The Fate of the Tearling: A Novel

Dedication

For Shane, who never asks me to be anyone else.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Map

The Orphan

Book I

Chapter 1: The Regent

Chapter 2: The Town

Chapter 3: Demesne

Chapter 4: Brenna

Chapter 5: Tear’s Land

Book II

Chapter 6: Aisa

Chapter 7: The Fall

Chapter 8: The Tear Lands

Chapter 9: Flight

Chapter 10: Gin Reach

Book III

Chapter 11: The Tear Land

Chapter 12: The Mistress of the House

Chapter 13: The Tearland

Chapter 14: The Great Gamble

Chapter 15: The Tearling

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Erika Johansen

Copyright

About the Publisher

Map

The Orphan

Long before the Red Queen of Mortmesne came to power, the Glace-Vert was already a lost cause. It was a forgotten taiga in the shadow of the Fairwitch, its hardened plains revealing only the barest hint of grass, its few villages mere huddles of huts and mires. Few chose to venture north of Cite Marche, unless no other option presented itself, for life on these plains was harsh. Each summer the villagers of the Glace-Vert sweltered; each winter they froze and starved.

This year, however, they had something new to fear. The frozen hamlets were sealed tight, surrounded by newly built fences, and behind these fences men sat sleepless, hunting knives across their knees, little more than shadow sentinels. Clouds covered the moon, though these clouds did not yet signify the snows of Fairwitch winter. On the foothills above, wolves howled in their strange language, mourning the scarcity of food. Soon desperation would drive the packs south into the forests to hunt for squirrels and stoats, or the rare small child foolish enough to venture alone into the winter woods. But now, all at once, at ten minutes past two, the wolves fell silent. The only sound heard over the Glace-Vert was the lonely moan of the wind.

In the shadow of the foothills, something moved: the black figure of a man, climbing the steep slope. He was sure of foot, but he moved carefully, as though anticipating hazards. Except for his quick, light breathing, he was invisible, nothing more than a shade among the rocks. He had come through Ethan’s Copse, stopping there for two days before continuing northward. During his time in the village, he had heard all manner of tales about the plague that beset its inhabitants: a creature who walked in the night, taking the young. This creature had an old name in the upper Fairwitch: the Orphan. The Glace-Vert had never had to worry about such things before, but now the disappearances were spreading south. After two days, the man had heard enough. Villagers might call it the Orphan, but the man knew the creature’s real name, and though the man ran like a gazelle, he could not escape his own sense of responsibility.

He’s free, the Fetch thought bleakly, wending his way through the thorns on the slope. I didn’t end him when I had the chance, and now he’s free.

The idea tormented him. He had ignored the presence of Row Finn in the Fairwitch for many years because the man was contained. Every few years a child would disappear; unfortunate, but there were greater evils to contend with. The Tearling, for starters, where nearly fifty children disappeared every month under a state seal of approval. Even before the vast evil of the shipment, the Tear had always been like a wayward child, needing constant care. The Raleighs alternated between indifference and predation, and the nobles fought for each scrap while the people starved. For three long centuries, the Fetch had watched William Tear’s dream sink further and further into the mire. No one in the Tearling could even see Tear’s better world any longer, let alone muster the courage to dig for it. Only the Fetch and his people knew, only they remembered. They did not age, did not die. The Fetch stole to entertain himself. He took a petty enjoyment in tormenting the worst of the Raleighs. He kept his eye on the Tear bloodline, almost idly, trying to convince himself that it might matter. Tear blood was easy to track, for certain qualities always presented eventually: integrity, intellectualism and iron resolve. A few Tears had been hanged as traitors over the years, but even under the noose, they never lost the subtle air of nobility that seemed to distinguish the family. The Fetch recognized this nobility: it was the aura of William Tear, the magnetism that had convinced nearly two thousand people to follow him across an ocean into a vast unknown. Even the Mort bitch, flawed as she was, carried a tiny hint of that glamour. But the Red Queen did not breed. For a long time, the Fetch had been convinced that the line was lost.

And then, the girl.

The Fetch hissed as a thorn dug into his hand. It did not puncture the skin; he had not bled in lifetimes. Many times he had tried to end himself, before giving it up as a lost cause. He and Row, both of them had been punished, but he saw now that he had been blind. Rowland Finn had never stopped plotting for one moment in his life. He, too, had been waiting for the girl.

