The Invasion of the Tearling

  She awoke to the sound of the door opening, of voices. Her first instinct, learned from earliest childhood, was to freeze, to make herself invisible. She had escaped from Da, but in waking moments, that never mattered. Some little part of her was always awake, waiting for his thick, ponderous movement in the dark.

  Slitting her eyes open, she saw faint torchlight inching its way around the edge of the table. She drew her knees up, curling into the smallest ball possible. It was two men, she realized after a moment: one with a younger, lighter voice, and one with the older, roughened tones of a longtime Queen’s Guard. This second voice took her only a few seconds to identify: the Mace. Aisa had heard his angry growl often enough lately to recognize it now, even when he spoke calmly and quietly.

  “Had a good break?” the Mace asked. His tone was pleasant, but Aisa heard unpleasantness just beneath it, lurking. The other man must have been able to hear it as well, because his voice, when he answered, was low and defensive.

  “I’m sober.”

  “That’s not my concern. I know you’ll never make that mistake again.”

  “Then what’s your concern?” the younger man asked, his tone aggressive.

  “You and her.”

  Aisa curled into a tighter ball, listening closely. This would be about Marguerite, for certain. All of the guards, even Coryn, had a certain look on their faces when they watched Marguerite, even if she was just walking across a room. Aisa had been jealous for a bit, but then she remembered that Coryn was old, thirty-eight. Too old for Aisa, even in her fantasy life.

  The Mace’s voice remained measured and careful, but there was still that tone, lurking underneath. “You can’t hide much from me, you know. I’ve known you too long. You’re not impartial. That’s fine; perhaps none of us are. But none of us have your job.”

  “Leave off!” the younger man snarled.

  “Don’t take your anger out on me,” the Mace replied mildly. “I haven’t done this to you.”

  “It’s just . . . difficult.”

  “You’ve noticed the change in her, then.”

  “I never cared which face she wore.”

  “Ah. So this isn’t new.”

  “No.”

  “That makes it worse, I think. Do you want me to choose another for your job?”

  “No.”

  Aisa’s brow wrinkled. Something pulled at her memory; the identity of the younger guard was right there, almost identifiable. She thought about leaning around the corner of the table and taking a peek, but she didn’t dare. The Mace saw everything; he would certainly see the tip of her head if it poked out. He was sneaky himself, but he would not take kindly to an eavesdropper. And if she got caught, they might not let her come in here to read at night anymore.

  “My skills aren’t compromised,” the younger guard insisted. “It’s a nuisance, not a problem.”

  The Mace remained silent for a long moment, and when he spoke again, Aisa was surprised to hear that his voice had softened. “You may think you’re the first one this has ever happened to, but I assure you that this is an old problem for close guards. I understand it well, believe me. I’m not sure that it doesn’t actually make you a better guard. You’d throw yourself in front of the knife without a thought, no?”

  “Yes,” the younger man replied bleakly, and Aisa finally identified him: Pen Alcott. She crouched lower, trying to remember the rest of the conversation, to puzzle it out.

  “What of that woman you’ve found?” the Mace asked. “Does she offer no relief at all?”

  Pen laughed without humor. “Ten minutes of relief, every time.”

  “We can find another shield, you know,” the Mace told him. “Several of them are ready. Elston would jump at the chance.”

  “No. It would be a greater torment to be out of the room than in.”

  “You say that now, but think, Pen. Think about when she takes a husband, or even just a man for the night. How will you feel then, being right outside the door?”

  “She may not take either.”

  “She will,” the Mace replied firmly. “She has her mother’s recklessness, and her mind grows older by the day. It won’t be long before she finds that outlet.”

  Pen was silent for a long moment. “I don’t want to be replaced. Partial or no, I’m the best man for the job, and you know it.”

  “All right.” The Mace’s voice lost its gentle edge and became iron-hard as he continued. “But mark me: I’ll be watching. And if I see one sign of impaired performance, you’re done, not just with your post but with this Guard. Do you understand?”

