The Queen's Gambit (23 page)

With a start, Talmor soulgazed him, and knew the truth in an instant. Maldriard had been behind the peasant's attack today. Had paid for it, certainly. Clearly, Maldriard felt a measure of bafflement and frustration over its complete failure.

Talmor's eyes narrowed, and a little smile curved his lips. Seeing it, Sir Maldriard scowled even more.

He took a step toward Talmor, who instinctively reached for the weapon he did not carry. A roaring began in his ears. If it was a fight Maldriard wanted, he . . .

Frowning, Talmor drew in his breath sharply. Was he mad
to be thinking of brawling here and now? It was unlike him to lose his temper this way. Yet he found himself longing to tackle the brute right now, consequences be damned.

Realizing another's will was trying to force his temper past prudence, Talmor withdrew his emotions behind a shield of calm aloofness. There was magic at work in this room, weak magic but capable of causing mischief.

Wary now of the trap he'd nearly fallen into, Talmor felt certain other dangers lay in wait for him.

“You are mixed blood,” Sir Maldriard said, still trying to provoke him into a brawl that would see him hustled from the palace forever. “You do not belong. You use what is forbidden, and you cheat.”

The accusation made Talmor curl his hands into fists at his side. He held his tongue, but with difficulty.

“See?” Maldriard said to Silvrie. “He does not say it's a lie. He confesses that it is truth.”

Talmor's temper grew hot, but he held himself silent, glaring at the man.

“He is unworthy of our company,” Maldriard said. “He is a baseborn cur and—”

“Hold your tongue,” Talmor said, his voice cold and clear.

Sir Silvrie stepped between them. “Stop it, you fools! You cannot fight in here.”

“He cannot fight anywhere without his magic,” Maldriard said. “He is a cowardly knave, hiding behind tricks and—”

“I was attacked with a magicked club,” Talmor broke in. “Let us discuss that.”

“A magicked club?” Looking unworried, Maldriard shrugged. “There is no such thing. Only swords can be spell forged.”

“Hush!” Silvrie insisted. His eyes darted from Maldriard to Talmor. “You're mad, both of you, talking of such things. 'Tis said the palace is full of spies. You will get us condemned.”

Maldriard never took his eyes off Talmor. “You cheated, or you could not have unhorsed me,” he stated flatly.

Talmor was not surprised by Maldriard's evasion. He
wondered if Maldriard had intended the attack merely as revenge, or was some larger plot at work? If the latter, then Talmor told himself that Maldriard was merely a tool, mouthing what he'd been told to say.

“You cheated,” Maldriard said, more loudly. “No one defeats me.”

Normally, Talmor would have taken that statement from no man. Hot with anger, he struggled to hold his tongue.

“You are a cowardly wretch. Do you fear to defend yourself?”

Thod's bones, Talmor thought angrily, how he ached to teach this arrogant brute a lesson. But he also knew that protectors could not issue or accept challenges. Maldriard was still trying to trick him into disqualifying himself. Talmor went on holding himself silent and aloof, although it made him appear cowardly.

“You say nothing. You admit it,” Maldriard taunted him.

“I admit nothing,” Talmor replied with all the calmness he could muster. Had he chosen to cheat, he could have shot the black knight from his saddle with fire.
That
would have been cheating.

“We are alone here,” Maldriard persisted. “You can admit it.”

“I was trained to joust by a master,” Talmor said coldly. “Why don't
you
admit that my skill with a lance surpassed yours?”

“You are a bastard dog, kicked out of your father's household,” Maldriard said. He let a slow smile spread across his face. “I know Etyne.”

Talmor stiffened. His gaze locked on Maldriard's and could not break away. Although his expression stayed cold and blank, inside his mind was spinning. He felt cold, unable to think. Ruin, always so close, loomed over him.
Not again,
he thought miserably, remembering how many times he'd started over.
Sweet mercy of Tomias, not again.

Maldriard chuckled deep in his throat.

Somehow Talmor rallied his courage and faced the knowledge in the man's eyes. “Say anything you please, but who
will believe your tales? 'Tis the lady who chooses today. I doubt she will want you, stinking of combat and showing the manners of an oaf.”

