Let’s Read Queen of the Tearling: Chapter 11, Part Three

End of the chapter, I swear.

So the audience winds up, although not without another reference to how gross old people are.

Lady Andrews snatched the dress back and stomped away with her neck hunched into her shoulders, her gait showing her age.

Kelsea asks the Mace about where on earth her adoptive parents have gone—the Mace and co. are supposed to have found them by now. The Mace seems to be sidestepping Kelsea’s questions, but she gives up on it because it’s not time to reveal that they’re dead yet, oops, I mean, she’s hungry (yes, this is the reason given in the text).

Kelsea and one of her guards, Pen, stumble upon Andalie speaking with her one of her daughters. Andalie tells her daughter that they’re sticking around because Kelsea is a true queen, and one day they might be part of a legend. This somehow confirms to Kelsea and Pen that Andalie is psychic, because it’s not like Andalie might just have opinions or something.

They discuss the mysterious Andalie. It turns out that not only was Andalie’s husband a wife-beater, he also was a child molester, preying on his own daughters and other young girls in the neighborhood. Andalie’s neighbors tried to “take care of him,” but Andalie stopped them somehow. Holy shit, Andalie is a piece of work.

That night, Kelsea has an elaborate dream vision of a woman being kidnapped and dragged into a cage. She wakes and realizes that she’s had a vision—a slave shipment is being put together behind her back. It’s time for a rescue mission!

Except that nobody believes Kelsea except Andalie. Andalie and the Mace bicker for a little while, and when Kelsea tries to leave to get shit done, the Mace and Pen grab her to keep her from going. Fortunately, Kelsea has her sapphire, and uses it to slam them up against a wall. This moment of anger would have been so much cooler if I hadn’t realized that the sapphire is basically the decorative equivalent of Richard Rahl’s sword of truth. Thanks a lot for ruining my moment, sword of truth.

The Mace, gem of a human that he is, decides to take this moment to prepare Kelsea for her mission… by telling her to cut her hair so she’ll look like a man. Don’t they have to figure out how to get to the shipment and who they’re going to take? You know, get some weapons together? I don’t need to read this all in detail, but maybe a nod to logistics? Is anyone in this kingdom competent at anything other than being an asshole?

Anyway, Andalie cuts Kelsea’s hair, which gives them time for some girl talk.

Why’d you marry him, Andalie?”

We don’t always make these choices ourselves.”

Did someone force you?”

Andalie shook her head, chuckling mirthlessly, then leaned down and murmured in Kelsea’s ear. “Who’s the man, Majesty? I’ve seen his face in your mind many times. The dark-haired man with the snake-charmer’s smile.”

Kelsea blushed. “No one.”

Not no one […] He means very much to you, this man, and I see shame covering all of those feelings.”


Did you choose to to feel this way for this man?”

No,” Kelsea admitted.

One of the worst choices you could have made, no?”

Kelsea nodded, defeated.

We don’t always choose, Majesty. We simply make the best choices we can once the deed is done.”

Uh, all right. So Andalie’s been reading Kelsea’s thoughts, and she’s using Kelsea’s teen crush on the Fetch to justify her marriage to a man who beat her and raped her daughters. You know, Kelsea may not have chosen the way she feels, but she can choose how to act on her feelings. But whatever, women are just slaves to their passions, even queens! Females!

Well, I guess Andalie’s not using her unfettered access to Kelsea’s mind to be the perfect spy. Which is totally what I’d do if I were Andalie! Just saying!

Anyway, Kelsea is sad, not because she’s fallen in love with a shady man and distrusts her own emotions or because she feels violated by Andalie’s psychic prying, but because the Fetch won’t ever like her without her hair. Isn’t this the same kind of vanity that every other woman in the book gets slammed over? This book.


Let’s Read Queen of the Tearling: Chapter 11, Part Two

Having pondered her issues over Marguerite, Kelsea is finally holding her royal audience. First up is Andalie’s husband, who has come to claim her as it’s his Biblical right as a husband; Kelsea tells him off for having beaten his wife, and he slinks away.

Then a noblewoman, Lady Andrews, comes up to speak with Kelsea. It turns out that Kelsea stole this noblewoman’s tiara for her crowning. Unsurprisingly, this Lady Andrews is not in a very good mood. Also, Lady Andrews is old. Really old.

