The Invasion of the Tearling

Why am I seeing this? Why do I have to suffer with her, when her story is already done?

The thundering sound came again, and with it, the last of Lily’s memories faded away, and Kelsea was suddenly alert. Not thunder, but many feet, moving in the hallway outside. Kelsea turned away from the books and found Pen standing just behind her, listening intently, his manner so grave that Kelsea forgot to be angry at him.

“Pen? What is it?”

“I had a thought to go investigate, Lady, but I’m not supposed to leave you at such times.”

Now Kelsea heard a hollow, muffled groan, slightly distant, as though it came from down the corridor. “Let’s go and see.”

“I think it’s Kibb, Lady. He’s been sick for two days now, getting worse all the time.”

“Sick with what?”

“No one knows. Flu, maybe.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Kibb didn’t want us to, Lady.”

“Well, come on.”

She led him into the corridor, where nothing was moving, only the flicker of torches. In the dim light the hallway looked twice as long; it seemed to stretch miles from the darkened door of the guard quarters to the well-lit audience chamber.

“What time is it?” she whispered.

“Half past eleven.”

The hollow groan sounded again: muffled agony, weaker this time, near the guard quarters.

“Mace won’t want you down there, Lady.”

“Come on.”

Pen didn’t try to stop her, which afforded Kelsea some small satisfaction. Weak torchlight gleamed from the open door of one of the chambers near the end of the hallway, and Kelsea walked faster, her feet hurrying her along.

Turning the corner, she found herself in what was clearly a man’s bedchamber. Everything seemed to be dark, and there was very little decoration, but Kelsea admired the room’s austerity; this was just the way she imagined her guards’ quarters.

Kibb lay on the bed, his brow shiny with sweat, naked down to his hips. Bent over him was Schmidt, Mace’s doctor of choice for emergencies. Elston, Coryn, and Wellmer were at the bedside, and Mace, crouched at the foot of the bed, completed the tableau. As Kelsea entered the room, Mace’s face darkened, but he only muttered, “Lady.”

“How is he?”

Schmidt did not bow, but Kelsea did not take offense; there seemed to be no ego to compare with that of the doctor in demand. His voice revealed a heavy Mort accent. “The appendix, Majesty. I would try to operate, but it would do no good. It will burst before I am able to get in there clean. If I perform as quickly as I must, he will bleed to death. I have given him morphia for his pain, but I can do nothing else.”

Kelsea blinked, horrified. Appendectomy had been a routine pre-Crossing surgery, so common and simple that Lily’s procedure had been done by machines rather than human hands. But the grim resignation on the doctor’s face said everything that needed to be said.

“We’ve promised to take care of his mother, Lady,” Mace murmured. “We’ve made him as comfortable as possible. There’s little else we can do. You shouldn’t be here for this.”

“Perhaps not, but it’s a little late to walk away.”

“El?” Kibb asked. His voice was slurred with some kind of narcotic.

“I’m right here, you ass,” Elston muttered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Elston was holding Kibb’s hand, Kelsea saw. It looked odd, Kibb’s small hand buried in Elston’s giant fist, but she couldn’t even smile. They did everything together, Elston and Kibb, and Kelsea couldn’t remember a time when she had seen one without the other. Best friends … but now, looking at their clasped hands, at the agony that Elston was trying so desperately to hide, Kelsea’s mind came up with a third and fourth piece of information: neither Elston nor Kibb had a woman in the Keep, and their chambers adjoined.

Elston looked up at her dumbly, and Kelsea did her best not to blush. She reached for Kibb’s other hand, which lay fisted at his side. His eyes were closed, his teeth clenched against another groan, and cords stood out on his neck. Kelsea could see individual beads of sweat as they rolled down his temples and cheeks to settle in the matting of his hair. At the touch of her hand, Kibb’s eyes opened again, and he attempted a smile through gritted teeth.

“Majesty,” he croaked. “I am a Queen’s Guard of the Tear.”