The Invasion of the Tearling

But an hour later, when Javel entered the Queen’s Wing, Kelsea was disappointed to see that his earlier apathy had not changed. He looked around without interest as Coryn escorted him to the foot of the dais, then simply stood staring at the ground. Where was the man who had attacked the burning cage, all alone, with an axe? Kelsea wondered whether she would have seen the real Javel on the day Thorne had broken into the dungeon. Ewen had been very cagey about what had happened down there, but Mace finally got the whole truth from him: if Ewen hadn’t intervened, Javel would have beaten Thorne to death with his bare hands. That was the man Kelsea wanted to see.

She was pleased to notice that Ewen had at least left off Javel’s manacles. There was no need for restraint; Javel merely stood there, straight and beaten, as though waiting for his own execution.

“Javel.”

He didn’t look up, only replied hollowly, “Majesty.”

“You’ve done me a great service in the capture of Arlen Thorne.”

“Yes, Majesty. Thank you.”

“I have pardoned you. You’re free to leave the Keep now, at any time, and go your own way. But I would ask you to stay and listen to a proposal.”

“What proposal?”

“I’m told that your wife went to Mortmesne in the shipment six years ago. Is this correct?”

“Yes.”

“Is she still alive?”

“I don’t know,” Javel replied listlessly. “Thorne said so. He said he could get her back. But now I think it was all lies, and she’s dead.”

“Why?”

“She was a pretty woman, my Allie. They don’t last long.”

Kelsea winced, but plowed forward. “Was your Allie pretty and weak, Javel? Or was she pretty and tough?”

“A damned sight tougher than me, Lady, though that doesn’t say much.”

“And yet you think she couldn’t have survived six years in a Mort knockhouse?”

Javel looked up, and Kelsea was pleased to see a hint of anger in his eyes. “Why say this to me, Lady? Do you wish to make it worse?”

“I wish to see whether you still care about anything at all. Do you think your wife would be happy to see you here now, like this?”

“That’s between her and me.” Javel looked around him, seeming to notice Coryn for the first time. “You said I was free to leave.”

“So you are. The door is behind you.”

Javel turned and walked away. Kelsea sensed Mace bridling beside her, but to his credit, he kept quiet.

“What will you do now, Javel?” she called after him.

“Find the nearest pub.”

“Is that what your wife would have wanted?”

“She’s dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

Javel kept walking.

“Don’t you want to find out?”

He halted, perhaps ten feet from the doors.

“I have ended the lottery, Javel,” Kelsea continued, staring at his back, willing him to stay still. “No shipment will ever leave this country under my Crown. But that doesn’t redress the wrongs of the past, the Tear already in Mortmesne. What do I do about all of them, all of those slaves? The answer is clear: I have to get them out.”

Javel remained in place, but Kelsea saw his shoulders heave, once, an involuntary movement.

“Lazarus is thinking that I have other things to worry about,” she continued, with a nod to Mace, “and he’s right. My people are starving and uneducated. We have no true medicine. On the eastern border is an army that will crush us into dust. These are real problems, and so for a time I’ve let the others lie. But here is where Lazarus and I differ a bit. He believes that avoiding the wrongs of the future is more important than righting the wrongs of the past.”

“So it is, Lady,” Mace muttered, and Kelsea threw him a quick, pained grin. She wished that Father Tyler were still here; he would have understood. But he had already gone back to the Arvath.

“Lazarus means well, but he’s mistaken. The wrongs of the past are not less significant, they’re just harder to fix. And the longer you ignore them in favor of more pressing issues, the worse the harm, until the problems of the past actually create the problems of the future. And that brings us back to your Allie.”

Javel turned around, and Kelsea saw that his eyes were wet.

“Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that your wife is alive, Javel. Let’s say that the very worst has happened to her in Mortmesne, the most terrible thing that your imagination can conjure. Would you still want her back?”

“Of course I would!” Javel spat. “Do you think it was easy, watching her carted off in the cage? I would do anything to change it!”

“You can’t change it. And since you can’t, I ask you again: do you still want her back?”

“I do.”

“Then here is my proposal. You will go to Mortmesne with two of my Guard. I will arm and fund you. And if you can get your Allie out, then I’ll know it can be done.”

Javel blinked, his expression doubtful. “I’m not a particularly good fighter, Lady. I can’t even speak Mort.”

“And you’re a drunk,” Dyer remarked from the wall.

“Shut up, Dyer!” Kelsea snapped, thinking of Barty. Barty, she now suspected, had been an alcoholic. There was no way to know for sure, but a thousand tiny hints had been scattered throughout her childhood. “Your drunkenness, Javel, is not my primary concern. I want someone committed to the enterprise.”

“I only want my Allie back.”

“That’s all I’m asking you for.”