The Invasion of the Tearling

The shorter acolyte had fainted dead away, and the taller one was shaking him, hissing commands. But the young man was out cold.

The Holy Father rose from his seat, his face a deep, rich red that pleased Kelsea no end. Father Tyler was murmuring gently in his ear, but the Holy Father shoved him away. He showed no concern for the unconscious boy on the floor.

“I see no humor in an insult offered to guests,” the Holy Father snarled. “That was a blasphemous joke, Majesty, in poor taste.”

“Don’t look at me, Your Holiness. I don’t keep court performers. His tricks are his own.”

“I want an apology!” he snapped, and Kelsea, who had assumed that this sort of ludicrous outrage was part of a Holy Father’s job description, found herself hesitating, because his anger was clearly genuine. But even if Bradshaw had produced Mary the Virgin from a hat, no one could possibly take a magic trick seriously. The smart move was conciliation, but Kelsea was long past that now. She tapped her nails on the arm of the chair and asked sweetly, “An apology from whom?”

“From this impostor, Majesty.”

“Impostor? I’m quite sure he didn’t mean to represent himself as the actual Christ, Your Holiness.”

“I demand an apology.”

“Did you just give the Queen an order?” Mace asked, his voice deadly soft.

“I certainly did.”

“Refused!” Kelsea snapped. “What kind of fool takes offense at an illusion?”

“Majesty, please!” Father Tyler had moved up to stand beside the Holy Father, his thin face blanched nearly white now. “This is hardly constructive.”

“Shut up, Tyler!” the Holy Father hissed. “All magicians are charlatans! They promise quick solutions and undermine faith in the straight and righ teous path.”

Kelsea narrowed her eyes. “Don’t even think about playing the devout card with me, Your Holiness. I’ve heard all about you. What of those two women you keep in the Arvath? Do they kneel down before the Holy Spirit every night?”

At this, the Holy Father’s face turned an apoplectic purple, and Kelsea suddenly wished that he would simply have a heart attack and keel over right in front of her throne, consequences be damned.

“Have a care, Majesty. You have no idea how delicate your position is.”

“Threaten me again, you greedy fraud, and I will end you.”

“I’m sure he meant nothing of the kind, Majesty!” Father Tyler exclaimed in a high, panicky voice. “It was no threat, only—”

“Tyler, stay out of this!” the Holy Father roared. He turned and lashed out with one arm, catching Father Tyler in the chest. Tyler momentarily pinwheeled for balance, then fell backward, down the stairs of the dais. Kelsea heard the dry, crisp snap of a breaking bone, and all thought ceased, the voice of reason in her head falling mercifully silent. She jumped to her feet, pushed past Pen, and slapped the Holy Father across the face.

Mace and Pen moved very quickly, and the rest of the Guard was right behind them. Within a few seconds, more than ten men stood between Kelsea and the Holy Father. The guards obscured her view, but not before she had seen and memorized the white mark of her handprint against the Holy Father’s red cheek, wrapped it in her mind like a gift.

“Sacrilege!” the taller acolyte hissed from the bottom of the stairs. “No one can lay hands on the Holy Father!”

“If you value that hypocrite, get him out of my Keep right now.”

The acolyte scrambled up the steps to assist the Holy Father. Kelsea turned back to her armchair, determined to ignore them, but then she heard gasping breaths below her, behind the wall of guards.

“Father, are you all right?”

“Fine, Majesty.”

But Father Tyler’s voice was hoarse with pain.

“Stay there. We’ll get you a doctor.”

“Tyler will come with us!” the Holy Father snarled. But Mace had already pushed his way down the steps and positioned himself between Father Tyler and the priests.

“The Queen says he stays.”

“My own doctors will attend him.”

“I think not, Your Holiness. I’ve seen the work of your doctors.”

The Holy Father’s eyes widened, full of surprise and something else … guilt? Before Kelsea could decipher his reaction, Mace sprang across the room and laid hold of the taller acolyte, grabbing him by the neck. “We’ll be keeping this one as well. Brother Matthew, is it?”

“On what charge?” the Holy Father demanded, enraged.

“Treason,” Mace announced flatly. “The Thorne conspiracy.”

The Holy Father’s mouth worked for a moment. “We came here under promise of safe conduct!”

“I promised safe conduct to you, Your Holiness,” Kelsea snapped, though inwardly she cursed Mace; he never told her anything. Now she placed Brother Matthew easily: one of the men from the Argive, crouched around Thorne’s campfire in the middle of the night. “You’re free to go. But your toadies came at their own risk.”