The Queen of the Tearling

  Carlin had no patience with theatrics; she tried to reason with Kelsea for only a few minutes before disappearing into her library. It was Barty who’d wiped Kelsea’s face and sat her on his knee until she cried herself out.

  “You’re valuable, Kel,” he told her. “You’re valuable like leather, or gold. And if anyone knew we had you here, they’d try to steal you. You wouldn’t want to be stolen, would you?”

  “But if nobody knows I’m here, then I’m all alone,” Kelsea replied, sobbing. She had been very certain of this proposition: she was a secret, and so she was alone.

  Barty had shaken his head with a smile. “It’s true, Kel, nobody knows you’re here. But the whole world knows who you are. Think about that for a minute. How can you be alone when the whole world is out there thinking about you every day?”

  Even at seven, Kelsea had found this an extremely slippery answer for Barty. It had been enough to dry her tears and calm her anger, but many times in the subsequent weeks she had turned his statement over, seeking the flaw that she knew was there. It was only a year or so later, reading one of Carlin’s books, that she found the word she’d been seeking all along: not alone, but anonymous. She had been kept anonymous all those years, and for a long time she had thought that Carlin, if not Barty, had hidden her out of cruelty. But now, with the two tall men right on her heels, she wondered if her anonymity had been a gift. If so, it was now a gift long gone.

  The men would sleep around the fire, but they had put up a tent for Kelsea, some twenty feet away on the edge of the clearing. As she stepped inside and tied the flap closed, she heard the two guards stationing themselves on either side of the opening, and after that there was silence.

  Dumping her pack on the floor, Kelsea dug through clothes until she found an envelope of white vellum, one of Carlin’s few luxuries. Something shifted and slithered lightly inside. Kelsea sat down on the bedding and stared at the letter, willing it to be filled with answers. She had been taken from the Keep when she was barely a year old, and she had no memory of her real mother. Over the years, she’d been able to glean a few bits of hard fact about Queen Elyssa: she was beautiful, she didn’t like to read, she had died when she was twenty-eight years old. Kelsea had no idea how her mother had died; that was forbidden territory. Every line of questioning Kelsea undertook about her mother ended at the same place: Carlin shaking her head and murmuring, “I promised.” Whatever Carlin had promised, perhaps it ended today. Kelsea stared at the envelope for another long moment, then picked it up and broke Carlin’s seal.

  Out slid a blue jewel on a fine silver chain.

  Kelsea picked up the chain and dangled it from her fingers, staring at it in the lamplight. It was a twin of the necklace that had been around her neck all of her life: an emerald-cut sapphire on a thin, almost dainty silver chain. The sapphire glimmered merrily in the lamplight, casting intermittent blue flickers around the inside of the tent.

  Kelsea reached into the envelope again, looking for a letter. Nothing. She checked both corners. She tilted the envelope up, peering inside against the light, and saw a single word scrawled in Carlin’s writing beneath the seal.

  Careful.

  A sudden burst of laughter from the campfire made Kelsea jump. Heart racing, she listened for any sound from the two guards just outside her tent, but heard nothing.

  She took off her own necklace and held the two side by side. They were indeed identical, perfect twins right down to the minutiae of the chains. It would be all too easy to mix them up. Kelsea quickly put her own necklace back on.

  She held up the new necklace again, watching the jewel swing back and forth, puzzled. Carlin had told her that each heir to the Tearling throne wore the sapphire from the day they were born. Popular legend held the jewel to be a sort of charm against death. When Kelsea was younger, she had thought more than once about trying to take the necklace off, but superstition was stronger; suppose she were struck with lightning on the spot? So she had never dared to remove it. Carlin had never mentioned a second jewel, and yet she must have had it in her possession this whole time. Secrets . . . everything about Carlin was secret. Kelsea didn’t know why she had been entrusted to Carlin for fostering, or even who Carlin had been in her old life. Someone of importance, Kelsea assumed; Carlin carried herself with too much grandeur to live in a cottage. Even Barty’s presence seemed to fade when Carlin entered the room.

  Kelsea stared at the word inside the envelope: Careful. Was it another reminder to be careful in her new life? Kelsea didn’t think so; she’d heard chapter and verse on that subject in the past few weeks. It seemed more likely that the new necklace was different in some way, perhaps even dangerous. But how? Kelsea’s necklace certainly wasn’t dangerous; Barty and Carlin would hardly have allowed her to wear it each day otherwise.

  She stared at the companion jewel, but it simply dangled there smugly, dim lamplight glinting from its many facets. Feeling silly, Kelsea tucked the necklace deep into the breast pocket of her cloak. Perhaps in the daylight it would be easier to see some difference between the two. The envelope went inside the casing of the lamp, and Kelsea watched the flames devour the thick paper, her mind pulsing with low anger. Leave it to Carlin to create more questions than answers.

  She stretched out, looking up at the ceiling of the tent. Despite the men outside, she felt entirely isolated. Every other night of her life, she’d known that Barty and Carlin were downstairs, still awake, Carlin with a book in her hand and Barty whittling or playing with some plant he had found, mixing it up into a useful anesthetic or antibiotic. Now Barty and Carlin were far away, already heading south.

