The Queen of the Tearling (15 page)

“Cae!” Mace called over his shoulder.

“Sir?”

“Make sure the rest burn.”

At Mace's signal, they rode on, leaving the cages behind. When they reached the drawbridge, the stink of the moat hit Kelsea's nostrils: a rank smell, like rotting vegetables. The water was a deep, dark green, and a layer of nearly opaque slime had gelled on the surface. The fetid smell grew stronger the farther they progressed across the bridge.

“Is the water not drained?”

“No questions now, Lady, forgive me.” Mace's eyes were darting everywhere, over the Keep's surface and into the darkness ahead, across the moat to the far side, lingering on the guards who lined either side of the bridge. These guards made no move to stop the procession, and several of them even bowed as Kelsea went by. But when the crowd tried to follow her into the Keep, the men grudgingly moved into action, blocking off the bridge and herding people back to the far bank.

Ahead, the Keep Gate was a dark hole with vague flickers of torchlight inside. Kelsea shut her eyes and opened them again, an action that seemed to take all of her strength. Her uncle was waiting inside, but she didn't know how she could stand in front of him now. Her bloodline, once a secret source of pride, now seemed little more than a cesspool. Her uncle was filth, and her mother . . . it was like sliding down the face of a precipice from which all handholds had vanished.

“I can't face my uncle tonight, Lazarus. I'm too tired. Can we delay?”

“If Her Majesty will only be quiet.”

Kelsea laughed, surprising herself, as they passed through the grim archway of the Keep Gate.

 

T
wo hundred feet away, the Fetch watched the girl and her entourage cross the bridge, a small smile playing on his lips. It had been a clever thing, taking the women from the crowd, and all but one of them had followed her into the Keep. Who was the father? The girl displayed a prickly intelligence that could never have come from Elyssa. Poor Elyssa, who had needed most of her brains to decide which dress to wear in the morning. The girl was worth ten of her.

Beside the moat, the children's cage flamed, a towering pyre in the dusk. One of the Queen's Guard had been left behind to fire the rest of the cages, but the people (and several soldiers) were far ahead of him. One by one, each cage went up in a gust of flame. People shouted for the Queen, and the air remained thick with the sound of weeping.

The Fetch shook his head in admiration. “Bravo, Tear Queen.”

The Census table looked like an anthill that some cruel child had stirred with a stick. Officials hurried back and forth, their movements frenzied by panic; they'd quickly grasped the consequences of this day. Arlen Thorne had disappeared. He would be out for the girl's blood, and he was a much cannier adversary than her idiot uncle. The Fetch frowned, deliberating for a moment before speaking over his shoulder. “Alain.”

“Sir?”

“Something is already brewing in Thorne's mind. Go find out what it is.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lear spurred his horse forward until he was abreast of the Fetch. Lear was in a bad mood, and no wonder. When they went about undisguised, it was Lear's black skin that caught the world's attention. He loved to have people stare at him, riveted, while he spun his tales, but he hated to be an object of curiosity.

“Thorne may not accept him,” Lear muttered. “And even if he does, Alain's anonymity will be compromised forever. Is the girl really worth it?”

“Don't underestimate her, Lear. I certainly don't.”

“Can we dispatch the Regent?” Morgan asked.

“The Regent is mine, and unless I've misjudged the girl, I'll have him shortly. Luck to you, Alain.”

Alain turned his horse without a word and rode back into the city. As he disappeared into the crowd, the Fetch closed his eyes and bowed his head.

So much now depends on one young girl
, he thought grimly.
God plays at hazard with us.

Book II

Chapter 6

The Marked Queen

When I was five years old, my grandmother took me for an outing. As her namesake, I was Gran's favorite, very proud to be in my new dress and holding her hand out on the city streets while my siblings were left behind.

We had a picnic in the great park in the center of the city. Gran bought me a book at Varling's Bookshop, which carried the first books with colored pictures. We saw a puppet show in the theatre district, and in a shodder on the Lady's Approach, Gran also purchased me my first grown-up pair of shoes with laces that tied. It was a fine day.

