Chapter 14
The Queen of the Tearling
Here is Tearling, here is Mortmesne,
One of black and the other red,
One of light and one of darkness,
One of living, the other dead.
Here is Glynn Queen, here is Red Queen,
One to perish beyond recall,
The Lady moves, the Witch despairs,
Glynn Queen triumph and Red Queen fall.
—CHILD’S GAMING VERSE, PROMINENT DURING THE MIDDLE TEAR EMPIRE
Two days later, a strange thing happened.
Kelsea was sitting at her desk in the library, copying one of Father Tyler’s volumes of history. Father Tyler sat at the desk beside her, also assiduously copying away. Mace had procured four clerks, but Kelsea and Father Tyler both wrote faster, and on the priest’s visiting days they often sat there together, talking occasionally while they worked. Kelsea had never expected to feel comfortable with a priest, but it was comfortable, the way Kelsea imagined school would have felt if she’d been allowed to go.
Father Tyler knew a great deal about the Crossing. This was useful, for the Crossing had been on Kelsea’s mind since they’d returned from the Argive. What had it been like for Tear’s utopians, braving the worst ocean imaginable, not knowing if they would ever reach land, if there was any land to reach? Father Tyler told Kelsea that after the waves had capsized the White Ship, there had been survivors in the water, doctors and nurses waiting for rescue. But the other ships had insufficient control, the ocean too wild and the weather too disastrous for them to turn around. They’d been forced to leave the survivors behind, all of those people, first struggling in the water and then bobbing gently until they slipped beneath the waves. Kelsea couldn’t get the image out of her head; she even dreamed about it, dreams of treading water, freezing, her struggles growing fainter and fainter, watching as the rest of the ships disappeared over the horizon toward a new world. Toward the Tearling.
Kelsea had read the same two paragraphs several times now, and she finally put down her pen. She wondered if there was any word yet about Thorne. He had disappeared into the vastness of the Tearling without a trace, but Mace would find him. Mace and Elston, who seemed to have taken it as a mortal affront that Thorne had escaped. They would find him and bring him here. Kelsea trembled at the thought, rage mixing with excitement inside her head.
Peeking over at Father Tyler, she saw that he was distracted as well. Two deep furrows had appeared in his forehead, and he had stopped copying, now merely stared at the bookshelves in the corner.
“You’re idling, Father,” she prompted him.
The priest looked up and smiled a timid, pleasant smile. They’d begun to joke with each other from time to time, a development that pleased Kelsea. “I was woolgathering, Lady. I apologize.”
“What’s wrong?”
Father Tyler’s lips pressed together for a moment, then he shrugged and said, “I suppose you will find out eventually, Majesty. The Holy Father has fallen ill with pneumonia again, and they say that this is the final illness.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You are not sorry, Majesty. I wish you wouldn’t say so.”
Kelsea looked sharply at him, as did Pen, sitting in the corner. She thought about reproving the priest but, finding his frankness valuable, decided not to. “So what happens now?”
“All of the cardinals are returning for conclave, to select a new Holy Father.”
“Who are the candidates?”
Father Tyler’s mouth tightened again. “On paper, Lady, there are several candidates, but the deal is done. They say that Cardinal Anders will be the new Holy Father within a month.”
Kelsea didn’t know much about Cardinal Anders, only that Mace considered him a nasty piece of work. “And that bothers you?”
“He’s a competent administrator, Lady. Perhaps not truly devout.” Father Tyler straightened and clamped his mouth shut, his default reaction when he thought he’d said too much. Kelsea dipped pen in ink and prepared to resume her work.
“Be careful, Lady.”
“What?”
“I know . . . I have not told them . . . that Your Majesty has no more religion than a housecat. Cardinal Anders is . . . I fear for Your Majesty. I fear for all of us.”
Kelsea drew back, amazed at this outburst from the normally taciturn priest. “What did he do to you?”
“Not me, Majesty.” He stared at her with wide eyes. “But I believe the cardinal capable of terrible things. I believe—”
Mace and Wellmer entered the library, and Father Tyler fell silent. Kelsea shot Mace an annoyed glance, checking her watch; she was supposed to have at least another twenty minutes with the priest before meeting with Arliss.
