The Queen of the Tearling

  She watched him narrowly, clearly expecting an outburst, but Tyler said nothing. As far as he was concerned, God had never lived in that chapel. The Holy Father would rant and rave, but Tyler couldn’t worry about that now. He was focused on the exact task he’d been given.

  “You are not, at any time, to attempt to proselytize me,” the Queen continued. “I’ll have none of it. I won’t silence you when you speak to others, but I may debate you to the best of my ability. If you can tolerate my arguments, you’re free to minister to or convert any other occupant of this Keep, not excepting the pigs and chickens.”

  “You make sport of my religion, Lady,” replied Tyler, but his words were automatic, without rancor. He had long outgrown the period of his life when atheism could rouse his temper.

  “I make sport of all things inconsistent, Father.”

  Tyler’s attention was drawn to the silver tiara on her head, the tiara that he had held in his hand. Again he was arrested by the revolving nature of history; it repeated itself in such extraordinary and unexpected ways. There had been another monarch, a pre-Crossing monarch, crowned amid bloodshed, never meant to ascend the throne. Where had it been . . . France? England?

  The Holy Father won’t care about the pre-Crossing, his mind whispered, and Tyler shook himself from such thoughts. “If there’s no chapel in the Keep, Majesty, and you yourself reject the word of God, what exactly am I to do here?”

  “You’re an academic, I’m told, Father. What is your area of expertise?”

  “History.”

  “Ah, good. That will be your use to me. I’ve read many works of history, but I’ve missed many also.”

  Tyler blinked. “What works of history?”

  “Works mostly of the pre-Crossing. I flatter myself that I have a good knowledge of pre-Crossing history, but I’m poorly informed about early Tear history, and particularly the Crossing itself.”

  Tyler stuck on one piece of information. “What works of the pre-Crossing?”

  The Queen smiled, slightly smug, the corners of her mouth tucking downward. “Come with me, Father.”

  The Queen’s wound must have been well on the way to healing, for she rose from the throne without assistance. Tyler made no sudden moves as he followed her down the steps, avoiding the guards who shifted themselves expertly to follow her progress and block him off. He could sense the Mace right behind him, and resolved not to turn around.

  The Queen walked in a purposeful way that many would describe as mannish. No one had taught her the graceful little steps that Tyler had observed in women born ladies. The Queen moved in great strides, so great that Tyler, whose arthritic hip never really quieted these days, was hard-pressed to keep up. He sensed again that he was in the middle of something extraordinary, and didn’t know whether to thank God or not.

  Pen Alcott walked a few feet ahead of Tyler, right on the Queen’s heels, his hand on his sword. Tyler had assumed that the Mace would be her close guard; no doubt the whole kingdom had thought so. But the Mace had other business several days ago, in the south of the kingdom. News of the fire that destroyed the southern Graham stronghold had run like quicksilver through the Arvath. The Grahams were generous donors, and the senior Lord Graham was one of the Holy Father’s old friends. The Holy Father had made it clear that Tyler should call the Mace and his mistress to account.

  Later, Tyler thought. For now, the exact task I was given.

  The Queen led Tyler down a long corridor behind the throne, a corridor with at least thirty doors. It was a servant’s wing, Tyler realized with astonishment. Could anyone, even a queen, need that many servants?

  Only a few of the doors were guarded. When the Queen approached one of them, the guard opened the door and then stood aside. Tyler found himself in a small chamber that was nearly empty, save for a desk and a few armchairs and sofas. It seemed an odd use of space. But then he halted just inside the threshold, dumbfounded.

  The far wall was covered with books, beautiful leather-bound volumes in the rich hues that had been used before the Crossing: red, blue, and most astonishing of all, purple. Tyler had never seen purple leather, hadn’t even known it was possible. Whatever the dye was, the formula had been lost.

  At a gesture of invitation from the Queen, Tyler ventured closer, assessing the quality of the books with a collector’s eye. His own collection was much smaller; many of his volumes were as ancient as these, but most were bound in cloth or paper, and required great care and constant treatment with fixatives to keep them from falling to pieces. Someone had taken equally conscientious care of these books. Their leather bindings appeared to be intact. There had to be well over a thousand, but Tyler noted—with some satisfaction—that he had many titles that the Queen’s collection was lacking. His fingers itched to touch the books, but he didn’t dare without her permission.