Near the hour to go home for supper, Gran took me to the Glynn Queen's memorial, a statue of a faceless woman on a granite throne, situated at the entrance to the Keep Lawn. We looked at the statue for a very long time, and I was silent because of the silence of my grandmother. She chattered incessantly, Gran did, so that sometimes we had to shush her when company came. But now she stood in the front of the Glynn Queen's memorial for a solid ten minutes, her head bent, saying nothing. Eventually I became bored and began to squirm, and finally asked, “Gran, what are we waiting for?”

She tugged gently at my braid, signaling me to be silent, then gestured toward the memorial and said, “But for this woman, you would never have been born.”

—
The Legacy of the Glynn Queen
, G
LEE
D
ELAMERE

K
elsea woke in a deep, soft bed hung with a light blue canopy. Her first thought was a trivial one: the bed had too many pillows. Her bed in Barty and Carlin's cottage had been small, but clean and comfortable, with a single serviceable pillow. This bed was comfortable as well, but it was an ostentatious sort of comfort. The bed could easily have held four people, its sheets were pear-colored silk, and an endless vista of small, frilly white pillows stretched across the blue damask coverlet.

My mother's bed, and just what I should have expected.

She rolled over and saw Mace in the corner, curled up in an armchair, asleep.

Sitting up as quietly as she could, Kelsea examined the room: satisfactory at first glance but filled with disturbing touches upon a closer look. It was a high-ceilinged affair with light blue hangings to match the bed. One wall was lined with bookcases, empty save for a few trinkets scattered among several shelves, covered in dust. Someone had made sure that her mother's chamber remained untouched. Mace? Probably not. It seemed more like Carroll's doing. Mace had betrayed fleeting touches of disloyalty to her mother. Carroll had shown none.

To Kelsea's left was a doorway that led to a bathroom; she could see half of an enormous marble bathtub. Beside the doorway was a dressing table with a large, jewel-encrusted mirror. She caught a glimpse of her reflection and winced; she looked like a goblin, her hair wild, her face streaked with dirt. She lay back down and stared at the canopy over her head, her mind wandering. How could so much have changed in a single day?

She suddenly recalled being nine and taking one of Carlin's fancy dresses out of Barty and Carlin's closet. Carlin had never expressly forbidden the dresses, but that was only a loophole to be exploited if Kelsea was caught; she knew that she was doing wrong. After donning the dress, she also put on a homemade crown of flowers. The dress was too long and the crown kept falling off, but still Kelsea felt very grown-up, very queenly. She was in the middle of parading up and down the room when Carlin walked in.

“What are you doing?” Carlin asked. Her voice had sunk to its lowest note, the one that meant trouble. Kelsea trembled as she tried to explain. “I was practicing being a queen. Like my mother.”

Carlin moved forward so quickly that Kelsea didn't even have time to step backward. There were only Carlin's burning eyes and then the crack of a slap across Kelsea's face. It barely hurt, but Kelsea burst into tears all the same; Carlin had never hit her before. Carlin grabbed the dress by the back and yanked sharply, ripping it down the front and sending small buttons scattering across the room.

Kelsea fell to the floor, crying harder now, but her tears didn't move Carlin; they never did. She left the room and didn't speak to Kelsea for days, even after Kelsea had washed and ironed the dress herself and put it back in Carlin's closet. Barty crept around the cottage that week with reddened eyes, miserable, sneaking Kelsea extra sweets when Carlin couldn't see. After several days, Carlin finally returned to normal, but when Kelsea looked in Carlin's closet the next week, all of the fancy gowns were gone.