She was much older than she’d seemed in the dim light of the throne room, perhaps as old as forty, and her face appeared to have been pulled unnaturally taut. Cosmetic surgery? There were no plastic surgeons in the Tearling, but it was rumored that Mortmesne had revived the practice.

But… but they don’t have plastic. Or antibiotics. How do they have plastic surgery?

Anyway, Lady Andrews has a smoker’s voice, or a drinker’s voice, in case we can’t figure out that she’s an awful human being simply by her age alone. She uses her nasty voice to ask Kelsea what she intends to do about Mortmesne; it turns out that Lady Andrews lives near the border and therefore is very worried about an invasion.

Kelsea isn’t humoring her. Kelsea’s jewel informs her, through a vision, that Lady Andrews locked herself up inside her tower while the Mort came through her territory; she and her guards survived, but everyone else wasn’t as lucky.

Do you have children, Lady Andrews?”

No, Majesty.”

Of course not, Kelsea thought. Children coneived by this woman would only be cannibalized by her womb. She raised her voice. “Then you don’t risk much in the lottery, do you? You have no children, you don’t look strong enough for labor, and you’re really too old to appeal to anyone for sex.”


Lady Andrews is understandably a wee bit upset when Kelsea tells her never to come back to court.

Lady Andrews’s hands had clutched into claws. The nails were long hooks, manicured a bright purple. Deep pockets of red had emerged in the fleshless crescents beneath her eyes […] What does she see when she looks in the mirror? Kelsea wondered.

Ok, this is when I thought that Kelsea would come down hard on Lady Andrews for being a greedy, selfish biddy who spends her money on magical plastic surgery while letting her peasants die in a ditch.

How could a woman who looked so old still place so much importance on being attractive?

Well, that was a surprise. I guess the worst part about Lady Andrews isn’t that she let a bunch of her own people suffer horribly when (presumably) she could have helped them into safety. It’s that she thinks she’s still hot when she’s over the hill.

And for all the anguish that Kelsea’s own refletion had caused her lately, she saw now that there was something far worse than being ugly; being ugly and thinking you were beautiful.

I would have thought that the whole being-responsible-for-masses of people dying-thing would be worse than being ugly, but never mind that. The characters are female, so they don’t need to be judged on their actions, just on their appearances. So feminist.

Lady Andrews may be an old bitch, but she does have a good line in comebacks. I suppose with age, she’s had more time to think about these things.

And what have you to lose, Majesty? You spent your childhood in hiding. Has your name ever gone into the lot? […] In fact, Majesty, you risk less than any of us, don’t you? If she invades again, you merely barricade yourself in your own tower, just as I did. Only your tower is even taller.”

Kelsea has absolutely no answer for this, which is sad, as it’s a legitimate question. Not everyone is going to have access to the safety of a tower or a keep, and those who do are going to have to decide how to share that access without imperiling everyone involved. Johansen attempts to get round the problem it by making the nobles uniformly corrupt, awful people who positively relish murdering peasants, but that’s a con; Kelsea has created a situation that poses a dilemma for even the ideal noble. A lord or lady is sworn to obey their ruler, and the lottery system is inhumane and humiliating. But a lord or lady is also supposed to protect his or her people and property. If obeying the ruler means the total sacrifice of the people and land—and, based on the description of the last Mort invasion and the quality of the Tearling defense, it’s going to be an absolute slaughter—then how should a noble act? Is it right to disobey Kelsea’s orders? If not, how do they decide which people to protect and which people to leave to their fates?

But for Johansen, none of these matters are of any significance, and she signals that by putting the questions in the mouth of an old, ugly woman. Because the value of a woman’s speech is directly linked to her youth and appearance, of course.

Unfortunately for Kelsea, not all of the other nobles attending the audience seem to get that basic fact, and she appears to be losing their support. Why can’t they just forget all their problems and concentrate on how much of a dog this Andrews woman is! Fortunately for Kelsea, one of her guards, Mhurn, was one of Lady Andrews’s villagers, and he calls her out on some of the actual shitty things that she did, like locking out the poor people who attempted to find sanctuary in her household.

