The Invasion of the Tearling

Kelsea looked up at Mace. “How much tax money is that?”


“Only Arliss would know for certain, Lady. But you’re talking at least a thousand square miles of producing farmland. A year’s taxes would be a good sum.”

“Not just a year,” the Holy Father interjected. “In perpetuity.”

“In perpetuity?” Kelsea repeated in an incredulous whisper. “I could build my own damned Arvath with the money the Tearling would lose over five years alone.”

“You could build it, Majesty, but you don’t have the time.” The Holy Father grinned, and for the first time his eyes showed a glimmer of light … but it wasn’t a good sort of light at all. “The Mort will be here by autumn, and you’re over a barrel. That’s why we’re having this conversation.”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that you’re anything more than a convenience to me, Your Holiness. I don’t need your pile of gold.”

“Then don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m frightened of your tax collector, Majesty. By the time the New Year rolls around, you’ll be in no position to tax anyone.”

Kelsea had been thinking the same thing not five minutes before, but this fact only made her angrier. She turned fully toward him, no longer even pretending to take interest in the magic show. “And what good is all that gold doing you, Your Holiness? Who is it you’re trying to impress with that steeple of yours? God?”

“God is not interested in such trifles.”

“My point exactly.”

“Devout parishioners donated that gold, Majesty, as a matter of repentance and good works. Your uncle was one of them.”

“My uncle had seven concubines and no marriage in sight. How devout could he be?”

“Your uncle confessed those sins to Father Timpany, Majesty, and was absolved.”

“A fascinating system. Children of four are subjected to more discipline.”

The Holy Father’s voice tightened in anger. “You have criminal laws for secular punishment, Majesty. My concern is simply salvation of the soul.”

“But the gold helps, right?”

“How dare you—”

“Your Majesty!” Bradshaw gave another elaborate bow at the foot of the dais. “For my final trick, may I ask one of your Guard to volunteer?”

Kelsea produced a wilted smile. “Kibb.”

Kibb headed down the steps, to the chuckles of the other guards, but Kelsea barely paid attention. Her hands were clenched tightly on the arms of her chair. It was all she could do not to throttle the man sitting next to her.

All that room, she thought, staring at the Holy Father, her temples throbbing. All that room and all that gold. You don’t use it, you don’t need it, but it’s not to be shared. If we live through the invasion, my friend, I am going to tax you until you scream for mercy.

The Holy Father stared back at her with the supreme arrogance of one who had nothing to fear. Kelsea remembered a remark Mace had made, weeks ago: that the Holy Father wasn’t above dealing with Demesne under the table. If the Holy Father had already made his deal, then of course he wouldn’t be threatened by Kelsea; he need only sit and wait until the Mort army rolled in, sparing the Arvath and laying waste to everything else. And now Kelsea felt the first seeds of despair take root in her heart. She had spent the last month running back and forth, moving frantically from one option to the next, trying to find a solution, and now she looked up and found herself surrounded by cannibals.

“In honor of your holy guests, Majesty!” Bradshaw produced the cup he’d used earlier and filled it with water from a small canteen, then handed it to Kibb. “Have a sip, sir, and please confirm that it’s water.”

Kibb sipped gently at the cup. “Water indeed.”

The magician brought the cup to the front of the dais and held it up for Kelsea’s inspection, waiting until she nodded to continue. With a small, polite bow to the Holy Father, Bradshaw covered the mouth of the cup with one hand and snapped the fingers of the other. A small flash of light appeared between his fingers, and then Bradshaw held the cup up to Kelsea again, removing his hand. The water in the goblet was now a deep, dark red.

“For her Majesty’s pleasure!” Bradshaw announced. “Where’s my able assistant?”

Kibb raised his hand, and the magician danced over to him, holding out the cup. “Taste it, sir. It will do you no harm.”

Kibb, smiling with a touch of anxiety, took a small sip from the cup. An astonished look came over his face, and he took a second, larger sip. Turning to Kelsea, he announced in an amazed voice, “Majesty, it’s wine.”

Kelsea chuckled, then giggled, and finally could not stop herself from roaring with laughter. She didn’t miss the look of fury on the Holy Father’s darkening face, but that only made her laugh harder. Below the dais, Bradshaw smiled, his face flushing with triumph.

“Get up, get up!”