“Because of this,” Marguerite replied, running an explanatory hand up her body and circling it around her face. “This determines what I am.”
“Being beautiful?”
“Yes.”
Kelsea stared at her, bewildered. She would give anything to look like Marguerite. The Fetch’s voice echoed in her head, always within cutting reach: Far too plain for my taste. She had already noticed how, on those rare occasions when Marguerite emerged from the nursery, the guards’ eyes followed her across the room. There was no overtly boorish behavior, nothing for which Kelsea could take them to task, but sometimes she wanted to reach out and slap them, scream in their faces: Look at me! I’m valuable too! Eyes followed Kelsea across the room as well, but it wasn’t the same at all.
If I looked like Marguerite, the Fetch would worship at my feet.
Some of this must have shown on Kelsea’s face, for Marguerite smiled sadly. “You think of beauty only as a blessing, Majesty, but it brings its own punishments. Believe me.”
Kelsea nodded, trying to look sympathetic, but in truth she was skeptical. Beauty was currency. For every man who valued Marguerite less because of her beauty, there would be a hundred men, and many women as well, who automatically valued her more. But Kelsea liked Marguerite’s grave intelligence, so she tried to curb her resentment, though something inside told her that it would be a constant struggle, to look at this woman every day without jealousy.
“What’s Mortmesne like?”
“Different from the Tearling, Majesty. At first glance, better. Not so many poor and hungry. Order in the streets. But look long enough, and you will notice that all eyes are afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of her.”
“They’re afraid here, too, but not of me. Of the lottery.”
“Once, perhaps, Majesty.”
The people in the audience chamber certainly weren’t afraid of Kelsea. Some of them looked at her wistfully, some with suspicion. Mace, not liking the pockets of shadow created by the crowd, had ordered the walls hung with extra torches for the audience, and he had also produced a herald from somewhere, a thin, harmless boy-man named Jordan with an extraordinarily deep, clear voice, who announced each personage before the throne. Those who wanted to have private speech with Kelsea came forward only after being searched for weapons and cleared by Mhurn. Some had come simply to swear fealty, perhaps in the hope of gaining access to the treasury or putting Kelsea off her guard. Many of them tried to kiss her hand; one noble, Lord Perkins, even succeeded in planting a moist, sticky patch on her knuckle before Kelsea could yank free. She tucked both hands inside the black folds of her skirt to keep them safe.
Andalie sat on a chair to Kelsea’s right, the seat several inches lower so that she appeared shorter than Kelsea. Kelsea had argued against this arrangement, but Andalie and Mace had overruled her. As Lord Perkins and his retinue left the dais, Andalie offered a cup of water, which Kelsea accepted gratefully. Her wound was healing well, and she could sit up for longer periods now, but she had been exchanging pleasantries more or less nonstop for two hours and her voice was becoming unwieldy.
A noble named Killian came forward with his wife. Kelsea searched through the files in her mind and placed the man: Marguerite had told her that Lord Killian liked to gamble at cards and that he had once knifed another noble over a disputed hand of poker. None of his four children had ever run afoul of the lottery. The Killians looked more like twins than husband and wife; both had round, well-fed faces, and both eyed her with the same expression Kelsea had seen on the faces of many nobles over the course of the day: smiles on top and craft underneath. She exchanged pleasantries with the pair and accepted a beautiful tapestry that the wife assured her had been woven by her own hands. Kelsea very much doubted this; the era in which noblewomen actually had to do their own handwork was long gone, and the tapestry bespoke considerable skill.
When the Killians’ audience was over, Kelsea watched the pair retreat. She hadn’t liked most of the nobles she’d met today. They were dangerously complacent. Even the inadequate old concept of noblesse oblige had fallen by the wayside in this kingdom, and the privileged refused to look beyond their own walls and gardens. It was a problem that had contributed greatly to the Crossing; Kelsea could almost feel Carlin hovering somewhere close by, her face pinched in its old disapproval as she spoke of the ruling classes of times long gone.
