The Queen of the Tearling

  Be fair, a new voice cautioned in her mind. The voice was neither Carlin’s nor Barty’s; Kelsea couldn’t identify it, and distrusted its pragmatism. What would you have done, with the enemy at the very gates?

  Again, Kelsea had no answer. She gathered the pages of the treaty together into a neat sheaf and straightened them, feeling sick. A new idea occurred to her, one that would have been unthinkable a few weeks ago, but Kelsea had already found her mind trying to insulate itself from further disaster by imagining the worst. She turned to Mace. “Was my mother assassinated?”

  “There were several attempts,” Mace replied indifferently, though Kelsea thought his indifference feigned. “She nearly died of nightshade poisoning when someone got it into her food. That was when she decided to send you away for fostering.”

  “So she did send me away to protect me?”

  Mace’s brow furrowed. “Why else?”

  “Never mind.” Kelsea looked back down at the table, the treaty in front of her. “There’s no mention of a lottery in here.”

  “The lottery is an internal matter. At first, your mother simply sent convicts and the mentally ill. But such people make poor slaves, and the arrangement didn’t satisfy the Red Queen for long. The Census Bureau was your uncle’s answer.”

  “Is no one exempt?”

  “Churchmen. But otherwise, no. Even the babies are taken; their names go into the lot as soon as they’re weaned. They say the Red Queen uses them as gifts for barren families. For a while women got around it by nursing their children well beyond the weaning age, but Thorne’s on to that trick. His people are in every village in the kingdom, and there’s little they don’t know.”

  “Is he loyal to my uncle?”

  “Thorne’s a businessman, Lady. He’ll go whichever way the wind is blowing.”

  “And which way is it blowing now?”

  “Toward Mortmesne.”

  “We should keep an eye on him then.”

  “I always have at least one eye on Arlen Thorne, Lady.”

  “How did my mother actually die? Carlin would never tell me.”

  “They say it was the poison, Lady. That it gradually weakened her heart until she died a few years later.”

  “They say that. What do you say, Lazarus?”

  He stared at her without expression. “I say nothing, Lady. That’s why I’m a Queen’s Guard.”

  Frustrated, Kelsea spent the rest of the day inspecting the Queen’s Wing and meeting various people. They began with her new cook: Milla, a blonde so petite that Kelsea didn’t even want to think about how she’d borne her four-year-old son. Kelsea gathered that Milla had been doing something unpleasant to make ends meet; when told that her only job would be cooking, even for the twenty-odd people who now crowded the Queen’s Wing, she became so violently happy that Kelsea had to tuck her own hands into the folds of her dress, terrified that the woman would try to kiss them.

  The other woman who’d come in with them, Carlotta, was older and round-faced, with bright red cheeks. She seemed frightened, but after a few repeated questions admitted that she could sew passably well. Kelsea asked her for more black dresses, and Carlotta agreed that she could make them.

  “Though I would do better if I took your measurements, Majesty,” she ventured, looking terrified at the very idea. Kelsea found the idea of being measured nearly as terrifying, but she nodded and smiled, trying to put the woman at ease.

  She met several guards who hadn’t been with them on their journey: Caelan, a thuggish-looking man whom everyone simply called Cae; and Tom and Wellmer, both archers. Wellmer seemed too young to be a Queen’s Guard. He was doing his best to appear as stoic as the older men, but he was clearly fidgety; every few seconds he switched his weight between feet.

  “How old is that boy?” Kelsea whispered to Mace.

  “Wellmer? He’s twenty.”

  “What did you do, pick him from a nursery?”

  “Most of us were barely teenagers when we were recruited, Lady. Don’t worry about Wellmer. Give him a bow, and he could pick out your left eye from here, even in torchlight.”

  Kelsea tried to reconcile this description with the nervous, white-faced boy in front of her, but gave up. After the guards went back to their posts, she followed Mace down the corridor to one of the first rooms, which had been hastily converted into a nursery. The room was a good choice; it was one of the few chambers with a window, so that light spilled in and made it seem brighter and cheerier than it really was. All of the furniture had been cleared to the walls, and the floor was littered with makeshift toys: dolls made of cloth and stuffed with straw that leaked from every patch, toy swords, and a wooden shopkeeper’s stall shrunken to child size.

