The Fate of the Tearling (The Queen of the Tearling #3)(2)

She could be a Tear, he told his crew one night over the fire. She could be.

It was always possible. There were several men in Elyssa’s Guard whose origins he did not know. Tear or not, the girl demanded close scrutiny, and as the years passed, he subtly shifted his course. Whenever Thomas Raleigh showed signs of forging an actual alliance with one of the powerful nobles of the Tear, the Fetch would turn all of his attention toward that noble, robbing caravans and storehouses, stealing crops and then vanishing into the night. Enough theft on Thomas’s watch, and any potential alliance was quickly soured. At the same time, the Fetch began to lay his own groundwork in Mortmesne, just beneath the Red Queen’s feet. Should the girl make it to the throne, the Fetch knew, her first test would come in dealing with the shipment. Mortmesne was wide open to anyone who knew how to exploit unrest, and after years of patient work, there was a healthy rebellion under way. So many things to attend to over the years, and so he had naturally let Row Finn slide.

A shape rose suddenly from the rocks ahead, halting his climb. To anyone else, it would appear to be merely a dark silhouette, but the Fetch, who had a great gift of night vision, saw that it was a child: a young boy, five or six years old. His clothes were little more than rags, his skin pallid with the cold. His eyes were dark and impenetrable. His feet were bare.

The Fetch stared at the child for a moment, chilled to his marrow.

I didn’t end him when I could have.

The boy darted forward, and the Fetch hissed at him, like a cat. The boy’s eyes, which had brightened in anticipation, abruptly dimmed, and he stared at the Fetch, bewildered.

“I am not meat for you,” the Fetch snapped. “Go and get your master.”

The boy stared at him for a moment longer, then vanished into the rocks. The Fetch covered his eyes, feeling the world tip crazily inside him, a dark vortex. When the girl had cracked the New London Bridge, certainty had crystallized inside him, but all moments since then seemed like a parade of doubt. She was in Mort custody, and Howell’s last message made clear that they were preparing to transport her to Demesne. The True Queen had arrived at last, but she had come too late.

Something was descending the slope. Just a wisp in the darkness, but it had been a long time since anyone could sneak up on the Fetch. He stood his ground, waiting. The last time they had sat down for a conversation had been . . . when? More than two centuries earlier, James Raleigh still on the throne. The Fetch had wanted to see if Row could kill him. The meeting had turned into a cutting party, all right, but neither of them had shed a drop of blood.

We were friends, the Fetch remembered suddenly. Good friends.

But those days had vanished into the distant past, several lifetimes gone. As the black shape before him resolved into a man, the Fetch steeled himself. The settlers of the Fairwitch had created a great deal of apocrypha around the Orphan, but at least one piece was true: they said that the creature had two faces, one light and one dark. Which one would he see today?

Light. The face that turned toward him was the same one the Fetch had always known: pale and autocratic. And sly. Row had always been able to talk circles around anyone; long ago, he had talked the Fetch into the worst decision of his life. They regarded each other in silence, standing on the windy slope, all of Mortmesne laid out behind them.

“What do you want?” Row asked.

“I want to talk you out of this.” The Fetch swept a hand at the mountainside below them. “This course you’re on. No good will come of it, not even for you.”

“How do you know my course?”

“You’re moving south, Row. I’ve seen your things stalking at night in the villages below the Glace-Vert. I don’t know your endgame, but surely poor Mort villagers can have no part of it. Why not leave them alone?”

“My children are hungry.”

The Fetch sensed movement on his right: another of them, a little girl of perhaps ten, perched on top of the rock, watching him, her eyes fixed and unblinking.

“How many children do you have now, Row?”

“Soon they will be a legion.”

The Fetch stilled, feeling the dark hole inside him open a bit wider. “And then what?”

Row said nothing, only smiled wide. There was no humanity in that smile, and the Fetch fought the urge to back away.

“You already wrecked Tear’s kingdom once, Row. You really need to do it again?”

“I had help in wrecking Tear’s Land, my friend. Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten, or do you absolve yourself?”

“I feel responsible for my sins. I try to repair them.”

“How are you faring with that?” Row spread an arm to encompass the land below them. “Mortmesne is an open sewer. The Tear continues to sink.”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s been propped up.”

“The girl?” Row laughed, a hollow, dismal sound. “Come now, Gav. The girl has nothing but a loyal retainer and a gift for public relations.”

“You don’t fool me, Row. You fear her as well.”

Row remained silent for a long moment, then asked, “What are you doing here, Gav?”

“Serving the girl.”

“Ah! So you’ve swapped loyalties yet again.”

That stung, but the Fetch refused to be baited. “She has your sapphire, Row. She has Tear’s sapphire, Tear’s blood. She’s been there.”