The Queen of the Tearling by Erika Johansen Page B

Fetch ceased to comment on her discard choices, which Kelsea took as a compliment. However, she continued to lose each hand and couldn’t understand why. The mechanics of the game were simple enough, and most of the time prudence counseled that she fold. Each time she did so, however, the hand was usually won by a lower set of cards, and each time, the Fetch chortled into his mug.
    Finally a scruffy blond man (Kelsea was fairly certain his name was Alain), while collecting the cards to shuffle and deal, caught Kelsea’s eye and commented, “You have dire need of a poker face.”
    â€œAgreed, girl,” said the Fetch. “Every thought you have is written plain in your eyes.”
    Kelsea took another gulp of mead. “Carlin says I’m an open book.”
    â€œWell, you’d better fix that, and fast. Should we decide not to kill you, you’ll find yourself in a den of snakes. Honesty will serve you ill.”
    His casual talk of killing her made Kelsea’s stomach clench, but she attempted to school her face to blankness.
    â€œBetter,” the Fetch remarked.
    â€œWhy can’t you make this decision about killing me and be done with it?” Kelsea asked. The mead seemed to have cleared her head even while muddling it, and she longed for a straight answer.
    â€œWe wanted to see what sort of queen you look to be.”
    â€œWhy not just give me a test, then?”
    â€œA test!” The Fetch’s grin broadened, and his black eyes gleamed. “What an interesting idea.”
    â€œThis is a fine game,” grumbled Howell. He had a wide, painful-looking scar on his right hand that appeared to be a burn mark. Of course he wanted to get back to play; he won the most often, with the worst cards.
    â€œWe’re going to play a different game now,” the Fetch announced, pushing Kelsea none too gently off the bench. “It’s a proper examination, girl. Get yourself over there.”
    â€œI’ve had too much mead to take an examination.”
    â€œToo bad.”
    Kelsea glared at him but moved away from the bench, noticing with slight astonishment that she was unsteady on her feet. The five men turned from the table to watch her. Alain, who had been dealing, snapped the cards in one last shuffle and then pocketed them in a movement too quick to follow.
    The Fetch leaned forward and placed his hands beneath his chin, studying her closely. “What will you do should you become a queen indeed?”
    â€œWhat will I do?”
    â€œHave you any policy in mind?”
    The Fetch spoke lightly, but his black eyes were grave. Beneath the question, Kelsea sensed an infinite and deadly patience, perversely coupled with a desperate need for her answer. A test indeed, and she knew instinctively that if she answered incorrectly, the conversation was done.
    She opened her mouth, not knowing what she would say, and Carlin’s words spilled out into the darkness, Carlin’s vision, reiterated so often in the library that Kelsea now spoke the words in a litany as practiced as though she read from the Bible of God’s Church. “I’ll govern for the good of the governed. I’ll make sure that every citizen is properly educated and doctored. I’ll cease wasteful spending and ease the burden on the poor through redistribution of land and goods and taxation. I’ll restore the rule of law in this kingdom and drive out the influence of Mortmesne—”
    â€œSo you do know of it!” Lear barked.
    â€œOf Mortmesne?” She looked at him blankly. “I know that Mortmesne’s hold over this kingdom grows all the time.”
    â€œWhat else of Mortmesne?” boomed Morgan, his huge form bearlike in the firelight.
    Kelsea shrugged. “I’ve read of the early years of the Red Reign. And I’ve been told that my uncle has likely made alliance with the Red Queen.”
    â€œAnything else?”
    â€œNot really. Some