Mace was peering toward the end of the hall, and as the Killians disappeared and Kelsea’s guard began to relax, he called a sharp command to remain at attention. A solitary man was trudging toward the throne, his face nearly hidden under a thick black beard. At the edge of Kelsea’s vision, Andalie made an involuntary movement, her hands stiffening.
Kelsea tapped her fingers on the silver arm of her throne, debating, while the man was searched. She looked to Andalie, who was staring at her husband with deep, dark eyes, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
Mace had descended to the foot of the dais and taken up what Kelsea thought of as his ready pose, a stance so casual that one who didn’t know Mace might think him lounging. But if Andalie’s husband should move a muscle in the wrong direction, Mace would have him down. The husband seemed to know as well; his eyes twitched toward Mace and he halted of his own volition, announcing, “I am Borwen! I come to demand the return of my wife and children!”
“You demand nothing here,” Kelsea replied.
He glowered at her for a moment. “Ask, then.”
“You’ll address the Queen properly,” Mace growled, “or you’ll be removed from this hall.”
Borwen took several deep breaths, his right hand creeping to his left bicep and feeling it gently, as though for comfort. “I ask Your Majesty for the return of my wife and children.”
“Your wife is free to leave, of her own volition, at any time,” Kelsea replied. “But if you wish to ask her anything here, you’ll first account for the marks on her skin.”
Borwen hesitated, and Kelsea could see countless excuses tumbling through his head. He mumbled a reply.
“Repeat!”
“Majesty, she wasn’t an obedient wife.”
Andalie snickered softly. Kelsea shrank from the sound, which held murder. “Borwen, are you a believer in God’s Church?”
“I go every Sunday, Majesty.”
“A wife is to be obedient to the husband, yes?”
“Such is the word of God.”
“I see.” Kelsea leaned back, studying him. How on earth had Andalie ended up wed to this creature? It would have taken a braver woman than Kelsea to ask her. “And did your manner of correction make her obedient?”
“I was within my rights.”
Kelsea opened her mouth, not knowing what would come out, but fortunately she was stalled by Andalie, who stood to her full height and said, “Majesty, I pray you, do not place myself or any of my children under this man’s dominion.”
Kelsea reached out and clasped her wrist. “You know I wouldn’t.”
Andalie looked down, and Kelsea thought she saw a flash of warmth in those grey eyes. Then she was simply Andalie again, her face blank and cold. “I know it.”
“What would you have me do here?” Kelsea asked.
“I care little, so long as he never comes near my children again.”
Andalie’s tone was as flat as her expression. Kelsea stared at her for a moment, a terrible picture forming in her mind, but before it could take shape, she whipped back to Borwen. “Denied. On the day your wife wishes, she can return to you with my blessing. But I won’t compel it.”
Borwen’s black eyes blazed, and a strange, feral sound emerged from his beard. “Is Your Majesty ignorant of the word of God?”
Kelsea frowned. The crowd, which had seemed sleepy, was fully awake now, looking between her and Borwen as though the conversation were a tennis volley. Any reply she made would get back to the Church, and she couldn’t lie; there were too many people in this hall. She arranged her words carefully before speaking. “History is full of failed kingdoms that purported to be ruled solely by the word of God. The Tearling is not a theocracy, and I must look to more sources than the Bible.” She felt her voice sharpening, but couldn’t stop it. “The word of God aside, Borwen, it seems to me that if you truly deserved the sort of obedience you crave, you would be able to compel it with some lever besides your fists.”
Color rose in Borwen’s face, and his eyes squinted down to black slits. Dyer, at the foot of the dais, advanced a few steps to stand in his path, one hand on his sword.
“Is there a recorder here?” Kelsea asked Mace.
“Somewhere. I sent him into the crowd, but he should be listening.”
Kelsea raised her voice and spoke over the hall. “My throne won’t tolerate abuse, no matter what God says about it. Husband, wife, child, it makes no matter; the one who lays violent hands on the other will account for it.”
She focused on Borwen again. “You, Borwen, as the first offender before me, won’t be punished. You provide the example around which I structure my law. But if you ever come before me again, or before any member of my judiciary, on a similar charge, the law will deal heavily with you.”
