She gave him a sharp glance, feeling her temper trying to awaken again, but then it subsided. It was only Mace, after all, Mace who always said the true thing that Kelsea didn’t want to hear. She put one hand to her temple, which was suddenly throbbing, clamoring for attention. She felt as though her mind was being pulled in two directions, past and future lying opposite each other on a straight track. At one end lay Lily Mayhew and the strange Englishman who had brought them all to the new world, built a colony, and given the kingdom its name, and at the other end was the Mort army, breaking the walls of her city. Kelsea could see each step clearly: the breach of the wall, the black masses pouring in, the orgy of slaughter and violation and brutality that would follow. Men, women, children … no one would be spared. The Sack of New London, they would call it, a horror that would decimate the Tearling for generations. How could there be no alternative? Could she destroy the Mort army as she had destroyed Thorne? She could try, but the terrible consequences if she failed … Kelsea turned back to the horizon, and though it was only her imagination, the black cloud seemed closer. Madness beckoned, and Kelsea felt that it would embrace her, if she allowed it … a deep, dark nothingness that would wrap her like a cloak and take all dilemmas away.
“What is it, Coryn?”
“We’ve had word from the Cadarese. They will not offer assistance. Further, the King’s offer of marriage is withdrawn.”
Kelsea felt a bitter smile stretch her lips. “Is Kattan here?”
“No, Lady.”
“Kattan’s the First Ambassador,” Mace told her, “the man for happy times and sweet offers. When they want to cut and run, they send some poor bastard who may or may not survive the trip.”
“The Cadarese messenger did leave a present, Lady,” Coryn added.
“What is it?”
“A stone bowl. For fruit.”
Kelsea began to giggle. She couldn’t help it. Mace was smiling now, too, but it was a tired smile, worlds removed from his normal grin. “The Cadarese are isolationists, Lady. This is their way.”
“I suppose there will be no good news,” Kelsea replied, her laughter subsiding. “It just isn’t that kind of day, is it?”
“Nor that kind of month, Lady.”
“No, I suppose not.” Kelsea began to wipe a tear from her cheek and saw that her hand was bleeding.
“Are you all right, Lady?”
“I’m fine. We should arm everyone in the city who’s fit to hold a sword.”
“We don’t have the steel.”
“Wooden swords, then, anything. Just give them weapons.”
“To what end?”
“Morale. People don’t like to feel defenseless. And when the refugees come in, I want all the families with children moved to the Keep.”
“There’s not enough room.”
“Then do the best you can, Lazarus.” Kelsea rubbed her temples. Lily was calling her, tugging at her mind, but Kelsea didn’t want to go back, didn’t want to watch Lily’s life play out inside her head. The present was bad enough.
“We should get you back inside, Lady. You have a fugue coming on.”
She turned to him, surprised. “How do you know?”
“Just the look you get. We know the signs now.”
“When is Pen back?”
Mace gave her an inscrutable look. “His leave is over tonight, but he likely won’t be back until after you fall asleep.”
“That’s fine.”
“Be careful, Lady.”
She whipped around, meaning to snap at him: it was none of his business whom she slept with! But she kept quiet. Pen did not belong to her, after all. If he belonged to anyone, it was to Mace.
“Lady!”
“Christ God, Coryn, what? Another messenger?”
“No, Lady.” Coryn raised his hands. “It’s the magician now. He says he must speak to you.”
“Who?”
“The magician who performed at your dinner. Bradshaw.”
But the man who emerged from the staircase was not the impeccably neat performer that Kelsea had seen at dinner that night. Bradshaw had been badly beaten. Both of his eyes were puffed with dark bruising, and there were red scrapes across his cheeks.
“Majesty,” he panted. “I must beg you for asylum.”
“What?”
“The Holy Father has placed a price on my head.”
“You’re joking.”
“I swear to you, Majesty. One hundred pounds. I have been on the run for days.”
“I have no love for the Holy Father, Bradshaw, but it seems unlikely that he would place an open bounty on a man’s head.”
“I’m not the only one, Majesty! The old priest, Father Tyler. The Holy Father offers a bounty for him as well.”
Kelsea felt her stomach sink, a slow roll, as she realized that she had not seen Father Tyler for several days. Arliss and his siege preparations had kept her far too busy to notice, but now she counted backward and found that it had been at least three days since Father Tyler had last come to the Keep.
“Where is he?” she asked Mace.
“I don’t know, Lady,” Mace replied, his face troubled. “This is the first I’ve heard of this.”
“Find him, Lazarus. Find him right now.”
Mace went to confer with Coryn, and Kelsea was left with the magician. Mace had left her unguarded, she realized suddenly, and this was perhaps the truest indication that he knew the real score: Kelsea was in no physical danger from anyone anymore. Her Guard was only a polite fiction. An idea glimmered at the edges of her mind for a moment, something to do with the Mort, but when she reached out to grasp it, the idea was gone, subsumed in worry over Father Tyler. The magician had been able to outrun his pursuers; what could Father Tyler do? He was an old man with a broken leg.
“Does the Holy Father have some prior grievance with you?” she asked the magician.
“No, Majesty, I swear to you. I never saw him before that night at the Keep. Word in the Gut is that the Holy Father has excommunicated all performers of my trade. But I’m the only one for whom he offers a bounty.”
So this was not about Bradshaw. The Holy Father might hate magicians, but the bounty was a slap aimed directly at Kelsea.
“How much danger are you really in?”
“Less than another might be without my gift of vanishing. But I can’t outrun them forever, Majesty. I’m too well known in the city. I swear to you, I will be of use to you.”
Kelsea laughed and gestured over the wall. “Look out there, Bradshaw. I have no need of an in-house performer now.”
“I understand, Majesty.” The magician stared at the ground for a long moment, then squared his shoulders and spoke quietly. “I’m no performer.”
“What does that mean?”
Bradshaw leaned closer. If Mace had been nearby, he would never have allowed it, but he was still deep in conference with Coryn, and so Bradshaw was able to hunch over Kelsea, hiding her from the rest of her Guard.
“Look.”
Bradshaw raised his right palm and held it perfectly still. After a moment, the air above his palm began to shimmer, as cobblestones did in high heat. The shimmer solidified into a knife, a silver knife with an old and intricate handle.
“Try it, Majesty.”
Kelsea grasped the knife, found it solid in her hand.
“They say you have magic, Majesty, in your jewels. But there is other magic in the Tear. My family is full of such gifts.”
Kelsea snuck another quick look at Mace. He would not like it, she knew; he distrusted magicians, all of their ilk. And yet the man had meant no harm that night; Kelsea had hired him to perform. There were larger considerations here, too: the Holy Father might have paid off the nobles of New London, but the truly devout would never tolerate something as prosaic as a bounty from the Arvath.
“I will take you in,” she told the magician. “But the Queen’s Wing won’t be a safe haven for very long. When the Mort come, you may wish you had simply disappeared for good.”
“Thank you, Majesty. I will take no more of your time.”