Kelsea had always thought that Carlin had been angry at her for borrowing the dress without asking. But now, looking around the room, she saw a different story. Empty bookshelves. An enormous oak wardrobe that took up nearly the entire wall opposite. A mirror big enough to fit several reflections. Golden fixtures. This bed, draped in yards and yards of costly materials. In her mind, Kelsea could see the people out on the Keep Lawn, their underfed frames and gaunt faces. Carlin had known plenty. Kelsea wanted to scream her rage into the silence of the chamber. And what if there were more happy revelations still to come? She had always assumed that her mother had sent her away for her own protection. But maybe that wasn't it at all. Maybe Kelsea had simply been sent away. She kicked her feet angrily, digging her heels into the soft feather mattress. Childish, but effective; after two minutes of furious kicking, she knew that the time for sleep was done.

The queenship she'd inherited, problematic enough in the abstract, now appeared insurmountable. But of course, she had already known the road would be difficult. Carlin had told her so obliquely, through years spent studying the troubled nations and kingdoms of the past. Carlin's library, filled with books . . . Kelsea suddenly felt the last of her anger at Carlin slide away. She missed them both, Barty
and
Carlin. Everything around her was so strange, and she missed the easy familiarity of the two people she knew well. Would Carlin approve of what she'd done yesterday?

Kelsea sat up, pulled back the covers and dangled her feet from the edge of the bed. The necklace had become stuck in her hair while she slept, and she spent a minute untangling it. She should have braided her hair and taken a bath last night, but it had all been a blur; she'd been hurried through torch-lit corridors, with nothing but Mace's hissed commands in her ear. Someone had carried her up a seemingly endless staircase, and Kelsea had been so tired that she fell asleep in the clothes from the Fetch. The garments were so filthy now that she could actually smell their sweaty, salted odor. She should throw them away, but she knew she wouldn't. The Fetch's face had been the last thing in her mind before she dropped off into unconsciousness, and she was sure that she'd dreamed about him as well, though she couldn't remember the dream. He had given her a test, all right, and he would kill her if she failed, Kelsea had no doubt. But his threats occupied only a very small corner of her thoughts. She allowed herself the luxury of daydreaming about him for a few more minutes before turning her mind back to the real world.

She needed to see a copy of the Mort Treaty as soon as possible. The thought galvanized Kelsea, and she hopped out of the bed and tiptoed over to Mace in his chair. He'd grown a few days' worth of beard stubble, brown salted with grey. The lines seemed to have etched themselves even more deeply into his face. His head was tipped back in the chair, and every few seconds he emitted a very light snore.

“So you do sleep.”

“I do not,” Mace retorted. “I doze.”

He stretched until his spine cracked, and then pushed himself up from the armchair. “Had there been a single wrong breath of air in this room, I would have known.”

“Is this place safe?”

“Yes, Lady. We're in the Queen's Wing, which is never left unguarded. Carroll went over every detail of this room before we left, and six days isn't enough time for your uncle to accomplish anything elaborate. Today someone will inspect it more thoroughly while you're gone, just in case.”

“While I'm gone?”

“I informed your uncle that you'd be crowned today, at your leisure. He didn't take it well.”

Kelsea opened a drawer and saw a comb and brush set that looked like pure gold. She slammed the drawer shut. “My mother was a vain woman.”

“Yes. Will the room suit?”

“Let's get rid of these stupid pillows,” Kelsea reached out and swept several of them from the bed. “What in God's name is the point of—”

“Much to do today, Majesty.”

Kelsea sighed. “First I need breakfast and a hot bath. Something to wear to my crowning.”

“You know you'll need to be crowned by a priest of God's Church.”

Kelsea looked up. “I didn't know that.”

“Even if I could dragoon your uncle's house priest into the task, he's not the man we want. I'll have to fetch another priest from the Arvath, and I may be gone for an hour or so.”

“No chance of legitimacy without a priest?”

“None, Lady.”

Kelsea drew an exasperated breath. She'd never discussed her actual coronation with Carlin, since it seemed so abstract. But the language of the ceremony would undoubtedly be infused with religious vows. That was how the Church kept the wallet open. “Fine, go. But if possible, get a timid priest.”