  Kelsea saw a number of children seated in a half-circle in the middle of the nursery, their focus entirely on a beautiful woman with auburn hair whom Kelsea hadn’t seen before. She was telling the children a story, something about a girl with extraordinarily long hair imprisoned in a tower, and Kelsea leaned against the doorway, unnoticed, to listen. The woman spoke with a pronounced Mort accent, but she had a good power of voice and she told her story well. When the prince was injured by the guile of a witch, the corners of the woman’s mouth went down, her face transformed into grief. And then Kelsea knew her, and turned to Mace, astonished.

  He motioned Kelsea away from the door, speaking in a low voice. “She’s been a wonder with the children. The women are content to leave their little ones with her while they work, even Andalie. It’s an unexpected gift; otherwise we’d have children underfoot everywhere.”

  “The women don’t mind that she’s Mort?”

  “Apparently not.”

  Kelsea peered around the doorway again. The redhead was pantomiming now, showing the healing of the prince’s eyes, and she was radiant in the candlelight, a world apart from the miserable creature Kelsea had seen huddled in front of the throne.

  “What happened to her?”

  “I didn’t question her about her life with the Regent, Lady, deeming that her affair. But if I had to hazard a guess . . .” He lowered his voice even further. “She was the Regent’s favorite plaything. He wouldn’t let her conceive, lest it ruin his sport.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mace splayed his hands. “She made no secret of her wish for a child, Lady, even one by the Regent. The rest of your uncle’s women took contraceptives willingly, but not this one. They say he had to lace her food. But he also promised to kill any child she bore; I heard that threat myself.”

  “I see.” Kelsea nodded calmly, though she was fuming inside. She took a last look at the woman, at the group of children. “What’s her name?”

  “Marguerite.”

  “How did my uncle get hold of a Mort slave?”

  “Redheads are even more of a curiosity in Mortmesne than in the Tearling. Marguerite was a gift to your uncle from the Red Queen several years ago, a sign of great favor.”

  Kelsea tipped her head back against the passageway wall. Her shoulder was beginning to throb. “This place is a festering sore, Lazarus.”

  “Leadership was needed, Lady. There was none.”

  “Not even you?”

  “Certainly not.” Mace gestured toward the open doorway. “I would have let your uncle keep his toy. I would have come to an agreement with the Red Queen before stopping the shipment.”

  “I heard what you said earlier.”

  “I know you did. Don’t misunderstand me, Lady. I don’t say that your choices are right or wrong, only that you were needed to do the things you’ve done, and you were not here.”

  There was no tone of reproach in his voice. Kelsea’s irritation quieted, but her shoulder gave another throb, stronger now, and she wondered how on earth simply standing there could have aggravated it. “I need to sit down.”

  Within five minutes her guards had moved the large, comfortable armchair out of Kelsea’s bedchamber and into the audience chamber, where they settled the chair secu
rely against a wall.

  “My throne,” Kelsea murmured.

  “We can’t secure the throne room at present, Lady,” Mace replied. “It has too many entrances, and that twice-damned gallery is simply impossible to cover without more guards. But we could have the throne itself moved in here for the time being.”

  “That seems fairly pointless.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. The crown on your head is a bit pointless as well, but I know you recognize its value. Perhaps a throne serves the same purpose.”

  Kelsea tilted her head, considering. “I’ll need to hold audience, you said.”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose I can’t do that in my armchair.”

  “You could,” Mace replied, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “It would be an unusual development for the Raleigh monarchy. But whatever chair you sit in, this room is much easier to defend and control. There’s only one public entrance to the Queen’s Wing, a long passageway with no openings. You saw it when we came in.”

  “I don’t remember that at all.”

  “Understandable. You were half-conscious both times we dragged you through. There are many hidden ways in and out of this wing, but they’re well guarded, and only I know them all. The passage outside gives us good control of the regular traffic.”

