The Invasion of the Tearling

Ever since the new Queen took the throne, there hadn’t been much for Ewen to do. The Queen had freed all of the Regent’s prisoners, which confused Ewen, but Da had explained that the Regent liked to put men in the dungeon for saying things he didn’t like, and the Queen only put men in the dungeon for doing bad things. Da said this was sensible, and after thinking it over for a while, Ewen decided that Da was right.

Twenty-seven days ago (Ewen had noted it in the book), three Queen’s Guards had burst into the dungeon leading a bound prisoner, a grey-haired man who looked exhausted but–Ewen noted gratefully–uninjured. The three guards didn’t ask Ewen’s permission before hauling the prisoner through the open door of Cell Three, but Ewen didn’t mind. He’d never been so close to Queen’s Guards before, but he’d heard all about them from Da: they protected the Queen from danger. To Ewen, this sounded like the most wonderful and important job in the world. He was grateful to be Head Jailor, but if he’d just been born smarter, he would have wanted most of all to be one of these tall, hard men in their grey cloaks.

“Treat him well,” ordered the leader, a man with a head of bright red hair. “Queen’s orders.”

Though the guard’s hair fascinated him, Ewen tried not to stare, for he didn’t like it when people stared at him. He locked the cell, noting that the prisoner had already lain down on the cot and closed his eyes.

“What’s his name and crime, sir? I have to write it in the book.”

“Javel. His crime is treason.” The red-haired leader stared through the cage bars for a moment, then shook his head. Ewen watched as the men tromped off toward the stairwell, their voices drifting down the hallway behind them.

“I’d have cut his throat.”

“Is he safe with the dummy, you think?”

“That’s between the Queen and the Mace.”

“He must know his job. No one’s ever escaped.”

“Still, she can’t have an idiot as a jailor forever.”

Ewen flinched at the word. Bullies used to call him that, before he got so big, and he had learned to allow the word to roll right off him, but it hurt more from a Queen’s Guard. And now he had something new and terrible to think about: the possibility of being replaced. When Da had retired, Da had gone to speak directly to the Regent, to make sure that Ewen could stay on. But Ewen didn’t think Da had ever spoken to the Queen.

The new prisoner, Javel, was one of the easiest charges Ewen had ever had. He barely spoke, only a few words to tell Ewen when he had finished his meals or run out of water or needed the bucket emptied. For long hours Ewen even forgot that Javel was there, but then Ewen could think of little but being dismissed from his post. What would he do if that happened? He couldn’t even bring himself to tell Da what the Queen’s Guard had called him. He didn’t want Da to know.

Five days after Javel came to the dungeon, three more Queen’s Guards stomped down the stairs. One of them was Lazarus of the Mace, a recognizable figure even to Ewen, who rarely left his cells. Ewen had heard plenty of stories about the Mace from Da, who claimed that the Mace was fairy-born, that no cell would hold him. (“A jailor’s nightmare, Ew!” Da would cackle over his tea.) If the other Queen’s Guards had been impressive, the Mace was ten times so, and Ewen studied him as closely as he dared. The Captain of Guard in his dungeon! He couldn’t wait to tell Da.

The other two guards carried a prisoner between them like a sack of grain, and after Ewen unlocked Cell One, they threw the man on the cot. The Mace stood looking at the prisoner for what seemed to Ewen a very long time. Finally he straightened, cleared something deep in his throat, and spat, a great glob of yellow slime that landed square on the prisoner’s cheek.

Ewen thought this unkind; whatever the man’s crime, surely he had suffered enough. He was a miserable, shriveled creature, starved and dehydrated. Mud had caked into the thick welts over his legs and torso. More welts, deep red rivets, crossed his wrists. Great hanks of hair had been pulled from his head, leaving patches of scabbed flesh. Ewen couldn’t imagine what had happened to him.

The Mace turned to Ewen and snapped his fingers. “Jailor!”

Ewen stepped forward, trying to stand as tall as he could. Da had chosen Ewen as his apprentice, even over Ewen’s smarter brothers, for exactly this reason: Ewen was big and strong. But he still only came up to the Mace’s nose. He wondered if the Mace knew he was slow.

“You watch this one closely, Jailor. No visitors. No little field trips outside the cell for exercise. Nothing.”

“Yes, sir,” Ewen replied, wide-eyed, and watched the group of guards exit the dungeon. No one called him any names this time, but it was only after they’d departed that Ewen realized he had forgotten to ask for the man’s name and crime for the book. Stupid! The Mace would surely notice such things.

The next day, Da had come to visit. Ewen was tending the new prisoner as best he could, though the man’s wounds were well beyond the power of anything but time or magic. But Da had taken one look at the man on his cot and spat, just like the Mace.

“Don’t bother trying to cure this bastard, Ew.”