Chapter 4
Brenna

There was blood on her hands.

She stared at her palms, trying to remember. The past few days were a blur, but then everything had been a blur since her master had died. From that moment on, she did not remember time as a concrete thing, only a river in which she occasionally bumped against the shore. She remembered killing the Queen’s Guard, but not how she had escaped afterward. She did not know how she had gotten here.

To her left was a small stream. Brenna bent and rinsed her hands, scrubbing at her nails to get rid of the dried blood. She had killed a man in Burns Copse, she remembered now, killed him for food and coin. She had caught him before he had time to pull a weapon, and he had merely stared at her, hypnotized, until she slipped a knife between his ribs. He had a horse as well, but she could not ride, and there would be no way to sell the horse without attracting attention. The entire Tear thought her albino, and the master had said that was a good thing, a good secret to keep. But she was no more albino than she was madwoman, and since the master had died, she had already begun to recover some of her color, her life. But not enough to sell a horse without anyone noticing, not yet. Not enough to blend into a crowd.

The master.

She had shed no tears for him, but that was only because tears were such a cowardly way to grieve. First one sought vengeance, and then, long years later, when all ledgers were balanced, one could wallow in sorrow. The master’s voice still echoed in her head, screaming; she could not quiet the sound. She had felt him die, felt his agony and, worse, his absolute panic in that final moment when he had realized that there was no way out, that he had finally met a force with which he could not strike a deal. She had been taking on his pain her whole life, ever since they were children; the effort had turned her white.

She straightened from the stream and turned east again, seeking her quarry. She did not use her sense of smell, not precisely; rather, it felt as though she were cutting through distance, wading through thousands of people, all their myriad feelings like muddy water, until she found exactly what she sought. This particular gift had been quite useful to the master, for whenever someone tried to flee the shipment, there was no way to hide from the tracker inside Brenna’s head. It was a powerful skill, and when she was young, the Caden had tried more than once to acquire her, to cleave her from the master. She had killed three of them before they finally gave up. Last year, they had tried again; several of them had come to the master, requesting a temporary loan of her services to find the Raleigh heir. But they would not pay what the master demanded.

If they had only paid! Brenna thought fiercely. This particular path was one that her thoughts had trodden many times before, but it grew no less bitter, no less urgent. If they had only paid, perhaps the master would still be alive!

She turned her face into the wind, sensing its movement on her tongue. The bitch was out there still, but no longer moving. Now she was in a cold, dark room. Brenna tested the walls, tasted them on her tongue, and found them to be thick stone.

“Imprisoned, are you?” she whispered. She could not be sure, but she fancied the bitch could hear her. There was power in her, great power; Brenna could sense it even now, distant and faint, just as she’d always been able to sense the force up in the Fairwitch. She had briefly considered turning her steps northward on this journey, traveling up to the mountains and seeking assistance. Whatever was up there was powerful, for certain; Brenna felt its pull beneath her feet. But there was some sort of upheaval going on in the Fairwitch now, and she could sense the lines of force that had always underlain the Tearling beginning to shift. Too uncertain, and she wanted no distractions. She had food enough to get her to the Mort border, and really, she needed very little to sustain her. Rage was more nourishing than food.

But if the bitch was in the Demesne dungeons, she might be beyond even Brenna’s reach. It would serve the master nothing if Brenna died trying to get into the Palais. There must be another way.

After another moment’s thought, Brenna began to look around the woods. Most of the animals had fled at her approach, but they were beginning to creep out again, now that she was still. A few minutes’ searching found her a grey squirrel, peeping out from behind a tree. She was on it before it could blink. The squirrel bit and tore at her, but Brenna ignored the sting—pain was only a trick of the mind, after all—and wrung its neck. Pulling out the dead man’s knife, she slit the squirrel from throat to belly, allowing the blood to drip and puddle on the ground. She had to be quick. Blood would bring other predators, and they might attract a hunter. She could deal with such a person, but had no wish to leave a trail behind. She was free now, yes, but the master had often told her never to underestimate the Mace.

Tossing the squirrel aside, she bent to the small puddle of blood, taking a deep copper breath. Knowing where someone was, that was easy. Finding out where they were going to be was more difficult, but it could be done, and probably far more easily than getting into the Mort dungeons on her own.

What if she dies there?

Brenna refused to consider that idea. The bitch’s death in Mort custody would not be pretty, but it would be a holiday compared to what Brenna had in mind. Brenna had suffered, the master had suffered, and she did not believe the future would rob them of revenge.

She remained very still, staring into the scarlet puddle for a long time, her eyes wide, each breath a hiss of pain. A quarter of a mile away, on the Mort Road, traffic continued, an exodus of wagons and riders heading east, refugees from New London returning to their homes on the border. None saw Brenna, but all of them shuddered as they passed, as though they had hit a pocket of freezing cold.

Brenna finally straightened, smiling. A further hint of color had come back into her cheeks. She grabbed the bloody knife and the bag of food, then turned her steps southeast.

Javel wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself, wishing he could somehow draw into the shadows of the overhanging building. Another Mort street patrol had passed him only a few minutes ago. Sooner or later, someone was going to notice that he was simply standing there, not moving, and assume that he was up to no good.

The address Dyer had discovered sat opposite: a stately brick house, three stories, surrounded by a high stone wall with iron gates. Javel could not even peek in the windows, for two guards stood just inside the gates, opening them only for certain people. According to Dyer, Allie’s buyer had been a Madame Arneau, but that was the only information Javel was going to get. Ever since they had seen the Queen on the Rue Grange, Allie might as well have dropped off the face of the earth. Dyer and Galen had moved their base to an abandoned factory in the steel district, and their evenings seemed to be taken up entirely with unexplained errands and secret nighttime meetings with men Javel did not recognize. These men were Mort and carried steel, but they were not soldiers. There was a rescue attempt under way, and Javel felt like more of a nuisance than ever.

Across the street, an open wagon circled around the house from the back. They must have stables back there, for when men arrived, one of the guards on the door was quick to take their horses around the side. Javel had already seen several men come and go. Two of them had been drunk. An awful realization was growing upon him, turning his stomach and weakening his knees.

