Jen Devlin’s face beneath her, eyes bulging and cheeks turning purple as Kelsea throttled the woman, neither liking nor disliking the agonized confusion in Jen’s eyes, only thinking that it was Jen’s own fault for trusting, for thinking she meant well
Staring down at the pile of rough-cut sapphires in her hand, not sure what to do with them, not sure what she had accomplished, only that here at last was something that was hers
They crested the rise of the boulevard and here was the Keep Lawn, but not as she had left it. There were more Mort here, scattered across the lawn and circling the Keep. The drawbridge was down and the gate appeared to have already fallen, but the bulk of the Mort were busily at work with a ram, all the same. Several of them were trying to climb the Keep’s stone outer wall, aiming for the balconies on the third floor.
“Where’s the Captain?” Coryn shouted behind her.
“Gone!” Elston shouted back. “He was with us on the boulevard, and then I don’t know!”
Kelsea shook her head. She could not be bothered with Mace right now, or with any of them. She had business to tend to, for she had spotted something on the lawn below: a white tent, topped with a cross. If His Holiness had escaped the Arvath, so much the better. Her mind reached out to Row Finn, looking for fire, the fire he had always controlled, and when she found it she gasped in joy, watching the white tent go up, men’s shrieks echoing through the fabric. The men on the walls were next; they toppled into the moat and disappeared, leaving only a widening pool of blood on top of the water. The men at the gate had oil, she saw now, and had been preparing to set fires themselves, across the wide front expanse of her Keep. She grabbed at the men’s insides and yanked, smiling as blood sprayed across the lawn and their bodies fell where they stood.
“Lady! The Captain!”
Elston’s voice. Annoyed again, Kelsea turned and saw that he was pointing up the hill toward the entrance to the boulevard. The view struck a chord of memory in her, so clear that it was almost déjà vu, and she shivered, coming back to herself a bit; when
—People of the Tearling!—
had that been?
At the entrance to the lawn, Mace was battling with four men in red cloaks. It was a day for memories; for a moment, Kelsea wondered whether they were back on the shores of the Caddell, battling for their lives. A small form was beside Mace, tiny really, next to his bulk, battling as well. The tiny warrior’s hood dropped, and she saw Andalie’s daughter, Aisa, trying to hold off two Caden with her knife. Her face was bright with fever, and her left arm dangled limply at her side. It was no contest; as Kelsea watched, one of the Caden grabbed her and broke her neck over his arm.
Behind her, Kelsea heard a long shriek from the Keep: Andalie, but Kelsea could not trouble about her now either. A third form was fleeing down the hill toward Kelsea and her Guard, and the tide of violence inside Kelsea was momentarily muted as she recognized Father Tyler. Unreality washed over her again, the same sense of being half in a dream that she had experienced, on and off, ever since she had woken in her mother’s house.
Father Tyler had the look of a scarecrow; his filthy clothing hung off him like a sail. Mace covered his retreat, holding the four Caden off. Dyer and Kibb had gone to help him, but there was no need for that; Kelsea could take care of the four cloaked men easily. She no longer feared the Caden, or anyone else.
“Get her inside!” Mace shouted. He left Dyer and Kibb to it and came running down the hill, shepherding them all onward.
Inside where? Kelsea wondered, but when she turned back to the Keep she saw that, by some miracle, the gate was open. Dead Mort lay strewn around the drawbridge and the lower lawn, and Kelsea could only marvel at the sight; had she done that? No, of course not. It had been the Queen of Spades.
“Lady, run!” Elston shouted, grabbing her arm, pointing to the top of the hill. Following his gaze, Kelsea felt real fear overtake her for the first time that day. The entrance to the Great Boulevard was crammed with children, a horde so vast that they were shoving and squeezing past each other to gain access. Like the little girl in the dungeon, they loped on all fours, and this made it easy to distinguish the tall figure on two legs who stood in their midst: Row Finn, with pale white skin and glaring eyes. He had finally dispensed with his handsome face, and Kelsea had no power to stop him. She sensed a wall there, surrounding him and the children, the same sort of shield the Red Queen had thrown up to defend her army below the New London walls.