The Invasion of the Tearling

That was the real question. The Queen didn’t know the whole of the dark thing’s strange history, but there was no doubt that it was bound to the Fairwitch, enspelled there in some way. It could only travel by fire, and even that effort could exhaust its abilities. So how had it managed to take an entire family in Arc Nord without leaving a trace?

Has it gotten free?

The Queen quailed at the thought. The dark thing had forbidden her to invade the Tearling, and by now it would know that she had disobeyed. But what choice did she have? Left unpunished, the delinquent Tear shipment was an incitement to every revolutionary in the New World. The riots in Cite Marche were only the latest example. The last Cadarese shipment had contained goods of markedly diminished quality: poorly insulated glass, defective horses, second-rate gems whose surfaces revealed multiple flaws. In Callae, silk production had dropped to such a low level that it could only mean deliberate sabotage. These signs were easy to interpret: fear, that powerful engine that drove the Mort economy, was waning. The Queen had to invade the Tearling, if for no other reason than demonstration. An object lesson, as Thorne would say. But she had disobeyed the dark thing, and by now it had surely found her out. Damping the fireplaces was a temporary measure, one that could not work forever.

It doesn’t matter, her mind insisted. She would invade the Tearling and do what she should have done years ago: take the sapphires. The reports from the Argive Pass, though still spotty and unconfirmed, made her course very clear. The Tear sapphires still had power, all right, and once the Queen had them, she would tear through the New World like a hurricane. She would light all the fires she wanted, and even the dark thing would cower from her sight.

But still she was worried. Thorne had vanished. It was a special gift of his, disappearing without a trace, but her guard captain, Ghislaine, had evaluated Thorne correctly long ago: “Dangerous, Majesty, always, even if he stands before you wearing nothing.” She wished she knew where he was.

None of her military men were brave enough to ask about the fireplace. Vallee’s mouth still held a hint of sullen displeasure at being silenced earlier, his pout that of a small boy denied a sweet.

Children, the Queen thought grimly. My soldiers are all children.

A throat cleared behind her, such a perfect mixture of signal and respect that it could only be Beryll. “Majesty, Ducarte has arrived. He will be here shortly.”

The Queen nodded, but her eyes remained on the darkened fireplace. She thought she’d heard something over there, a soft hiss like the sparking of a flame. Her patience had shortened, and she found herself unwilling to wait for Ducarte even a moment longer. “Let’s begin. What of Cite Marche?”

“The rebels are contained, Majesty,” Martin replied. “For now, at least.”

“Let’s not call them rebels,” Vise interrupted. “Let’s call them adolescents with too much time and money on their hands.”

Martin shook his head. “I would advise caution in that assessment. We found many overfed young people, yes, and most of these ran at the first sign of real conflict. But we also found a considerable number of idle poor, apparently directed by a man named Levieux. Several of those we took into custody died hard without even revealing his name.”

“What else?”

“Barely anything, Majesty. None of them had much information to give. No one had ever seen Levieux’s face, only received orders through intermediaries. He seems to be operating from outside Cite Marche.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all they had, Majesty, I promise you. They didn’t know anything. Thus, my caution: the rabble may have found a leader, someone who knows how to organize. That would be a serious development.”

The Queen nodded slowly, a thread of disquiet worming through her belly. Another low hiss came from the direction of the fireplace. She whirled, but there was nothing there.

Stop falling to pieces!

The double doors to the throne room opened with a creak of wood, and there, finally, was Ducarte, still wrapped in his traveling cloak. He dragged a prisoner behind him, chained and hooded.

“My apologies for the delay, Majesty!” he called across the room. “But I bring you a gift!”

“Bring it quickly, then, Benin. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Ducarte hauled the prisoner forward, heedless of the man’s groans as the manacles bit into his bloody wrists. Ducarte’s nose and cheeks were still reddened with the morning cold, and his black hair was beginning to thin on top, but when he reached the table and turned his heavy-lidded eyes to the Queen, she found herself comforted, as always, by the dark confidence she found there. Here, at least, was a man she would never need to doubt.

“What have you brought me this time, Benin?”

Ducarte jerked off the prisoner’s hood. The man straightened and blinked in the torchlight, and the Queen’s spirits lifted as though infused with helium. It was General Genot.