The Invasion of the Tearling

“The army?”


“No, the people. Mort discontent has been spreading ever since you stopped the shipment, and now there’s apparently a protest movement afoot. Right now, it’s concentrated primarily in Cite Marche and the northern market villages, but cells are already spreading south toward Demesne.”

“Led by whom?”

“A man no one has ever seen, named Levieux. Apparently, he’s very anxious to conceal his face.”

“The Fetch?”

“Possible, Lady. We’ve heard nothing from the Fetch since he left that little bit of decor on the Keep Lawn. Arliss has received many tax payments from noble estates in the past month, but we’ve had no complaints of robbery or harassment. Something keeps him busy.”

Kelsea took a deep breath that she hoped was unobtrusive. “Well, if it keeps him from stealing my taxes, so much the better.”

“Also, the Red Queen has given an odd set of orders. No one, throughout the entire Palais, is allowed to light a fire in any fireplace.”

Kelsea’s mind went immediately to the handsome man who had appeared in her chamber. Given the loyalty of her Guard—and despite the mistakes of the past, Kelsea did consider that a given—there was certainly no way for a stranger to simply waltz into the Queen’s Wing. The man had departed via the fire; it seemed a reasonable assumption that he had come from the fire as well. The handsome man had mentioned the Red Queen, hadn’t he? Kelsea struggled to remember his exact words. If the Red Queen was afraid of this creature, he must be dangerous indeed.

You already knew he was dangerous, her mind mocked gently. Ten minutes of conversation and he nearly had your dress off.

“Does this mean anything to you, Lady?” Mace asked. Kelsea had not been as careful as she should have been; Mace had always had a gift for reading her face, even in the mirror.

“No. As you say, it’s odd.”

Mace watched her for another moment. When Kelsea said nothing, he moved on, but she knew that she hadn’t deceived him. “Be careful with the Holy Father, Lady. He’s nothing but trouble.”

“You can’t be concerned about violence.”

Mace opened his mouth and then closed it. “Not tonight.”

He was going to say something else. Kelsea thanked Andalie and headed for the door, Mace and Pen trailing behind her. For the past two days she had done her best to make no eye contact with Pen, and he seemed just as happy to have it so. But this state of affairs could not hold for long. Kelsea wished she could think of a way to punish Pen, to make him feel as much regret as she did. And then she realized that her appearance wasn’t the only thing that had changed. She was different now. The handsome man’s words about cruelty recurred: It takes only the right application of pressure to coax it out.

I’m not cruel, Kelsea insisted. But she didn’t know whom she was trying to convince.

“God’s Church holds a vast amount of sway in this kingdom, Lady, like it or not,” Mace continued as they headed down the hallway. “Watch your temper tonight.”

“Telling me to watch my temper is the first and best way to wake it up, Lazarus.”

“Well, I’ve put Father Tyler between you. At least have a care for him.”

They entered the audience chamber to find Father Tyler waiting with his usual timid smile. But tonight the smile betrayed anxiety as well, an anxiety that Kelsea read easily. Father Tyler’s two worlds were colliding, and Kelsea, who had long suspected that she saw a different man than the one who lived in the Arvath, wondered if he dreaded the evening as much as she did. She needed the resources of the Arvath now, but she didn’t like the idea of going to the Holy Father with hat in hand.

I’m not, she reminded herself. We’re here to trade.

“Hello, Father.”

“Good evening, Majesty. May I introduce His Holiness?”

Kelsea turned her attention to the new Holy Father. She had pictured an old man, shrunken and shriveled, but this man was no older than Mace. He didn’t radiate Mace’s vitality; rather, Kelsea got no impression from him at all. His features were thick and heavy, the eyes dark, opaque pits, and upon seeing her, his face remained immobile. Kelsea had never received such an impression of blank nothingness from anyone. After a few seconds, she realized that God’s mouthpiece was not going to bow; rather, he expected her to bow to him.

“Your Holiness.”

Seeing that Kelsea would not bow either, the Holy Father smiled, a functional lifting of the corners of his mouth that did nothing to change the lifelessness of his face. “Queen Kelsea.”