She was the first Raleigh heir who did not grow up in the Keep. The Fetch observed her often, visiting the cottage in secret when he was idle, and sometimes even when he was not. Initially, he could not make out much. Kelsea Raleigh was a quiet child, introspective. Most of her education seemed to be in the hands of that eternal battleaxe Lady Glynn, but the Fetch sensed that the girl’s personality was being quietly and surely shaped by the old Queen’s Guard, Bartholemew. As she grew older, the girl surrounded herself with books, and this, more than anything, convinced the Fetch that she merited special attention. His memories of the Tears were constantly fading, losing their bright shine and becoming dim. But this he remembered: the Tears had always loved their books. One day he had watched the girl sit under a tree in front of the cottage and read a thick book all the way through in four or five hours. The Fetch had been hidden in the trees more than thirty feet away, but he knew absorption when he saw it; he could have crept up and sat down across from her and she would not have noticed. She was like the Tears, he saw now. She lived inside her head as much as out.

From that day on, one of his people had been on the cottage at all times. If a traveler showed a bit too much interest in the occupants—men had followed Bartholemew home from the country market several times—the interested party was never heard from again. The Fetch wasn’t even sure why he exerted so much effort. It was a gut feeling, and one thing William Tear had drilled into them from the beginning was that instinct was a real thing, a thing to be trusted. The Fetch sensed that the girl was different. Important.

She could be a Tear, he told his crew one night over the fire. She could be.

It was always possible. There were several men in Elyssa’s Guard whose origins he did not know. Tear or not, the girl demanded close scrutiny, and as the years passed, he subtly shifted his course. Whenever Thomas Raleigh showed signs of forging an actual alliance with one of the powerful nobles of the Tear, the Fetch would turn all of his attention toward that noble, robbing caravans and storehouses, stealing crops and then vanishing into the night. Enough theft on Thomas’s watch, and any potential alliance was quickly soured. At the same time, the Fetch began to lay his own groundwork in Mortmesne, just beneath the Red Queen’s feet. Should the girl make it to the throne, the Fetch knew, her first test would come in dealing with the shipment. Mortmesne was wide open to anyone who knew how to exploit unrest, and after years of patient work, there was a healthy rebellion under way. So many things to attend to over the years, and so he had naturally let Row Finn slide.

A shape rose suddenly from the rocks ahead, halting his climb. To anyone else, it would appear to be merely a dark silhouette, but the Fetch, who had a great gift of night vision, saw that it was a child: a young boy, five or six years old. His clothes were little more than rags, his skin pallid with the cold. His eyes were dark and impenetrable. His feet were bare.

The Fetch stared at the child for a moment, chilled to his marrow.

I didn’t end him when I could have.

The boy darted forward, and the Fetch hissed at him, like a cat. The boy’s eyes, which had brightened in anticipation, abruptly dimmed, and he stared at the Fetch, bewildered.

I am not meat for you, the Fetch snapped. Go and get your master.

The boy stared at him for a moment longer, then vanished into the rocks. The Fetch covered his eyes, feeling the world tip crazily inside him, a dark vortex. When the girl had cracked the New London Bridge, certainty had crystallized inside him, but all moments since then seemed like a parade of doubt. She was in Mort custody, and Howell’s last message made clear that they were preparing to transport her to Demesne. The True Queen had arrived at last, but she had come too late.

Something was descending the slope. Just a wisp in the darkness, but it had been a long time since anyone could sneak up on the Fetch. He stood his ground, waiting. The last time they had sat down for a conversation had been . . . when? More than two centuries earlier, James Raleigh still on the throne. The Fetch had wanted to see if Row could kill him. The meeting had turned into a cutting party, all right, but neither of them had shed a drop of blood.

We were friends, the Fetch remembered suddenly. Good friends.

But those days had vanished into the distant past, several lifetimes gone. As the black shape before him resolved into a man, the Fetch steeled himself. The settlers of the Fairwitch had created a great deal of apocrypha around the Orphan, but at least one piece was true: they said that the creature had two faces, one light and one dark. Which one would he see today?

Light. The face that turned toward him was the same one the Fetch had always known: pale and autocratic. And sly. Row had always been able to talk circles around anyone; long ago, he had talked the Fetch into the worst decision of his life. They regarded each other in silence, standing on the windy slope, all of Mortmesne laid out behind them.

What do you want? Row asked.