  “All right.” Kelsea lowered herself gingerly into the armchair. “Have I begun to bleed again?” She leaned forward and let Mace peek under the bandage that swaddled her shoulder blade.

  “No blood.”

  “I feel like I should sleep again soon.”

  “Not yet, Lady. Meet everyone at the same time, so no one feels snubbed.” Mace crooked his finger at Mhurn, who was stationed at the opening to the hallway. “Get me Venner and Fell.”

  Mhurn disappeared, and Kelsea relaxed into the armchair. Andalie took a place against the wall, apparently meaning to stay. Kelsea thought Mace might object, but he ignored Andalie entirely, and Kelsea understood that she was supposed to do the same. After years when there had only been Carlin and Barty in her life, she now had so many people around her that some of them were supposed to be invisible. “When can we bring Barty and Carlin here?”

  Mace shrugged. “A few weeks, perhaps. It’ll take time to find them.”

  “They’re in a village called Petaluma, near the Cadarese border.”

  “Well, that simplifies things.”

  “I want them,” Kelsea told him. And she did; she hadn’t realized how badly until this moment. She felt a sudden, fierce longing for Barty, for his clean, leathery smell and the crinkle of his eyebrows when he smiled. Carlin . . . well, she didn’t precisely long for Carlin. In fact, she dreaded the moment when she would need to stand before Carlin and account for her deeds. But Carlin and Barty were a package. “I want them as soon as possible.”

  “Dyer’s the best man for such jobs, Lady. We’ll arrange it when he comes back.”

  “Back from where?”

  “I’ve already sent him on an errand.”

  “What errand?”

  Mace sighed and shut his eyes. “Do me a favor, Majesty: let me do my job in peace.”

  Kelsea bit back another question, annoyed at being silenced, and peeked at the four guards who stood against the walls of the chamber. One of them was Galen, whom Kelsea had never seen before without a helmet. His hair was a shock of grey, and strangely, the lines in his face were even more prominent in torchlight than they’d been out in the forest. Five and forty, at least; he must have been with her mother’s Guard for many years. Kelsea turned this fact over in her mind for a moment before tucking it away.

  The other three were Elston, Kibb, and Coryn, men she’d also met on the journey. These three weren’t quite as old as Galen, but they were still many years beyond Kelsea herself. Kelsea wished more of her guards were younger; her youth only served to increase her isolation here. All four guards kept their eyes resolutely away from Kelsea, a practice she assumed was standard but also found demeaning. After a minute, she grew so tired of not being looked at that she called across the room, “Kibb, how’s your hand?”

  He turned to face her, eyes down, refusing to meet her gaze. “Fine, Lady.”

  “Leave him alone,” Mace muttered.

  Footsteps rapped up the corridor and two men emerged, both dressed in the grey of the Guard. One was tall and thin, the other short and husky, but both moved with the easy, silent grace that Kelsea associated with trained fighters, especially Mace himself. The way they walked together told Kelsea that they were accustomed to moving as a pair. When they bowed low before her, it seemed a choreographed gesture. Kelsea might have thought they were fraternal twins, except that the tall man was at least ten years older than the short one.

  Mhurn followed the two men out of the hallway and stationed himself again at the entrance to the corridor. It had been more than a week since they’d arrived back at the Keep, but Kelsea noticed with some concern that Mhurn looked no more rested than he had out in the countryside. His face was still a pale oval in the torchlight, and she could see the dark sockets around his eyes from here. Why didn’t he sleep?

  “Venner and Fell, Lady,” Mace announced, bringing her attention back to the two men in front of her. “Your arms masters.”

  Once they straightened, Kelsea reached out to shake their hands. They reacted with some surprise, but shook. Fell, the shorter one, had a nasty scar down his cheekbone; the wound had been poorly stitched, or not at all. Kelsea thought of her own wound, Mace’s clumsy stitches in her neck, and shook her head to clear the unwanted thought. Her shoulder was throbbing steadily now, reminding her that it was time to go back to sleep.

  Mace expects me to stay awake, she thought stubbornly. And I will.

