Andalie’s voice was rising, and Kelsea realized, horrified, that Andalie seemed to be trying to justify herself, to ward off some inevitable condemnation.
“No fifteen-year-old can make good decisions, Andalie. I can barely make easy decisions for my own life now.”
“Perhaps, Majesty, but had I known that my children would also pay for my mistakes, I would gladly have taken the knock-house. I knew that Borwen was a brute, but I didn’t realize precisely what he was until Aisa was five years old. I tried to send both Aisa and Wen away, but we had no friends who would take them to safety. Heaven help me, I even tried our local priest, to see if he would take them for fostering in lieu of tithe. But the priest told Borwen what I had done. Finally I tried to run away, but it is difficult to disappear with children, and it seemed that I was always pregnant. Each time, Borwen found me, and if I refused to come home, he would snatch one of the children. In the end, it seemed better to keep them with me; at least I could help them, shield them somewhat.”
“That seems reasonable,” Kelsea ventured, not knowing whether it was true. What she was hearing now was so far beyond her own experience that she couldn’t begin to imagine what she would have done. Her mind skipped back to the pre-Crossing woman, Lily Mayhew. Lily had wanted to run, but as a lone woman, there was no safety for her to run to. The Crossing was more than three centuries past, but that world suddenly seemed very close, separated by only a thin veil of time.
Great god, Kelsea thought bleakly, are we really no better?
“Perhaps it was reasonable, Lady,” Andalie mused. “And yet my children suffered, and badly. The boys took beatings, the girls took worse. My husband is not a clever man, but his very stupidity makes him dangerous. He has never asked himself whether he has the right to do the things he has done. He is not intelligent enough to consider such questions. This, I think, is the crux of evil in this world, Majesty: those who feel entitled to whatever they want, whatever they can grab. Such people never ask themselves if they have the right. They consider no cost to anyone but themselves.”
“Surely part of that is upbringing,” Kelsea objected. “It can be eradicated.”
“Perhaps, Lady. But I believe Borwen was born as he is.” Andalie looked down at Glee, who was fast asleep now, her mouth rounded into an O. “I know what my girl has received from me. But I fear constantly what the rest may have taken from their father. I am not sure whether Aisa’s temperament comes from Borwen’s blood or his mistreatment. The boys have their own problems.”
Kelsea bit her lip, then ventured, “Lazarus tells me that Aisa has real skill, particularly with a knife. Venner enjoys teaching her, certainly more than he ever did me.”
Andalie made a face. “It’s not what I would have wished for her, Majesty, the fighting. But I see now that her problems are beyond my ability to repair. I appreciate that you have given her this outlet; perhaps it will ease some of her anger.”
“Don’t thank me; the idea came from Lazarus.”
“Ah.” Andalie shut her mouth, an entire conversation there. Andalie and Mace were unlikely allies, thoroughly disapproving of nearly everything about each other. Kelsea considered saying something else, but Andalie’s next remark seemed deliberately abrupt, designed to close the previous topic as though she were slamming shut a book.
“My Glee’s visions may be unfocused yet, Lady, but I would advise you to take heed of them.”
“In what way?”
“The Mort problem torments you, Lady. You are not sleeping. You have lost an alarming amount of weight.”
So Andalie sees it too. Kelsea didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.
“I have considered the problem as well. I see no solutions; the Mort army is too strong. But Glee and I see the same common elements in your future. A hand holds your two jewels, but the hand is somehow empty at the same time. A beguiling man whose face conceals a monstrosity. A playing card: the queen of spades. A chasm beneath your feet.”
“And what does all of that mean?”
“I can’t say, Lady.”
“Then I’m not sure what good it does me.”
“Often no good at all, Majesty. It’s a mistake made by many, to place too much faith in visions. But I would urge you to remember these elements, for they may prove useful when you least expect it. That has been my experience.”
Kelsea considered these things, one by one. The queen of spades. Once a week, Kelsea played poker with five of her Guard, and she knew the spade queen welclass="underline" a tall, proud woman with a weapon in each hand. But what of that? Only one of Andalie’s omens really seemed to mean anything: the beguiling man. That could easily be the Fetch, but despite all that she knew of him, Kelsea did not believe him to be monstrous. Her instincts had failed her several times since she had taken the throne, but she refused to believe that they could fail so badly as that. The Fetch had his own agenda, certainly, but he made no effort to beguile. Kelsea had done that to herself.
“Be careful, Majesty,” Andalie cautioned. “I know your dark-haired rogue. I speak of another. Handsome as sin, this one, but beneath the facade is a horror, and suffering comes with him. Be on your guard.”
Not sure how much of this she really believed, Kelsea nodded. She looked down at the sleeping child in Andalie’s arms and felt anew the massive weight of responsibility on her shoulders. So many individual lives to look out for each day, and arching above all, the great Mort nightmare on the horizon. It was a heavy responsibility, but it was Kelsea’s, and even in her most self-pitying moments, she recognized that she had bargained for it. If she had known everything on that late afternoon when the guards rode up to the cottage, she would still have come, and now it was her burden to bear, all the way to the end.
What end?
Kelsea didn’t know, but one of Andalie’s images stayed with her, ruining her concentration for the rest of the afternoon: the queen of spades.
SIR!”
Hall looked up, startled. The razor slipped in his hand, scraping jaggedly along his jaw, and he hissed in annoyance.
“What is it, Blaser?”
“Scouts are back, sir. There’s a problem.”
Hall sighed and wiped the lather from his face, smiling wryly. It seemed that every time he tried to get in a shave lately, there was a problem. Throwing the towel into the corner of his tent, he grabbed his spyglass from the table beside his cot and ducked outside.
“What is it?”
“Five men rode out of the western Verinne around dawn, sir. We thought they were messengers, but we’ve been tracking them all the same.”
“And?”
“Llew’s pretty sure now, sir. It’s Ducarte.”
Hall’s stomach sank. The news was not wholly unexpected, but it was bad all the same: Benin the Butcher. Hall would much rather have dealt with Genot, but Genot hadn’t been seen in camp since the attack. He was dead, or fled, and there would be no more easy victories. Blaser looked uneasy as well, so Hall forced a smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “How far away?”
“A few hours. At most.”
Hall trained his spyglass on the sprawling mess of tents below. He and his men had gotten plenty of entertainment watching the Mort clear the camp; the rattlers were crafty bastards, their sense of self-preservation not at all impacted by the sudden removal from their hillside rookeries, and having fed well, they’d gone to ground, finding the best hiding places in the camp and sleeping during the day. At night, the screams continued, a steady diet. For the first two weeks, Hall had been pleased to see the Mort camp lit up like a Christmas tree at night. They must have used up the lion’s share of their ready oil.
But more food and oil always came, an unrelenting stream of supply from the southeast, and snakes or no, the cannons remained heavily guarded in the middle of the campsite. Dozens of plans for dealing with them had been heard and discarded, and Blaser and Major Caffrey often ended up shouting at each other until Hall ordered them to shut up. These were signs he could read: despite the victory they had scored, morale was beginning to fail.