C
HAPTER
14
T
HE
R
ED
Q
UEEN
Fortune favors the bold, history tells us. Therefore, it behooves us to be as bold as possible.
—The Glynn Queen’s Words, AS COMPILED BY FATHER TYLER
EVER SINCE THEY had left the Keep, Kelsea had been fighting Lily off with a stick. She would begin going over her lines, what she would say to the Mort at the far end of the bridge … and then Lily would intrude, her grasping fingers of memory weaving through Kelsea’s thoughts until the two seemed indistinguishable. Distant pops of gunfire. Visions of a burning skyline and the screams of the dying. But despite these things, Kelsea wished she could simply sink back into Lily’s life. It was a troubled time that Lily lived in, troubled and terrible, but her choices were not Kelsea’s. Lily’s life demanded nothing but endurance. Kelsea looked up and saw white sails, riggings … a ship, people standing at the helm. She shook her head, but the vision remained in front of her, blurred slightly, as though overlaid with a veil of the thinnest material. For a moment, Kelsea felt as though she could reach out and tear that veil away, step through the centuries to stand beside Lily. To become Lily.
Could I do that? she wondered, blinking up at the ship, its billowing sails, white shadows in the night. Could I simply cross, and not come back?
For a moment, this idea was so seductive that Kelsea had to battle it, the way she would have battled an opponent with a knife. She looked down at her sapphires, feeling as though she were really seeing them for the first time. For months she had operated under the assumption that her sapphires were dead, but why? The dreams, the steady transformation of her own appearance, the cuts on her body, Lily’s pain, Lily’s life … these things had not come out of a vacuum. Kelsea took her jewels, one in each hand, and held them up to the light. Physically, they were identical, but she sensed great difference between them. If she only had time to sort it out! The sun was rising, but still she hesitated.
“You’re not dead,” she marveled, staring at the jewels in her hands. Lily’s world pulled at her again, demanding that she return, that she watch the end of the story, but Kelsea dropped her jewels and began walking. The vision of the sails finally dimmed as she reached the toll gate at the eastern end of the bridge. The toll tables were all empty now; no one had entered or left New London via the bridge since the army took it over. Kelsea should have been exhausted, but she felt wide awake.
The knoll beyond the toll gate was covered with Mort soldiers, all of them armed for battle, with swords and several knives at the belt. Even now, the sight of all of that good steel hurt Kelsea deep inside. Her army—what remained of it, anyway—had so few good weapons. At the head of the Mort column stood a man in full armor, partially balding, with sleepy eyes that threw Kelsea off for a moment. But the eyes behind the drooping lids were shrewd and pitiless, just as she remembered them through her spyglass. She greeted him in Mort.
“General Ducarte.”
“The Queen of the Tearling, I presume.” His eyes darted over her shoulder, toward the bridge. “Have you come to beg my mistress for leniency? You will not get it.”
“I’ve come to speak to … your mistress.” It was a strange term to use, and Kelsea realized that Carlin’s Mort lessons, good as they had been, might have skipped something in the way of idiom.
Ducarte’s heavy-lidded eyes blinked toward the fallen bridge again and then blinked away. “She will not see you.”
“I think she will.” Kelsea stepped closer, and was astonished when he took a half step back, several of the soldiers behind him doing the same. Could it be possible that they were afraid of her? It seemed ludicrous, with the might of the Mort army lying just over the hill.
Ducarte shouted in rapid-fire Mort. “Andrew! Run and tell the Queen what goes on here!”
One of the men in the line turned and sprinted away, over the crest of the hill, where the sky was rapidly turning from pink to orange. Dawn was here, and Kelsea suddenly found this delay intolerable, worse than the idea of her own death. Ducarte did not want negotiation, she saw now, not even if it would benefit Mortmesne or his mistress. Ducarte wanted to march into New London, wanted to lay waste to all he found there. He was looking forward to the sack, looking forward to—
Carnival.
That was the right word. The man in front of her might as well have been Parker, anticipating the fall of the world. William Tear had said something about men like Parker—that they were built for this, built to spoil things. And Kelsea suddenly saw that, at all costs, she must keep this man out of her city. She had broken the bridge, but that was not enough. On the other side of the hill were siege towers, rams. New London was not built to withstand assault, and the Mort army was hungry for plunder. Once they started, they would not stop.
“You want to let me pass, General.”
“That’s for my mistress to decide.”
But Kelsea could not wait. She had already begun to probe at Ducarte, browsing through him, in the same way she would have looked through Carlin’s library. Here was a man who was not afraid to die, like Mace, but nothing else was similar. This man was cold, not one to be swayed by pleas or pity. Only pain and self-preservation would buy him, Kelsea decided, so she found the soft meat of his groin and dug in, hard.
Ducarte cried out. Several of the men behind him stepped forward, but Kelsea shook her head. “Don’t even think about it. Not unless you want a piece of the same.”
They backed away, and Kelsea saw that they were indeed afraid. She turned back to Ducarte, loosening her hold for a moment. “The longer you make me wait here, General, the more I feel a need for such diversions.”
Ducarte stared at her, wide-eyed. Kelsea suspected that he had never been held powerless before. A famous interrogator, Ducarte … and that made her think of Langer, the accountant. Such people did not do well on the other side of the table.
“I have business with your mistress. Let me pass.”
“She will not negotiate,” he gasped. “Even I won’t defy her. She is terrible.”
“Let me tell you a secret, General. I am worse.”
She gave his testes another hard squeeze, and Ducarte screamed, a high, womanish sound. Kelsea was almost enjoying herself now, a low, dirty sort of pleasure, just as she had felt during Thorne’s execution. How easy and pleasant it was, to punish those who deserved punishment. She could reduce this man to meat, and her own death would almost be worth it.
Kelsea, Carlin whispered behind her. The voice was so close that Kelsea turned her head, half expecting to see Carlin standing just over her shoulder. But nothing was there … only her city, standing behind her, wide open, in the blue light of early dawn. The sight shook Kelsea, reminded her that she did not belong to herself. Even the magic she used now, magic that she had essentially taught herself, was not hers. It belonged to William Tear, and Tear would never have allowed anything to divert his attention from the main prize … the better world.
“Take me to her, General, and I will stop.”
All of the blood had drained from Ducarte’s face now. He looked up and over the hillside behind him, his gaze frustrated, at the battering rams that stood ready. Kelsea saw the tenor of Ducarte’s thoughts now, his ambitions, and she had to stomp down her anger, to leash it as one would a dog.
“Take me to her now, General, or I swear to you, you will not be able to enjoy your siege. You will no longer be equipped to do so.”
Ducarte swore, then turned and began tromping back up the hill. Kelsea followed, surrounded by six of Ducarte’s men, a group that had the feeling of a guard. This gave Kelsea pause: did Ducarte really need a guard in his own encampment? He was not a man who inspired loyalty, but it seemed extraordinary that he could be that hated. Even this picked guard, Kelsea noticed, made sure to steer well clear of her, traveling perhaps twenty feet out to the side.