“Done, Lady. Keep your knife about you while I'm gone.”

“How did you know about my knife?”

Mace gave her a speaking glance. “Wait a moment, and I'll bring your dame of chamber.” He opened the door, letting in a brief babble of voices, and then closed it behind him. Kelsea stood in the center of the empty chamber, feeling a subtle sense of relief steal over her. She had missed being alone. But now there was no time to enjoy it.

“So much to do,” she whispered, rubbing lightly at the stitches on her neck. Her gaze roved over the tall ceilings, the blue hangings, the bed with its endless, infuriating rows of pillows, and worst of all, the long wall of empty bookshelves. Something seemed to boil over inside her, angry tears coming to her eyes.

“Look at you,” she hissed at the empty room. “Look what you've left here for me.”

“Lady?” Mace knocked briefly at the door and entered. A tall, slim woman trailed silently behind him, nearly hidden by his bulk, but Kelsea already knew who it was. The woman had none of her children with her now, and without them she seemed younger, only a few years older than Kelsea herself. She wore a simple, cream-colored wool dress, and her long, dark hair had been combed and pulled into a tight knot on her head. The bruise on her cheek was the only blemish. She stood in front of Kelsea with a quality of waiting, but there was nothing subservient in her manner; indeed, after a few seconds Kelsea felt so intimidated that she was compelled to speak.

“You're welcome to have your little one in here, if she's too young to be left alone.”

“She's in good hands, Lady.”

“Leave us alone, please, Lazarus.”

To her surprise, Mace immediately turned and left, closing the door behind him.

“Sit, please.” Kelsea indicated the chair that sat in front of the vanity table. The woman placed the stool in front of Kelsea and sat down in a single graceful movement.

“What's your name?”

“Andalie.”

Kelsea blinked. “Of Mort origin?”

“My mother was Mort, my father Tear.”

Kelsea wondered if Mace had elicited that information. Of course he had. “And which are you?”

Andalie stared at her until Kelsea wished that she could take the question back. The woman's eyes were a cold, piercing grey. “I'm Tear, Majesty. My children are Tear, through their worthless father, and I can't discard the children along with the man, can I?”

“No . . . no, I suppose not.”

“If you question my motives, I came to serve Your Majesty mostly for my children's sake. Yours was a powerful offer for a woman with as many children as I have, and the opportunity to remove them from their father's reach was a godsend.”

“Mostly for your children's sake?”

“Mostly, yes.”

Kelsea was unnerved. The Tearling took in Mort emigrants out of necessity for the skills the Tear lacked, particularly ironwork, medicine, and masonry. The Mort commanded a high price for their services, and there were a fair number of Mort salted around Tear villages, particularly in the more tolerant south. But even Carlin, who prided herself on her open mind, didn't really trust the Mort. According to Carlin, even the lowest Mort carried the strain of arrogance, a conqueror's mentality that had been drilled into them over time.

But Andalie's background was only part of the problem. The woman was too educated for her station in life: married to a laborer, with too many children. She carried herself with an air of inscrutability, and Kelsea would wager that this had driven Andalie's husband as red to a bull. She was entirely detached. Only when she spoke of her children did she display warmth. Kelsea had to trust Mace's judgment; without him, she would already be dead. But what had made him choose this woman?

“Lazarus elects you to be my dame of chamber. Is this agreeable to you?”

“If special provision can be made when my youngest is ill or difficult with others.”

“Of course.”

Andalie gestured toward the dreadful vanity table. “My qualifications, Lady—”

Kelsea waved her off. “Anything you claim, I'm sure you can do. May I call you Andalie?”

“What else would you call me, Lady?”

“I'm told that many women at court like to have titles and such. Lady of the Chamber, that sort of thing.”

“I'm no court woman. My own name will do.”

“Of course.” Kelsea smiled regretfully. “If only I could shed my own court titles so easily.”