“Lady, there’s something you should see.”
“Now?”
“Yes, Lady. Out on the balcony.”
Kelsea sighed, looking at the priest with real regret. She had no idea what he’d been about to say, but it had sounded worth hearing. “I believe that’s our time together, Father. Have a safe trip back to Arvath, and my best wishes for the Holy Father’s health.”
“Thank you, Majesty.” Father Tyler folded up his bound copybook, his eyes darting to Mace. He still looked worried, so much so that Kelsea leaned closer and whispered, “Have no fear, Father; I underestimate no one, certainly not your cardinal.”
He gave her the briefest of nods, his white face still troubled. According to Mace, who had several spies in the Arvath, the Holy Father was displeased with Father Tyler, who wasn’t giving him the information he wanted. Kelsea wondered how bad things were really getting for Father Tyler in the Arvath, but they hadn’t yet reached a place where she could ask him outright.
When the priest had gone, Mace and Wellmer led Kelsea down the hallway to the balcony room. Jordan, her herald, emerged sleepily from one of the rooms at the end of the hall. “You wanted me, sir?”
Mace crooked a finger at him, and Jordan followed them into the room, scratching the back of his head. Mace now kept two guards on the balcony doors, and today it was Coryn and Dyer, both of whom bowed as Kelsea entered the room.
“Out here, Lady.” Mace threw the doors open, admitting cold sunlight. Winter was just beginning to melt into spring, but the sky looked like summer, pure blue all the way to the horizon. Kelsea stepped out into the sunlight and shuddered with pleasure; the heat on her skin was an extraordinary feeling after the darkness of the Queen’s Wing. Mace beckoned her forward and pointed over the parapet. “Down there.”
Kelsea peeked over the edge and immediately regretted it; the height was dizzying. They must be very near the top of the Keep, but she found that she wanted to look up even less than she wanted to look down.
Far below lay the Keep Lawn, covered with people, crowds that stretched from the moat all the way to the crest of the hill, a breathing, murmuring organism some three hundred yards wide. Kelsea remembered the day of the shipment, a month and a lifetime ago, but today there were no lines, no cages. After a moment, however, she noticed an odd treelike figure that poked high above the crowd. “My eyes are terrible. What is that?”
“That, Lady, is a head on a pike,” replied Wellmer.
“Whose head?”
“Your uncle’s, Lady. I went down there just to make sure. The pike is hung with a placard that says ‘A gift for the Tear Queen, compliments of the Fetch.’ ”
Despite the gruesome nature of the offering, Kelsea smiled. She looked to Mace and found the corners of his mouth tucked downward, holding in a smile as well, and she suddenly understood. It was like that day with the books, the library. Mace intended this moment as a gift for Kelsea, but he couldn’t admit it, any more than he could drop the mantle of suspicion that shrouded his entire life. This was as far as he could come. She wished she could hug him, as she would have hugged Barty, but she knew he wouldn’t want that. She wrapped her arms around herself instead, as though she were cold, but continued to watch Mace out of the corner of her eye.
What made him this way? What happened to him?
Wellmer continued. “The pike’s buried deep, so the crowd can’t get at it unless they brought shovels. The head is in immaculate condition, Lady; someone’s treated it with a fixative so it won’t rot.”
“Useful lawn ornament,” Mace remarked.
Kelsea looked over the edge again, certain that the Fetch was down there now. He would have delivered the gift himself, hiding in plain sight. She wished she could see him, tell him that their bargain had borne even better fruit than he could have imagined. “What do all these people want?”
“You, Lady,” Mace told her. “Your mother never dared to go out into the city proper; she would use this balcony for announcements. The crowd began gathering yesterday when they found out you were back in the Keep. My man on the gate says most of them spent the night out there.”
“I don’t have anything to announce.”
“Come up with something, Lady. I don’t think they’re going away.”
Kelsea peeked over the balcony again. The people did appear to have settled in; she could see tents of various colors and smell roasting meat. Snatches of song drifted up from far below. There were so many people.