It could be any sort of house, he told himself. But that was nonsense. This neighborhood might be cleaner than the Gut, but some things were the same everywhere. He knew what he was looking at. He rubbed a hand across his brow and found that he was perspiring, even in the late autumn chill. He had known that these were the odds, he reminded himself. No one bought a pretty woman like Allie to make her into a servant, and he had done his best to accept the fact that she might be a whore. But now he had begun to wonder if his best would be good enough. When he imagined his wife under another man, he wanted to kick and punch, to break things.

High, merry laughter made him look up. A group of five women had emerged from the front of the house, chattering among themselves. They carried bags on their shoulders. All of them were tarted up, dressed in glittering fabrics, their eyes painted, their hair piled atop their heads.

Allie stood in the middle.

For a long moment, Javel couldn’t move. It was his Allie, all right; he could see her distinctive blonde curls, now gathered in a bunch on top of her head. But her face was so different. Older, yes, lines at the corners of her eyes, but that wasn’t the real change. His Allie had been sweet. This woman looked . . . sharp. There was a tightness about her mouth. She laughed as merrily as the rest, but not the laughter Javel had known: broad and secretive, cold as the skim of ice on a dark lake. Javel watched, astounded, as she climbed into the wagon of her own free will and seated herself beside the other women, still laughing.

A man, tall and burly, had followed them out the door. As he climbed into the wagon, Javel saw the flash of a knife beneath his coat. Another guard, then, although Javel had already noticed in his explorations of Demesne that most prostitutes were treated far better here than in New London. Even the street girls were not molested. He did not know why five high-end whores should need a guard in Demesne, but with both the guard and the driver to take into consideration, Javel could not take the chance of approaching the wagon.

The driver clicked to the horses and left the enclosure of the walls. As though in a dream, Javel followed, forcing himself to stay more than a hundred feet behind. A dark hole had opened inside him. Over the past six years, he had imagined Allie’s life often, many images pouring through his head, driving him into the pub just as surely as a man would drive goats to market. But he had never pictured her laughing.

When the wagon halted for traffic at the next intersection, Javel crept closer, ducking into an adjacent alley, and made a second unpleasant discovery: all five women, including Allie, were speaking Mort. The wagon turned into the Rue Grange and Javel followed, though he was forced to duck and dodge. This was the marketing segment of the Rue, and the street was always busy, crowded with vendors’ stalls and customers for the shops. He was beginning to lose the wagon when, miraculously, the driver slowed, pulling to one side so that the women could alight and spread along the sidewalk. Two of them crossed the street, and Javel realized, astounded, that this was a shopping excursion. Allie went straight into an apothecary.

The driver remained with the wagon, and the guard stayed with him, but his eyes roved the street continuously. Javel got the sense that he would be ready to move at the first sign of trouble. Javel slipped closer, not even sure what his plan was. Part of him wanted to flee back to the safety of the warehouse, to the time when he knew nothing of Allie’s fate at all.

Keeping a weather eye on the guard and driver, he strolled casually toward the apothecary. People jostled him, but he ducked and dodged around them, watching the door. The driver was telling some story now, the guard smirking, and Javel slipped past them and inside the shop.

He found Allie in a darkened corner, waiting in front of the counter. The apothecary was nowhere in sight, but Javel could hear the sound of bottles being moved behind a small green curtain. He wished that he could do this in other circumstances, without an audience that might reappear at any moment, but he also realized that he might never get such a chance again. It was now or never.

“Allie.”

She looked up, startled, and Javel felt the world shift on its axis as he saw her eyes, cold and distrustful beneath their violet-painted lids. She looked at him for a long moment.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve come—” Javel felt his throat lock, cutting off the words. He summoned his memories: those nights sitting half asleep in pubs, Allie’s face floating behind his eyes, the hatred for himself that had washed over him in endless waves. Six long years he had left her here, so that she could become the woman before him. If he left her here again, how would he live with himself afterward?

“I’ve come to take you home,” he finished awkwardly.

Allie emitted a brief, throaty sound that he finally realized was a chuckle.

“Why?”

“Because you’re my wife.”

She began to laugh, the sound like a slap to Javel’s face.

“We can get you out of here,” he told her. “I have friends. I can keep you safe.”

“Safe,” she murmured. “How sweet.”

Javel flushed. “Allie—”

“My name is Alice.”

“I’ve come here to rescue you!”

“A knight in shining armor!” she exclaimed brightly, but her eyes did not change, and Javel heard a great deal of anger just beneath her bright words. “And where were you six years ago, Sir Knight, when your bravery could have done me some good?”

“I followed you!” Javel insisted. “I followed you all the way down the Mort road!”

She stared at him for a long, cold moment. “And?”

“Thorne’s people were too powerful. I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t think we could get away.”

“And in all the years since?”

“I was—” But there was nowhere to go from there. What could he tell her? That he’d been at the pub?

“I tried,” he finished brokenly.

“All right, you tried,” Allie replied. “But since you were a coward then, you don’t get to claim bravery now. You’re six years too late. I have built a life here. I am content.”

“Content? You’re a whore!”

Allie gave him another long, measuring look. That look had always been able to make Javel feel about two feet tall, but he had only seen it a few times during their marriage, usually when he had promised to do something and forgotten. He felt as though a spell had been cast upon her; if he could only get her away from here, he could surely break it and change her back.

“Is anything wrong, Alice?” a voice asked. Javel turned and saw the burly guard who had been on the wagon, standing just inside the doorway. His gaze was fixed on Javel, and the look in his eyes made Javel shudder. The man would like nothing better than to beat him to a pulp.

“Nothing at all,” Allie replied brightly. “Just trawling.”

At this, Javel’s mouth dropped open, and he suddenly understood the dual purpose of the shopping trip, the reason for the women’s fine dresses and heavy paint.

“Well, let me know if you need anything, ma’am.” Clearly disappointed, the guard backed out of the shop.

Javel suddenly realized that he had understood the man perfectly, that he had been speaking in Tear. Violence in every muscle, that guard, but his manner toward Allie was utterly deferential. Javel turned back to Allie, wishing he could take his last words back, but he sensed that it wouldn’t matter.

“I am a whore indeed,” Allie replied after a long moment. “But I am working, Javel. I earn my own money and answer to no one.”

“What about your pimp?” he shot back, hating the venom in his own voice but unable to control it.

