The Invasion of the Tearling

This was an outright lie, one that made blood darken Kelsea’s cheeks. Her mother’s entire Guard had tumbled in and out of bed with the Queen. If Arliss was to be believed, even Mace himself had done so.

Pretty, indeed, Kelsea thought. So pretty that even with no cost attached, he wants no part of me. Blood roared in her ears, and she felt a terrible realization creeping up on her: the knowledge of how badly she had just humiliated herself. It took only a moment for humiliation to ignite into anger.

“You’re full of shit, Pen. You could. You just don’t want to.”

“Lady, I’m off to bed. In the morning—” Pen swallowed again, convulsively, and Kelsea felt a moment of grim satisfaction; at least he was embarrassed as well. “In the morning, we’ll forget about all of this. Sleep well.”

Kelsea smiled at him, but the smile felt bitter and frozen. She had made the worst possible choice for this little experiment: the one guard she would have to see constantly, day in and day out. Pen went back into his antechamber and prepared to pull the curtain.

“Pen?”

He paused.

“Despite your active social life, I’ll need you at your best in the coming weeks. Whoever she is, tell her to let you get more sleep.”

Pen’s face froze. He jerked the curtain shut, and she heard the distinctive thump of his body falling onto the mattress, then silence. A deep, wounded part of her mind hoped that he would lie awake for hours, but within a few minutes he began to snore.

Kelsea had never felt further from sleep. She stared at the lit candle on her bedside table, willing herself to blow it out, but she couldn’t seem to work up the energy. The entire odd evening seemed to beg for analysis, but she didn’t even have the energy for that. Her body was still a mess of involuntary reactions. She rolled over and punched the pillow, hating the frenzy inside her. She reached down to touch herself, then realized it would be no good right now. She was too angry, too ashamed. What she really wanted was to hurt someone, to—

Flay skin and crush bones.

The handsome man’s words echoed inside her head. He had offered immortality, but that was only a word. Immortality for Kelsea would not solve the problems of the Tearling. He was imprisoned, the man had said, a prison without walls. He wanted Kelsea to set him free.

Kelsea took her sapphires in her palm and stared at them for a thoughtful moment. Perhaps the man didn’t know that they barely worked anymore, that Kelsea didn’t truly command them. Flay skin and crush bones … but whose skin? Whose bones? She hated Pen in this moment, but she knew that he had not done anything wrong. Pen did not deserve her hatred. There was no one to harm but herself.

Kelsea raised her left arm, staring at it. She had already endured terrible pain … the knife in her shoulder, the wound from the hawk … but what her mind dug up instead was Lily Mayhew. Lily’s life was relatively comfortable for her times, but even in that brief moment of memory, Kelsea had sensed something terrible in Lily’s future, an oncoming trial by fire. She studied the smooth white skin of her forearm, trying to focus, imagining the layers of flesh beneath. Just a scratch … it would barely hurt, but Kelsea sensed her subconscious mind revolting at the idea, all the same.

Flay skin and crush bones.

“Just the skin,” Kelsea whispered, staring at her arm, focusing all of her will on a tiny inch of flesh. She had borne worse; surely she could handle this. “Just a scratch.”

A shallow line of red appeared on her forearm. Kelsea bore down, watching the line deepen, her breath hissing through her teeth as the skin parted with a sting, allowing a thin line of blood to well up and hold. At the sight of the blood, Kelsea smiled wide. She felt connected to her body, to each nerve. Pain was not pleasant, certainly, but it was good to feel something more than helplessness. She blotted her arm on the sheet and turned on her side, barely feeling the sting of the wound, not hearing the rumble of Pen snoring in the next room at all. She was too busy staring at the fireplace, thinking of Mortmesne.

LADY?”

Kelsea looked up and found Mace standing in the doorway. Andalie gave her hair a hard tug, and Kelsea winced.

“The Holy Father is here.”

Andalie set down the brush. “It will do, Lady. I could’ve done a better job with more time.”

“His Holiness won’t appreciate it anyway,” Kelsea muttered, her voice petulant. She had been dreading this dinner all week, but her discomfort in this moment had nothing to do with the Holy Father. What she saw in the mirror was beyond belief. Mace had said nothing about it, and neither had Pen, but Andalie, who did her hair every day, could hardly fail to notice. Kelsea’s hair had grown at least eight inches in the past week, and it was now below her shoulders. She was no longer worried about being ill, but even illness would have been something definite, something known. Andalie must have seen some of Kelsea’s upset, for she put a firm hand on Kelsea’s shoulder and murmured, “It will be all right.”

“I’ve had an interesting report from Mortmesne, Lady,” Mace continued.