I’ve known the Queen barely a month, but I promise you, when the Mort come, she will try to cram the entire Tearling into this Keep, and she won’t care how recently they’ve bathed or how poor they are. She’ll make room for all.”

I hope that Kelsea has enough food for all, because otherwise that’s going to go south pretty quickly. Anyway, Lady Andrews demands the guard be whipped for his insolence, and Kelsea tells her to get the hell out once again. This time, she complies.

In the space of seconds, a thousand tiny lines sprung up in the taut skin of her face.

Yo, I hope you didn’t forget that this lady is old! And therefore bad!

I’m still not done with this chapter, which is really something of a gold mine. There’s some freaky stuff coming up involving child abuse and psychic friends that deserves its own post. Mercedes Lackey would blush, that’s all I can say.

Why Is Edward Heath Being Exposed Now? The Answer May Surprise You (Or Probably Not, I’m Just Posting This Because WTF, Jimmy Savile’s Walls)

Hands up, who here is surprised that Edward Heath has been named as a kiddy fiddler? Boo hiss to him, and all. Of course, this raises the question–he very well might have been, but why bother exposing him now?* Ken Clarke’s in the news for for accusations of approximately the same sort of thing, and he’s inconveniently alive and walking, so that might be one reason. However, there’s another reason I can think of, and while it may not be the primary reason, maybe just a convenient side effect, it is a subject that’s near and dear to every Tory’s heart–property.

Specifically, Edward Heath’s house. Unlike Gary Glitter, with his haunts in the far East, and Jimmy Savile, who seems to have literally lived in Hell House (it had black walls! for fuck’s sake!), Heath lived in a pretty corner of England–a listed Georgian house near Salisbury Cathedral. The house was originally cathedral property and Heath only held the lease, but through some dodgy dealing, he bought the house outright. However, as we all know, Heath had no close family, so after he died, that should have been an end to it.

But Heath left behind a substantial amount of money, and willed most of it towards keeping the house as a shrine to his own achievements. It would be kept as it was when he lived there, and people would trot through and admire his achievements.

Understandably, visitors weren’t beating down the doors to share Heath’s vision. After a series of closures and reopenings, it seemed like the shrine was about to put up the shutters. The property would finally be sold, all the memorabilia cleared out, and the house could revert to its normal function as a residence. However, some last-minute funders stepped in and by late 2013, the museum’s supporters finally had managed to establish the house as a permanent tourist attraction.

Imagine the feelings of the people of the cathedral close. First, Ted had swindled the church out of its rightful due, and now his ghost would squat among them permanently. Forever. Until the last syllable of recorded time.

And imagine the feelings of well-heeled denizens of the property ladder, knowing that that particular attractive rung was off limits, dedicated to storing the personal effects of Ted Heath, of all people. When there could be a family there… your family. (Granted, your family if your family had millions, but still.) If only there was a way to get that house back where it belonged…

But what a reverse! Now the innocuous spot where elderly day-trippers could look at Sir Edward’s piano and yacht paintings has turned into a den of pure kiddy-fiddling evil. Which is sad for all those abused kids, but is the exposure really such a tragedy from the point of view of the aspiring property owner? I suppose they’ll have to break up the contents and sell the house now, to protect the property from vandalism if nothing else. Whatta shame… Don’t run to the estate agent’s too quickly, dears. At least buy some sage first!

* If you’ve read this far, have a reward–this is probably and hopefully the most embarrassing thing I’ll ever admit on this blog, but I’ve read a biography of Edward Heath, and this Mirror rape story accusing Heath of rape doesn’t completely add up. The accuser says that the rape occurred in 1961, in a fancy flat full of yachting-related knickknacks. In 1961, Heath didn’t live anywhere fancy, and he didn’t start sailing until later in the 1960s (Private Eye suggested Heath’s yacht was a public relations exercise to get people to warm to the new, waxen Tory leader). So, unless Heath had a secret early passion for yachts along with his secret passion for kids, and he was borrowing his rich friends’ flats to pick up tricks, the dates are off.

I mean, I don’t want to trash a victim, because memory can be hazy, and it still could all be true. In which case, fuck that dude, once for being a kid rapist and once again for using some presumably unwitting friends’ flat as his pretend home/curio case/junior rape center. He broke ALL THE RULES, and not in a bodacious way, either.