Maldriard's dark eyes flashed with contempt. “If you believe the lady chooses, you are a fool,” he said, and turned away.

Silence fell over them all. Although he was grateful that Maldriard had finally shut his mouth, Talmor could not still his worry. How much did Maldriard know? What combination of lies and truth would he say to discredit Talmor before the king and Lady Pheresa?

He knew nothing, Talmor tried to reassure himself. Etyne would not have told him much, if anything. Their father had taught them all to keep silent about Talmor's curse.
“Family matters belong within the family,”
Lord Juroc always said.
“Nothing must come back against the family.”
And although Etyne, Porhal, and Amic—Talmor's half brothers—had all hated him, they feared their father's wrath more. No, he did not think Etyne had spilled old family secrets to Maldriard. Whatever the brute had learned, it had not been from that source.

Of greater concern was this possibility that the lady would not be allowed to choose for herself. If not she, then who? And based on what criteria? How many plots and intrigues swirled around the lady's future?

The door opened, making them all start.

“Sir Maldriard.”

Sneering, the black knight cast an arrogant look at Talmor and the other man before he stepped through the doorway. The door shut, and there was an eternal wait.

Talmor's nerves knotted his entrails. He felt a terrible sense of foreboding, as though danger was closing in around Lady Pheresa. If Maldriard had sold himself to a master who meant the lady no good, was a spell at work even now to persuade her in the black knight's favor? Talmor rubbed his jaw, trying to keep himself from rushing to the door and battering it open with his fists.

The door opened, and he was grateful he'd stayed where he was.

“Sir Silvrie.”

The man in blue cleared his throat, pulled his hand from his sword hilt, and hurried through the doorway.

Again the wait seemed endless. Talmor wanted to pace about, but he forced himself to stand still. He'd done all he could, he reminded himself, and now his future rested on the decision to come. Fretting would not accomplish anything.

Great Thod,
he prayed.
I am in thy hands.

The door opened, scattering his thoughts.

“Sir Talmor.”

“Sir Talmor.”

Talmor strode inside like the officer he had once been. None of his nervousness showed. He bowed first to the king, then to the lady, who stood with her back to the tall windows. Her face remained in shadow, while sunlight streamed in behind her. He wanted to look at her and determine what she was thinking, but he dared not.

Then she stepped away from the window and walked over to stand beside the king's throne. She wore green today, the green of the sea on a cloudy day. Her face looked pale and tired. Her eyes, brown and uncertain, studied him, then moved restlessly from face to face.

Talmor took his place beside Sir Silvrie. Several ministers of the council, a cardinal in robes of dazzling white, and a marechal numbered among the courtiers permitted to observe these proceedings. Lord Nejel stood out of the way, smiling pleasantly, his eyes keen and interested.

Slender, beautiful, vulnerable, Pheresa slowly blushed from being the center of so much attention. She needed him,
Talmor told himself. The air hung thick with anticipation, possibly even an undercurrent of menace. Talmor had to ask himself if there was a single man present who did not want either something from her or something against her.

The king—handsome and magnificently dressed—smiled at his ease, as though unaware of the tension in the room. A young man in a brightly hued doublet, wearing an ornate feather in his cap, bent low to murmur in the king's ear.

His majesty chuckled, and all eyes turned to the monarch.

“Lervan,” he said merrily, slapping his knee, “you delight me with these sallies. Share your jest with the whole company.”

Grinning broadly, the young lord repeated his joke. Talmor did not listen. His attention was focused on Lady Pheresa, and he noticed the quick flash of resentment in her eyes when Lord Lervan stole the attention.

Talmor knew the barracks gossip, which said Lervan hoped to be named the king's heir instead of Lady Pheresa. Something about him seemed insincere to Talmor, who disliked him on first sight.

Everyone laughed at the end of Lord Lervan's tale, the king more heartily than the rest. “Now, dear lady,” he said to Pheresa, and she hastily curtsied. “Let us turn our attention to the matter at hand. These champions have fought hard and valiantly, proving themselves to be stalwart men both competent with weapons and courageous in the face of danger. What say you to them? They are the best of our realm, the most able fighters, each willing to serve you to the death.”