  “Well, arms masters, what exactly do you do?”

  The two men looked at each other, but it was Fell who answered first. “I oversee weapons and garrison for Your Majesty’s guard.”

  “I oversee training,” Venner added.

  “Could you get me a sword?”

  “We have several swords for you to choose from, Majesty,” replied Fell.

  “No, not a ceremonial sword, though I know I must have one of those as well. A sword fitted to my build, to wield.”

  Both men gaped at her, then looked instinctively to Mace, which irritated Kelsea so much that she dug her nails into the soft fabric of the armchair. But Mace merely shrugged.

  “To wield, Majesty?”

  Kelsea thought of Carlin, the hard disappointment in her face whenever Kelsea lost her temper. She bit down, hard, on the inside of her cheek. “I’ll need a sword and armor made to my build. And I want to be trained as well.”

  “To swordfight, Majesty?” asked Venner, clearly horrified.

  “Yes, Venner, to swordfight. I’ve learned to defend myself with a knife, but I know little of swords.”

  She looked to Mace to see how he was taking the idea and found him nodding, a thin smile creasing his face. His approval soothed Kelsea’s anger, and she softened her tone. “I won’t ask men to die for me while I sit and do nothing. Why shouldn’t I learn to fight as well?”

  Both men opened their mouths to reply and then stopped. Kelsea gestured for them to continue, and Fell finally spoke. “Only appearance, Lady, but appearance in a queen is important. For you to wield a sword, it’s . . . not queenly.”

  “I can’t be queenly when I’m dead. And I’ve had to defend myself too often lately to be content with only my knife.”

  “You’ll need to be measured, Lady,” Fell replied grudgingly. “And it might take a while to find a blacksmith who’ll make armor for a woman.”

  “Search fast, then. You’re dismissed.”

  Both men nodded, bowed, and headed down the hallway, Venner muttering something to Fell as they went. Mace snorted as they disappeared around the corner.

  “What was that?”

  “He said you couldn’t be less like your mother.”

  Kelsea smiled, but it was a
tired smile. “I suppose we’ll find out. Who’s left?”

  “Arliss, your Treasurer. The Regent has also put in a standing order to speak with you. A nuisance, but it would be good to get him out of the way.”

  Kelsea sighed, thinking of her soft bed, of a hot mug of tea with cream. She jerked awake and realized she had begun to nod off in her chair; Andalie was no longer beside her, and Mace was still waiting. Straightening up, she rubbed her eyes. “Let’s have the Regent first, then the Treasurer.”

  Mace snapped his fingers at Coryn, who nodded and slipped into the kitchen.

  “Speaking of your uncle, I should tell you that he finds himself in greatly reduced circumstances in the last few days.”

  “My heart bleeds.”

  Andalie silently reappeared and handed Kelsea a steaming mug of milky liquid. Taking a cautious sniff, Kelsea smelled black tea, laced with cream. She looked up in surprise at Andalie, who had stationed herself against the wall again, her serene gaze aimed far away.

  “What I mean is,” Mace continued, “I believe the Regent feels ill treated by my decisions. I confiscated most of his property.”

  “In my name?”

  “You were asleep.”

  “Still, it’s my name. Maybe you could wait for me to wake up next time.”

  Mace looked at her, and Kelsea realized that he considered this a dolls-and-dresses moment. She sighed. “What property did you confiscate?”

  “Jewelry, some liquor and tasteless statuary. Some spectacularly bad paintings, gold plate—”

  “Fine, Lazarus, I’ll leave you to do your job in peace, just as you wanted.” She peeked up at him. “You should thank me for that.”

  Mace bowed. “My most humble thanks, your most illustrious—”

  “Stuff it.”

  He grinned, then resumed waiting in silence until a hollow boom echoed through the audience chamber from the double doors on the west wall. These doors stretched nearly twenty feet high and were not only locked but bolted with heavy slabs of oak at the height of a man’s knees and head. Kibb opened a small peephole in the right-hand door while Elston rapped twice on the left. Three answering knocks came from outside, echoing off the east wall and back again, and Elston answered in kind.