  Silence. The pile of straw men began to collapse behind Aisa’s back, and she dug her heels into the floor, clutching her book, trying to keep the entire mountain from shifting down in an avalanche.

  “I understand,” Pen replied stiffly. “I’m sorry to put you in this position.”

  “Christ, Pen, we’ve all been there. You won’t find a man in her mother’s Guard who didn’t go through this at one point or another. It’s an old problem. A difficult thing.”

  Aisa was losing ground. She pushed hard with her legs, pressing back against the corner, holding the pile of straw men in place. If they would only leave!

  “Better get about it now. She’ll wake in a few hours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Footsteps retreated toward the door.

  “Pen?”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re doing a good job. She doesn’t mind having you a foot away, I can tell, and that’s really a remarkable accomplishment. I’m not sure she wouldn’t have killed anyone else by now.”

  Pen didn’t reply. A moment later, Aisa heard the door open and close. She relaxed and felt one of the straw men topple to the ground on her right.

  “And you, hellcat?”

  Aisa gave a small shriek. The Mace loomed over her, his hands clenched on the table edge. Despite her fright, Aisa couldn’t help staring at those hands, which were covered in scars. Venner and Fell had told her that the Mace was a great fighter, one of the greatest in the Tear. To have hands like that, he must have been battling for a lifetime.

  That’s what I want to be, Aisa realized, staring fixedly at the three white scars across one knuckle. That dangerous. That feared.

  “I’ve heard of your nightly wanderings, girl. Venner and Fell tell me you’ve a great gift for the knife.”

  Aisa nodded, her face flushing slightly with pleasure.

  “Do you come here every night?”

  “Almost. I wish I could sleep in here.”

  The Mace was not distracted. “You’ve heard something you shouldn’t. Something that could be very dangerous to the Queen.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t play foolish with me. I’ve watched you, you’re a quick little thing.”

  Aisa’s paused for a moment. “I am quick. But I won’t tell anyone what I heard.”

  “You’re not an easy child.” The Mace looked closely at her, and Aisa shrank back. His eyes were terrible things, invasive, as though he were turning her inside out with his gaze. “What do you mean to do with your knife one day? If you’re as gifted as Venner and Fell claim?”

  “I’ll be a Queen’s Guard,” Aisa replied promptly. She had decided this three days ago, at the very moment she had snuck under Fell’s guard and dimpled his jugular with her knife.

  “Why?”

  Aisa cast around for words, but nothing came, only the image, deep in her mind, of Da’s shadow on the nighttime wall. That was nothing she could tell the Mace about; even if she could explain Da to anyone, there were huge swaths of memory gone, dark patches where Aisa’s early childhood had simply disappeared. It would be an impossible tale to tell.

  But this place, the Queen’s Wing, was safe, a well-lit shelter where they could stay forever. Maman said they were in constant danger here, but Aisa could live with the danger of swords. She understood that it was Maman, Maman’s queerness, that had somehow gotten them in here in the first
place, but the Queen existed above Maman, a godlike figure dressed in black, and Aisa knew that she would never again have to see Da’s shadow on the wall.

  She couldn’t tell any of this to the Mace. All she could say was, “I’d never do anything to hurt the Queen. I’d kill anyone who tried.”

  The Mace’s arrowlike gaze pierced her for a moment longer, seeming to knife through her body. Then he nodded.

  “I’m going to trust you, hellcat. More than that, I’m going to consider this your first test. Swordsmanship is an important quality for a Queen’s Guard, but there are other things just as crucial, and one of them is your ability to keep a secret.”

  “I can keep a secret, sir. Probably better than most adults.”

  The Mace nodded, pity in his gaze, and Aisa realized then that he must know all about Da. Maman sat right next to the Queen every day, brought her food and drink. They would have found out everything about her, and Da had been no secret in their neighborhood. Even when Aisa was little, no other children had ever been allowed over to their house to play.

  “Captain?”

  “What?”

  “Even if I keep quiet, other people might find out. They might see it in Pen’s face, like you did.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, but I’m twelve.”

