“I see,” the girl murmured, her voice laced with sympathy. “She traded you away. They all did. Queen Elaine got everything.”
The Queen shrieked, wrapping her arms around herself and clawing at her own skin.
“Don’t do that.” The girl pulled up the sleeve of her dress, and the Queen saw that her left arm was a mess of welts, some new, some healing. The sight was so shocking, so contrary to what the Queen thought she knew about the girl, that her hands dropped away from her own arms.
“I do it too, you know,” the girl continued, “to control my anger. But it does no good in the long run. I see that now.”
Ducarte burst through the doorway of the tent, his sword drawn, but the girl whirled toward him and suddenly Ducarte was doubled over, choking, his hands clasped around his throat.
“Don’t interfere, Monsieur General. Stay over there, and I will allow you to breathe.”
Ducarte backed toward the far wall of the tent.
The girl turned back to the Queen, her green eyes contemplative. The Queen’s mind ached, a feeling of terrible violation, as though everything she kept locked away had been laid out in the open under a corrosive sunlight. She could still feel the girl in there, somehow, looking her over, picking through the debris. The Queen tried to summon anything, any of the thousand small tricks she had wielded over the course of her life. She had not felt so powerless since she was a small girl, trapped in a room. The past was supposed to be past. It should not be able to reach up and drag her down.
“What is your name?” the girl asked.
“The Queen of Mortmesne.”
“No.” The girl walked up and stood right in front of her, only a few inches away. Close enough for the Queen to wound, but the Queen couldn’t so much as raise a hand. She felt the girl’s mind again, prying at hers, running fingers over everything, and now she understood that the girl might be able to kill her. No weapon would have done the job, but the girl had found her own knives in the Queen’s mind. Each little piece of history that she touched was sharpened to a fine point, and the Queen felt her entire psyche shudder at the violation of that, of having another person handle her identity so easily. The girl had found her answer now, and the pressure in the Queen’s mind finally eased.
“Evelyn,” the girl murmured. “You’re Evelyn Raleigh. And I am sorry.”
The Queen of Mortmesne closed her eyes.
WHEN AISA AND the other guards entered the Queen’s Wing, they found the rest of the Guard standing at attention. Even the night shift, who were now well past their bedtimes, had not retired. Bradshaw, the magician, was leaning against the wall, idly making a scarf vanish and then reappear. Maman was there too; Aisa spotted her standing at attention at the mouth of the hallway, as she always did while waiting for the Queen to come home. The sight of her made Aisa want to cry.
The Mace stomped over to the dais, the grim cast of his face forestalling all questions. Aisa followed him, as quickly as she dared, keeping her hand on her knife. It was ridiculous, a twelve-year-old girl guarding the Mace, but the Queen had charged her to do so, and Aisa would never forget that moment, not if she lived a hundred years. Elston had taken the Queen’s charge seriously as well; he followed the Mace closely, alert for threats, and when he spotted Aisa doing the same, he gave her a jagged, approving grin. Pen was no help; he wandered behind the Mace as though lost. He had not wept, as Aisa would have expected a lovesick man to do. But he was not with them either.
It was Wellmer who finally dared to ask, “Where’s the Queen?”
“Gone.”
“Dead?”
The Mace searched the room until he found Maman at the entrance to the hallway. She shook her head.
“Not dead,” the Mace replied. “Just gone.”
Arliss was waiting at the foot of the dais. As the Mace approached, Arliss handed him a sheet of paper, and waited while the Mace read. Even when the Mace looked up at him with murderous eyes, Arliss did not flinch.
“You knew.”
Arliss nodded.
“Why the hell—”
“I don’t work for you, Mr. Mace. I serve the Queen. On her orders, nearly a hundred copies have already gone out. The thing’s done; you’re the Regent.”
“Ah, God.” The Mace dropped the piece of paper and sat down on the third step of the dais, burying his head in his hands.
“What will they do to her?” Wellmer asked.
“They’ll take her to Demesne.”
The voice was unfamiliar; Aisa whipped around, drawing her knife. Five hooded men stood in a group, just inside the closed doors of the Queen’s Wing.
The Mace pulled his head from his hands, his keen eyes fixing on the leader. “Kibb! How did these men get into the wing?”
Kibb splayed his hands. “I swear, sir, we shut the doors behind you.”
The Mace nodded, returning his attention to the speaker. “I know your voice, rascal. So you do walk through walls, as the stories tell.”
“We both do.” The leader shook back his hood, revealing a pleasing, dark-haired face and a tan that spoke of the south. “She’s valuable. The Red Queen won’t kill her.”
Aisa wondered how the stranger could be so certain. What value could Queen Kelsea have to the Mort? They could ask for ransom, certainly, but what ransom? Maman said the Tear was poor in everything but people and lumber, but the Mort had their own forests, and the Queen would never agree to a trade for people.
“It would be a smart move to kill the Queen,” the Mace replied. “Leave the Tear without an heir and throw us into chaos.”
“All the same, she will not.”
The Mace stared at the speaker for a long moment, his eyes measuring. Then he popped to his feet. “Then we need to start today.”
The stranger smiled, and it transformed his face from merely pleasant to handsome. “You need people in the capital. I have many. You will have all the help I can give you.”
Aisa peeked at the rest of the Guard and was shocked to see Pen smiling, though his eyes were filled with tears.
“We need to get a message to Galen and Dyer in Demesne. And Kibb!” Mace shouted across the room. “You get down into the Wells and find that baker’s boy. Nick. Time to call in that favor.”
Kibb nodded, a small smile creasing his face. “Going to be an undertaking, sir. You’re the Regent now.”
“I can do both.”
“Sir?” Ewen had stepped forward, his friendly face bewildered and his cheeks wet with tears. Aisa’s heart seemed to contract for him. Everyone knew that Ewen worshipped the Queen, and it seemed likely that he did not understand what had happened.
“What is it, Ewen?” the Mace asked, his voice betraying only the slightest touch of impatience.
“What are we going to do, sir?” Ewen asked, and Aisa saw that she had been wrong: he did understand.
The Mace descended the dais, clapping Ewen gently on the back. “We’re going to do the only thing we can do. We’re going to get her back.”
I’M SORRY,” KELSEA repeated. She could feel that terrible side of herself, hovering, gleeful, waiting to be unleashed on the woman who stood before her. A different Kelsea, that one, a Kelsea who saw death as the most complete and effective solution to all problems.
She expected the Red Queen to fall to her knees, but she did not, and a moment later Kelsea realized that this was a woman who would never beg. It was easy to see, to browse through the woman’s life in much the same way she browsed through Lily’s, to see patterns forming. Evelyn Raleigh, the child, had begged, and it had gained her nothing. The woman would never beg again. Many memories sailed through Kelsea’s mind: playing with a set of toy soldiers on the ruined flagstones of a floor; staring with longing at the blue pendulum of a jewel as it rested on a woman’s chest; watching from behind a curtain as well-dressed men and women danced in a room that Kelsea recognized easily as her own audience chamber. Evelyn Raleigh had been desperate to be noticed, to matter to others … but in all of those childhood memories, she was alone.