  “You may, Father.” When he looked up, he found her watching him with clear amusement, her mouth curled as if at a private joke. “I told you that you were no card player.”

  Tyler turned eagerly to the shelf. Several authors’ names immediately leaped out at him. He took down a Tuchman book and opened it gently, grinning with delight. Most of his own books had been treated with an imperfect fixative, leaving their pages wrinkled and discolored. This book’s pages were crisp yet soft, nearly white. There were also several inset pages of photographs, and these he perused closely, almost unaware that he was speaking at the same time. “I have several Tuchman books, but this one I’ve never seen. What’s the subject?”

  “Several eras of pre-Crossing history,” the Queen replied, “used to illustrate the fact that folly inherently pervades government.”

  Despite his fascination with the book, something in the Queen’s tone made Tyler close the cover. Turning, he found her staring at her books with utter devotion, like a lover. Or a priest.

  “The Tearling is in crisis, Father.”

  Tyler nodded.

  “The Arvath gave its blessing to the lottery.”

  Tyler nodded again, his face coloring. The shipment had rolled right past the Arvath for years, and even from his small window, Tyler had always been able to hear the tide of misery below. Father Wyde said that sometimes the families followed the shipment for miles; rumor had it that one family had even walked behind the cages all the way to the foothills of Mount Willingham. As far as Tyler knew, Father Timpany had given the Regent absolution for his sins with the sanction of the Holy Father. It was so much easier for Tyler to ignore these matters in his room, with his mind wrapped in his studies, his bookkeeping. But here, with the Queen staring at him, her expression demanding explanation, the things Tyler knew deep down couldn’t be so easily dismissed.

  “So what do you think?” the Queen asked. “Have I pursued folly since taking the throne?”

  The question seemed academic, but Tyler understood that it wasn’t. It hit him suddenly that the Queen was only nineteen years old, and that she had cheated death for years. And yet her first act upon arrival had been to poke a stick at a hornets’ nest.

  Why, she’s frightened, he realized. He would never have considered the possibility, but of course she would be. He could see that she had already taken responsibility for her actions, that consequences already sat on her shoulders. Tyler wanted to say something reassuring but found that he couldn’t, for he didn’t know her. “I can’t speak to political salvation, Majesty. I’m a spiritual adviser.”

  “No one needs spiritual advice right now.”

  Tyler spoke more sharply than he intended. “Those who cease to worry about their souls often find them difficult to reclaim later, Majesty. God doesn’t make such distinctions.”

  “How do you expect anyone to believe in your God in these times?”

  “I believe in my God, Majesty.”

  “Then you’re a fool.”

  Tyler straightened and spoke coldly. “You’re welcome to believe what you like, and think what you like of my church, but don’t malign my faith. Not i
n front of me.”

  “You don’t give the Queen orders!” the Mace snarled.

  Tyler cringed; he had forgotten that the Mace was there. But the Mace fell silent as suddenly as he’d begun, and when Tyler turned back to the Queen, he found her wearing an odd smile, both rueful and satisfied.

  “You are genuine,” she murmured. “Forgive me, but I had to know. There must be so few of you living over in that golden nightmare.”

  “That’s unfair, Majesty. I know many good and devout men in the Arvath.”

  “Was it a good and devout man who sent you to keep an eye on me, Father?”

  Tyler couldn’t answer.

  “Will you live in here with us?”

  Thinking of his books, he shook his head. “I’d prefer to remain in the Arvath.”

  “Then I propose an exchange,” the Queen replied briskly. “You take the book in your hand and borrow it for a week. Next Sunday, you’ll return it to me, at which time you may borrow another. But you’ll also bring me one of your own books, one I don’t have.”

  “A library system,” Tyler replied with a smile.

  “Not exactly, Father. Clerks are already at work copying my own books, several at a time. When you loan me a book, they’ll copy it as well.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “I’ll hold master copies here in the Keep, but sooner or later, I’ll find someone who can construct a printing press.”

