The Queen of the Tearling (3 page)

Barty's advice had been even more succinct: “You win your people or you lose your throne.”

Good words, and Kelsea saw their wisdom even more now. But she had no idea what to do. How was she to command anyone?

I'm nineteen. I'm not supposed to be frightened anymore.

But she was.

She gripped the reins tighter, wishing she'd thought to put on her riding gloves, but she'd been too anxious to get away from that uncomfortable tableau in front of the cottage. Now the tips of her fingers were numb, her palms raw and reddened from the rough leather of the reins. She did her best to tuck the sleeves of her cloak over her knuckles and rode onward.

An hour later, Carroll called the company to a halt. They were in a small clearing, ringed with Tearling oak and a thick layer of underbrush composed of creeproot and that mysterious red-leaved plant. Kelsea wondered if any of the Guard knew what it was. Every Guard unit had at least one medic, and medics were supposed to know plants. Barty had been a medic himself, and while he wasn't supposed to be teaching Kelsea botany, she had quickly learned that almost any lesson could be sidetracked by discovery of an interesting plant.

The guards closed in around Kelsea and waited as Carroll circled back. He trotted up to her, taking in her reddened face and death grip on the reins. “We can stop for the night, if you like, Your Highness. We made good time.”

With some effort, Kelsea released the reins and pushed back her hood, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. Her voice, when it came out, was hoarse and unsteady. “I trust your judgment, Captain. We'll go as far as you think necessary.”

Carroll stared at her for a moment and then looked around the small clearing. “This'll do, Lady. We must rise early anyway, and we've been long on the road.”

The men dismounted. Kelsea, stiff and unused to long riding, made a clumsy hop to the ground, nearly fell, then stumbled around until she regained her footing.

“Pen, the tent. Elston and Kibb, go for wood. The rest of you take care of defenses. Mhurn, go catch us something to eat. Lazarus, the Queen's horse.”

“I tend my own horse, Captain.”

“As you like, Lady. Lazarus will give you what you need.”

The soldiers dispersed, moving off on their various errands. Kelsea bent to the ground, relishing the cracking in her spine. Her thighs ached as if they'd taken several sharp blows, but she wasn't going to do any sort of serious thigh-stretching in front of all of these men. They were old, certainly, too old for Kelsea to find them attractive. But they
were
men, and Kelsea found herself suddenly uncomfortable in front of them, in a way she had never been in front of Barty.

Leading her mare over to a tree at the far edge of the clearing, she looped the reins in a loose knot around a branch. She stroked the mare's silken neck gently, but the horse tossed her head and whinnied, unwilling to be petted, and Kelsea backed off. “Fine, girl. No doubt I'll have to earn your goodwill as well.”

“Highness,” a voice growled behind her.

Kelsea turned and saw Lazarus, a curry comb in hand. He wasn't as old as she'd first thought; his dark hair had just begun to recede, and he might still be on the early side of forty. But his face was well lined, his expression grim. His hands were seamed with scars, but it was the mace at his belt that drew her eye: a blunt ball of iron covered with steel spikes, each sharpened to a pinpoint.

A natural killer
, she thought. A mace was merely window dressing unless wielded with the ferocity to make it effective. The weapon should have chilled her, but instead she was comforted by the presence of this man who had clearly lived with violence for so much of his life. She took the comb, noting that he kept his eyes on the ground. “Thank you. I don't suppose you know the mare's name.”

“You're the Queen, Lady. Her name is whatever you choose.” His flat gaze met hers briefly, then slid away.

“It's not for me to give her a new name. What is she called?”

“It's for you to do anything you like.”

“Her name, please.” Kelsea's temper kindled. The men all thought so badly of her. Why?

“No proper name, Lady. I've always called her May.”

“Thank you. A good name.”

He began to walk away. Kelsea took a breath for courage and said softly, “I didn't dismiss you, Lazarus.”

He turned back, expressionless. “I'm sorry. Was there something else, Lady?”

“Why did they bring me a mare, when you all ride stallions?”

“We didn't know if you'd be able to ride, Lady,” he replied, and this time there was no mistaking the mockery in his voice. “We didn't know if you could control a stallion.”

Kelsea narrowed her eyes. “What the hell did you think I was doing out there in the woods all these years?”

“Playing with dolls, Lady. Putting up your hair. Trying on dresses, perhaps.”

“Do I
look
like a girl's girl to you, Lazarus?” Kelsea felt her voice rising. Several heads had turned toward them now. “Do I look like I spend hours in front of the mirror?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Kelsea smiled, a brittle smile that cost some effort. Barty and Carlin had never had any mirrors around the cottage, and for a long time Kelsea had thought that it was to prevent her from becoming vain. But one day when she was twelve, she had caught a glimpse of her face in the clear pool behind the cottage, and then she had understood, all too well. She was as plain as the water beneath.

“Am I dismissed, Lady?”

She stared at him for a moment, considering, then replied, “It depends, Lazarus. I have a saddlebag full of dolls and dresses to play with. Do you want to do my hair?”

He stood still for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he bowed, an exaggerated gesture that was too deep to be sincere. “You can call me Mace if you like, Lady. Most do.”

Then he was gone, his pale grey cloak vanishing into the dusk-shadows of the clearing. Kelsea remembered the comb in her hand and turned to take care of the mare, her mind moving like a wild thing while she worked.

Perhaps daring will win them.

You'll never win the respect of these people. You'll be lucky not to die before you reach the Keep.

Maybe. But I have to try something.

You speak as though you have options. All you can do is what they tell you.

I'm the Queen. I'm not bound by them.

So think most queens, right until the moment the axe falls.

 

D
inner was venison, stringy and only barely edible after roasting over the fire. The deer must have been very old. Kelsea had seen only a few birds and squirrels on their ride through the Reddick, though the greenery was very lush; there could be no lack of water. Kelsea wanted to ask the men about the lack of animals, but she worried that it would be taken as a complaint about the meal. So she chewed the tough meat in silence and tried very hard not to stare at the guards around her, the weapons hanging from their belts. The men didn't talk, and Kelsea couldn't help thinking that their silence was because of her, that she was keeping them from the entertaining conversation they could otherwise be having.

After dinner, she remembered the present from Carlin. Taking one of the several lit lanterns sitting around the fire, she went to retrieve her night bag from her mare's saddle. Two guards, Lazarus and the taller, broad-shouldered man she had noticed on the ride, detached themselves from the campfire and followed her to the makeshift paddock, their tread nearly silent. After years of solitude, Kelsea realized, she would likely never be alone again. The idea should perhaps have been comforting, but it created a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. She recalled a weekend when she was seven, when Barty had been preparing to travel to the village to trade meat and furs. He made this trip every three or four months, but this time Kelsea had decided that she wanted to go with him, wanted to so badly that she honestly thought she would die if she didn't go. She'd thrown a full tantrum on the library carpet, complete with tears and screaming, even kicking her feet against the floor in frustration.

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.