The Invasion of the Tearling

“Thank you for coming.” She gestured toward the enormous dining table, which had been laid out for ten people. “Have a seat.”


Two acolytes, one tall and one short, followed at the Holy Father’s elbow. The tall one had the pointed face of a weasel, and he seemed vaguely familiar to Kelsea. He was clearly the favored assistant; it was he who drew the chair out, then pushed it back in after the Holy Father had seated himself. Both acolytes stationed themselves behind the Holy Father’s chair; they would not be eating, were clearly meant to fade into the landscape, but Kelsea’s attention returned to the tall acolyte several times over the course of dinner. She had seen him before, but where?

“No guards?” she whispered to Pen as they sat down.

“The Holy Father always travels with a complement of four armed guards, Lady,” he whispered back. “But the Captain insisted they remain outside.”

Father Tyler was seated on Pen’s other side, only one seat from Kelsea. The Holy Father blinked in surprise when he took his place.

“Do you always eat with so many of your Guard, Majesty?”

“Usually.”

“Are security concerns so great?”

“Not at all. I prefer to eat with my Guard.”

“Perhaps when you begin a family, that will change.”

Kelsea narrowed her eyes as Milla began to ladle soup into her bowl. “My Guard are my family.”

“But surely, Majesty, one of your first duties is the production of an heir?”

“I have more pressing concerns right now, Your Holiness.”

“And I have many worried parishioners, Majesty. They would have both heir and spare as soon as possible. Uncertainty is bad for morale.”

“You would have me get pregnant as my mother did, then, under the table?”

“Certainly not, Majesty. We don’t preach wanton sexuality, though it’s undeniable that your mother was guilty of such. We would have you married and settled.”

Pen nudged her with his foot, and Kelsea realized that the entire table was waiting for her to begin eating. She shook her head. “Forgive me. Please start.”

Milla’s tomato soup was usually quite good, but tonight Kelsea could barely taste it. The remark about her mother had been too crude, too overt. The Holy Father was trying to goad her, but to what end? His two acolytes stood behind him, motionless, but their eyes were constantly moving, clocking the room. The entire evening already felt wrong. Father Tyler was taking careful spoonfuls of soup, but Kelsea saw that he was eating nothing, that each spoonful went right back into the bowl. Father Tyler never ate much; he was an ascetic. But now his eyes were sunken in dark pockets of flesh, as though bruised, and Kelsea wondered, again, what had happened to him.

The Holy Father hadn’t even picked up his spoon. He merely stared at his soup bowl, his eyes empty, as the others ate. This was so rude—particularly since Milla hovered anxiously ten feet from the table—that Kelsea was finally forced to ask, “Is there something else we can bring you, Your Holiness?”

“Not at all, Majesty. I simply don’t like tomato.”

Kelsea shrugged. A man who didn’t like tomato was to be more pitied than despised. She ate mechanically for a few minutes, breathing slowly in and out between spoonfuls, but she was unable to ignore the Holy Father, who seemed to be lurking in wait across the table. Since he clearly wished to make her angry, Kelsea tried to smooth her temper, a mental exercise akin to laying a velvet carpet across a field of spikes. She didn’t want to ask this old liar for help, at least not outright, not as a supplicant. But she couldn’t wait all night for an opening to come up in the conversation.

Movement over Elston’s shoulder distracted her. Her Guard had just admitted the magician, a sandy-haired man of medium build. The last time Kelsea had seen him, she had been a frightened girl riding through the city, but she had not forgotten, and at her request, Mace had tracked the magician down. His name was Bradshaw, and until now he had been strictly a street performer; an engagement at the Keep would be quite an opportunity for him. Kelsea’s attention was drawn to his fingers, which were long and clever, even in the quotidian acts of removing hat and cloak. Mace didn’t rate the magician as a particular threat to Kelsea’s person, but as always, he remained wary of all things magical, and had warned Kelsea that security might tighten in odd ways over the course of the evening.

Kelsea’s instincts had been right. When she finally finished her soup and set down her spoon, the Holy Father pounced.

“Majesty, at the request of my congregation, I must bring up several unpleasant matters.”

“Your congregation? You still give sermons?”

“All of humanity is my congregation.”

“Even those who want no part of it?”

“Those who want no part of God’s kingdom are the most in need, Majesty.”

“What’s the first unpleasant matter?”

“The destruction of the Graham castle some months ago.”