“The Arvath gave its blessing to the lottery.”
Tyler nodded again, his face coloring. The shipment had rolled right past the Arvath for years, and even from his small window, Tyler had always been able to hear the tide of misery below. Father Wyde said that sometimes the families followed the shipment for miles; rumor had it that one family had even walked behind the cages all the way to the foothills of Mount Willingham. As far as Tyler knew, Father Timpany had given the Regent absolution for his sins with the sanction of the Holy Father. It was so much easier for Tyler to ignore these matters in his room, with his mind wrapped in his studies, his bookkeeping. But here, with the Queen staring at him, her expression demanding explanation, the things Tyler knew deep down couldn’t be so easily dismissed.
“So what do you think?” the Queen asked. “Have I pursued folly since taking the throne?”
The question seemed academic, but Tyler understood that it wasn’t. It hit him suddenly that the Queen was only nineteen years old, and that she had cheated death for years. And yet her first act upon arrival had been to poke a stick at a hornets’ nest.
Why, she’s frightened, he realized. He would never have considered the possibility, but of course she would be. He could see that she had already taken responsibility for her actions, that consequences already sat on her shoulders. Tyler wanted to say something reassuring but found that he couldn’t, for he didn’t know her. “I can’t speak to political salvation, Majesty. I’m a spiritual adviser.”
“No one needs spiritual advice right now.”
Tyler spoke more sharply than he intended. “Those who cease to worry about their souls often find them difficult to reclaim later, Majesty. God doesn’t make such distinctions.”
“How do you expect anyone to believe in your God in these times?”
“I believe in my God, Majesty.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Tyler straightened and spoke coldly. “You’re welcome to believe what you like, and think what you like of my church, but don’t malign my faith. Not in front of me.”
“You don’t give the Queen orders!” the Mace snarled.
Tyler cringed; he had forgotten that the Mace was there. But the Mace fell silent as suddenly as he’d begun, and when Tyler turned back to the Queen, he found her wearing an odd smile, both rueful and satisfied.
“You are genuine,” she murmured. “Forgive me, but I had to know. There must be so few of you living over in that golden nightmare.”
“That’s unfair, Majesty. I know many good and devout men in the Arvath.”
“Was it a good and devout man who sent you to keep an eye on me, Father?”
Tyler couldn’t answer.
“Will you live in here with us?”
Thinking of his books, he shook his head. “I’d prefer to remain in the Arvath.”
“Then I propose an exchange,” the Queen replied briskly. “You take the book in your hand and borrow it for a week. Next Sunday, you’ll return it to me, at which time you may borrow another. But you’ll also bring me one of your own books, one I don’t have.”
“A library system,” Tyler replied with a smile.
“Not exactly, Father. Clerks are already at work copying my own books, several at a time. When you loan me a book, they’ll copy it as well.”
“To what purpose?”
“I’ll hold master copies here in the Keep, but sooner or later, I’ll find someone who can construct a printing press.”
Tyler inhaled sharply. “A press?”
“I see this land flowing with books, Father. Widespread literacy. Books everywhere, as common as they used to be in circulation before the Crossing, affordable even for the poor.”
Tyler stared at her, shocked. The necklace on her chest twinkled; he could have sworn it had winked at him.
“Can’t you see it?”
And after another moment, Tyler could. The idea was staggering. Printing presses meant bookshops and libraries. New stories transcribed. New histories.
Later, Tyler would realize that his decision was made then, that there was never any other path for him. But in the moment, he felt only shock. He stumbled away from the bookshelves and came face-to-face with the Mace, whose face had darkened. Tyler hoped the man’s anger wasn’t directed toward himself, for he found the Mace terrifying. But no, the Mace was looking at the books.
An extraordinary certainty dawned in Tyler’s mind. He tried to dismiss it, but the thought persisted: the Mace could not read. Tyler felt a stab of pity, but turned quickly away before it showed on his face. “Well, it’s quite a dream, Majesty.”
Her face hardened, the corners of her mouth tucking in. The Mace gave a quiet grunt of satisfaction, which only seemed to irritate the Queen further. Her voice, when she spoke, was businesslike, all passion vanished. “Sunday next, I’ll expect you. But you’re welcome in my court anytime, Father.”
Tyler bowed, feeling as though someone had grabbed him and shaken him hard. This is why I never leave my room, he thought. So much safer there.
He turned and trudged back toward the audience chamber, clutching the book in his hand, nearly oblivious to the three guards who followed him. The Holy Father would undoubtedly want an immediate report, but Tyler could sneak into the Arvath through the tradesmen’s entrance. It was Tuesday, and Brother Emory would be on duty; he was young and lazy, and often forgot to report arrivals. Tyler might read well over a hundred pages before the Holy Father knew he’d returned.
“And Father?”
Tyler turned and found the Queen seated on her throne, her chin propped on one hand. The Mace stood beside her, as forbidding as ever, his hand on his sword.
“Majesty?”
She grinned impishly, looking her true age for the first time since Tyler had seen her. “Don’t forget to bring me a book.”
On Monday Kelsea sat on her throne, biting relentlessly at the inside of her cheek. Technically, she was holding audience, but what she was really doing was allowing various interested parties to have a look at her, and looking at them in turn. After the incident with the assassin, she’d thought that Mace might cancel this event, but now he seemed to consider it even more important that Kelsea show her face. Her first audience went ahead on schedule, although the entire Queen’s Guard had been stationed in the audience chamber, even those who usually worked the night and slept during the day.
True to his word, Mace had moved the great silver throne, along with its dais, into the Queen’s Wing. After perhaps an hour perched on the throne, Kelsea discovered that silver was hard, and worse, it was cold. She longed for the comfort of her old, worn armchair. She couldn’t even slouch; there were too many eyes on her. A crowd of nobles thronged the room, many of them the same people who had attended her crowning. She saw the same clothing, the same hairstyles, and the same excess.
Kelsea had spent long hours preparing for this audience with Mace and Arliss, as well as with Marguerite, who had a surprising amount of information to share about the Regent’s allies in the nobility. The Regent had kept her nearby at all times, even while doing business. This further evidence of her uncle’s poor judgment came as no surprise to Kelsea, but it made her feel despondent all the same.
“Are you happy here?” Kelsea had asked Marguerite, when they finished talking for the night.
“Yes,” replied Marguerite, so quickly that Kelsea didn’t think she understood the question. Marguerite knew a fair amount of Tear, but she’d been delighted to find that Kelsea spoke good Mort, so they spoke in that language. Kelsea tried her question again, making sure she was using the correct words.
“I understand that you were delivered here, against your will, from Mortmesne. Don’t you want to go home?”
“No. I like taking care of the children, and there’s nothing for me in Mortmesne.”
“Why?” Kelsea asked, confused. She found Marguerite to be both educated and intelligent, and when it came to human nature the woman was smart as a whip. Kelsea had been pondering what to do about the rest of the Regent’s women; she had no urge to have them all invade the Queen’s Wing, nor could she offer them any sort of gainful employment. But she thought they deserved something from the Crown, since their lives couldn’t have been easy.
Marguerite had assured Kelsea that the other women would be snapped up quickly as paid companions by nobles, most of whom had cast a jealous eye on the Regent’s women for years. This was useful information, if an extremely unwelcome insight into the male psyche, and Marguerite had been right; when Coryn went to make sure that the Regent had cleared out, the women and their belongings were gone as well.