  It’s only me.

  Another low rumble of laughter sounded from around the campfire. Kelsea briefly debated going out there and attempting to at least speak to the guards, but she discarded the idea. They spoke of women, or battles, or perhaps old companions . . . her presence wouldn’t be welcome. Besides, she was exhausted from the ride and the cold, and her thigh muscles ached horribly. She blew out the lamp and turned over on her side to wait for uneasy sleep.

  The next day they rode more slowly, for the weather had turned murky. The air had lost its icy feel, but now a thin, sickly mist clung to everything, wrapping around tree trunks and moving over the ground in visible tides. The country was gradually flattening, the woods growing sparser each hour, trees giving way to thick undergrowth. More animals, most of them strange to Kelsea, began to appear: smaller squirrels and drooling, doglike creatures that would have seemed like wolves but that they were docile and fled at the sight of the troop. But they didn’t see a single deer, and when the morning was well over, Kelsea identified another source of her growing uneasiness: not a single note of birdsong.

  The guards seemed subdued as well. Kelsea had been awakened several times during the night by the continuous laughter from the campfire and had wondered whether they would ever shut up and go to sleep. Now all of their mirth seemed to have departed with the bright weather. As the day wore on, Kelsea noticed more and more of the guards shooting hunted glances behind them, though she could see nothing but trees.

  Near midday, they stopped to water the horses at a small stream that bisected the forest. Carroll pulled out a map and huddled around it with several guards; from the snatches of conversation she overheard, Kelsea gathered that the mist was causing problems, making landmarks difficult to see.

  She limped over to a large, flat rock beside the stream. Sitting down was excruciating, her hip muscles seeming to peel away from the bone when she bent her knees. With some maneuvering, she got herself sitting cross-legged, only to find that her bottom was also aching from hours on the saddle.

  Elston, the hulking, broad-shouldered guard who had ridden beside Kelsea for much of the journey, followed her to the rock and stationed himself five feet away. When she looked up, he grinned unpleasantly, showing a mouthful of broken teeth. She tried to ignore him and stretched out one of her legs, reaching toward her foot. Her thigh musc
les felt as though they were being shredded.

  “Sore?” Elston asked her. His teeth gave him difficulty with enunciating; Kelsea had to think for a moment to figure out what he’d meant.

  “Not at all.”

  “Hell, you can barely move.” He chuckled, then added, “Lady.”

  Kelsea reached out and grabbed her toes. Her thigh muscles screamed, and Kelsea felt them as raw flesh, seams that opened and bled inside her body. She held her toes for perhaps five seconds and then released them. When she looked up at Elston again, she found him still smiling his jagged smile. He didn’t say anything else, only stood there until it was time for them to mount up again.

  They made camp near sunset. Kelsea had barely dropped to the ground when her reins were plucked from her hand; she turned and found Mace guiding the mare away. She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of that and turned back to the rest of the Guard, who were also going about their various tasks. She noticed the youngest guard pulling the makings of her tent from his saddlebags.

  “I’ll do it!” she called and strode across the clearing, holding out her hand for some tool, perhaps some weapon, she didn’t care which. She’d never felt more useless.

  The guard handed her a flat-headed mallet and remarked, “The tent does require two people, Highness. May I help you?”

  “Of course,” Kelsea replied, pleased.

  Given one person to hold things and one to pound them in, the tent was a simple enough business, and Kelsea talked to the guard as she moved along with the mallet. His name was Pen, and he was indeed relatively young; he appeared to be no more than thirty, and his face held none of the wrinkles or wear that seemed tunneled into the faces of the rest of the guards. He was handsome, with dark hair and an open, good-natured face. But then again, they were all handsome, her mother’s guards, even those over forty, even Elston (when his mouth was closed). Surely her mother wouldn’t have chosen her guards only for their looks?

  Kelsea found Pen easy to talk to. When she asked his age, he told her he’d just had his thirtieth birthday four days since.

  “You’re too young to have been in my mother’s guard.”

  “That’s right, Lady. I never knew your mother.”

  “Then why did they bring you on this errand?”

  Pen shrugged and made a self-explanatory gesture toward his sword.

  “How long have you been a guard?”

  “Mace found me when I was fourteen years old, Lady. I’ve been in training ever since.”

  “With no ruler in residence? Have you been guarding my uncle?”

  “No, Lady.” A shadow of distaste crossed Pen’s face, so quickly Kelsea might have imagined it. “The Regent keeps his own guard.”

  “I see.” Kelsea finished pounding a stake into the ground, then stood up and stretched with a grimace, feeling her back pop.

  “Are you adjusting to the pace, Highness? I assume you’ve undertaken few long journeys on horseback.”

  “The pace is fine. And necessary, I understand.”

  “True enough, Lady.” Pen lowered his voice, glancing around them. “We’re being tracked hard.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The hawks.” Pen pointed skyward. “They’ve been behind us since we left the Keep. We arrived late yesterday because we took several detours to throw off pursuit. But the hawks can’t be fooled. Whoever controls them will be behind us now—”

  Pen paused. Kelsea reached out for another stake and remarked casually, “I heard no hawks today.”