“I pay rent to Madame Arneau. Reasonable rent, far more reasonable than the rent on a similar space in New London.”

Javel could not reply. He only wished that he might have this Madame Arneau’s neck in his hands, even once.

“In return, I get a suite of beautiful rooms and three cooked meals a day. I am well guarded from predators, I work my own hours, and I choose my own clientele.”

“What sort of whorehouse gives a whore that much freedom?” he demanded. “It’s bad business, if nothing else.”

Allie’s eyes narrowed, and if possible, the coldness in her voice became even deeper, sharper. “The sort that realizes a happy, healthy prostitute is a more profitable one. I earn three times your salary as a Gate Guard.”

“But we’re still married! You’re my wife.”

“No. You gave me away when you watched me climb into the cage six years ago. I want nothing from you, and you have no right to demand anything from me.”

Javel opened his mouth to protest—surely marriage could not be dissolved so easily, even in Mortmesne—but at that moment the apothecary reappeared from behind the green curtain. He was a tiny, balding man with spectacles, holding a small box in his hands.

“Here you are, Lady,” he said, offering the box to Allie. He, too, spoke Tear, and this puzzled Javel, who had heard no Tear on the streets of Demesne and had been forced to pick up his tiny smattering of Mort word by word. “Two months’ worth, this is, and you want to make sure to take each one with a substantial meal. They may increase your sickness otherwise.”

Allie nodded, producing a purse full of coin. “Thank you.”

“Come back in two months’ time and I will mix you another batch, but you want to discontinue use after the sixth month, else they may harm the baby.”

At the final word, Javel felt a wave of unreality wash over him. He barely marked Allie handing over several coins and tucking the box into her bag. The apothecary looked between the two of them and then, clearly sensing the tense atmosphere, disappeared behind his curtain again.

“You’re pregnant,” said Javel, not so much to question Allie as to convince himself.

“Yes.” She stared at him, as though daring him to continue.

“What will you do?”

“Do? I will have my baby and raise a fine child.”

“In a brothel!”

Allie’s gaze pinned him like sunlight. “My child will be cared for and then schooled by three women Madame Arneau keeps for no other reason. And when my child gets older, there will be no shame in knowing that Mother was a whore. What do you think of that?”

“I think it’s criminal.”

“You would, Javel. I might once have thought so too. But this city is better to women than New London has ever aspired to be. Perhaps it was brave of you to come here, I don’t know. But yours is a low-risk bravery. It always was, and I deserve better than that. If you value your skin, don’t ever approach me again.”

She swept outside, banging the door shut behind her, leaving Javel still pressed against the wall. Claustrophobia gripped him; the shop seemed suddenly tiny, but he didn’t dare go outside, not until he knew she was gone. He prayed the apothecary would not emerge from behind his curtain, and by some miracle, the man did not. Finally, when it felt as though hours had passed, Javel peeked through the glass-paned door of the shop and saw that the wagon was gone. He took a deep breath and went outside.

The Rue went on just as ever, which seemed strange to Javel; how could the city continue to function normally, when everything had changed? A sweet smell was in the air, pastries from the bakery nearby, but to Javel the smell was cloying, sweetness over filth, just like this entire city. He had spent six years worrying about Allie, suffering for Allie, and now he had no idea what to do. Going back the way he had come seemed intolerable. Going forward seemed worse. And night was coming down.

He stood on the footpath, cradling his head in his hands like a man deep in thought, but his mind was empty. He took his hands from his eyes, looked up, and found everything clear before him.

He was standing in front of a pub.

Even the Mace could not find the two priests.

The Queen’s Guard was supposed to stay with the Mace at all times. They had been charged to do so by the Queen herself, and Aisa could not imagine that any of the others took that charge less seriously than she did herself. But the Mace was the Mace, and if he wanted to disappear, they could not stop him. Yesterday he had gone, and now he reappeared, just as suddenly, through the secret door in the kitchen, causing Milla to scream in fright as she tended a pot of stew.

The Mace’s disappearances were maddening, but even Aisa understood that the Mace tolerated them all by only the barest margin, that he was made to guard, not be guarded. Sometimes he just had to leave, to be somewhere else without any of them around. Aisa had assumed that the Mace went out drinking, or spying, but an overheard conversation between Elston and Coryn told her different: he was out looking for the Keep priest, Father Tyler, and a second priest, Father Seth, both of them bountied by the Arvath.

“The Caden are looking for them too,” Coryn remarked. “They want bounty, ours or the Arvath’s, makes no difference. Who knew that two old men could stay so well hidden?”

“They won’t hide forever,” Elston rumbled. “And every time the Captain leaves the Keep, it becomes more likely that the Holy Father will get wind of it.”

Aisa would have liked to hear more, but in that moment Coryn noticed her in the doorway and shooed her out.

Each time the Mace returned from one of these expeditions without the two priests, he seemed more discouraged. Aisa thought it likely that Father Tyler was dead, for it seemed unlikely that the timid priest could hide for long. She wasn’t the only one who held this view, but no one quite dared say so to the Mace. They had learned to leave him alone at such times, but today, as soon as the Mace collapsed in one of the chairs around the table, he began bellowing.

“Arliss! Get out here!”

The words reverberated through the floor of the audience chamber.

“Arliss!”

“Be patient, you thick bastard!” Arliss shouted down the corridor. “I can’t run!”

The Mace settled into a hunch, an ugly look on his face. His inability to find the two priests was only part of the problem, Aisa thought. The real problem was the empty silver throne. The Queen’s absence weighed on all of them, but heaviest on the Mace. Aisa thought that, beneath his impassive exterior, the Captain might be suffering even more than Pen.

Arliss dragged himself from the mouth of the corridor. “Yes, Mr. Mace?”

“What’s the latest from the Holy Father?”

“Another message this morning. Unless we produce Father Tyler and renew the Arvath’s property tax exemption, he threatens to expel us all from the Church.”

“Who is ‘us’?”

“The entire Keep, from the Queen on down.”

The Mace chuckled, rubbing his red eyes with one hand.

“It’s no laughing matter, man. I’ve got no use for God, but this place is full of devout people. There are practicing Christians in the Guard. They will care, even if you don’t.”

