Speak, Arlen!
But he said nothing, and then the moment was past. Kelsea felt it blow right by her, a cold wind of withered promise.
“Beast!” a woman screamed, and then they all began again, howling and cursing. There was nothing more to accomplish here; Kelsea nodded to Mace and Coryn, who stepped forward without ceremony and shoved both Bannaker and the priest off the scaffold.
Bannaker’s neck broke instantly, a quick crack like a slap, and his limp body swung back and forth in decreasing arcs before the crowd. But Brother Matthew struggled, choking, against his noose. The crowd had begun to fling items again, making a game of it now, trying to hit the two dangling men. Most of these objects bounced harmlessly off the wooden facing, but one piece fell near Kelsea with a dull crack: a misshapen brick, its edges worn. Beside the brick, a playing card lay facedown on the platform, no doubt left by some worker on break from construction. Not knowing why, Kelsea bent down and picked it up. Turning it over, she saw that it was the queen of spades.
Kelsea stared at the card, transfixed: a tall woman dressed all in black, holding weapons in both hands. The Queen’s all-knowing gaze pinned Kelsea where she stood, as though she knew every thought in Kelsea’s mind.
But no, Kelsea thought, that isn’t it at all. The nights of slicing her own flesh open, the incident with Kibb, the steadily growing sense of her own power … all of it had been narrowing to a point, distilling Kelsea to her essentials. She squeezed her hand into a fist, feeling the playing card crumple inside.
I am her: the tall, dark woman with death in each hand. She is me.
“Be silent!” she shouted.
A hush fell over the crowd, as quick and sharp as a curtain dropping. Brother Matthew still convulsed, gagging, at the end of his rope, but Kelsea didn’t mind the counterpoint. She moved up toward the edge of the scaffold, so far out that Pen, close as always, grabbed a handful of her dress. It felt as though there were yards of extra material in the small of Kelsea’s back now, where the fabric had always stretched tight for her entire life. She had transformed, become something more than herself, become extraordinary.
The queen of spades.
“You have come to watch this man die!” she announced. “But I know you, people of the Tearling! You do not come to watch a hanging! You come for blood!”
“Aye!” hundreds of voices shouted back.
“Make him bleed, Lady!”
“Give him to us!”
“No.” Something seemed to be unfurling inside Kelsea, unfolding stealthily, like a dark pair of wings opening in the night, and she wanted to spread them wide, feel their span. Always she had been a child of the light, loving the warm sun through the cottage windows, when it felt as though all things were right and kind. But the world was also full of darkness, a cold gulf that beckoned. The people hungered for violence, and suddenly Kelsea wanted, more than anything, to give it them.
Corruption. Carlin’s voice, a dim echo, long ago in the morning gleam of the library. Corruption begins with a single moment of weakness.
But Kelsea was not weak. She was strong … stronger than Carlin could ever have imagined. Her entire being seemed to be filled with bright light.
“Arlen.”
It was only a whisper, but Thorne jerked around to face her, a marionette pulled by invisible strings.
I own him, Kelsea realized, her mind a dark marvel. Every cell, every molecule. I could force him to speak. I could force him to tell me everything I want to know.
But that was nonsense. The time for talk had come and gone.
“Lady?”
Mace touched her arm, and Kelsea turned to see that he was offering the third noose in one hand. But she ignored it, staring at Thorne, memorizing his form, learning his outlines. He watched her placidly, and Kelsea saw that he felt no regret, even now. In the bleak white landscape of his mind, he was certain that he had acted justifiably, that no man would have done any better. Seventeen long years of facilitating the shipment … but no, Thorne’s role had been even worse. Deep within his mind, Kelsea found a bright flash of memory: a hand holding out a pen, a smooth, persuasive voice, speaking in murmurs. I’m afraid you have no choice, Majesty. There’s no better option.
Fury coiled inside Kelsea, a sick fury that seemed to come from nowhere, descending like an animal with ragged claws and needle teeth. She tasted blood on her tongue.
A dark slash opened just above Thorne’s left eye. He cried out, clapped a hand to his forehead, and Kelsea watched with pleasure as blood spilled between his fingers and ran down his cheek. The crowd broke its silence now, howling in delight, pushing toward the scaffold. Kelsea leaned forward, heedless of Pen’s restraining grip on her dress, and grasped Thorne’s hair, tipping his head back. Bright blue eyes stared up at her from a face tacky with blood.
“I have news for you, Arlen. We’re on my chessboard now.”
Another slice appeared across Thorne’s cheek, opening all the way from his hairline to the corner of his mouth. Thorne groaned, and Kelsea felt that winged thing inside her growing, heaving, desperate to break its bonds. She slashed at Thorne’s neck, dangerously near the jugular, and watched crimson bloom across the white linen of his shirt. Thorne screamed and the sound was music to Kelsea’s ears, the crowd’s approval roaring around her, lifting her up. She saw herself as they must see her: a beautiful woman, long dark hair snapping in the wind, a figure of great power and … was it terror? Kelsea hesitated, seeing the scene before her from another angle, as though a third person stood beside her, observing dispassionately. Thorne was bleeding from half a dozen deep wounds. He had fallen to his knees. The crowd had pushed farther up against the scaffold in its eagerness now, some of them shinnying up the supports and reaching for Thorne, their hands grasping at his legs. But they shied away from Kelsea. Even the most eager took care that their hands should not come within range of her, not even to brush the hem of her dress. Terror, yes … it must be, and Kelsea’s mind went out to the black shadow of the Mort army, somewhere in the floodplain between the Caddell and the Crithe.
My kingdom, she thought, and the wings inside her spread wide, prepared for some unimaginable flight. Briefly her mind skipped backward, to that night when Kibb had lain dying, when she had snatched him back. That was power, yes, but it would not save the Tearling. Her kingdom was laid bare, ripe for slaughter, and she had nothing to offer but this darkness. The black wings folded, enclosing Kelsea in their embrace, and she nearly sighed at the relief she found there, a bottomless fathom where no light ever shone, where all choices were easy because all choices were one.
She returned to Thorne, pushing past his skin, seeking the meat beneath. Her mind had sharpened into a killing blade and she launched into the creature in front of her, slashing everything within her reach, feeling a sweeping excitement as tissue shredded away from bone. Thorne howled, his body becoming misshapen as the inner upheaval played out across his skin. Blood gouted from his nose, spattering the hem of Kelsea’s dress, but she barely noticed. She was already digging into the meat of his chest, looking for his lungs. She found one, constricted it, and felt it pop with sickening ease. More blood poured from Thorne’s mouth, and at the sight of scarlet dripping down his chin, Kelsea felt it again: a fainting sort of pleasure, akin to what she felt when Pen touched her at night. But this was more visceral, like a punch to her core. Thorne’s other lung collapsed and he fell forward, writhing, on the scaffold. The crowd screamed with delight, and the sound lifted Kelsea up. Her entire body felt charged, electric.