The Invasion of the Tearling

Then there was Tyler’s own position. The old Holy Father had been too preoccupied with fighting death to take Tyler to task, but Tyler knew that he would not escape the new Holy Father’s housecleaning attentions for long. Already, last Sunday, Tyler had found Anders’s eyes seeking him out in the crowd during the convocation. Anders wanted information on Queen Kelsea, damning information, and Tyler had given him nothing. The Queen had already made several moves that presaged trouble for the Church, beginning with a proscription on the use of underage clerical aides to satisfy tithing debts. Tyler, who had been one of these aides himself, had enjoyed his childhood? but he understood the argument; not all priests were Father Alan. Now parishes would have to hire real aides, aides whose salaries would be paid from money already earmarked for the Arvath treasury.

But worse had followed: the Queen had announced that the Church’s property tax exemption would end in the coming year. Starting in January, the Church would have to pay tax on all of its holdings up and down the Tearling, including the big prize: thousands of acres of high-producing farmland in the northern Almont. For the Arvath, this was a financial cataclysm. With the help of her foulmouthed but undeniably clever Treasurer, the Queen had also preempted the Holy Father’s protests by decreeing that the Crown’s private landholdings would no longer be exempt either. The Queen would pay property tax alongside the Church, and the money would be earmarked for public works and social services.

Without enforcement, these decrees would mean nothing. But from overheard conversation in the Keep, Tyler also knew that the Queen and Arliss had begun to quietly convert a large portion of the Census Bureau over to the business of tax assessment and collection. It was a clever move. Census men were already entrenched in every village of the Tearling, tracking the population, and it would not be a stretch for them to track income as well. Arlen Thorne would have screamed bloody murder, but Thorne was nowhere to be found, and without him, the Census was a far more malleable animal. There would be plenty of Crown employees to make sure that God’s Church forked over every last pound due.

This morning, word had gone like quicksilver through the halls of the dormitory level: they were all wanted in the chapel at nine this evening. No one knew what it was about, but the Holy Father required every priest in the Arvath to be there. Such a gathering was unlike Cardinal Anders, who always worked in the shadows, meeting one-on-one so that no one else knew his plans. Tyler sensed something terrible on the horizon. It was eight thirty.

“I know that you know, priest.”

Tyler jumped to his feet, knocking over the candle. He turned, and the Mace was there, leaning against the wall beside his bookshelves.

“You know that I can’t read.”

Tyler stared at him, speechless and frightened. He had known that he was treading on thin ice the other day, jumping into the Queen’s conversation, but he had been unable to watch the Mace wriggle there, like a hooked fish. And Tyler’s move had worked, for the Queen had forgotten about the note. It was only when Tyler met the Mace’s gaze afterward that he saw fire, hell, murder.

“How did you find out?” the Mace asked.

“I guessed.”

“Who have you told?”

“No one.”

The Mace straightened, and Tyler closed his eyes, trying to pray. The Mace would kill him, and Tyler’s last, odd thought was that the man had done him a great honor by coming in person.

“I want you to teach me.”

Tyler’s eyes popped open. “Teach you what?”

“How to read.”

Tyler glanced at the closed door of his room. “How did you get in here?”

“There’s always another door.”

Before Tyler could consider this idea, the Mace darted forward, catlike and silent. Tyler tensed, pressing backward against his chair, but the Mace only grabbed the other chair from beside the bookshelves, placed it facing Tyler, and sat down, his expression truculent.

“Will you teach me?”

Tyler wondered what would happen if he refused. The Mace had not come here to kill him, perhaps, but that could always change. The Mace had joined Queen Elyssa’s Guard at the age of fourteen, and now he was at least forty years old. Illiteracy was a difficult thing for anyone to hide, but it must have been nearly impossible for a Queen’s Guard. Still, the Mace had gotten away with it all of these years.

Tyler glanced down and saw something extraordinary: the Mace’s hand, resting on the arm of the chair, was trembling, a slight flutter that was almost imperceptible. As unbelievable as the idea seemed, Tyler realized that the Mace was afraid.

Of me?

Of course not, you old fool.

Then of what?

After another moment’s thought, he knew. The Mace couldn’t bear to ask for help, not from anyone. Tyler stared, marveling, at the terrifying man sitting across from him—the courage it must have taken him to come here!—and before he knew it, the words were out.

“I’ll teach you.”

“Good.” The Mace leaned forward, businesslike. “Let’s start now.”

“I can’t,” Tyler told him, lifting apologetic hands as the Mace’s expression darkened. “All of us are supposed to attend a meeting in the chapel at nine o’clock.” He checked his watch. It was a quarter to nine. “In fact, I should go now.”

“A meeting about what?”

“I don’t know. The Holy Father demands the presence of every priest in the Arvath.”

“Have there been many of these meetings?”

“This is the only one.”

The Mace’s eyes narrowed.

“Come back tomorrow, just after supper. Seven o’clock. We can start then.”