  “It’s a fair point,” the Mace replied seriously. “But let’s just say that I see more in men’s faces than most. I think the secret will be safe for a while, just between you and me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Off to bed, hellcat.”

  Aisa scrambled up, grabbed her book and candle, and left. In their family room, she placed the red leather book carefully on her bedside table and climbed into bed. But she couldn’t sleep yet; her thoughts were too full of all she’d seen and heard.

  Pen Alcott was in love with the Queen. But the Queen couldn’t marry one of her Guard—even Aisa knew that, though she could not have said why. So Pen had no hope at all. She tried to feel some sympathy for him, but could only muster up a little. Pen got to stand right next to the Queen every day, his sword protecting her from the wide world. Surely that was reward enough.

  Love was a real thing, Aisa thought, but secondary. Certainly love was not as real as her sword.

  Chapter 7

  The Gallery

  The Mort do nothing halfway.

  —ANON.

  Tree.”

  Tyler held up another slip of paper. The Mace looked at it for a moment, wearing the same irritated, truculent expression that he always wore during these sessions.

  “Bread.”

  Tyler held up another slip, holding his breath. After some dithering, he had decided to throw some difficult words into this batch, for this particular student would not want to be coddled. The Mace stared at the word for a moment, his eyes flickering back and forth between syllables. Tyler had encouraged him to sound out the words, but the Mace refused to do so. He wanted to do everything inside his head. His reading level progressed at a pace that was nearly alarming.

  “Difference,” the Mace finally declared.

  “Good.” Tyler put the cards down. “That’s very good.”

  The Mace wiped his brow; he’d been sweating. “I’m still having trouble between C and K.”

  “It’s difficult,” Tyler agreed, not meeting the Mace’s eyes. Tyler walked a fine line in these sessions, tiptoeing between being encouraging and being solicitous, for if the Mace felt that Tyler was treating him as a child, he would likely beat Tyler senseless. But still, Tyler found himself looking forward to these lessons. He enjoyed teaching, and was sorry that he’d waited until his seventy-first year to discover that fact.

  But this was the only enjoyable part of Tyler’s days. His leg, which had fractured at the shin, was wrapped in a cast, a constant reminder of the Holy Father’s anger. The entire Arvath seemed to know that Tyler was in trouble, and his brother priests had shunned him accordingly. Only Wyde, who was too old to be concerned about his place on the Arvath ladder, seemed willing to be seen in Tyler’s company.

  The Mace was looking at him expectantly, waiting for more instructions. But Tyler had suddenly lost his enthusiasm for the lesson. He stacked the cards on his desk and looked curiously at the Mace. “How did you get away with it all of these years?”

  The Mace’s expression tightened, became wary. “What does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t. I’m only curious. I could certainly never have pulled it off.”

  The Mace shrugged; he was immune to flattery. “Carroll knew. He wanted my skills in the Guard, and so he helped me to keep it a secret. We had an agreement.”

  “Why didn’t he teach you?”

  “He offered.” The Mace looked away. “I refused. It didn’t matter then, anyway. Elyssa had about as much use for books as a cat has for a riding crop. But now . . .”

  Tyler heard the Mace’s unspoken thought easily. Queen Elyssa may not have cared about illiteracy, but Queen Kelsea would care, very much. “But the Queen would never kick you out of the Guard.”

  “Of course she wouldn’t. I just don’t want her to know.”

  Tyler nodded, wondering, as he so often did, whether the Mace was the Queen’s father. His attitude toward her was often that of an exasperated parent. But the identity of the Queen’s father was one of the most closely held secrets of the Guard. Tyler wasn’t even sure whether the Queen knew herself.

  “What’s next?”

  Tyler thought for a moment. “Practice stringing individual words together. In the Queen’s library are several books by a man named Dahl. Choose one and try to work your way through it. Don’t skip the longer words; sound them out, and bring the book with you the next time you come.”

