The Queen of the Tearling (The Queen of the Tearling, #1)

by Erika Johansen

Carlin often said that history was everything, for it was in

man’s nature to make the same mistakes over and over.

Stories moved Kelsea most, stories of things that never were, stories that transported her beyond the changeless world of the cottage.

“Beware of the Regent, uncle or no; he’s wanted that throne for himself since he was in the womb.

Barty didn’t care for books at all, and Kelsea often wondered what he and Carlin found to talk about when she wasn’t in the room. Perhaps nothing; perhaps Kelsea was

the common interest that

kept them together. If so, what would beco...

Once, long ago out in the forest, they had been in the middle of a lesson on the uses of red moss when Barty had blurted out, apropos of nothing: “If it was up to me, Kel, I’d break my damned vows and tell you everything you want to know.” “Why isn’t it up to you?” Barty had looked helplessly down at the moss in his hands, and after a moment Kelsea understood. Nothing

in the cottage was up to Barty; Carlin was in charge. Carlin was smarter, Carlin was physically whole. Barty came second. Carlin was

not c...

but Kelsea had felt the pinch of that iron will often enough that she could understand the shape of Barty’s bitte...

Carlin was making the greater sacrifice: her library. These books were her life’s collection, saved and hoarded by settlors in the Crossing, preserved through

centuries. She couldn’t take them with her; a wagon would be too easy to track. All of these volumes, gone.

“You’ve never killed anyone, Kel, and that’s well and good, but from this day onward, you’re hunted, understand? You have to behave

so.”

“But don’t allow reliance on weapons to impair your mind, Kelsea. Your wits have always been sound; see that you don’t lose them along the way. It’s easy to do so when you pick up a sword.”

Barty said that his horse was an aristocrat, that anything less than an open straightaway was beneath him.

Whenever Kelsea spoke longingly of the things she knew were out there in the wider world, Carlin would impress upon her the necessity of secrecy, the importance of the queenship she would inherit. Carlin had no patience with Kelsea’s fear of failure. Carlin didn’t want to hear about doubts. Kelsea’s job was to learn, to be content without other children, other people, without the wider world.

Kelsea had lain in bed, frozen in the revelation that she had been utterly, monstrously cheated. Before that day, Kelsea had thought of Carlin as her foster mother, if not the real thing. But now she understood that she had no mother at all, only a cold old woman who demanded, then withheld.

Behind the redhead was a blond man, so extraordinarily good-looking that Kelsea was forced to sneak several looks at him, even though he was far too old for her, well over forty. He had a face like those of the painted angels in Carlin’s books of pre-Crossing art. But he also looked tired, his eyes ringed

with hollows that suggested he hadn’t slept in some time. Somehow, these touches of exhaustion only made him better-looking. He turned and caught her staring and Kelsea snapped her head forward, blood flaming in her cheeks.

He rode confidently, not seeking anyone’s guidance, and Kelsea trusted him to get her where she was to go. This ability to command was probably a necessary quality in a guard captain; Carroll

was a man she would need if she was to survive. But how could she win the loyalty of any of these men? They probably thought her weak. Perhaps they thought

all wom...

“South, lads!” Carroll shouted, and the company angled again. The sun was sinking rapidly below the horizon, the wind icy with oncoming night. Kelsea hoped they would stop soon, but she would freeze in her saddle before she complained. Loyalty began with respect.

“No ruler has ever held power for long without the respect of the governed,” Carlin had told her countless times. “Rulers who attempt to control an

unwilling populace govern nothing, and often find their heads a...

Barty’s advice had been even more succinct: “You win your people or y...

“Thank you. I don’t suppose you know the mare’s name.”

“You’re the Queen, Lady. Her name is whatever you choose.” His flat gaze met hers briefly, then slid away. “It’s not for me to give her a new name. What is she called?” “It’s for you to do anything you like.” “Her name, please.” Kelsea’s temper kindled. The men all thought so badly of her. Why? “No proper name, Lady. I’ve always called her May.” “Thank you. A good name.” He began to walk away. Kelsea took a breath for courage and said softly, “I didn’t dismiss you, Lazarus.” He turned back, expressionless. “I’m sorry. Was there something else, Lady?” “Why did they bring me a mare, when you all ride stallions?” “We didn’t know if you’d be able to ride, Lady,” he replied, and this time there was no mistaking the mockery in his voice. “We didn’t know if you could control a stallion.”

Perhaps daring will win them. You’ll never win the respect of these people. You’ll be lucky not to die before you reach the Keep. Maybe. But I have to try something. You speak as though you have options. All you can do is what they tell you. I’m the Queen. I’m not bound by them. So think most queens, right until the moment the axe falls.