While she hesitated the cardinal joined the king. He was a thin, slight man with a gray goatee and cold green eyes.

“Sire,” he said, “surely it is too much to ask the lady to decide. Let a warrior choose for her. Her own father, perhaps.”

Beaming, the marechal came forward. Talmor eyed him narrowly, not much impressed by the Duc du Lindier. Obviously he had been a handsome, athletic man in his youth, but was now bloated from too much drinking and other indulgences, a warrior no longer.

“Now then,” Lindier began, smiling at his daughter. “A
protector for you, my dear, will seldom be called to defend you on horseback. I believe that prowess with a sword is the most critical qualification.”

Sir Maldriard puffed out his massive chest. Lady Pheresa gazed up at the black knight with visible dread.

Talmor frowned, never taking his eyes off her.
I am true to you,
he thought at her with all his will.
I will never betray you, will never fail you. I will keep you from harm, even if I die for it.

She blinked, tilting her head. Her gaze shifted in his direction, then away.

His heart squeezed with hope, for he felt certain she had sensed his message. He held himself still, his heart thudding, and dared not breathe.

“You make excellent sense, Lindier,” the king announced. “Your assessment is quick and to the point. Lady Pheresa, do you agree with your father?”

“N—no,” she stammered, and blushed to the roots of her hair.

Everyone stared at her. Despite the high color in her face, she did not shrink under their scrutiny, not even when Maldriard scowled at her.

“A protector should be able to excel in many things,” she said.

The king's protector, standing behind the throne, permitted himself the faintest glimmer of a smile. It vanished the moment he caught Talmor looking at him.

“A protector should also be less visible than the person he guards,” Lady Pheresa continued. “And possessing some measure of refinement suitable for court.”

Maldriard's face looked thunderous, and his meaty hands clenched with ill-concealed ire. Lord Odeil moved his hand to the hilt of his weapon.

“Let his majesty have final say in this matter,” the cardinal urged. “Let the king choose.”

Lady Pheresa shot a look of annoyance at the cardinal, then turned back to the king in appeal. “Sire, I could never
protest your choice on my behalf. Thanks to your generosity, I am given this tremendous opportunity.”

“But you wish to choose for yourself,” Verence said with mild amusement.

“I do, sire.”

“Then state your choice.”

She frowned, hesitating while she looked Sir Silvrie over. Talmor's heart seemed to stop. Her gaze shifted to Lord Odeil, and he guessed she wanted to consult with the protector; however, while the man was on duty that was impossible. Tempted to cast his thoughts at her a second time, Talmor never took his eyes from her.

At last her own gaze met his, and her frown deepened. “This man,” she said, almost unwillingly, and pointed. “Sir Talmor.”

His heart leaped with triumph, and he smiled. Scowling, she turned away from him at once.

Everyone else tried to talk at the same time, and Maldriard's gruff voice rose over the rest.

“He is unfit! I do protest. This half-breed bastard from—”

The king gestured angrily. “Silence!”

At once the guardsmen surrounded Sir Maldriard, but the knight thrust some of them back. His face was ablaze with anger. “Hear me! He used sorcery to—”

Lord Odeil moved with astonishing speed and put his dagger blade at Maldriard's throat. The knight roared, but by then the guards held him pinned. “You heard the king's order,” Odeil said, pressing the blade enough to make a trickle of blood run down the black knight's throat. Maldriard froze, his eyes squinting with fury. “Take him out.”

Maldriard bellowed and heaved against the men holding him, but he was marched away. As the door closed, Talmor heard him still shouting his slander. But here in the privy chamber, no one was listening.

“Sir Silvrie,” the king said, and the man in blue bowed. “You fought well and conducted yourself with honor.”

“Majesty,” the man murmured, looking gratified.

“You may withdraw,” an official said to him. “Your prize
awaits you at the gatehouse. Be sure you collect it when you ride out.”

Silvrie smiled and bowed again. “Thank you, sire.”

He departed, looking content, while everyone turned to Talmor.

He stood at attention, trying to keep his joy and relief from flashing across his face. He had never known a prouder moment.

The king smiled at him. “Well done, sir. Well fought. And, I hope, well chosen.”

Talmor bowed. “Thank you, majesty.”