“Speak up, Jordan. Let’s tell them she’s here.”
Jordan cleared his throat, emitting a phlegmy rumble that seemed to fit a much older man. “Sorry, Lady,” he muttered, blushing. “I’ve had a cold.”
Taking a deep breath, he leaned over the parapet and shouted, “The Queen of the Tearling!”
The entire lawn looked upward, erupting in a roar so powerful that Kelsea felt it shake the stone beneath her. She was looking down at a sea of faces now, all of them upturned, all staring at her. Placing both hands on the balcony, she leaned far over the edge, so far that Pen took a preemptive hold on the back of her dress. Kelsea held up her hands for silence, waiting until the echoes died down. That day on the Keep Lawn seemed like another lifetime, but now, just as then, she found that words had filled her throat.
“I am Kelsea Raleigh, child of Elyssa Raleigh!”
The crowd remained silent, waiting.
“But I am also the adopted child of Bartholemew and Carlin Glynn!”
A thick carpet of susurrations and whispering rose from the lawn below. Kelsea closed her eyes and saw Barty and Carlin, as clearly as she had ever seen them in life, standing in the kitchen of the cottage, Barty holding his plant kit and Carlin holding a book. Kelsea had known they were dead; somewhere deep inside, she had known. She hadn’t heard either Carlin’s or Barty’s voice in her head for weeks. They had been gradually fading, replaced with another voice, that grim, determined voice that spoke up when things were dire, when she didn’t know what to do.
My own voice, Kelsea realized in wonder. Not Carlin’s, not Barty’s, but mine.
“My foster parents made me what I am and gave their lives in my service!” she shouted hoarsely. “Therefore I change my name! From this day forward, I am Kelsea Raleigh Glynn! My throne will be Glynn, my children will be Glynn, and I will not be a Raleigh queen, but a Glynn queen!”
This time, the roar nearly knocked her backward, trembling the parapet and making the door frame rattle behind her. Kelsea didn’t have anything more to say, could only wave at them, but that seemed to be all right. They continued to cheer for long minutes, as though that was all they wanted, just to see her, to know she was there.
I’m not alone, she realized, her eyes filling with tears. Barty was right after all.
She wiped the moisture away and muttered to Mace, “They’re easily pleased.”
“No, Lady. They’re not.”
The crowd had erupted in some song now, but from this height Kelsea couldn’t catch most of the words, only her name. She stared out across her country, a truly spectacular view. The horizon cut the land perhaps halfway across the Almont Plain, but still Kelsea felt that the entire Tearling was laid out before her. Despite her poor vision, she could see every inch of her land, every detail, north to the Fairwitch and east to the Mort border, even to the rocky crags of the Border Hills where Hall and his battalion were preparing for invasion, constructing defenses on the hillsides. She blinked and saw Mortmesne, just as she’d seen it before, miles of forest broken by well-kept roads. The roads were crammed with long, black lines of soldiers, with wagons and siege towers, with cannons that gleamed in the sun, all of them marching inexorably toward the Tearling.
But now Kelsea’s vision blurred and she was no longer looking even at Mortmesne. She could see much farther, across mountains and borders, to seas that existed on no map of the New World, to the skyline of a city that was crumbling into dust. Geography had altered and the land was in upheaval. Kelsea glimpsed wonders, so briefly that she didn’t have the time to understand them, or even to mourn their passing. She could see everything, the future and the past, her vision stretching into a place where time and land merged into one.
Then it was all abruptly gone. Kelsea blinked again, her eyes filled with tears, and saw only her own kingdom, farming plains running out before her to meet the sky. Her heart ached, the same vague sensation of loss she felt upon waking from a dream she couldn’t remember. She was Kelsea Glynn, a girl who’d grown up in the forest, who loved to study history and read fiction. But she was something else, something more than Kelsea, and so she remained there for a moment longer, watching over her country, straining to see the danger beyond the horizon.
My responsibility, she thought, and the idea brought no fear now, only an extraordinary sense of gratitude.
My kingdom.