The Invasion of the Tearling

Tonight, after Ewen had finished his dinner and inspected the empty cells for rats or rot (there was neither; he cleaned his cellblock thoroughly every other day), he settled down with his pictures. He tried constantly to paint the things he saw, but he always failed. It seemed like an easy business, with the right paper and some good paints and brushes–Da had given him these for his last birthday–but the images always escaped somewhere between his thoughts and the paper. Ewen couldn’t see why it had to be that way, but it was. He was trying to paint Javel, the prisoner in Cell Three, when the door at the top of the steps crashed open.

For a few moments, Ewen had a bad fright, worried about a jailbreak. Da had warned him about jailbreaks, the worst shame that could befall a jailor. Two soldiers were stationed outside the door at the top of the steps, but Ewen was all alone down in the dungeon. He didn’t know what he would do if someone had forced his way in. He grabbed the knife that lay on his desk.

But the crash of the door was followed by many voices and footsteps, such unexpected sounds that Ewen could only sit at his desk and wait to see what would come down the hallway. After a few moments a woman entered the dungeon, a tall woman with short-cropped brown hair and a silver crown on her head. Two great blue jewels hung on fine, glittering silver chains around her neck, and she was surrounded by five Queen’s Guards. Ewen considered these things for a few seconds, then bolted to his feet: the Queen!

She went first to stare through the bars of Cell Three. “How have you been, Javel?”

The man on the cot looked up at her with empty eyes. “Fine, Majesty.”

“Nothing else to say?”

“No.”

The Queen put her hands on her hips and huffed, a sound of disappointment that Ewen recognized from Da, then moved over to Cell One to gaze at the wounded man who lay there.

“What a miserable-looking creature.”

The Mace laughed. “He’s endured rough handling, Lady. Rougher, maybe, than even I could have devised. The villagers took him in Devin’s Slope when he tried to barter carpentry for food. They bound him to a wagon for the trip to New London, and when he finally collapsed, they dragged him the rest of the way.”

“You paid these villagers?”

“All two hundred, Majesty. It’s a lucky break; we need the loyalty of those border villages, and the money will probably keep Devin’s Slope for a year. They don’t see a lot of coin out there.”

The Queen nodded. She didn’t look like the queens in Da’s stories, who were always delicate, pretty woman like the Regent’s redhead. This woman looked … tough. Maybe it was her short hair, short like a man’s, or maybe just the way she stood, with her feet spread and one hand tapping impatiently on her hip. A favorite phrase of Da’s popped into Ewen’s head: she looked like no one to fiddle with.

“You! Bannaker!” The Queen snapped her fingers at the man on the cot.

The prisoner groaned, putting his hands to his head. The welts on his arms had begun to scab over and heal, but he still seemed very weak, and despite Da’s words, Ewen felt a moment’s pity.

“Give it up, Lady,” the Mace remarked. “You won’t get anything out of him for a while. Men’s minds can break from a journey like that. It’s usually the point.”

The Queen cast around the dungeon and her deep green eyes found Ewen, who snapped to attention. “Are you my Jailor?”

“Yes, Majesty. Ewen.”

“Open this cell.”

Ewen stepped forward, digging for the keys at his belt, glad that Da had labeled them all so it was easy to find the key with the big 2. He didn’t want to keep this woman waiting. Once a month he oiled the locks, just as Da had advised, and he was grateful to feel the key turn smoothly, with no squealing or hitches. He stepped back as the Queen entered the cell with several guards. She turned to one of them, a huge man with ugly, jagged teeth. “Stand him up.”

The big guard hauled the prisoner off the cot and grabbed him by the neck, dangling him just above the ground.

The Queen slapped the prisoner’s face. “Are you Liam Bannaker?”

“I am,” the prisoner gurgled in a low, thick voice. His nose had begun to trickle blood, and the sight made Ewen wince. Why were they being so unkind?

“Where is Arlen Thorne?”

“I don’t know.”

The Queen said a bad word, one that Da had once spanked Ewen for repeating, and the Mace cut in. “Who helped you build your cages?”

“No one.”

The Mace turned to the Queen, and Ewen watched, fascinated, as they locked eyes for a long moment. They were talking to each other … talking without even opening their mouths!

“No,” the Queen finally murmured. “We’re not going to start that now.”

“Lady–”

“I didn’t say never, Lazarus. But not for such small chance of reward as this.”

She came out of the cell, signaling her guards to follow. The big guard dumped the prisoner back on his cot, where he breathed in great wheezes like an accordion. Ewen, feeling the Mace’s eyes on him, assessing, locked the cell immediately behind them.

“And you,” the Queen remarked, moving over to gaze at the woman in Cell Two. “You’re the real prize, aren’t you?”

The ghost-woman giggled, a sound like metal on glass. Ewen wanted to clap his hands over his ears. The woman grinned at the Queen, showing rotten lower teeth. “When my master comes, he’ll punish you for keeping us apart.”

“Why is he your master?” the Queen asked. “What has he ever done for you?”