  Tyler inhaled sharply. “A press?”

  “I see this land flowing with books, Father. Widespread literacy. Books everywhere, as common as they used to be in circulation before the Crossing, affordable even for the poor.”

  Tyler stared at her, shocked. The necklace on her chest twinkled; he could have sworn it had winked at him.

  “Can’t you see it?”

  And after another moment, Tyler could. The idea was staggering. Printing presses meant bookshops and libraries. New stories transcribed. New histories.

  Later, Tyler would realize that his decision was made then, that there was never any other path for him. But in the moment, he felt only shock. He stumbled away from the bookshelves and came face-to-face with the Mace, whose face had darkened. Tyler hoped the man’s anger wasn’t directed toward himself, for he found the Mace terrifying. But no, the Mace was looking at the books.

  An extraordinary certainty dawned in Tyler’s mind. He tried to dismiss it, but the thought persisted: the Mace could not read. Tyler felt a stab of pity, but turned quickly away before it showed on his face. “Well, it’s quite a dream, Majesty.”

  Her face hardened, the corners of her mouth tucking in. The Mace gave a quiet grunt of satisfaction, which only seemed to irritate the Queen further. Her voice, when she spoke, was businesslike, all passion vanished. “Sunday next, I’ll expect you. But you’re welcome in my court anytime, Father.”

  Tyler bowed, feeling as though someone had grabbed him and shaken him hard. This is why I never leave my room, he thought. So much safer there.

  He turned and trudged back toward the audience chamber, clutching the book in his hand, nearly oblivious to the three guards who followed him. The Holy Father would undoubtedly want an immediate report, but Tyler could sneak into the Arvath through the tradesmen’s entrance. It was Tuesday, and Brother Emory would be on duty; he was young and lazy, and often forgot to report arrivals. Tyler might read well over a hundred pages before the Holy Father knew he’d returned.

  “And Father?”

  Tyler turned and found the Queen seated on her throne, her chin propped on one hand. The Mace stood beside her, as forbidding as ever, his hand on his sword.

  “Majesty?”

  She grinned impishly, looking her true age for the first time since Tyler had seen her. “Don’t forget to bring me a book.”

  On Monday Kelsea sat on her throne, biting relentlessly at the inside of her cheek. Technically, she was holding audience, but what she was really doing was allowing various interested parties to have a look at her, and looking at them in turn. After the incident with the assassin, she’d thought that Mace might cancel this event, but now he seemed to consider it even more important that Kelsea show her face. Her first audience went ahead on schedule, although the entire Queen’s Guard had been stationed in the audience chamber, even those who usually worked the night and slept during the day.

  True to his word, Mace had moved the great silver throne, along with its dais, into the Queen’s Wing. After perhaps an hour perched on the throne, Kelsea discovered that silver was hard, and worse, it was cold. She longed for the comfort of her old, worn armchair. She couldn’t even slouch; there were too many eyes on her. A crowd of nobles thronged the room, many of them the same people who had attended her crowning. She saw the same clothing, the same hairstyles, and the same excess.

  Kelsea had spent long hours preparing for this audience with Mace and Arliss, as well as with Marguerite, who had a surprising amount of information to share about the Regent’s allies in the nobility. The Regent had kept her nearby at all times, even while doing business. This further evidence of her uncle’s poor judgment came as no surprise to Kelsea, but it made her feel despondent all the same.

  “Are you happy here?” Kelsea had asked Marguerite, when they finished talking for the night.

  “Yes,” replied Marguerite, so quickly that Kelsea didn’t think she understood the question. Marguerite knew a fair amount of Tear, but she’d been delighted to find that Kelsea spoke good Mort, so they spoke in that language. Kelsea tried her question again, making sure she was using the correct words.

  “I understand that you were delivered here, against your will, from Mortmesne. Don’t you want to go home?”

  “No. I like taking care of the children, and there’s nothing for me in Mortmesne.”