I want to talk you out of this. The Fetch swept a hand at the mountainside below them. This course you’re on. No good will come of it, not even for you.

How do you know my course?

You’re moving south, Row. I’ve seen your things stalking at night in the villages below the Glace-Vert. I don’t know your endgame, but surely poor Mort villagers can have no part of it. Why not leave them alone?

My children are hungry.

The Fetch sensed movement on his right: another of them, a little girl of perhaps ten, perched on top of the rock, watching him, her eyes fixed and unblinking.

How many children do you have now, Row?

Soon they will be a legion.

The Fetch stilled, feeling the dark hole inside him open a bit wider. And then what?

Row said nothing, only smiled wide. There was no humanity in that smile, and the Fetch fought the urge to back away.

You already wrecked Tear’s kingdom once, Row. You really need to do it again?

I had help in wrecking Tear’s Land, my friend. Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten, or do you absolve yourself?

I feel responsible for my sins. I try to repair them.

How are you faring with that? Row spread an arm to encompass the land below them. Mortmesne is an open sewer. The Tear continues to sink.

No, it doesn’t. It’s been propped up.

The girl? Row laughed, a hollow, dismal sound. Come now, Gav. The girl has nothing but a loyal retainer and a gift for public relations.

You don’t fool me, Row. You fear her as well.

Row remained silent for a long moment, then asked, What are you doing here, Gav?

Serving the girl.

Ah! So you’ve swapped loyalties yet again.

That stung, but the Fetch refused to be baited. She has your sapphire, Row. She has Tear’s sapphire, Tear’s blood. She’s been there.

Row hesitated, his dark eyes unreadable. Been where?

To the past. She’s seen Lily, she’s seen Tear.

How do you know?

She told me, and she’s no liar. It’s only a matter of time before she gets to Jonathan. To us.

Row didn’t answer. His eyes darted from rock to rock. The Fetch, sensing that he had finally broken through the wall of indifference, swallowed his anger and pressed forward. Do you not see, Row, how this changes things?

It changes nothing.

The Fetch sighed. He had held back a last bit of information, tucked it away, to be used only in case of direst need. This was a desperate gambit, one that would put Row on the hunt. But these were desperate times. The Queen was in Mort custody, and without her, the Fetch feared that the Tearling would tear itself to pieces, Row or not.

The crown’s been spotted.

Row’s head snapped up, like the head of a dog scenting something on the wind.

The crown?

Yes.

Where?

The Fetch did not answer.

How do you know it’s not the Raleigh crown?

Because I destroyed the Raleigh crown, years ago, to make sure Thomas could never wear it. This is the real crown, Row.

My crown.

The Fetch’s heart sank. Once upon a time he had helped this man, not just willingly but eagerly. They had both committed terrible crimes, but only the Fetch had repented. Row grabbed and took and never looked back. For a moment the Fetch wondered why he had even bothered to come up here, but he pushed the thought aside and plowed onward.

If we got hold of the crown, Row, we could give it to the girl, fix things. We could make up for the past.

You spend all of your years tortured by guilt and assume that others do the same. Don’t imbue me with a conscience. If my crown is out there, I will take it back.

And then what? All the kingdoms in the world won’t change what’s happened to us.

I see your idea now. You think the girl can end you.

It’s possible.

Will she do it, though? Row’s mouth crimped in a malicious grin. She’s an easy child to read, and she’s besotted with you.

She sees only a handsome young man.

Why did you come up here, really? Row asked, and the Fetch caught a gleam of red in his eyes as he moved closer. What did you hope to accomplish?

I hoped to come to an agreement. Help me find the crown. Help me repair the Tearling. It’s never too late, Row, even now.

Too late for what?

To atone for our crimes.

I have committed no crime! Row hissed, and the Fetch was pleased to see that he had touched a nerve. I wished for better, that was all.

And Katie?

You should leave. Row’s eyes were burning brightly now, the flesh of his face turning pale.

At least he still feels, the Fetch told himself, then realized how little that meant. There was no emotion in the world that would ever outweigh Row’s hunger.

And if I don’t leave?

Then I will let my children have you.

The Fetch glanced at the girl who perched on the nearby rock. Her eyes shone almost feverishly, and against his will he found himself uneasy. The child’s bare feet, her toes clenched on the frozen rock, bothered him deeply, for no reason he could ever articulate.

What are they, Row?

