least harness and drive it, it brings him down.”