  “Why?” Kelsea asked, confused. She found Marguerite to be both educated and intelligent, and when it came to human nature the woman was smart as a whip. Kelsea had been pondering what to do about the rest of the Regent’s women; she had no urge to have them all invade the Queen’s Wing, nor could she offer them any sort of gainful employment. But she thought they deserved something from the Crown, since their lives couldn’t have been easy.

  Marguerite had assured Kelsea that the other women would be snapped up quickly as paid companions by nobles, most of whom had cast a jealous eye on the Regent’s women for years. This was useful information, if an extremely unwelcome insight into the male psyche, and Marguerite had been right; when Coryn went to make sure that the Regent had cleared out, the women and their belongings were gone as well.

  “Because of this,” Marguerite replied, running an explanatory hand up her body and circling it around her face. “This determines what I am.”

  “Being beautiful?”

  “Yes.”

  Kelsea stared at her, bewildered. She would give anything to look like Marguerite. The Fetch’s voice echoed in her head, always within cutting reach: Far too plain for my taste. She had already noticed how, on those rare occasions when Marguerite emerged from the nursery, the guards’ eyes followed her across the room. There was no overtly boorish behavior, nothing for which Kelsea could take them to task, but sometimes she wanted to reach out and slap them, scream in their faces: Look at me! I’m valuable too! Eyes followed Kelsea across the room as well, but it wasn’t the same at all.

  If I looked like Marguerite, the Fetch would worship at my feet.

  Some of this must have shown on Kelsea’s face, for Marguerite smiled sadly. “You think of beauty only as a blessing, Majesty, but it brings its own punishments. Believe me.”

  Kelsea nodded, trying to look sympathetic, but in truth she was skeptical. Beauty was currency. For every man who valued Marguerite less because of her beauty, there would be a hundred men, and many women as well, who automatically valued her more. But Kelsea liked Marguerite’s grave intelligence, so she tried to curb her resentment, though something inside told her that it would be a constant struggle, to look at this woman ever
y day without jealousy.

  “What’s Mortmesne like?”

  “Different from the Tearling, Majesty. At first glance, better. Not so many poor and hungry. Order in the streets. But look long enough, and you will notice that all eyes are afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Of her.”

  “They’re afraid here, too, but not of me. Of the lottery.”

  “Once, perhaps, Majesty.”

  The people in the audience chamber certainly weren’t afraid of Kelsea. Some of them looked at her wistfully, some with suspicion. Mace, not liking the pockets of shadow created by the crowd, had ordered the walls hung with extra torches for the audience, and he had also produced a herald from somewhere, a thin, harmless boy-man named Jordan with an extraordinarily deep, clear voice, who announced each personage before the throne. Those who wanted to have private speech with Kelsea came forward only after being searched for weapons and cleared by Mhurn. Some had come simply to swear fealty, perhaps in the hope of gaining access to the treasury or putting Kelsea off her guard. Many of them tried to kiss her hand; one noble, Lord Perkins, even succeeded in planting a moist, sticky patch on her knuckle before Kelsea could yank free. She tucked both hands inside the black folds of her skirt to keep them safe.

  Andalie sat on a chair to Kelsea’s right, the seat several inches lower so that she appeared shorter than Kelsea. Kelsea had argued against this arrangement, but Andalie and Mace had overruled her. As Lord Perkins and his retinue left the dais, Andalie offered a cup of water, which Kelsea accepted gratefully. Her wound was healing well, and she could sit up for longer periods now, but she had been exchanging pleasantries more or less nonstop for two hours and her voice was becoming unwieldy.

  A noble named Killian came forward with his wife. Kelsea searched through the files in her mind and placed the man: Marguerite had told her that Lord Killian liked to gamble at cards and that he had once knifed another noble over a disputed hand of poker. None of his four children had ever run afoul of the lottery. The Killians looked more like twins than husband and wife; both had round, well-fed faces, and both eyed her with the same expression Kelsea had seen on the faces of many nobles over the course of the day: smiles on top and craft underneath. She exchanged pleasantries with the pair and accepted a beautiful tapestry that the wife assured her had been woven by her own hands. Kelsea very much doubted this; the era in which noblewomen actually had to do their own handwork was long gone, and the tapestry bespoke considerable skill.