You were never a reader, Gav. This is old magic, older than the Crossing, even older than Christ. Ancient creatures, these, but they serve my will.

And you let them loose in the Glace-Vert?

They have just as much right as the next animal.

This statement was so much in character that the Fetch nearly laughed. He and Row might have been right back on the banks of the Caddell, fourteen and fifteen years old, each holding a fishing pole.

Go, now. Row’s voice was low and venomous, his skin so white now that it seemed bleached. Do not get in my way.

Or what, Row? I long for death.

Do you long for the deaths of others? The girl?

The Fetch hesitated, and Row smiled.

"She has freed me, Gav, broken my curse. I have no use for her anymore. If you get in my way, if she gets in my way, I will finish her. It will be the easiest thing I’ve ever done."

Row. He found himself suddenly pleading. Don’t do this. Think of Jonathan.

Jonathan’s dead, Gav. You helped me kill him.

The Fetch hauled back and swung. Row went flying, crashing into a nearby rock, but the Fetch knew that when Row got up, there would be nothing, not even a mark.

Ah, Gav, Row whispered. Have we not done this enough already?

Not enough.

You make your new world, and I make mine. We’ll see who comes out on top.

And the crown?

"My crown. If it’s out there, I will have it."

The Fetch turned and stumbled away, nearly losing his footing on the slope. Ten steps downward, he found that his eyes were blurred with moisture. The wind bit through him. He could not think of Tear without crying, so he turned his mind to what came next.

The priest had been missing for more than a month, and the trail had gone cold. The Fetch’s people were spread out over northern and central Mortmesne, but he would need to get some of them back. Lear and Morgan, perhaps Howell. The Fetch had spent a long time crafting the rebellion that now raged across Mortmesne, but the crown was paramount. They would all need to hunt for it. And then there was the girl—

He sensed eyes on his back, turned, and felt the chill of the wind penetrate more deeply into his bones. The slope behind him was covered with small children, white faces and dark eyes. Bare feet.

God, he murmured. The night seemed filled with phantoms, and he heard Jonathan Tear’s voice, centuries away but very close.

We won’t fail, Gav. How can we fail?

We did fail, the Fetch whispered. Great God, we failed so badly.

He turned and continued down the slope, too fast for caution, almost running now. Several times he nearly lost his balance, but he could not get down soon enough. As he reached the bottom of the slope, he broke into a sprint, tearing across the foothills toward the copse where he had tethered his horse.

On the hillside far above, the children waited silently, a still comber that covered the wide slope. They breathed steadily, a hoarse rattle that echoed against the rocks, but no plume of air was visible between their lips. Row Finn stood at their forefront, watching the tiny figure below. Once upon a time, Gavin had been the easiest man in the world to manipulate. Those days were long gone, as was Gavin himself, his real identity subsumed and steeped in the mythology of the man they called the Fetch. That man would be real trouble, but Row remained sanguine as he surveyed the pale ocean of children around him. They always did as they were told, and they were eternally, unrelentingly hungry. They waited only for his command.

The crown, he whispered, feeling a great excitement course through him, excitement he recognized from long ago: the hunt was beginning, and at the end there lay the promise of blood. He had waited almost three hundred years.

Go.

Book I

Chapter 1

The Regent

Examined in hindsight, the Glynn Regency was not really a regency at all. The role of a royal regent is simple: guard the throne and provide a barrier to usurpers in the rightful ruler’s absence. As a natural warrior, the Mace was uniquely suited for such a task, but the warrior’s exterior also concealed a shrewd political mind and, perhaps more surprisingly, a devoted belief in the Glynn Queen’s vision. In the wake of the abortive second Mort invasion, the Regent did not sit quietly, waiting for his mistress to return; rather, he bent all of his considerable talents toward her vision, her Tearling.

—The Early History of the Tearling, as told by Merwinian

For a brief period, Kelsea had made a practice of opening her eyes whenever the wagon hit a bump. It seemed as good a way as any to mark the passage of time, to watch the landscape change in small flashes. But now the rain had stopped, and the bright sunlight made her head ache. When the wagon jolted her awake again, from what seemed an endless nap, she worked to keep her eyes tightly closed, listening to the movement of horses all around her, the jingle of bridles and the clop of hooves.

Not so much as a piece of silver, a man on her left grumbled in Mort.

We get a salary, another man replied.

Our salary’s tiny.

