The Invasion of the Tearling

“Why didn’t he teach you?”


“He offered.” The Mace looked away. “I refused. It didn’t matter then, anyway. Elyssa had about as much use for books as a cat has for a riding crop. But now …”

Tyler heard the Mace’s unspoken thought easily. Queen Elyssa may not have cared about illiteracy, but Queen Kelsea would care, very much. “But the Queen would never kick you out of the Guard.”

“Of course she wouldn’t. I just don’t want her to know.”

Tyler nodded, wondering, as he so often did, whether the Mace was the Queen’s father. His attitude toward her was often that of an exasperated parent. But the identity of the Queen’s father was one of the most closely held secrets of the Guard. Tyler wasn’t even sure whether the Queen knew herself.

“What’s next?”

Tyler thought for a moment. “Practice stringing individual words together. In the Queen’s library are several books by a man named Dahl. Choose one and try to work your way through it. Don’t skip the longer words; sound them out, and bring the book with you the next time you come.”

The Mace nodded. “I think—”

Three sharp raps sounded on Tyler’s door.

The Mace sprung from his chair, a quick, silent movement. When Tyler turned to look behind him, the room was empty, the hidden door beside the desk just swinging shut.

“Come in, please.”

The door opened, and Tyler froze as the Holy Father entered the room. Brother Jennings was behind him, his round face curious, but the Holy Father left him outside, closing the door. Tyler grasped the edge of the desk and pulled himself to his feet, keeping his broken leg off the floor.

“Good day, Tyler.”

“Your Holiness.” Tyler offered him the good chair, but Anders waved it away.

“Sit, Tyler, sit. You, after all, are the one with the broken leg. Most unfortunate, that accident.”

Tyler sat, watching Anders’s eyes dart all over the room, taking in everything while his face remained immobile. In that way, he did remind Tyler of the old Holy Father, who never missed a single thing. All of Tyler’s earlier feelings of bravery seemed to have evaporated, quickly and quietly, and he was acutely aware of his own old age, how fragile he was in comparison to this hearty, middle-aged man.

“I am in a difficult position, Tyler.” The Holy Father gave a heavy, melodramatic sigh. “The Queen … she has laid hands on me, you see.”

Tyler nodded. No one was supposed to touch a priest of God’s Church—not publicly, anyway—and it was unthinkable for anyone, let alone a woman, to lay hands on the Holy Father himself. It had only been a week, but Wyde, who worked at the homeless kitchens in the morning, said that the entire city already seemed to know what had happened at the Queen’s dinner. Wyde had even heard one rumor that the Queen had given the Holy Father a savage beating with her bare hands. These stories were harmful to the Queen, certainly; the devout were scandalized. But the damage to the Holy Father was much greater.

“This won’t stand, Tyler. If no consequences fall on the Queen for her actions, then we are all left hanging in the wind. The Arvath’s political power will dwindle to nothing. You understand?”

Tyler nodded again.

“But if God’s wrath were to fall on her swiftly … think of it, Tyler!” The Holy Father’s eyes brightened, sparkling with a hint of that same terrible glee that Tyler had seen there on the night of Father Seth. “Think of how God’s Church would benefit! Conversions would increase. Tithing would increase. Faith has grown slack, Tyler, and we need to make an example. A public example. You see?”

Tyler didn’t see, not exactly, but he didn’t like the turn of the conversation. Anders had halted in his pacing now, right in front of Tyler’s bookshelves. He pulled down A Distant Mirror, and Tyler tensed, lacing his fingers together at his waist. When Anders opened the book and ran a finger down one of the middle pages, Tyler’s flesh crawled beneath his skin.

“The Queen is not vulnerable!” he blurted out. “There is the Mace—and she has magic—”

“Magic?”

In a sudden, sharp movement, Anders wrenched the book down the binding, tearing it in two. Tyler cried out, his hands reaching automatically before he snatched them back. He did not have the Queen’s gall; he could not lay hands on the Holy Father. He could only watch as Anders dropped one shredded half of the book and began to rip pages out of the other, one at a time. They drifted lazily, back and forth, toward the floor.

“Magic, Tyler?” Anders asked softly. “And you a priest?”

A soft knock came at the door, and Brother Jennings leaned through the doorway, his avid eyes taking in the entire scene. “Everything all right, Your Holiness?”

“Perfectly so,” Anders replied, his gaze fixed on Tyler. “Fetch a few more brothers in here. There’s work to do.”