“A Brief History of the Mort Invasion, from Crossing to Disaster.”
Kelsea narrowed her eyes; he was treating her like a child again. He turned to her and grinned, almost as though he’d read her thoughts.
“I’ve never told that as a story,” Lear remarked.
“Well, make a good tale of it, if you can.”
Lear cleared his throat, took a sip of mead, and locked his gaze on Kelsea. There was no charity there, none at all, and Kelsea had to fight not to look down at her feet.
“Once upon a time, there was a kingdom called the Tearling. It was founded by a man named William Tear, a utopian who dreamed of a land of plenty for all. But ironically, the Tearling was a kingdom of scarce resources, for the British and Americans had not been fortunate in their choice of landing place. The Tearling had no ores, no manufacturing. The Tear were farmers; all they had to offer was the food they grew, the meat they raised, and a limited amount of good lumber from their indigenous oaks. Life was difficult, basic necessities were hard to come by, and over the years many Tear became poor and illiterate. They had to buy everything else from the lands surrounding, and since they were stuck in a hard place, the price wasn’t cheap.
“The neighboring kingdom had been luckier in the Crossing. It had everything that the Tearling lacked. It had doctors with access to centuries of European knowledge. It had masons, decent horses, and some of the technology that William Tear had forbidden. Most important of all, it had vast deposits of iron and tin in the ground, so it had not only mining but an army with superior weapons of steel edge. This kingdom was New Europe, and for a long time it was content to be rich and invulnerable, to have its citizens live and die in health and comfort.”
Kelsea nodded; she knew all of this already. But Lear’s voice was deep and hypnotic, and he did make it sound like a fairy tale, like something from Carlin’s Complete Brothers Grimm back at home. Kelsea wondered if Mace could hear the tale in his tent, whether he’d worked his other hand free. Her mind felt wildly out of focus, and she shook her head to clear it as Lear continued.
“But toward the end of the second Tear century a sorceress appeared, seeking the rule of New Europe for herself. She slaughtered the democratically elected representatives, their wives, even their children in cradles. Citizens who resisted woke to find their families dead, their homes on fire. It took nearly half a century to subdue the populace, but eventually democracy gave way to dictatorship, and everyone in the surrounding kingdoms forgot that this rich land had once been New Europe; instead it became Mortmesne, the Dead Hand. And likewise, everyone forgot that this sorceress had no name. She became the Red Queen of Mortmesne, and today, one hundred and thirteen years later, she still holds her throne.
“But unlike her predecessors, the Red Queen wasn’t content to control only her own kingdom; she wanted the entire New World. After consolidating her rule, she turned her attention to the Mort army, building it into a vast and powerful machine that could not be defeated. And some forty years ago, she began to move beyond her own borders. She took Cadare first, then Callae. These countries surrendered easily, and now they’re subject to Mortmesne. They pay tribute, as any good colony would. They allow Mort garrisons to quarter in their homes and patrol their streets. There is no resistance.”
“That’s not true, though,” Kelsea objected. “Mortmesne had an uprising. Carlin told me about it. The Red Queen sent all the rebels to Callae, into exile.”
Lear glared at her, and the Fetch chuckled. “You can’t interrupt him when he’s telling a tale, girl. The Callae uprising lasted about twenty minutes; he’s right to omit it.”
Kelsea bit her lip, embarrassed. Lear gave her a warning glance before continuing. “But when the Red Queen had reduced these nations to colonies and finally turned her attention to the Tearling, she found trouble in the form of Queen Arla.”
My grandmother, Kelsea thought. Arla the Just.
“Queen Arla was sickly all her life, but she had brains and courage, and she liked being the queen of a free nation. All of the landowners in the kingdom, particularly God’s Church, were worried about their land, and they demanded that she reach a settlement with the Red Queen. The Tearling army was weak and poorly organized, utterly outmatched by the Mort. Nevertheless, Queen Arla refused all Mort overtures and challenged the Red Queen to take this kingdom by force. So Mortmesne invaded the eastern Tearling.
“The Tearling army fought well, perhaps better than anyone could have anticipated. But they had weapons of wood and a few black-market swords, while the Mort army was armed and armored with iron. They had steel-edged blades and steel arrowheads, and they carved their way through the Tear with little difficulty. The Mort had already taken the eastern half of the country by the time Queen Arla died of pneumonia in the winter of 284. She left two surviving children: the Crown Princess Elyssa, and her younger brother Thomas. Elyssa began to make overtures of peace to the Mort Queen almost immediately upon taking the throne. But she couldn’t offer tribute, even if she’d been so inclined. There simply wasn’t enough money.”
“Why not lumber?” Kelsea asked. “I thought the surrounding kingdoms valued Tear oak.”
Lear glared at her; she had interrupted him again. “Not enough. Mort pine is of poorer quality than Tear oak, but you can build with it if you need to. Negotiations failed, and the Mort army made straight for New London. The road to the capital was wholesale rape and slaughter, and the Mort left a trail of burned villages in their wake.”
