Chapter 2
The Pursuit
The Tearling is not a large kingdom, but it embraces a wide variety of geography and climate. The heart of the country is flat and temperate, much of it rich farmland. In the west, the kingdom is bordered by the Tearling Gulf, and beyond that God’s Ocean, which remained uncrossed until well into the Glynn Queen’s reign. In the south, the country becomes dusty and dry as it reaches the borders of Cadare. On the northern border, above the Reddick Forest, foothills climb into the Fairwitch, an impassable mountain range. And in the east, of course, the Tearling runs a jagged border with Mortmesne. As years passed and the Red Reign of Mortmesne progressed, Tearling monarchs watched this eastern border with deepening unease . . . and for good reason.
—The Tearling as a Military Nation, CALLOW THE MARTYR
Early in the morning, before the sun even thought of breaking the horizon, the Queen of Mortmesne woke from a nightmare.
She lay frozen for a moment, her breath coming quickly, until she recognized the familiar scarlet of her own apartments. The walls were paneled in Tear oak, and everywhere the wood was embossed with dragons, the pattern dyed red. The Queen’s bed was enormous, draped in scarlet silk, seamless and comfortable. But now the pillow beneath her head was soaked with sweat. It was the dream, the same dream that had woken her for two weeks now: the girl, the fire, the man in pale grey with the face she could never quite see, and finally the last flight to the borders of her land.
The Queen rose and moved to the bank of windows that overlooked the city. The borders of the panes were opaque with frost, but her apartments were quite warm. The glassmakers in Cadare created such a marvel of insulation that many claimed they used magic, but the Queen knew this to be false. There was no magic in the surrounding kingdoms but that which she permitted, and she had given the Cadarese no license to enchant their glass or anything else. But the insulation was an impressive achievement. Each year, Mortmesne took a significant portion of Cadare’s tribute in glass.
Below the Queen lay the Crown city of Demesne, silent and mostly dark. A glance at the sky told her it was just before the fourth hour; only the bakers would be awake. The castle beneath her was dead silent, for all of them knew that the Queen never rose before the sun.
Until now.
The girl, the girl. She was the hidden child, Elyssa’s child, she could be no one else. In the Queen’s dreams she was sturdy and dark-haired, with a strong, determined face and her mother’s green Raleigh eyes. But unlike Elyssa, she was a plain thing, and somehow that seemed the worst detail of all, the one that conveyed the most reality. The rest of the dream was a blur of pursuit, thoughts of nothing but escape while the Queen attempted to outrun the man in grey and what appeared to be a conflagration behind him. But when she woke, it was the girl’s face that remained: round and unremarkable, just as her own had once been.
The Queen would have had one of her seers interpret the dream, but they were all merely frauds who enjoyed dressing in veils. Liriane had been the only one with any true gift, and now Liriane was dead. There was no need of the sight anyway. In broad stroke if not in detail, the meaning of the dream was plain enough: disaster.
A thick, guttural sound came from behind her, and the Queen whirled around. But it was only the slave in her bed. She had forgotten about him. He’d performed well, and she’d kept him for the night; a good fuck chased the dreams right away. But she loathed snoring. She watched him with narrowed eyes for a moment, waiting to see if he would do it again. But he only grunted softly and rolled over, and after a moment the Queen turned to stare out the window again, her thoughts already distant.
The girl. If not dead already, she would be soon. But it rankled, to have been unable to find the jewels all these years. Even Liriane had seen nothing of the girl’s whereabouts, and Liriane had known Elyssa well, better than the Queen herself. It was maddening . . . a girl child of known age, with a singular marking on her arm? Even if the child kept the jewels hidden, it should have been an easy search. The Tearling wasn’t a large kingdom.
Where did you hide her, you bitch?
Possibly outside the Tearling, but that would have shown considerable imagination for Elyssa. Besides, any hiding place outside the Tearling would have brought the child under greater dominion of Mortmesne. Elyssa had assumed until the very end that the greatest threat to her child would come from outside the Tearling, and that was another error of judgment. No, the girl was still in the Tearling somewhere; she had to be.
Another snorting rumble came from the bed.
The Queen shut her eyes and rubbed her temples. She hated snoring. She looked longingly at her fire, considered lighting it. The dark thing might give her answers, if she was brave enough to ask questions. But it didn’t like to be summoned, except in the gravest need, and it had no use for weakness. To ask it for help would be to admit doubt of her own ability to find the child.
Not a child anymore. I must stop thinking of her that way. The girl would be nineteen now, and Elyssa hadn’t been a complete fool. Wherever the girl had gone, someone had been training her to survive. To rule.
And I can’t see the jewels.
Another disquieting thought. In the dreams, the girl never wore a necklace; there was no sign of either sapphire. What did that mean? Had Elyssa hidden the jewels somewhere else?
The slave was now snoring steadily, waves that began innocuously enough but built to a crescendo of sound that was probably audible in the bakeries twenty floors below. The Queen had handpicked him for his dark skin and aquiline nose, a clear sign of Mort blood. He was one of the Exiled, a descendant of Mort traitors banished to the western protectorate of Callae. Although she had sent them to Callae herself, the Queen still found the idea of the Exiled strangely exciting. But a slave who snored was no use to anyone.
On the wall beside the window were two buttons, one black and one red. The Queen considered for a moment and then pushed the black button.
Four men came through the door, nearly soundless, clad in the black of the palace guard. All of them had swords drawn. Ghislaine, her guard captain, was not among them, but of course he wouldn’t be. He was too old to work nights anymore.
The Queen pointed to the bed. The guards pounced, laying hold of the snoring man, one to each limb. The slave awoke with a gasp and began to struggle. He kicked a guard with his left leg and rolled over, fighting his way toward the end of the bed.
“Majesty?” asked the ranking guard, gritting his teeth as he held on to a flailing arm.
“Take him down to the lab. Have them remove his tongue and uvula. And sever his vocal cords, just in case.”
The slave screamed and struggled harder as her guard worked to pin him to the bed. One had to admire his strength; he freed his right arm and left leg before one of her guards planted an elbow in the small of his back. The slave gave a shriek of agony and ceased his struggles.
“And after surgery, Majesty?”
“Once he’s healed, offer him to Lady Dumont with our compliments. If she doesn’t want him, give him to Lafitte.”
She turned back to the window as her guard hauled the still-screaming man from the room. Helene Dumont might well want him; being too stupid to hold up a conversation, she liked her men quiet. The shrieks became abruptly muffled as the guards closed the door, and soon they faded altogether.
The Queen tapped her fingers on the windowsill, considering. The fireplace beckoned her, almost begging her to light it, but she was certain that would be the wrong course. The situation wasn’t that dire. The Regent had hired the Caden, and despite her disdain of all things Tear, even the Queen didn’t underestimate the Caden. Besides, if the girl did somehow manage to reach New London alive, Thorne’s people would take care of her. One way or another, by March, the Queen would have the girl’s head on her wall and both necklaces in hand, and then she would be able to sleep, dreamless. She stretched out both hands, palms up, and snapped her fingers. Far out on the western horizon, near the Tear border, lightning flickered.
She turned and went back to her bed.