The Invasion of the Tearling

THE NEXT EVENING, after dinner, Kelsea was in the middle of her daily argument with Arliss when a messenger arrived, bearing the news she’d been dreading: six days ago, the Mort had broken through on the border. Having been frustrated in several attacks by the line of archers in the trees, Ducarte had finally taken the most direct method and simply set the entire hillside on fire. Hall had had the good sense to withdraw his battalion back toward the Almont and avoid direct battle, but nearly all of his archers had been caught in the fire, burning to death in their treetop nests. By now the Mort would be transporting their heavy equipment over the hillside, and the bulk of their infantry would already have moved down into the Almont. On Bermond’s orders, the Tear army had pulled back to the Caddell. Fire still raged across the Border Hills; if it didn’t rain soon, thousands of acres of good timber would be destroyed.

Kelsea had thought herself prepared for this news; after all, it had been inevitable from the start. But still it hit her hard, the idea of Mort soldiers on Tear land. For the last two weeks a separate wing of the Mort army had been besieging the Argive Pass, just as Bermond had warned her; the Mort Road was a much more convenient route by which to move supplies from Demesne than the rough ground of the Border Hills. But so far the Argive had held, and while the Mort had been pinned inside their own territory, the invasion had seemed somehow less real. The Mort would find no reward in the Almont; the eastern half of the kingdom was nearly emptied now, but for a few isolated farming villages on the extreme northern and southern outskirts whose occupants had chosen to remain where they were. There was nothing for the Mort to pillage, but still Kelsea hated the idea of them out there, moving like a slow dark tide across her land. She crumpled the message in one fist, feeling a new cut open on the inside of her thigh. The cuts kept her anger inside her, kept it from spilling out all over everyone surrounding, but it had grown frustrating, always having to hold back. Kelsea longed for a real target, someone she could actually injure, and this longing then led her to cut herself more deeply, to relish the pain even while she bled. The cuts healed themselves at an incredible rate, sometimes even before a day had elapsed, and so they were fairly easy to hide from everyone … everyone except Andalie, who dealt with Kelsea’s laundry. Andalie remained silent, but Kelsea knew that she was concerned. Despite the heat of the summer, Kelsea had taken to wearing nothing but thick black dresses with long sleeves, and this only served to deepen her kinship with Lily Mayhew, who had so many things to hide. Kelsea spent long periods of time trying to understand Lily, to understand what possible connection there could be between them, for Kelsea could not believe that she would see anything so detailed, so realistic, for no reason at all. With Father Tyler’s help, she had now been through all of Carlin’s history books, and there was no record of Lily anywhere. Historically speaking, Lily was unimportant … but it never felt that way when Kelsea was with her, bound up inside her life. Still, she had tabled her research, for there was only so much time she could expend on Lily, on the past. The present had become too terrible.

With Bermond’s message still clutched in her fist, Kelsea left Arliss’s office and stormed down the hall to her own chamber. Closing the curtain on Pen, she wandered over toward the fireplace. The portrait of the handsome man still leaned on the wall, covered with a dropcloth. Kelsea had found that the picture made her a bit uneasy; the man’s eyes did indeed follow her wherever she went, and he seemed to be smirking at her. Andalie, too, disliked the man in the portrait intensely. If she, or Glee, had had any more visions, Andalie kept them to herself, but she treated the portrait like poison, and she was the one who had draped a sheet over the man’s face.

Now Kelsea pulled off the sheet and stared at the portrait for a very long time. If nothing else, the man from the fireplace was extremely handsome, enjoyable to gaze at. Andalie said that the man was evil, and he was; Kelsea could sense it even in the portrait, the hint of cruelty in his smile. But, Kelsea realized, that was also part of the draw. She’d had several dreams about the man now, barely remembered dreams in which she had been naked before him on what felt like a bed of fire. Always, Kelsea woke up just before physical contact, her sheets soaked with sweat. It was different from what she felt for the Fetch, who, despite his misdeeds, seemed fundamentally decent. This man’s wickedness pulled at her, magnetic. She drew a finger down the canvas, debating. He had said he knew how to defeat the Red Queen. Kelsea had only half believed him, but the Mort were here now, and she could no longer afford not to grasp at straws. The man had said that he wanted freedom. He had said he would come when she called.

Kelsea sat down in front of the fire, crossing her legs beneath her. The fire was strong, and the heat baked her face.

I am only keeping my options open, she told herself firmly. There’s nothing wrong with that.

“Where are you?” she whispered.

Something seemed to gather darkly in front of the flames, like coal dust compacting, and a moment later he appeared, just in front of the mantel, tall and substantial. Kelsea’s reaction to his presence was even stronger now than it had been before, a flurry of pulse and nerves that she fought to force down. Lust made her stupid, she saw now … and she could not afford to be stupid with this creature.

Where do you come from? she asked him. Do you live in the fire?

I live in dark, Tear heir. I’ve waited long years to see the sun.