“Now, who is your sponsor?”

Lord Nejel came forward. “The man serves in your majesty's guards. As his commander, I sponsor him.”

“Can you vouch for this man, his worth, his honor?”

“Your majesty, he serves in the guards, surely the most valiant of all your majesty's warriors.”

The king looked impatient. “Glibly said, Lord Nejel, but I would have facts.”

Nejel gave Talmor a nod. “I suggest the man speak for himself.”

Verence stared at Talmor, who drew a deep breath. “My father is Lord Juroc of Templan Hold.”

Verence's gaze grew interested. He leaned forward. “My southernmost hold.”

“Aye, majesty.”

“That explains why you can fight so well. Juroc's men are the best trained in the kingdom.”

Wishing his father could hear the compliment, Talmor bowed.

“You are a natural-born son?”

“Aye, majesty.”

Verence leaned back. “Enough said. I find no fault in Lady Pheresa's choice. Swear the man to his vows, and see that he is granted the authority he requires.”

Talmor's throat swelled with emotion. He knelt swiftly and repeated the vows given to him, swearing on Writ, his honor, and the holy Circle.

Lady Pheresa made her obeisance to the king. “Your majesty's kindness on my behalf overwhelms me.”

Looking pleased, Verence took her hand a moment, then left with most of his courtiers and officials trailing after him. Only Lord Lervan and the official who had escorted Talmor earlier lingered behind.

She shot them both a look of dismissal. “That is all.”

The official bowed hastily. “I shall await Sir Talmor outside.”

He went out, but Lord Lervan circled Talmor with his hands clasped at his back. The fellow looked strong and quick, but he would run quickly to fat, Talmor thought. He eyed Lervan in return, noting he was about Talmor's own age. They were much the same height, too, but there the similarities ended. Talmor did not like the fellow's smirk or the bold, speculative way he ran his gaze over Lady Pheresa.

“He's strong, my lady,” Lervan said, looking Talmor over the way he might a horse. “Well favored in face and form. You've chosen for looks, of course, and who can fault you?”

She turned bright red. “Think what you please, my lord,” she replied in a low voice. “But do not say such things at my expense to others.”

Lervan winked. “Your secret is safe. Oh, how you sigh and look impatient. I am keeping you from getting acquainted with him.”

“Leave off these fancies and teasings,” she said stonily, while Talmor yearned to knock the smirk off Lervan's face. “Your humor, my lord, has never been in poorer taste.”

“Alas, the lady is not amused,” he said with a mocking grin. “Since your protector's company is preferred to my own, I'll away.” Laughing, Lervan bowed to her. “But let us bargain, sweetest cousin. I'll make no jests at your expense if you'll promise to dance the
spinnade
with me at tonight's banquet.”

With a frown, she nodded. Lervan sauntered out, and Talmor unclenched his jaw. However, thanks to Lervan's remarks, the atmosphere in the room was now constrained and ill at ease.

Talmor contented himself with letting his eyes feast on her beauty, especially on how the sunlight shone red spangles in her golden hair. Desperately, he tried to think of something to say, then reminded himself that he must not initiate conversation. He was sworn now to her service. Her every command was his to obey, without question.

She stood before him, studying him in silence, then slapped him hard.

The force of her blow rocked his head back a little, and his cheek stung fiercely. Taken aback, he stared at her open-mouthed.

Her eyes flashed fire. “How dare you!” she said furiously. “Did you work some spell on my mind, seeking to influence my choice? Did you? I was on the verge of choosing Sir Silvrie, but then your name came from my lips. What magic do you possess?”

He blinked, his mind athwart as he tried to find a way to answer without lying.

“Who trained you in the usage of such powers?” she demanded. “Answer me!”

It would be fatal to lie. He knew that, and his spirits sank inside him, for he believed she would reject him as soon as he answered. “My lady,” he said carefully, “I did but fill my mind with the strong desire to serve you. Were you not—sensitive—you could not have heard my thoughts.”

She stiffened, her eyes ablaze. “How dare you accuse me of having magical powers of my own! I do not, sir. I do not!”

“You misunderstand—”

“And now you dare correct me? Indeed, you are an oaf, with the greatest ignorance of your place.”