“I’ve been charged with nothing!” Borwen shouted, his heavy face crimson with rage. “I come to reclaim my stolen wife and children, and find myself put upon! It’s no justice!”
“Have you ever heard of the equitable doctrine of clean hands, Borwen?”
“No, and I care not!” he snarled. “I’m a man robbed, and I’ll say so before all the Tearling, if I must, to gain justice!”
Mace moved forward, but Kelsea snapped her fingers. “No.”
“But Lady—”
“I don’t know what’s gone on here in the past, Lazarus, but we don’t punish people for words. We’ll ask him to leave, and if he doesn’t, you can remove him as you like.”
Borwen was breathing hard now, great hoarse gasps; the sound reminded Kelsea of a slumbering brown bear that she and Barty had once come upon in the woods. Barty had given Kelsea a signal, and they had quietly reversed their steps. But the man in front of Kelsea was something entirely different, and she thought suddenly that she would enjoy fighting him, even with her bare hands, even if she took a beating for it.
I have too much anger in me, Kelsea realized. But the thought was a proud one: whatever her other failings, she knew that the anger would always be there, a deep and tappable well of force. Carlin would be disappointed, but Kelsea was the Queen now, not a frightened child, and she had learned much since leaving the cottage. She would be able to stand before Carlin and account for herself . . . not without fear, perhaps, but at least without the debilitating certainty that Carlin always knew best. Carlin had been right about many things, but even she had limitations; Kelsea saw them clearly now, outlined in bright colors. Carlin was without passion, without imagination, and Kelsea had plenty of both. Looking at the man below her, she saw an easy way out.
“Borwen, you’ve taken too much of my time with this nonsense, and you’ll leave my hall now. You’re free to charge my throne with any sort of injustice, but know that I will match it with your wife’s account of you. The choice is yours.”
Borwen’s mouth worked, but words had deserted him. His black eyes rolled like those of a cornered animal, and he slammed one large fist into his other hand, glaring up at Andalie. “Still haughty as ever, aren’t we? Does she know where you were raised? Does she know you have Mort blood?”
“Enough!” Kelsea pushed herself up from the throne, ignoring the protest from her shoulder. Her sapphire had come roaring to life; she felt it, a small, violent animal beneath her dress. “You’ve reached the end of my patience. You’ll leave this hall immediately, or I’ll allow Lazarus to remove you by any means he likes.”
Borwen backed away, smiling triumphantly. “Mort she is! Infected!”
“Lazarus, go.”
Mace leaped toward Borwen, who turned tail and sprinted toward the doors. Appreciative laughter rippled from the crowd as he fled up the aisle. Andalie reseated herself beside Kelsea, her face as blank as ever. Once Borwen disappeared, Mace stopped his halfhearted pursuit and returned, his eyes sparkling with mirth. But Kelsea rubbed her own eyes wearily. What next?
“Lady Andrews, Majesty!” the herald cried.
A woman stormed toward the throne. Today her hair was covered by an elaborate hat, bright purple velvet decorated with purple silk ribbons and peacock feathers. But Kelsea recognized that pinched, displeased mouth with no difficulty at all.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered to Mace. “Didn’t we pay her for the damned tiara?”
“We did, Lady. Overpaid, actually. The Andrews are a house of chiselers, and Arliss didn’t want them to have any cause for complaint.”
Lady Andrews halted at the foot of the steps. She was much older than she’d seemed in the dim light of the throne room, perhaps as old as forty, and her face appeared to have been pulled unnaturally taut. Cosmetic surgery? There were no plastic surgeons in the Tearling, but it was rumored that Mortmesne had revived the practice. Tear nobles might dare the journey, particularly nobles like this one. Lady Andrews wore a saccharine smile, but her eyes said it all.
She hates me, Kelsea realized with some bemusement. Didn’t the woman have anything to worry about besides her hair?
“I’ve come to swear fealty before Your Majesty,” Lady Andrews announced. She had a distinctive voice, so raspy and hoarse that Kelsea wondered if she was a smoker, like Arliss. Or perhaps it was merely excessive drink.
“I’m honored.”