The Invasion of the Tearling

Mine is not a dungeon of walls, Tear heir.

Speak more plainly or get out.

Admiration sparked in the man’s eyes. He moved closer, but stopped when Kelsea held up a hand.

I am imprisoned, Tear heir. And you have the power to set me free.

In exchange for what?

I offer you a chance to defeat the Mort Queen and achieve greatness. You will sit on your throne long after all you know has crumbled into dust.

Did you promise her the same thing?

This time it was his turn to blink. A stab in the dark, but a good one. The Red Queen’s extraordinary age had never been explained. And it stood to reason that a man—is he a man? Kelsea wondered for the first time—who would try this with one queen would certainly try it with another.

I have no wish to emulate the Red Queen.

You will say so, he replied, until the moment when her legions smash your army into rubble. The words were so close to what Kelsea had seen in her mind that she shivered, and saw that this gave him pleasure somehow. You’ll beg for the opportunity to be cruel.

I will not, she replied. And if you seek cruelty in me, you won’t find it.

Cruelty is in everyone, Tear heir. It takes only the right application of pressure to coax it out.

Leave, now, or I will call my guard.

I have no fear of your guard. I could wring his neck with little effort.

The words froze Kelsea, but she merely repeated, Leave. I am not interested.

He smiled. But you are, Tear heir. And I will be waiting when you call.

The man’s form dissolved suddenly, coalescing into a black mass that seemed to hover in the air. Kelsea stumbled backward, her heart thudding. The mass streamed like shadow into the fireplace, falling on the flames like a curtain, dimming them and then putting them out entirely, leaving the room cold and dark. In the sudden blackness, Kelsea lost her balance and landed against her bedside table, knocking it over.

“Shit,” she muttered, feeling her way around on the floor.

“Lady?” Pen asked from the doorway, and she gasped; for a moment she had forgotten the existence of anyone but her visitor, and that seemed the most dangerous development of all. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Pen. Just stupid.”

“What happened to your fire?”

“A draft.”

Even in the dark, she could hear Pen’s silent skepticism. His soft, catlike tread moved across the chamber toward the fireplace.

“Don’t bother.” She fumbled on the floor among the items that had fallen off the bedside table. “I’ll just light a candle.”

“Have you been practicing sorcery, Lady?”

Kelsea paused in the act of striking a match. “Why do you ask?”

“We’re not blind. We see what’s happening to you. Mace has forbidden us to speak of it.”

“Then perhaps you’d better not.” Kelsea lit the candle and found Pen a few feet away, concern in his face. “I’m not practicing sorcery.”

“You’ve become quite pretty.”

Kelsea scowled. Pleasure welled up in her, that Pen thought her pretty, but the pleasure was quickly subsumed under anger: she had not been pretty enough before! She felt as though she couldn’t win. Her heart rate was still elevated and her body felt frazzled. Pen’s handsome face was open, filled with the same honest concern as ever, but then Pen had always been good to her, all the way back to the Reddick Forest, when most of the Guard would probably have been just as happy to leave her behind. As Pen helped her up, Kelsea couldn’t help noticing other things. Pen was muscular; he had that whipcord body, well developed on top and lithe on the bottom, that Venner extolled as an absolute necessity for a top-notch swordsman. Pen was quick and strong and intelligent. And, perhaps even more important, he was trustworthy, exceptionally so, even in a cadre of guards chosen for their ability to keep their mouths shut. Anything that happened in this room would stay here.

“Pen?”

“Lady?”

“You think I’m pretty.”

He blinked in surprise. “I always found you so, Lady. But it’s true that your face has changed.”

“You always found me pretty?”

Pen shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, Lady. Some women are defined by their appearance, but you have never been one of them.”

Kelsea didn’t know how to take that. Pen had begun to look uncomfortable now, and she wondered if he was being deliberately obtuse. “But do you—”

“You seem tired, Lady. I should let you sleep.” Pen turned away and headed for the door.

“Pen.”

He turned back, though he seemed unwilling to meet her eyes.

“You could sleep in here. With me.”

Pen’s eyes snapped to hers, and his face suddenly seemed to drain of all color, as though Kelsea had slapped him. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away. “Lady, I’m a Queen’s Guard. I can’t.”