“If they’re fool enough to take the word of God from that piece of shit in the Arvath, they deserve the flames.”

Arliss shrugged, though Aisa could see he would have liked to say more.

“They demanded only Father Tyler? Not Father Seth?”

“Only Father Tyler. And the bounty has doubled again.”

“Strange. Still no word on what happened when he fled the Arvath?”

“A scuffle. Some sort of alarm in the Holy Father’s chambers. That’s all I could dig up.”

“Strange,” the Mace repeated.

“By the way, he’s no longer Father Tyler, or even the Keep priest, in these little missives. The Holy Father’s given him a new name.”

“What’s that?”

“The Apostate.”

The Mace shook his head. “Anything else while I was gone?”

“Another village was attacked in the foothills.”

“What kind of attack?”

Arliss shook his head. “We only have two survivors, sir, and their reports don’t make much sense, monsters and ghosties. Give me a few more days.”

“Fine. What else?”

Arliss turned to Elston, who suddenly looked acutely uncomfortable.

“We have to talk about Pen, sir,” he muttered.

“What about Pen?”

Elston looked down, searching for words, and Arliss took over.

“The boy’s been drinking too much—”

“I know.”

“I’m not finished. Last night he got into a brawl. A public brawl.”

Aisa’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, lest they remember she was there and shoo her out, as Coryn had the other day.

Pen, she thought, and shook her head, almost sadly.

“Lucky he was in one of my gaming pubs, or he might have been killed. He took on five men without a sword. As it is, he’s taken a good beating. I tried to keep it quiet, but news will probably leak out. It always does.”

“Where is he?”

“In the quarters, sleeping it off.”

The Mace stood, his face grim.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Elston said miserably. “I’ve tried to wrangle him, but—”

“Never mind, El. This mess I made myself.”

The Mace headed down the hallway toward the guard quarters, moving in vast, purposeful strides. After a moment, Elston followed, then Coryn and Kibb, and Aisa trailed warily behind them. They reached the far end of the hallway, and were brought up short by the sharp crack! of a palm smacking flesh.

“Get your ass up!”

Pen mumbled something.

“We’ve coddled you long enough, you lovesick brat. Get out of that bed, or I will kick you out, and I won’t be careful what I break on the way. You’re embarrassing yourself and this guard. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Why?”

“I picked you, you little shit!” the Mace roared. “Do you think you’re the only boy I saw on the streets who was good with a blade? I picked you! And now you fold, right when I need you the most!”

Pen mumbled something else. He was still drunk, Aisa realized, or at least deeply hungover. She had heard a similar mush of words from Da many times. Now, louder: “I’m a close guard, and you don’t need a close guard.” Pen’s voice rose. “We sit here, doing nothing, while she’s over there! There’s no one for me to guard!”

Wood splintered, and there was a thump, followed by Pen’s bellow of pain.

“Should we go in?” Aisa whispered, but Elston shook his head and raised a finger against his jagged teeth. A hissing, sliding sound came through the doorway; the Mace was dragging Pen across the floor, his breath roughened with exertion.

“You were the smart one, boy. You were supposed to captain this Guard after the rest of us get too old and slow. And here you are, wallowing in misery like a pig in shit.”

Aisa felt a tug on her shirttail and looked down to find her sister Glee peering up at her.

“Glee!” she whispered. “You know you’re not supposed to be down here.”

Glee continued to stare at her, unseeing, and Aisa realized that she was in one of her trances.

“Glee? Can you hear me?”

“Your chance,” Glee whispered. Her eyes were so empty that they seemed hollow. “You’ll see it clear. They turn the corner and you grasp your chance.”

Aisa’s lips parted. She could not pay attention to Glee now, for the business between the Mace and Pen continued violent; she heard more breaking furniture, followed by the thud of a punch.

“Go find Maman, Glee.” She turned Glee around and gave her a gentle push, sending her down the corridor. Aisa watched her for a few seconds, troubled, before turning back to the guard quarters. Elston and Kibb were leaning around the doorframe, and Aisa, screwing up her courage, got down on all fours and stuck her head past Elston’s legs to peek into the room.

Pen was bent over, his head inside one of the basins that lined the far wall. The Mace stood over him, holding the back of his neck, and Aisa had the impression that if Pen tried to come up too soon, the Mace would shove him under. Elston signaled, asking if they should leave, but the Mace merely shrugged.

Pen came up and took a great gasp of air, his brown curls plastered slickly to his head. Aisa winced as she saw his face: a bright sunrise of bruises, both eyes black, and a wide slice of dried blood on his cheek. The Mace did not seem concerned.

“Are you sober now, boy?”

“Why do we not act?” Pen howled. “We stay here, waiting and waiting, while she’s over there being—”

The Mace slapped him.

“You have a nerve, Pen. If you had ever looked past your own misery, you would see it plain. We have a city of people who need to get home. A Church that wants to crack this throne down the middle. And a festering boil under the Gut. You know the Queen, Pen. If we left this mess here, untended, just to get her back, she would kill us both.”

“Without her here, it all grows worse—the Church grows worse—”

The Mace’s eyes flickered. “True. And you could be of great help, but instead you drown your sorrow in drink and brawling. You think the Queen would enjoy seeing you like this? Would she be proud of you?”

Pen stared at the ground.

“She would find you pathetic, Pen, just as I do.” The Mace took a deep breath, folding his arms. “Have a wash and put on some clean clothes. Then get out of here. Do what you need to do, think about whether you want to remain a part of this Guard. You have two days. Come back at your best, or don’t come back at all. Understood?”

Pen drew breath in a sharp hiss, his bloodshot eyes wounded. Aisa hoped the Mace would slap him again, but the Mace merely headed for the doorway, shooing them all out.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Elston repeated.

“Not your fault, El,” the Mace replied, shutting the door of the quarters behind him. “I bent an old rule, and I shouldn’t have.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“Yes,” the Mace replied shortly.

Arliss was waiting for them outside his office, holding his usual sheaf of papers, but now Ewen had joined them, peeping around Arliss’s shoulder like a bashful child.

“We have estimates on the harvest—” Arliss began, but the Mace cut him off.

“Ewen, what ails you?”

Ewen emerged from behind the Treasurer, his cheeks flushed a dull red. “I would like to talk to you, sir.”