Kelsea thought of Mhurn’s story, of the man who had lost his wife and child. She stared up at the night sky. Where were the rest of her guards now?
“The situation was desperate. The Mort army was about to breach the walls of the Keep when Queen Elyssa finally came to an agreement with the Red Queen. The Mort Treaty was signed only a few days later, and it’s kept the peace ever since.”
“And the Mort? Did they withdraw?”
“Yes. Under the terms of the treaty, they left the city several days later and withdrew across the countryside. Strictly speaking, there were no further casualties.”
“Lear,” the Fetch cut in. “Have some more ale.”
Kelsea’s insides warmed with pride. Why had Carlin never told her any of this? This was the sort of tale she’d always wanted to hear. Queen Elyssa, the hero! She imagined her mother, barricaded in the Keep with the Mort hordes just outside and her food stores dwindling, sending secret messages back and forth to Demesne. Victory snatched from the very jaws of disaster. It was like something from one of Carlin’s books. And yet . . . and yet . . . as she looked around the table, she saw that none of the men were smiling.
“It’s a good story,” she ventured, turning to Lear. “And you told it very well. But what does it have to do with me?”
“Look at me, girl.”
She turned and found the Fetch staring at her, his gaze as grim as the rest.
“Why haven’t you begged for your life?”
Kelsea’s brow furrowed. What on earth did he want from her? “Why would I beg?”
“It’s the accepted course for captives, to offer everything in return for their lives.”
He was playing with her again, Kelsea realized, and the idea set off a flare of anger deep inside her. She drew a long, shaky breath before replying, “You know, Barty told me a story once. In the early years after the Crossing, there was a Tear farmer whose son took gravely ill. This was before the British ships arrived in the Tearling, so there were no doctors at all. The son grew sicker and sicker, and the father believed that he would die. He was consumed by grief.
“But one day a tall man in a black cloak showed up. He said he was a healer, that he could cure the son’s illness, but only for a price: the father must give him one of the son’s fingers to appease the man’s god. The father had his doubts about the man’s abilities, but he thought it a good bargain: one useless little finger for his son’s life, and of course the healer would only take the finger if he succeeded. The father watched for two days as the healer worked over his son with spells and herbs, and lo and behold, the son was cured.
“The father tried to think of a way to go back on the bargain, but he couldn’t, for the man in the black cloak had begun to frighten him very much. So he waited until his son was asleep, then he fetched a knife and sliced off the little finger of the boy’s left hand. He wrapped the hand with cloth and staunched the bleeding. But without antibiotics, the wound soon became infected with gangrene, and the son died all the same.
“The father turned to the healer, furious, and demanded an explanation. The healer drew off his black cloak to reveal a terrible darkness, a scarecrow shape of nothing. The father cowered, covering his face, but the shape only announced, ‘I am Death. I come quickly, I come slowly, but I am not cheated.’ ”
Lear was nodding slowly, the first smile she had ever seen flickering about his mouth.
“What’s your point?” the Fetch asked.
“Everyone dies eventually. I think it’s better to die clean.”
He watched her a moment longer, then leaned forward and held up the second necklace so that the sapphire swung back and forth above the table, catching the firelight. The jewel seemed very large, so deep that Kelsea could look beneath its surface and see something moving, dark and far away. She reached for it, but the Fetch pulled the necklace back.
“You’ve passed half of the test, girl. You’ve said all of the right things. We’re going to let you live.”
The men around the table seemed to relax all at once. Alain took the cards out and began shuffling them again. Howell got up and went for more ale.
“But,” the Fetch continued in a low voice, “words are the easy part.”
Kelsea waited. He spoke lightly, but his eyes were grave in the firelight.
“I don’t think you’ll survive long enough to truly rule this kingdom. You’re bright and good-hearted, perhaps even brave. But you’re also young and woefully naive. The protection of the Mace may extend your life beyond its appointed time, but he can’t save you. However . . .”
He took Kelsea’s chin in one hand, spearing her with his black gaze. “Should you ever gain the throne in truth, I expect to see your policies implemented. They’re much in need of refinement, and likely doomed to failure in execution, but they’re good policies, and they show an understanding of political history that most monarchs never take the trouble to achieve. You’ll rule by the principles you’ve outlined, and you’ll attempt to cure the blight on this land, no matter what it costs you. This is my test, and if you fail, you will answer to me.”
Kelsea raised her eyebrows, trying to hide the shiver that passed through her. “You think you could get to me once I’m in the Keep?”
“I can get to anyone in this kingdom. I am more dangerous than the Mort, more dangerous than the Caden. I’ve stolen many things from the Regent, and he’s been under my knife. I could’ve killed him many times over, but that I had to wait.”
“For what?”
“For you, Tear Queen.”
Then he was up and gone from the table in one fluid motion, and Kelsea was left staring after him, her face burning where his fingers had been.