  “Mort hawks make no sound, Lady. They’re trained for silence. But every now and again, you might see them in the sky if you’re looking out for them. They’re devilish quick.”

  “Why don’t they attack?”

  “Our numbers.” Pen spread out the last corner of the tent so that Kelsea could stake it. “The Mort train their hawks as you would soldiers, and they won’t waste themselves by attacking a superior force. They’ll try to pick us off one by one if they can.”

  Pen paused again, and Kelsea waved the mallet at him. “You needn’t worry about frightening me. I must fear death no matter which stories you choose to tell.”

  “Perhaps, Lady, but fear can be hobbling in its own way.”

  “These pursuers, do they come from my uncle?”

  “Likely, Lady, but the hawks suggest that your uncle has help.”

  “Explain.”

  Pen looked over his shoulder, muttering, “It was a direct order. Should Carroll ask, I’ll tell him so. Your uncle has dealt with the Red Queen for years. Some say they’ve made alliance in secret.”

  The Queen of Mortmesne. No one knew who she was, or where she came from, but she had become a powerful monarch, presiding over a long and bloody reign for well over a century now. Carlin considered Mortmesne a threat; an alliance with the neighboring kingdom could be a good thing. Before Kelsea could ask further questions, Pen had moved on. “The Mort aren’t supposed to sell their weaponry to the Tear, but anyone with enough money can get hold of Mort hawks on the black market. My guess is, we have Caden behind us.”

  “The assassins’ guild?”

  Pen snorted. “A guild. That’s assigning them too much organization, Lady. But yes, they’re assassins, and very competent ones. Rumor is that your uncle has offered a large reward to anyone who can track you down. The Caden live for such challenges.”

  “Will our numbers not stop them?”

  “No.”

  Kelsea digested this information, looking around her. In the middle of the camp, three guards were hunched around the pile of gathered firewood, cursing assiduously as it refused to light. The others were dragging felled trees together to make a crude enclosure around the camp. The purpose behind all of these defenses was clear enough now, and Kelsea felt a helpless trickle of fear, mixed with guilt. Nine men, all of them now targeted along with her.

  “Sir!”

  Carroll came stomping out of the trees. “What is it?”

  “Hawk, sir. From the northwest.”

  “Well-spotted, Kibb.” Carroll rubbed his forehead and, after a moment’s deliberation, approached the tent.

  “Pen, go help them with dinner.”

  Pen gave Kelsea a brief, mischievous smile that seemed to convey goodwill and disappeared into the dusk.

  Carroll’s eyes were dark circles. “They come for us, Lady. We’re being tracked.”

  Kelsea nodded.

  “Can you fight?”

  “I can defend myself against a single attacker with my knife. But I know little of swords.” And, Kelsea realized suddenly, she had been trained in self-defense by Barty, whose reflexes were not those of a young man. “I’m no fighter.”

  Carroll tilted his head, a flash of humor in his dark eyes. “I don’t know about that, Lady. I’ve watched you on this journey; you hide your discomfort well. But we’re coming to the point”—Carroll looked around and lowered his voice, then continued—“we’re coming to the point where I may need to split my men to evade pursuit. If so, my choice of bodyguard for you will depend much on your own abilities.”

  “Well, I’m a fast reader, and I know how to make stew.”

  Carroll nodded in approval. “You’ve a sense of humor about all this, Lady. You’ll need one. You’re entering a life of great danger.”

  “You’ve all placed yourselves in great danger to escort me to the Keep, yes?”

  “Your mother charged us with this task, Lady,” Carroll replied stiffly. “Our own honor would allow nothing less.”

  “You were my mother’s man, were you not?”

  “I was.”

  “Once I’m delivered to the Keep, will you be the Regent’s man?”

  “I haven’t decided, Lady.”

  “Can I do anything to influence that decision?”

  He looked away, clearly uncomfortable. “Lady . . .”

  “Speak freely.”

  Carroll made a helpless gesture with his hands. “Lady, I think you’re ma
de of much stronger stuff than you appear. You strike me as one who might make a real queen one day, but you’re marked for death, and so are those who follow you. I have family, Lady. Children. I wouldn’t use my children as a stake in a game of cards; I can’t set their lives at hazard by following you, not in the face of such odds.”

  Kelsea nodded, hiding her disappointment. “I understand.”

  Carroll seemed relieved. Perhaps he had expected her to begin blubbering. “Because of my station, I would know nothing of any specific plot against you. You may have better luck asking Lazarus, our Mace; he’s always been able to discover what others can’t.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “Be wary of God’s Church. I doubt the Holy Father bears any special love for the Regent, but he must love the person who sits on the throne and holds the keys to the treasury. He’ll play the odds, just as we must.”

  Kelsea nodded again. Carlin had said something very similar, only a few days ago.

  “All of these men in my troop are good men. I stake my life on it. Your executioner, when he comes, won’t be one of us.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Kelsea watched as the guards finally lit a fire and began to fan the small flame. “I guess it will be a hard road from now on.”

  “So your mother said, eighteen years ago, when she charged me to bring you back.”