That’s true enough, a third voice broke in. My house needs a new roof. Our pittance won’t cover that.

Stop griping!

Well, what of you? Do you know why we’re going home empty-handed?

I’m a soldier. It’s not my job to know things.

I heard something, the first voice muttered darkly. "I heard that all of the generals and their pet colonels, Ducarte on down, are getting their share."

What share? There’s no plunder!

They don’t need plunder. She’s going to pay them directly, from the treasury, and leave the rest of us hanging out here in the wind!

That can’t be true. Why would she pay them for nothing?

Who knows why the Crimson Lady does anything?

That’s enough of that! Do you want the lieutenant to hear?

But—

"Shut up!"

Kelsea listened for another minute, but heard nothing more, and so she tipped her head back into the sun. Despite her persistent headache, the light felt good on her bruises, as though it were permeating her skin to heal the tissue beneath. She hadn’t been near a mirror in quite some time, but her nose and cheeks were still swollen to the touch, and she had a fairly good idea of how she looked.

We’ve come full circle, she thought, stifling a dark chuckle as the wagon hit another bump. I see Lily, I become Lily, and now I have her bruises to match.

Kelsea had been captive for ten days: six spent tied to a pole in a Mort tent, and then the last four chained in this wagon. Armor-clad men on horseback surrounded her, precluding any thought of escape, but the horsemen weren’t Kelsea’s real problem right now. The problem sat on the far side of the wagon, staring at her, his eyes narrow slits against the sun.

Kelsea had no idea where the Mort had found this man. He was not old, no more than Pen’s age perhaps, with a meticulously groomed beard that wrapped like a strap beneath his chin. He didn’t have the bearing of a head jailor; in fact, Kelsea was beginning to wonder whether he had any official capacity at all. Was it possible that someone had simply tossed him the keys to Kelsea’s bonds and put him in charge? The more she considered it, the more she was sure that this was exactly what had happened. She had not had even a glimpse of the Red Queen since that morning in the tent. The entire operation had a distinctly improvised feeling.

How are you, pretty? the jailor asked.

She ignored him, though something seemed to shudder in her stomach. He called her pretty, but Kelsea didn’t know whether it was a personal comment or not. She was pretty now, Lily in duplicate, but she would have given anything to have her old face back, though she didn’t know if being plain would have allowed her to escape this man’s attentions. After their third day in the tent, he had administered a thorough, careful beating to her face and upper body. Kelsea didn’t know what had set him off, or even whether he was angry; his face remained empty, void of expression, the entire time.

If I had my sapphires, she thought, staring back at him, refusing to drop her eyes lest he view such behavior as weakness. Weakness encouraged him. Kelsea had spent many hours of this journey fantasizing about what she would do if she ever got her sapphires back. Her short life as queen had comprised many forms of violence, but the threat presented by the jailor was entirely new: violence that seemed to come from nowhere, to accomplish nothing. The very senselessness of it made her despair, and this, too, reminded her of Lily. One night, perhaps a week ago, she had dreamed of Lily, of the Crossing, a bright and gaudy nightmare of fire and raging ocean and pink dawn. But Lily’s life was encapsulated somehow in the sapphires, and they were lost to Kelsea, and now she wondered, almost viciously, why in hell she’d had to go through that, to see so much. She had Lily’s face now, Lily’s hair, Lily’s memories. But what purpose did it all serve, if she couldn’t see the end of the story? Row Finn had told her that she was a Tear, but she didn’t know what that was worth without the jewels. Even Lady Andrews’s tiara was gone now, lost in the camp. Everything of her old life had been left behind.

For good reason.

True. It was important to keep the Tear before her now. Her death must lie somewhere at the end of this journey—she wasn’t even sure why she was alive now—but she left behind a free kingdom, headed by a good man. Her mind conjured an image of Mace, grim and unsmiling, and for a moment she missed him so badly that tears threatened to spill from beneath her closed lids. She fought the impulse, knowing that the man who sat across the wagon would take pleasure in her distress. She was sure that one of the reasons he had beaten her so badly was that she had refused to cry.

Lazarus, she thought, trying to alleviate her dismal mood. Mace sat on her throne now, and although he did not see the world precisely as Kelsea did, he would be a good ruler, fair and decent. But still Kelsea felt a subtle agony, growing with each mile traveled. She had never been outside her kingdom, not once in her life. She didn’t know why she was still alive, but she was almost certainly going to Mortmesne to die.

