The Invasion of the Tearling

“Who is he?”


“Once he was a man, a powerful man. You would know him as Rowland Finn.”

The name rang a bell, deep in Kelsea’s mind. Carlin had mentioned Finn once, something to do with the Landing … what had it been?

The Fetch stepped closer. He was staring at her face, Kelsea realized, cataloguing the changes, and she dropped her chin, peeking up at him as she pretended to study the floor. He looked healthy, if somewhat leaner than the last time Kelsea had seen him. His face was slightly tanned, as though he’d been in the south. He still pulled at her, as much as he ever had, and the pull was accompanied by a sick sense of loss, deep in Kelsea’s stomach. All the lust that had governed her body in the last few minutes had transferred easily to the Fetch, and now she realized how hollow her earlier reactions had been; what she felt for this man dwarfed anything she would ever feel for anyone else. She had dreamed of the day when she would see the Fetch again, when she would greet him not as a round-faced girl but as a pretty woman, perhaps even a beautiful one. But she didn’t like the way he was staring at her, not at all.

“Who are you, Fetch? Do you have a real name?”

“I have many names. All are useful.”

“Why not tell me the real one?”

“A name is power, Tear Queen. Your name was once Raleigh, and now it’s Glynn. Did the change mean nothing to you?”

Kelsea blinked, for his question made her think not of Barty and Carlin, nor even of her own mother, but of the Mort Treaty, the signature in red ink at the bottom. The Queen of Mortmesne, her true name hidden from the world. Why did she hide it so closely? Kelsea was Glynn now, but she had also been Glynn as a child, because the entire world was looking for a girl child named Raleigh. But why would a woman as powerful as the Red Queen need to hide her birth name from anyone? Was she so anxious to leave the past behind?

Who is she, really?

The Fetch had wandered over to her desk, fingering the papers there. “You’ve lost weight, Tear Queen. Don’t you eat enough?”

“I eat plenty.”

“Then stop trying to hide your face. Let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”

There was no help for it. Kelsea turned for his inspection, keeping her eyes on the floor.

“You have transformed,” the Fetch stated flatly. “Is this what you wanted?”

“What do you mean?”

He pointed to her sapphires. “My knowledge of those things is not extensive. But this isn’t the first time I’ve seen them grant a wish. You performed a great feat in the Argive. What else have you been able to do?”

Kelsea firmed her jaw. “Nothing.”

“I know when you’re lying, Tear Queen.”

Kelsea recoiled. His tone was eerily reminiscent of Carlin’s when she caught Kelsea committing minor infractions: sneaking an extra cookie from the kitchen, or dodging chores. “Nothing! I have dreams sometimes. Visions.”

“About what?”

“The pre-Crossing. A woman. What does it matter?”

His eyes narrowed. “When, in our acquaintance, have you ever been the one to decide what matters?”

Kelsea’s composure seemed to buckle beneath her, like a beam made of weak wood. “I’m not a child in your camp anymore! Don’t talk to me like that!”

“In my eyes, Tear Queen, you are a child. An infant, even.”

Angry tears sprung to Kelsea’s eyes, but she fought them, swallowing great gulps of air, the bleak thought recurring in her mind: This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

“What does she look like, this pre-Crossing woman?” the Fetch asked.

“She’s tall and pretty and sad. She hardly ever smiles.”

“Her name?”

“Lily Mayhew.”

The Fetch smiled then, a slow, genuine smile that undermined Kelsea’s anger, washing away its foundations like the tide. “Is there a girl there? A girl with long reddish hair?”

Kelsea blinked. Running quickly through Lily’s memories, she shook her head, and was shocked by the disappointment in the Fetch’s face. He had needed her to say yes, needed it badly.

“Who is Lily Mayhew?”

The Fetch shook his head. His eyes glimmered, almost with tears, though Kelsea refused to believe that, when she had never seen this man moved by anything. “Only a woman, I suppose.”

“If you’re only going to ask questions and give no answers, then fuck off.”

“The mouth on you, Tear Queen.”

“I mean it. Speak plainly or get out.”

“All right.” He sat down in her armchair and leaned back, crossing his legs, all trace of emotion gone. “There is a protest movement growing in Mortmesne.”

“I’ve heard about it. Lazarus has sent them some goods.”

“They need more support.”

“Support them, then. My kingdom barely has the cash to arm itself.”

“I do support them. I’ve funneled a considerable amount of my own wealth in that direction.”