“Go ahead.”

Ewen took a deep breath, as though commencing a speech. “I’m not a Queen’s Guard. You have been very kind to me, sir, you and the Queen, to let me wear the cloak and act the part. But I’m not a real Queen’s Guard, and I never will be.”

The Mace looked sharply at Elston. “Has someone been speaking to you about this, Ewen?”

“No, sir. Everyone has been as kind as yourself,” Ewen replied, blushing harder. “It took me some time to work it out in my head, but I have now. I’m not a real Queen’s Guard, and I should like to be useful again.”

“And how would you do that?”

“The same way I always have, sir: as a jailor. You have a prisoner loose.”

“A prisoner—” The Mace stared at him for a long moment. “Jesus, Ewen. No.”

“I should like to be useful again,” Ewen replied stubbornly.

“Ewen, do you know how we captured Brenna the first time? Coryn came upon her by accident, dreaming deep in one of Thorne’s morphia dens. You’ve heard what happened to Will downstairs. Knowing what we do now, I think Coryn was very lucky that Brenna didn’t see him coming. I wouldn’t send the best sword in the Tear to lay hold of that witch. I certainly can’t send you.”

Ewen firmed his shoulders until he stood very straight. “I know what she is, sir. I knew it the day I first saw her. And I heard about what she wrote on the wall. She means to harm the Queen.”

The Mace frowned. “Have you spoken to your father about this?”

“My father is dead now, sir. But even dying, he told me to do whatever I might to protect the Queen.”

The Mace did not reply for a long moment, but Aisa could see that he was troubled.

“Ewen, she’s not an ordinary prisoner. You can’t kill her, for the Queen gave her word to keep her alive. But if you try to take such a witch alive, I think you will die in the attempt. I appreciate your courage, but I can’t let you do this. The Queen would say the same. I’m sorry.”

Ewen stared silently at the ground.

“We will find something else for you to do. Something to help the Queen. I promise.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Ewen went down the hall toward the audience chamber, his shoulders slumped.

“Perhaps you should have let him go,” Arliss remarked quietly.

“That would be a fine legacy for me as Regent, wouldn’t it? Sending a child on a suicide mission.”

“He wants to do something honorable, sir,” Elston broke in unexpectedly. “It might be good to allow it.”

“No. I’m done with being a killer of children.”

Aisa froze, but no one else seemed surprised by his words.

“Those days are long gone for you,” Arliss murmured, but the Mace chuckled bitterly, shaking his head.

“You mean to be kind, old man, but no matter how we try to outdistance the past, it’s always very close. I’m done with those days, but that doesn’t mean they’re done with me.”

“You’re a good man now.”

“Aye, I am,” the Mace replied, nodding, but his eyes were hollow, almost damned. “But it does not wipe out what came before.”

They continued down the hallway, discussing the harvest, but Aisa remained where she was, almost rooted to the floor, her mind running over the words again and again, trying to make sense of them. She could not. She thought the Mace was the best man in the Queen’s Wing, except perhaps for Venner, and she was unable to reconcile the Captain of Guard she knew with the picture his words had planted: a man who strode through ranks of small forms, wielding a scythe.

A killer of children.

Two hours later, they assembled in the throne room for the Regent’s audience. Elston, Aisa, Coryn, Devin, and Kibb were grouped around the dais, the rest of the Guard scattered around the room. The Mace sat in one armchair atop the dais, and Arliss beside him in another, as they began to let the petitioners in. The empty throne gleamed in the torchlight.

“God help me,” the Mace muttered. “I used to wonder why the Queen couldn’t keep her temper at these things. Now I wonder how she managed at all.”

Arliss chuckled. “Queenie’s rage was a powerful thing. Entertaining, too. I miss that girl.”

“We all miss her,” the Mace replied gruffly. “Now let’s be about her business.”

Aisa turned toward the doors, fixing her face into the mask of impassive stoicism that Elston recommended. The nobles came first, an old custom that, more than once, Aisa had heard the Mace and Arliss discuss discarding. But in truth, it made business move faster. Fewer nobles attended the Mace’s audiences now, and today there were only two, both petitioning for tax relief. No one was working the fields, and even Aisa saw that this must be remedied, and soon; not only would there be no food, but the empty fields and farms gave every noble in the kingdom an excuse to dodge tax. Lady Bennett and Lord Taylor listened, their faces glum, while the Mace explained, with extraordinary patience, that changing events made it impossible for him to decide the issue yet. Aisa knew that Arliss was working on the problem of the harvest, of getting people home, but it was a slow business to provision families for such a journey on foot. Both petitioners left empty-handed and disgruntled, just as so many had before.

After the nobles came the poor. Aisa liked them better, for their problems were real. Unredressed crimes, missing livestock, disputes over property . . . the Mace often came up with solutions that Aisa would never have thought of. The Guard tended to relax a bit during this portion of the audience, even Aisa, who was almost enjoying herself, right up until the moment the crowds parted and she found herself facing her father.

Aisa’s hand went automatically to her knife, and she was beset by such a conflicting mixture of feelings that at first she could not separate them. There was relief, relief because she had grown several inches since the spring, and Da no longer seemed quite so tall. There was hatred, a long-burning fire that had only sharpened with distance and time, searing through her head and gut. And last and most urgent, she felt a need to find her younger sisters, Glee and Morryn, to find them and protect them from everything in the world, starting with Da.

The Mace had clearly recognized Da as well, for a muscle had begun to twitch in his jaw. He leaned down and asked in a low voice, “Do you wish to leave, hellcat?”

“No, sir,” Aisa replied, wishing her resolve was as firm as her voice. Da no longer loomed over her, perhaps, but he looked the same as ever. He laid stones for a living, and his top half seemed twice the size of his bottom. As he approached the throne, Aisa drew her knife, clenching it in a fist that was suddenly wet with perspiration.

The Mace beckoned Kibb and murmured, “Make sure Andalie doesn’t come in here.”

Da was not alone, Aisa saw now; he had emerged from the crowd with a priest beside him. The priest wore the white robes of the Arvath, but the hood was pulled low over his brow and Aisa could not see his face. After a glance in her direction—a single, sharp look that Aisa could not read—Da ignored her, focusing all of his attention on the Mace.