Something slid along her calf, making her jump. Her jailor had reached across the floor of the wagon and was stroking her leg with one finger. Kelsea could not be more revolted if she had found a tick burrowing into her skin. The jailor was grinning again, his eyebrows lifted as he waited for a response.

I am already dead, Kelsea reminded herself. On paper, she had been a dead woman walking for months. There was great freedom in the thought, and that freedom allowed her to draw her legs inward, as if to curl up in the corner of the wagon, and then, at the last moment, to arch her back and kick her jailor in the face.

Down he went, landing sideways with a thump. The riders around them exploded in laughter, most of it unkind; Kelsea sensed that her jailor was not very popular with the infantry, but that fact would not help her here. She tucked her legs beneath her and brought her chained hands forward, ready to fight as best she was able. The jailor sat up, blood trickling from one of his nostrils, but he seemed not to notice it, didn’t even bother to wipe it away as it worked its way down toward his upper lip.

I was only playing, he said, his voice petulant. Doesn’t pretty like games?

Kelsea didn’t reply. The rapid changes in mood had been her earliest indication that he wasn’t right in the head. There were no patterns of behavior that she could anticipate. Anger, confusion, amusement . . . each time, he reacted differently. The man had noticed his nosebleed now, and he wiped the blood away with one hand, smearing it on the wagon floor.

Pretty should behave herself, he scolded, his tone that of a tutor with a wayward pupil. I’m the man who cares for her now.

Kelsea curled up in the corner of the wagon. Again she thought, ruefully, of her sapphires, and with a blink of surprise, she realized that she actually meant to survive this journey somehow. The jailor was only one in a series of obstacles to be overcome. In the end, she meant to go home.

The Red Queen will never allow that to happen.

Then why is she taking me back to Demesne?

To kill you. She probably means to put your head in the place of honor on the Pike Road.

But this seemed too easy to Kelsea. The Red Queen was a direct woman. If she wanted Kelsea dead, Kelsea’s body would be rotting on the banks of Caddell. There must be something the Red Queen wanted from her, and if so, she might yet go home.

Home. This time it was not the land she thought of, but people. Lazarus. Pen. The Fetch. Andalie. Arliss. Elston. Kibb. Coryn. Dyer. Galen. Wellmer. Father Tyler. For a moment Kelsea could see them all, as though they were gathered around her. Then the image was gone, and there was only glaring sunlight in her eyes, making her head ache. Not a vision, only her mind, trying to free itself. There would be no more magic, not anymore; the reality was this dusty wagon, rolling inexorably onward, taking her away from her home.

The Mace never sat on the throne.

Sometimes Aisa thought he might. It had already become a joke among the Guard: the way the Mace would climb the dais with his purposeful stride . . . and then seat himself on the top step, hulking arms resting on his knees. If it had been a long day, he might condescend to use the battered armchair nearby, but the throne itself remained vacant, an empty monolith of gleaming silver at the apex of the room, reminding them all of the Queen’s absence. Aisa was sure that this was exactly what the Mace intended.

Today, the Mace had ignored the dais altogether, electing instead to sit at the head of the Queen’s dining table. Aisa stood just behind his chair. Several people were standing; even the enormous table would not hold them all. Aisa judged little threat of violence here, but she had a hand on her knife, all the same. She rarely let go of it, even when she slept. On the first night after the bridge—Aisa’s mental life now seemed to be divided into Before and After the Bridge—the Mace had given her her own room, right on the periphery of the Guard quarters. Though Aisa was fond of her siblings, she was relieved to be free of them. That part of her life, the old part, the family part, seemed to cleave away when she worked with the Guard. There was no space for it. Aisa felt safe in her new room, safer than she had ever felt, but sometimes she would still wake in the mornings and find her knife in her hand.

Arliss sat beside the Mace, one of his foul cigarettes jutting from his teeth, shuffling the stack of papers in front of him. Arliss lived by facts and figures, but Aisa didn’t know what good his records would do him here. The problem of the Queen could not be solved on paper.

Next to Arliss was General Hall, accompanied by his aide, Colonel Blaser. Both men were still dressed in full armor, for they had just come in from the front. For the past week, the last remnants of the Tear army had trailed the vast Mort war train as it crossed the Caddell and began a slow but steady progress eastward, across the Almont. As impossible as it seemed, the Mort were withdrawing, packing up their siege equipment and heading home.

