She didn’t know. Tear’s sapphire was around her neck, Row’s sapphire tucked deep inside her saddlebag, nestled beside the chunk of rock she had taken from the past. But what good had these things ever done? Mace had once told her that she would have been better off without her sapphires, and Kelsea wondered if he wasn’t right. Somewhere in New London was a crown, a crown that might help her, but that might only be a fool’s hope. Chances were good that she was leading them all into a slaughter.
But I can’t stay here, she thought, feeling resolve strengthen inside her. She looked up at the windows of her mother’s house, sparkling panes that reflected the bright desert and revealed nothing. At the idea of leaving the black-clad woman behind, Kelsea felt only relief. She would not stay here while New London burned. It was, after all, better to die clean.
“Let’s go then,” Mace said abruptly, and turned his horse. Kelsea swayed with him, her stomach dropping; with no control of the horse and her hands tied, she sensed the journey would be extremely unpleasant. But there was no help for it. Katie was there again, her mind doubling Kelsea’s, almost overshadowing it. Kelsea remembered this from that last night in the Keep, when Lily’s mind had pulled her back constantly, beyond her control. She and Katie had moved toward each other gradually, like two spheres approaching each other in orbit, but now Kelsea felt as though the eclipse was almost upon them.
“We ride for New London!” Mace shouted over the assembled crowd of soldiers. “We will not stop except on the Queen’s or my command! If all goes well, we should be there tomorrow evening!”
If all goes well, Kelsea thought sickly. They turned toward the northwest, and even at this great distance, Kelsea fancied that she could hear screams.
Please, Tear, help us, she begged silently. She even held her breath for a moment, hoping for an answer, but none came. William Tear could not help them. They were alone.
Chapter 13
The Tearland
’Tis here, but yet confus’d:
Knavery’s plain face is never seen till us’d.
—Othello, William Shakespeare (pre-Crossing Angl.)
The Town had changed.
Katie could not adequately describe the change, even to herself. But she sensed it every time she walked through the commons. The streets were different than they had been in her youth, empty and cold. Neighbors had fenced themselves in, and dilapidation had begun to set in here and there among the houses, as those who could not maintain their own dwellings were left without aid. The Town had begun to smell of blight.
One night, forty families had simply up and left. By the time anyone realized they were gone, the group was already far out on the plain, working its way steadily south. Jonathan had wanted to go after them, but Katie had talked him out of it. None of these families were part of Row’s church, and at least half of them had reported grievances over the past year. Even if Jonathan convinced them to return, they would be met with the same persecution they had faced before: rocks thrown through windows and pets slaughtered in the dead of night. Two weeks ago, a mob had cornered Ms. Ziv and battered her with sticks, forcing her to close the library.
Katie might have chosen to leave town as well, had her responsibility not been so great. But since Jonathan was here, she wasn’t going anywhere. All the same, the loss of those forty families had taken a toll; among them had been two of the Town’s best carpenters, several dairy farmers, and—most painful to Katie—Mr. Lynn, who ran the sheep farm. Without him, the quality of the Town’s wool was sure to go down.