“You again, Borwen?” the Mace asked in a tired voice. “What’s on the menu today?”

Da looked as though he meant to speak, but then the priest moved forward and pushed his hood back. Aisa heard the low hiss of the Mace’s breath, and she drew her knife automatically as Elston jumped forward. The rest of the Guard quickly moved to surround the foot of the dais, and Aisa went with them, jumping up two risers to tuck herself behind Cae and Kibb.

“Your Holiness,” the Mace said slowly. “What an honor to have you here. The last time was thrilling.”

The Holy Father himself! Aisa tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help it. She had thought that the Holy Father would be old, but he was much younger even than Father Tyler, his hair still nearly black, his face traced with only the lightest of lines. The Mace said that the Holy Father never went anywhere unguarded, but Aisa didn’t see any guards in the crowd around him. Still, she took her cue from the men around her, who had ranged themselves in a defensive posture around the Mace.

“I come to demand justice from the Queen’s government,” the Holy Father announced in a deep, carrying voice, and now Aisa noticed his eyes: blank, almost reptilian, betraying no emotion. “Our brother parishioner, Borwen, came to us with a grievance some weeks ago. The Queen has denied him his parental rights.”

“Has she now?” The Mace leaned back in his armchair. “And why would she do that?”

“For gain. She wished to keep Borwen’s wife as her servant.”

The Mace pinned Borwen with a long stare. “This is your tale of the week? It’s a foolish one. Andalie is no one’s servant.”

“I am confident in the truth of Borwen’s tale,” the Holy Father replied. “Borwen has been a good member of Father Dean’s parish for some years, and—”

“You didn’t come here to plead a case for this nonce. What do you want?”

The Holy Father hesitated, but only for a moment. “I also come to personally demand the return of the Apostate.”

“As I have told you perhaps ten times now, we don’t have him.”

“I believe otherwise.”

“Well, this wouldn’t be the first time you believed something without evidence, would it?” The Mace’s tone was mocking, but a large vein had begun to pulse in his forehead. “We don’t have Father Tyler, and I will not discuss the subject further.”

The Holy Father smiled blandly. “Then what of Borwen’s case?”

“Borwen is a pedophile. Do you really wish to tie the Arvath to his cause?”

“That is slanderous,” the Holy Father replied calmly, though Aisa noted that his smile had momentarily slipped. Perhaps they had believed that the Mace would not raise the subject in a public audience. Aisa didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he had.

“Borwen lives the life of a good Christian. Each morning he attends dawn services. At night he donates his time to—”

“Borwen has no choice but to be a good Christian,” the Mace growled. “Because he knows that for the past six months, I have had a New London constable on him like glue. I understand his neighbors are greatly relieved.”

This took Aisa by surprise. She wouldn’t have thought the Mace would take an interest in anything that didn’t directly affect the Queen. She wondered if Maman knew. Da was certainly no good parishioner; their family had attended church only a few times a year.

“Borwen has repented sincerely for all of his past acts,” the Holy Father replied. “He has reformed, and now he wants only to be with his wife and children.”

“Reformed,” the Mace sneered. “Tell whatever story you like, Borwen. Sooner or later, we both know that the sickness inside you will have its way, and when we catch you in the act, I will put you away for good.”

“My children belong to me!” Da bellowed. “You have no right to keep them from me!”

“You gave up your children the moment you laid a hand on them. On their mother.”

Distant movement caught Aisa’s eye: Maman, standing at the mouth of the hallway, her arms folded. Kibb had not noticed her—or was pretending not to—and Aisa said nothing either. How could the Mace know about Maman? Had she told him about those days? It seemed unlikely. They didn’t get on at all.

“My daughter stands there!” Da snapped. “Ask her! Ask her how badly she was treated!”

Aisa froze, for all eyes in the room were suddenly upon her.

“Your daughter works for me,” the Mace replied quickly, and Aisa could tell that he had not been prepared for this turn of the conversation. “She speaks on my command, not yours.”

Aisa met Da’s gaze and found triumph there. Da still knew her well. This was a well-calculated gamble he took, that she would not want to reveal her own misery, their terrible past. To tell her shame to strangers, so many of them staring at her now . . . how could she do that and then go on? Even if they believed her, how could she go through the rest of her life, knowing that this was the first thing everyone would know about her: that she had endured these things? Who could do that?

The Queen, her mind answered suddenly. The Queen would speak and face whatever came afterward.

But Aisa couldn’t.

“Aisa has been through enough,” the Mace said. “And no true Christian would force her to recount the tale here.”

“Indeed, God loves children,” the Holy Father replied, nodding. “Except the liars.”

“Watch yourself, Father.” The Mace’s voice had dropped a note, a danger signal to those who knew him, but the Holy Father didn’t seem to care. Aisa wondered whether the priest meant to get himself beaten here, or arrested; that would surely be a useful event for the Arvath. The Mace was too smart to oblige him . . . or so Aisa hoped. This low, quiet anger was much worse than when he yelled. She felt Da’s eyes on her again, and resisted the urge to meet his gaze.

“Surely if the child had an accusation to make, she would make it,” the Holy Father remarked, his voice dismissive. “These baseless charges against Borwen are meant to obscure the fact that the Queen’s laws are arbitrary, designed to serve her own needs. All men of God should defend him.”

“Her own needs. When the Mort came, the Queen opened the Keep to over ten thousand refugees. How many refugees did the Arvath take in?”

“The Arvath is sacred,” the Holy Father replied, but Aisa saw, relieved, that the Mace had broken his rhythm again. “No layman may enter God’s house without the Holy Father’s permission.”

“How convenient for both God and Your Holiness. And what does Christ say about taking in the homeless?”

“I would like to return to the Apostate, Lord Regent,” the Holy Father said quickly. Aisa stole a glance at the crowd, but she could not say whether they had noticed the man’s quick retreat. Most of them merely stared at the dais with open mouths.

“What about Father Tyler?”

“If he is not handed over by noon on Friday, the Church will excommunicate all employees of the Crown.”

“I see. When all else fails, blackmail.”

“Not at all. But God is disappointed in the Crown’s failure to address sin in the Tearling. With the Queen gone, we had hoped that you would take this opportunity to criminalize unnatural acts.”