But why?

No one knew. The Tear army had been decimated, and New London’s defenses were paper-thin; Elston said that the Mort could have torn right through them. The army was keeping a close eye on the invaders, in case of a trick, but by now even the Mace seemed convinced that the withdrawal was real. The Mort were leaving. There was no sense in it, but it was happening, all the same. General Hall said that the Mort soldiers weren’t even looting on their way home.

All of this was good news, but the mood at this table was anything but ebullient. There had still been no word on the Queen. Her body had not been left behind when the Mort moved out. Maman said she was a prisoner, and the thought made Aisa’s blood boil. The first duty of a Queen’s Guard was to protect the ruler from harm, and even if the Queen wasn’t dead, she was still at the mercy of the Mort. Even Maman could not say what was happening to her in their camp.

On the other side of the Mace sat Pen, his face pale and drawn. Whatever agonies Aisa and the other guards endured over the Queen’s welfare, no one was suffering like Pen, who had been the Queen’s close guard . . . and more, Aisa thought. He was little use these days, for he seemed able to do nothing but mope and drink, and when someone called his name he would only look up in a slightly confused manner. Some part of Pen had been lost on the day the Queen broke the bridge, and although he sat next to the Mace, in the place of a close guard, his gaze remained fixed on the table, lost. Coryn, who sat beside him, was his usual alert self, so Aisa didn’t worry, but she wondered how much more slack Elston was going to extend to Pen. What would it take for someone to voice the truth: that Pen was no longer fit for the job?

Let’s begin, the Mace announced. What news?

General Hall cleared his throat. I should give my report first, sir. There’s good reason.

Let’s have it, then. Where are the Mort?

They’re in the central Almont now, sir, nearing the end of the Crithe. They make at least five miles a day, closer to ten since the rain stopped.

Nothing left behind?

Hall shook his head. We have looked for traps. I believe the withdrawal is genuine.

Well, that’s something, at least.

Yes, but sir—

What about the displaced? Arliss demanded. Can we start sending them home?

I’m not sure it’s safe, certainly not right on the heels of the Mort war train.

Snow has already fallen in the northern Reddick, General. If we don’t harvest the crops soon, there’ll be nothing to reap. Arliss paused to emit a plume of smoke. We also have every problem an overcrowded city ever faced: sewage, water treatment, disease. The sooner we empty it out, the better. Maybe if you—

We’ve sighted the Queen.

The entire table came to attention. Even Pen seemed to wake up.

What are you waiting for? the Mace barked. Report!

We spotted her yesterday morning, out in the Crithe delta. She’s alive, but manacled, chained to a wagon. There’s no opportunity for her to run.

She broke the fucking New London Bridge in half! Arliss snapped. What chains could hold her to a wagon?

Hall’s tone was cool. We couldn’t get a perfectly clear look at her; the Mort cavalry is too thick. But I have a man named Llew who has the vision of a hawk. He’s fairly confident that the Queen no longer wears either of the Tear sapphires.

What is her condition? Pen broke in.

Spots of color darkened Hall’s cheeks, and he turned to the Mace. Maybe we should discuss—

You discuss it right now. Pen’s voice had sunk very low. Is she wounded?

Hall looked helplessly at the Mace, who nodded.

Yes. Her face is bruised up; even I could see it through the spyglass. She’s been beaten.

Pen sank back into his chair. Aisa couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to. The slump of his shoulders said everything. The entire table sat in silence for a moment.

She was upright in the wagon, at least, Hall finally ventured. Healthy enough to stand. I don’t think she has any broken bones.

Where is this wagon? the Mace asked.

Right in the center of the Mort cavalry.

No chance of a direct attack?

None. Even if my army weren’t reduced to a fraction, the Mort are taking no chances. At least a hundred feet of heavy horse surround her on all sides. They’re hustling her along the Mort Road, outdistancing the infantry. I can only assume they’re making straight for Demesne.

The Palais dungeons. Pen rested his forehead on one hand. How the hell do we get her out of there?

The Mort rebellion is poised to move down to Demesne, the Mace reminded him. Levieux’s people will be useful.

How do you know you can trust him?

I know.

