Ewen blinked and then cast a quick glance toward the ground. The scarecrow lay motionless, but Ewen was sure he had seen the man move. He turned back to Javel, who was still rubbing his head. “Will you help me tie him up? I have rope.”
“I can’t kill him, can I?” Javel asked sadly. “Not even now.”
“No,” Ewen replied in a firm voice, certain of this one thing. “The Queen wants him alive.”
AISA TRUDGED SLOWLY down the hallway, a lit candle in one hand and the red leather-bound book in the other. Two weeks ago she had turned twelve, and Maman had given her permission to get up and read when she was wakeful. Maman didn’t have insomnia, but she seemed to understand Aisa’s misery at being stuck there, alone in the dark. She must have passed the request along to the Queen or the Mace as well, because now the guards ignored Aisa when they saw her wandering through the Keep in her nightgown, clutching her book.
She always went to the same place to read: the Arms Room. Venner and Fell were too important to work the night shift, so the room was always empty at night, save for the rare guard who came in to sharpen a sword or grab a replacement piece of armor. Aisa liked to take the five straw men that Venner kept there for beginning sparring, arrange them into a big pile in the far corner, and curl up with her book. It was a good reading spot, quiet and private.
She passed Coryn, leaning against the wall. He was in charge of the night guard this week. Aisa liked Coryn; he always answered her questions, and he had shown her the best way to grip a knife for throwing. But she knew better than to talk to him when he was on duty. She gave him a small wave with two of the fingers holding her book, and saw him smile in return. None of the other guards lining the corridor were her friends, so she kept her eyes down until she reached the Arms Room. The cavernous chamber, large and dark, should have frightened her; many dark rooms did. But Aisa loved the glitter of weapons in the candlelight, the tables and tables of swords and knives and armor, the slight residual smell of old sweat. Even the long, looming shadows cast by her candle didn’t frighten Aisa; all of these shadows seemed to have the tall, careful aspect of Venner, and they were a comforting presence in the dark. Aisa knew that she was becoming a better fighter every day; a few days ago she had even gotten through Fell’s guard with her knife, while the men lining the walls hooted and cheered. Aisa took it as a point of pride that several of the Guard spent their free time watching her spar. She was getting better, yes, but that wasn’t all. She sensed her own potential to be more than better. To be great.
Someday I’ll be one of the greatest fighters in the Tear. I’ll be the Fetch himself.
Aisa had told no one about this dream, not even Maman. Even if other people didn’t laugh, she knew that to speak the dream out loud would curse it, hex it somehow. She gathered the straw men in the far corner of the Arms Room, and when they were arranged just right, she collapsed contentedly and opened her book to its mark. She read for hours, through a great battle and the pleas of a woman who dreamed of holding a sword, and her mind raced ahead of her to the day when she would stride across the world, weapon in hand, finding evil and stabbing it out. These thoughts spun out before her, faster and faster, a grand dream, and finally Aisa slept. The candle continued to burn beside her for perhaps forty minutes until it guttered and died, leaving her in the dark.
SHE AWOKE TO the sound of the door opening, of voices. Her first instinct, learned from earliest childhood, was to freeze, to make herself invisible. She had escaped from Da, but in waking moments, that never mattered. Some little part of her was always awake, waiting for his thick, ponderous movement in the dark.
Slitting her eyes open, she saw faint torchlight inching its way around the edge of the table. She drew her knees up, curling into the smallest ball possible. It was two men, she realized after a moment: one with a younger, lighter voice, and one with the older, roughened tones of a longtime Queen’s Guard. This second voice took her only a few seconds to identify: the Mace. Aisa had heard his angry growl often enough lately to recognize it now, even when he spoke calmly and quietly.
“Had a good break?” the Mace asked. His tone was pleasant, but Aisa heard unpleasantness just beneath it, lurking. The other man must have been able to hear it as well, because his voice, when he answered, was low and defensive.
“I’m sober.”
“That’s not my concern. I know you’ll never make that mistake again.”
“Then what’s your concern?” the younger man asked, his tone aggressive.
“You and her.”
Aisa curled into a tighter ball, listening closely. This would be about Marguerite, for certain. All of the guards, even Coryn, had a certain look on their faces when they watched Marguerite, even if she was just walking across a room. Aisa had been jealous for a bit, but then she remembered that Coryn was old, thirty-eight. Too old for Aisa, even in her fantasy life.
The Mace’s voice remained measured and careful, but there was still that tone, lurking underneath. “You can’t hide much from me, you know. I’ve known you too long. You’re not impartial. That’s fine; perhaps none of us are. But none of us have your job.”
“Leave off!” the younger man snarled.
“Don’t take your anger out on me,” the Mace replied mildly. “I haven’t done this to you.”
“It’s just … difficult.”
“You’ve noticed the change in her, then.”
“I never cared which face she wore.”
“Ah. So this isn’t new.”
“No.”
“That makes it worse, I think. Do you want me to choose another for your job?”
“No.”
Aisa’s brow wrinkled. Something pulled at her memory; the identity of the younger guard was right there, almost identifiable. She thought about leaning around the corner of the table and taking a peek, but she didn’t dare. The Mace saw everything; he would certainly see the tip of her head if it poked out. He was sneaky himself, but he would not take kindly to an eavesdropper. And if she got caught, they might not let her come in here to read at night anymore.
“My skills aren’t compromised,” the younger guard insisted. “It’s a nuisance, not a problem.”
The Mace remained silent for a long moment, and when he spoke again, Aisa was surprised to hear that his voice had softened. “You may think you’re the first one this has ever happened to, but I assure you that this is an old problem for close guards. I understand it well, believe me. I’m not sure that it doesn’t actually make you a better guard. You’d throw yourself in front of the knife without a thought, no?”
“Yes,” the younger man replied bleakly, and Aisa finally identified him: Pen Alcott. She crouched lower, trying to remember the rest of the conversation, to puzzle it out.
“What of that woman you’ve found?” the Mace asked. “Does she offer no relief at all?”
Pen laughed without humor. “Ten minutes of relief, every time.”
“We can find another shield, you know,” the Mace told him. “Several of them are ready. Elston would jump at the chance.”
“No. It would be a greater torment to be out of the room than in.”
“You say that now, but think, Pen. Think about when she takes a husband, or even just a man for the night. How will you feel then, being right outside the door?”
“She may not take either.”
“She will,” the Mace replied firmly. “She has her mother’s recklessness, and her mind grows older by the day. It won’t be long before she finds that outlet.”
Pen was silent for a long moment. “I don’t want to be replaced. Partial or no, I’m the best man for the job, and you know it.”
“All right.” The Mace’s voice lost its gentle edge and became iron-hard as he continued. “But mark me: I’ll be watching. And if I see one sign of impaired performance, you’re done, not just with your post but with this Guard. Do you understand?”