Elston twitched beside her; Aisa sensed rather than saw it. But when she looked up at him, he looked the same as ever, his face blank and eyes pinned on the crowd.

“How’s the money for that property tax payment coming?” the Mace asked suddenly. “Going to be ready for the new year?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the Holy Father replied, but his tone was uneasy.

The Mace burst out laughing, and at the sound, Aisa relaxed a bit, the tension easing from her shoulders. She stole another glance across the room and found Maman’s eyes pinned on the Mace, a tiny smile curving Maman’s lips.

“You know, Anders,” the Mace said, “for a few minutes, I wasn’t sure what you were doing here. But now I see perfectly. Let me take this opportunity to tell you plain: come hell and vengeance, that tax payment will be due on February first.”

“This is not about money, Lord Regent.”

“Everything is about money, always. You impose a tithe on the Tear and then seek to keep it all, pouring money into luxury, feeding off the credulous and the starving. You profit.”

“People give freely for a holy cause.”

“Do they now?” The Mace’s face broke into an ugly grin. “But I know exactly where the money goes. We picked up two of your enforcers last week. You’ve been doing business in the Creche.”

At this, a ripple went through the crowd, and the Holy Father’s smile slipped a notch before he recovered.

“Baseless accusations!” he cried. “I am God’s messenger—”

“Then your God is a trafficker in child flesh.”

The audience gasped.

“And you!” The Mace turned to Borwen. “I wasn’t sure what you were doing here either, but now I see you plain. You thought that you would have a better shot at your ridiculous argument with a man on the throne. If you ever try to come near your wife and children again, I will—”

“What? Kill me?” Borwen shouted. “What threat is that? I am already dead, my children lost to me, and hounded wherever I go! Why not just kill me now?”

“I will not kill you,” the Mace said quietly, his dark eyes cold. “I will take you into custody and allow your wife to decide your fate.”

Da turned white.

The Mace descended the steps, focusing his attention on the Holy Father. “You will not blackmail me with threats, nor will you distract me from the Queen’s agenda. Don’t send any more of this nonsense to my door. The next priest to set foot in here may not fare so well. And you, Borwen . . . you never want to be in my sight again.”

Aisa felt as though her heart would burst. Maman and Wen had always defended her from Da when they could, but it was different to have someone outside their family do so. If it had been permissible to hug the Mace, she would have done, for she loved him suddenly, with the sort of fierce love she had never felt for anyone but her mother.

“Come, Brother Borwen,” the Holy Father commanded. “It’s just as I have always said: the Glynn crown drowns in its own pride. God knows of this injustice, but we will take your case to the public courts also, and expose this place for what it is.”

“You may try,” the Mace replied evenly. “But beware, Your Holiness. Borwen’s children are hardly his only accusers.”

“No one has accused him of anything, Lord Regent.”

“I accuse him.”

The words were out of Aisa’s mouth before she could stop them. The eyes of the crowd were on her, and she wished, more than anything, that she could take it back.

“Did you say something, child?” the Holy Father asked. His voice was honey-sweet, but his eyes glared. Strangely, this forced Aisa to speak again. She thought that each word would be worse than the last, but once started she found, relieved, that the opposite was true: the first words had been the hardest to say, and everything afterward came easier, as though a dam had broken inside her throat.

“I was three or four years when you started.” She fought hard to meet Da’s eyes, but could only focus on his chin. “You went after Morryn at the same age. We finally had to hide under the floor to get away from you.” Aisa heard her own voice rising in distress, but now it was like running down a hill, arms spinning like pinwheels. She couldn’t stop. “Always pushing, Da, that’s you, and you wouldn’t leave us alone, that’s what I remember best—”

“Lies!” the Holy Father snapped.

“It’s not!” she screamed. “It’s true, and you just don’t want to hear it!”

“Hellcat,” the Mace said gently, and she stopped, drawing a thick, angry breath.

“You’re not in trouble, child. But I want you to go, now. Coryn, take her to her mother.”

Coryn tugged gently at her arm, and after a moment, Aisa went with him. She snuck a last look back and found an ocean of eyes still upon her. Da remained beside the Holy Father, his face red with anger.

“Are you all right?” Coryn asked her in a low voice.

Aisa didn’t know how to answer. She felt sick. Behind her, she heard the Mace tell the two men to get out.

“Aisa?” Coryn asked.

“I embarrassed the Captain.”

“No, you didn’t,” he replied, and she was grateful to hear his businesslike tone. “You did a useful thing. The Arvath won’t dare put your father in front of a public judge now. Too many people were here.”

Everyone will know. The thought seemed to scald Aisa.

“The Caden won’t care,” Coryn remarked casually, and Aisa halted.

“Why do you say that?”

“I saw your face, girl. I know we’re going to lose you one day. But grey cloak or red, do yourself a favor: don’t let your past govern your future.”

“Is it that easy?”

“No. Even the Captain struggles with it, every day.”

A killer of children, Aisa remembered. Maman was there suddenly, her arms open, and everything inside Aisa seemed to mercifully collapse. She had been ready to kill Da, ready for years, but now she was amazed to find that she had done something even more difficult: she had spoken aloud.

Tyler did not believe in hell. He had decided, long ago, that if God wanted to punish them, there was infinite opportunity right here; hell would be superfluous.

But if there was a hell on earth, Tyler had certainly found it.

He and Seth were tucked into an alcove, a hidden recess deep within a tunnel, buried in the bowels of the earth. They had squeezed in here through a tiny crevice in the stonework. The floor and walls, lit only by the tiny, flickering match in Tyler’s fingers, were covered with mold. In the last moment before the match died, Tyler saw that Seth was looking worse than ever today, his cheeks hectic with fever and corneas yellowed with infection. Tyler had not looked at Seth’s wound in several days, but if he did, he knew that he would see the red streaks climbing up Seth’s belly toward his chest. When they had first escaped the Arvath, Tyler had taken Seth to a doctor, using most of the money he had saved. But the man was not a real doctor, and though he had given Seth something to ease his pain for a few days, he had not been able to stop the progress of the infection.

The match guttered, and not a moment too soon, for now Tyler heard the sound of running footsteps, several pairs, in the tunnel outside.

“The east branch!” a man panted. “To the east branch, and we can meet up in the road.”