  The Mace nodded. “I think—”

  Three sharp raps sounded on Tyler’s door.

  The Mace sprung from his chair, a quick, silent movement. When Tyler turned to look behind him, the room was empty, the hidden door beside the desk just swinging shut.

  “Come in, please.”

  The door opened, and Tyler froze as the Holy Father entered the room. Brother Jennings was behind him, his round face curious, but the Holy Father left him outside, closing the door. Tyler grasped the edge of the desk and pulled himself to his feet, keeping his broken leg off the floor.

  “Good day, Tyler.”

  “Your Holiness.” Tyler offered him the good chair, but Anders waved it away.

  “Sit, Tyler, sit. You, after all, are the one with the broken leg. Most unfortunate, that accident.”

  Tyler sat, watching Anders’s eyes dart all over the room, taking in everything while his face remained immobile. In that way, he did remind Tyler of the old Holy Father, who never missed a single thing. All of Tyler’s earlier feelings of bravery seemed to have evaporated, quickly and quietly, and he was acutely aware of his own old age, how fragile he was in comparison to this hearty, middle-aged man.

  “I am in a difficult position, Tyler.” The Holy Father gave a heavy, melodramatic sigh. “The Queen . . . she has laid hands on me, you see.”

  Tyler nodded. No one was supposed to touch a priest of God’s Church—not publicly, anyway—and it was unthinkable for anyone, let alone a woman, to lay hands on the Holy Father himself. It had only been a week, but Wyde, who worked at the homeless kitchens in the morning, said that the entire city already seemed to know what had happened at the Queen’s dinner. Wyde had even heard one rumor that the Queen had given the Holy Father a savage beating with her bare hands. These stories were harmful to the Queen, certainly; the devout were scandalized. But the damage to the Holy Father was much greater.

  “This won’t stand, Tyler. If no consequences fall on the Queen for her actions, then we are all left hanging in the wind. The Arvath’s political power will dwindle to nothing. You understand?”

  Tyler nodded again.

  “But if God’s wrath were to fall on her swiftly . . . think of it, Tyler!” The Holy Father’s eyes brightened, sparkling with
a hint of that same terrible glee that Tyler had seen there on the night of Father Seth. “Think of how God’s Church would benefit! Conversions would increase. Tithing would increase. Faith has grown slack, Tyler, and we need to make an example. A public example. You see?”

  Tyler didn’t see, not exactly, but he didn’t like the turn of the conversation. Anders had halted in his pacing now, right in front of Tyler’s bookshelves. He pulled down A Distant Mirror, and Tyler tensed, lacing his fingers together at his waist. When Anders opened the book and ran a finger down one of the middle pages, Tyler’s flesh crawled beneath his skin.

  “The Queen is not vulnerable!” he blurted out. “There is the Mace—and she has magic—”

  “Magic?”

  In a sudden, sharp movement, Anders wrenched the book down the binding, tearing it in two. Tyler cried out, his hands reaching automatically before he snatched them back. He did not have the Queen’s gall; he could not lay hands on the Holy Father. He could only watch as Anders dropped one shredded half of the book and began to rip pages out of the other, one at a time. They drifted lazily, back and forth, toward the floor.

  “Magic, Tyler?” Anders asked softly. “And you a priest?”

  A soft knock came at the door, and Brother Jennings leaned through the doorway, his avid eyes taking in the entire scene. “Everything all right, Your Holiness?”

  “Perfectly so,” Anders replied, his gaze fixed on Tyler. “Fetch a few more brothers in here. There’s work to do.”

  Brother Jennings nodded and left. Tyler stared mutely at the books on his shelves. There were so many of them.

  “Please,” he heard himself beg. “Please don’t. They never did you any harm.”

  “These are secular books, Tyler, and you’ve been storing them in the Arvath. I’d be well within my rights to burn them.”

  “They don’t hurt anyone! I’m the only one who reads them!”

  Brother Jennings knocked and entered. Several other priests followed, including Wyde, who gave Tyler an apprehensive glance as he came through the door.