The Invasion of the Tearling

“I found him hiding out in Arc Pearl, Majesty,” Ducarte announced, tossing the end of the chain to Lieutenant Vise as he removed his cloak. “In the basement of a knockhouse, and not a wound on him, either.”


The Queen gazed at Genot, considering. Two thousand dead in a surprise attack on his watch. It would be good to make an example of him … but not a public example. As yet, few in Mortmesne knew of the disaster out on the Flats, and she wanted to keep it that way.

Still, it never hurt to remind her War Council who was in charge here. Sometimes they tried to forget.

“We behead our deserters, Vincent. But a general who fails so spectacularly and then deserts? I believe you’re a special case.”

“Majesty!” Genot protested. “I carry extensive knowledge of the army, of tactical planning. I did not want my knowledge to fall into Tear hands.”

“How noble of you. And which ignorant but well-meaning whore agreed to take you in?”

Genot shook his head, but when the Queen turned to Ducarte, he nodded.

“Good. Have her executed.”

“Majesty, there was nothing I could have done!” Genot cried. “The attack, it came so suddenly—”

The Queen ignored the rest. She had slept with Genot once, years ago, when he was only a lieutenant, and a different woman might have taken that into consideration. But the Queen was already sifting through her memories. Genot had been talkative after sex, babbling endlessly while she tried to sleep; it was one of the reasons she had never invited him back for a repeat performance. The Queen wasn’t the only one afraid of fire these days; Genot’s childhood home had burned down, and he had narrowly escaped being caught inside the flaming building, taking several bad burn wounds in the process. The incident had left its mark on the adult Vincent, who still had a deep-rooted horror of fire, of being burned.

The Queen leaned forward, lacing her fingers together, and stared into Genot’s eyes. He wrung his bound hands, trying to look away, but it was too late. Something had woken inside the Queen, a hungry, grasping rage that traveled her bloodstream, igniting individual nerves. She sensed Genot’s body, tasted the contours of it: a soft mass of vulnerable cells in her hands.

Dimly, she sensed her Security Council shifting uncomfortably around the semicircle. Martin crossed his legs, looking down at the floor. Vallee had actually turned away to stare into the dark fireplace. Only Ducarte was really watching Genot, his expression the same as on those rare occasions when the Queen allowed him to observe in her laboratory: alert and interested, curious to see what would happen next.

Genot began to scream.

He tore his gaze from hers, but the Queen had him now, and she bore down harder, feeling his skin as a thick, malleable fabric of flesh that darkened and burned in the oven of her mind. His body blackened before her, the skin charring and crisping until the Queen knew that she could turn him inside out and shed his skin as easily as if he’d been a pig on a spit.

The military men were unable to ignore the spectacle; even those who’d tried to look away now stared at Genot, transfixed, as his howls echoed between the walls of the audience chamber. The Queen went to work on his vitals, and Genot fell to the ground, his screams quieting until he could only emit a shallow gargling. His heart was the easiest thing of all: a thick wall of muscle that the Queen tore through as though it were paper, lacing it with fire and then shredding it apart. She felt the moment when he died, the connection between them breaking sharply inside her head.

She turned back to the rest of them, looking for argument. The fire inside her was ravenous now, difficult to control; it cried out for another target. But none of them would meet her eyes. Only a charred, vaguely manlike shape remained on the floor.

A throat cleared behind her. The Queen whirled, delighted, but it was only Beryll, his face expressionless, holding out an envelope. The Queen fought down the thing inside her, but it didn’t go easily. She was forced to tamp it down as one would extinguish a fire, stomping and kicking until it was only ashes. As her pulse returned to normal, she felt both relief and regret. She rarely used this particular talent, understanding that repetition would lessen its impact on others, but it was a wonderful feeling, to let go and give free rein to her anger. There were so few opportunities now.

She took the envelope from Beryll, noting that he had already opened it, and read the enclosed note, unease deepening inside her with every word. All of the satisfaction of the previous few minutes had evaporated now, and she was suddenly afraid.

“You’re going back to the north, Martin. A fire has destroyed the central barracks in Cite Marche.”

“What kind of fire, Majesty?”

“Unknown.”

“How many dead?”

“Fifty-six so far. Likely more buried in the rubble. Someone barricaded the doors from the outside.”

Her commanders stared at each other in wide-eyed silence.