“They’re Caden, I know it,” another man said, his voice weak with fear. “They’re coming.”

“What would Caden want down here? There’s no money for them.”

“All of you, the east branch, quickly!”

The footsteps took off running again. Tyler leaned back against the wall of the recess, his heart pounding. He and Seth were already in a great deal of trouble, but if there really were Caden down here, their problems would multiply. In the early days of their flight, Tyler had gone up to the surface several times, to trade coin for food and clean water, and it had not taken long to hear the news: the Arvath had placed bounties on them both. Tyler and Seth had long since discarded their Arvath robes, but even in layman’s clothes, they no longer felt safe above ground. Tyler had not been out of the tunnels for more than two weeks, and their food supply was nearly gone.

“Ty?” Seth asked in a whisper. “Do you think they’ve come for us?”

“I don’t know,” Tyler replied. He had thought they were safe down here, but that safety brought its own price. In his trips through the tunnels, Tyler had seen many things, and as he came to understand what this labyrinth really was, he had begun to lapse back into the spiritual darkness that had gripped him during his final few weeks in the Arvath.

God, why do you allow this? This world is yours. Why do you suffer these people to remain?

Not surprisingly, he received no answer.

He knew he must get Seth out of here, and soon. He had been looking for a subterranean route to the Keep; surely the Mace must have used such a route to slip in and out of the Arvath unnoticed for his reading lessons. But Tyler was afraid to venture too far from the safety of their crevice. The price on Seth was only a thousand, but on Tyler’s last trip topside, the bounty on his own head had stood at five thousand pounds. No Caden would allow such an opportunity to slip through his fingers. From the gossip Tyler had picked up in a shadowy pub, he knew that his bounty also included his possessions, and this told Tyler that while the Holy Father surely wanted them both dead—and would pay good money to be able to send Tyler to judgment himself—his primary interest was not Tyler or Seth, but the polished cherrywood box that Tyler kept in his satchel. Tyler longed to take it out and open it again, but they could not afford to waste any more matches; they were down to their last packet. All the same, he could not help holding the satchel close, feeling the comforting edges of the box inside.

After several weeks in the tunnels, Tyler had pieced together some of this business. The Tear crown had not been seen since Queen Elyssa died. She must have gifted it to the Church—an odd move for a monarch who did not attend services more than once a year, but Elyssa would not be the first to have found Jesus at her deathbed. Tyler had never met the Glynn Queen’s mother, but she was accounted the sort of woman who might attempt to buy her way into heaven. The crown was undoubtedly valuable, made of solid silver and sapphire, but its value to Tyler went far beyond money. This crown had sat on the heads of every ruler since Jonathan Tear, and had anchored many bloody battles of succession. It was rumored to have magical properties as well, though Tyler thought that was little more than fancy. To him, the crown was an artifact, a witness to the wild, brawling, extraordinary history of the Tear, and Tyler could no more be careless with such an artifact than he could leave Seth behind. Besides, he had a promise to keep. The thought of the woman, Maya, nearly wrenched him in half. She had given him the crown, and he had left her there, sitting in front of the table of drugs. He could not have taken her with him, or the game would have been up; he knew this, but the knowledge brought him no peace. Anders was not one to spare the rod, and Tyler could not imagine what fate had befallen Maya after his escape. If nothing else, he meant to keep his promise and deliver the crown to the Queen. But he could hardly do that down here.

Footsteps pounded on the stone above Tyler’s head, causing him to shudder. It might be the Caden, or another group of the lost and damned souls Tyler had seen down here. But the footsteps continued, many of them, and Tyler could not help thinking of another piece of information he had heard in the pub: mobs now roamed the streets of New London, carrying swords and carpentered crucifixes, praising God and threatening violence to all who would not do the same. There was nothing explicit tying these mobs to God’s Church, and yet Tyler smelled the Holy Father’s stink all over them. He would have bet his Bible that these people took their orders from the Arvath.

It was a good Church once, Tyler thought, and that was true. After the Tear assassination, God’s Church had helped to keep order. The Church had worked with the first Raleighs, kept William Tear’s colony from scattering to the four winds. In the second century after the Crossing, an enterprising preacher named Denis had seized on Catholicism, recognizing the great value of theatricality and ritual in capturing imaginations. Denis had overseen the design and construction of the Arvath, a life’s work that had drained the Church coffers and made the man old before his time. Denis had died only three days after the final stone was laid, and the Church now recognized him as the first true Holy Father, but there had been plenty of men before him, guiding God’s Church along the same path. Tyler, who had gathered as much oral history as he could, knew that his church was far from perfect. But not even the darkest chapter in its history approached the state of the Arvath now.

Of course, the Holy Father would not have dared to do any of this with the Queen in residence. Anders feared Queen Kelsea, feared her so greatly that, not so long ago, he had handed Tyler a vial of poison and ordered him to a terrible purpose. The Queen had surrendered herself to Mortmesne—that news had been impossible to miss, even in Tyler’s briefest trips to the surface—and the Mace was in charge of the kingdom. But the people of the Tearling did not love the Mace, only feared him, and fear was not nearly so dangerous. In the Queen’s absence, the Holy Father was emboldened.

She must come back, Tyler thought, almost in the form of a prayer. She must.

New footsteps echoed in the tunnel outside, and Tyler pressed back against the wall. Several men ran by the tiny opening, but they made no sound beyond their steps, and even through the wall Tyler could sense the military efficiency that underlay their movements, all of them unified in purpose.

Caden, his mind whispered. But in search of what? Were they here for Tyler and Seth, or someone else? It hardly mattered. All it would take was one sharp pair of eyes to spot the narrow opening in the tunnel wall, and they would be discovered.

The footsteps passed without slowing, and Tyler relaxed. Seth huddled against him, shivering, and Tyler wrapped his arms around his friend. Seth was dying, slowly and painfully, and Tyler could do nothing for him. He had helped Seth to escape the Arvath, but what good was escape to them now? All hands were turned against them.

Dear God, Tyler prayed, though he felt certain that the words were going nowhere but around and around the dark chasm of his mind. Dear God, please show us your light.

But there was nothing, only darkness, an endless drip of water, and, somewhere nearby, the fading footsteps of assassins.