Aisa raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t thought much of Levieux, who had left the Keep more than a week earlier. He was handsome, but good looks meant nothing in a scrap. His man Alain did know good card tricks, but they weren’t a patch on Bradshaw’s. A magician might be able to get into the dungeons of the Mort Palais, but the Mace didn’t trust magicians.

The Red Queen will surely face a problem on her right flank now, Arliss mused. There’s no plunder . . . no gold, no women. I don’t know how she got her army to walk away, but they won’t be happy.

So much Levieux has surmised. Unpaid soldiers make wonderful rebels. He expects to be able to recruit heavily when the army gets home.

And what is that to us, Pen demanded, if we don’t have the Queen?

We’ll discuss it later, Pen, the Mace admonished. Be soft now.

Aisa frowned. The Mace kept coddling Pen, trying to talk him out of his foul moods, ignoring it when Pen was insubordinate. Aisa would have given Pen a long stretch of suspension and, failing that, a sharp slap to the face.

Continue to send me reports about the withdrawal, Mace told Hall, but your focus is the Queen. Pick two of your best to follow her into Mortmesne. Make sure we don’t lose sight of her. Dismissed.

Hall and Blaser stood and bowed, then headed for the doors.

We need to talk about the Arvath, said Arliss.

What about it?

Arliss gathered his papers and put them aside. A mob did some damage in the city this morning. They seem to have gathered in the Circus and gone from there, all the way to Bethyn’s Close.

There are always mobs.

This one was special. Their main point of contention seemed to be the lack of morality in the Queen’s government.

The Mace frowned, and so did Aisa. Even as the problem of the Mort rapidly receded, another had sprung up to take its place: the Holy Father. The very day the Queen left the city, the Arvath had publicly announced its refusal to pay property tax, as well as intent to absolve any layman who refused to do the same.

What connects this mob to the Arvath? Coryn asked.

Nothing, Arliss replied. The mob disbanded long before the city constables could get near, and there’s no army to deal with civil unrest anymore. But they broke into a house on the edge of the close and brutalized the two women who lived there. Immoral lifestyle.

A muscle had begun to twitch in the Mace’s cheek. The Holy Father thinks if he pushes me hard enough, I won’t collect the Queen’s taxes. He’s wrong.

The nobles still refuse to pay their taxes, except for Meadows and Gillon. The Creche will take the bulk of the Treasury. We’ve lost the income from the toll gates on the bridge. In a few months, we’re going to be in real trouble.

They’ll pay. The Mace grinned, such a cheerful, murderous grin that Aisa recoiled, but a moment later his face sobered. Any word on the two priests?

Not a peep. They’ve vanished. But the Arvath has heard that we’re keeping up with their bounty. Arliss dug through his stack of papers again. Yesterday’s message from the Holy Father demands that we retract our own reward for Father Tyler, in hope of heaven.

In hope of heaven, the Mace repeated. One day, I’m going to send that man to meet Jesus myself.

One more troubling report. Two days ago, one of my runners spotted several priests leaving New London, taking the back road around the city.

Where did they go?

Demesne, most likely. My man tracked them well down the Mort Road.

The Mace’s face darkened.

Should we pursue it? Elston asked.

No, the Mace replied after a few moments’ thought. If he’s dealing with the Red Queen, my source in the Palais will tell us what passes. What else?

Arliss looked down at his list. We have to bring in the harvest before the snow comes. The entire kingdom is starving for fresh fruit and vegetables. I would think the first farmers to get back out there and cut a crop could command their own price.

That’s no incentive to those who farm a noble’s patch.

Yes, but all the nobles are still in New London. Arliss smiled, a smile of such mischief that Aisa could not help liking him in that moment, foul-smelling cigarettes and all. If Lord Such-and-Such fails to mind his own land while the Mort cross it, who’s to say where the produce went?

And what if the Mort do their own looting on the way home? Elston demanded.

They’re not. I asked Hall’s second. They’re leaving the land untouched, God knows why. Arliss shrugged. Let the farmers go and cherry-pick. Even a few days’ crops would help them cover their winter, if they managed to be the first to market. And their success would beckon the rest.

The Mace nodded slowly. You handle it.

Merritt is still outside, sir, Elston reminded him.

How many Caden with him?

Three.

That’s all?

Yes, sir. But not just any three. The Miller brothers.

Oho. The Mace considered this information for a moment. Aisa didn’t know who the Miller brothers were, but there had been a bitter debate about letting any Caden into the Queen’s Wing. Elston didn’t like it,