The Queen's Gambit (34 page)

“What are your majesty's orders?” the commander asked.

Pheresa forced herself to think. She said to herself that if this commander remained loyal to her despite Lervan's perfidy, then others would as well. She was not beaten yet. She would not give way tamely and let herself be taken back to Savroix as a prisoner. She would not allow herself to be judged and found wanting, to be accused of failing her subjects and duty. These months before coronation were a new ruler's most vulnerable time, and although she'd been deposed already, she did not intend to stay that way.

Lifting her chin high, she said, “I want escort northward, to upper Mandria. You, commander, will say that the queen departed Vurdal before you received your orders.”

With relief flickering in his eyes, he bowed. “Your majesty—”

“If anyone questions you, you may also relate your suspicions regarding orders sent to you without an official seal.”

“Aye, your majesty.”

Pheresa's gaze went to Lady Carolie. “Is the packing finished?”

“Almost, your majesty.”

“See that it's completed immediately. We cannot delay another hour.” Pheresa rose to her feet. “Commander, give me as escort all the men you can spare.”

“It shall be done.”

As the commander walked to the door, Talmor followed him. “Her majesty is not fit to ride. Can a carriage be provided?”

The commander looked doubtful. “There's none at hand. Had I known in time, I could have ordered the smith to craft something out of a wagon, but—”

“A second supply wagon then,” Talmor said.

“Aye, of course.” The commander looked past him at Pheresa, bowed quickly, and left.

Lady Carolie hastened in, looking flustered and unhappy. “I've given the orders. Will your majesty give me leave to write a letter before we go?”

“Nay. See about your duties. You can write when we're safely at Thirst.”

Carolie curtsied, but dismay was spreading across her pretty face. “Thirst Hold? But that's so far away!”

Pheresa nodded. “We may meet cold weather so far upland,” she said to Talmor. “Make certain everyone is supplied with a warm cloak and extra blankets.”

“But must we go so far?” Carolie asked. “The journey will be long and slow—”

“What of that?” Pheresa asked impatiently. “I must issue a call of allegiance to my upland lords. Lervan's hand will not reach me at Thirst.”

“Your majesty puts herself at Faldain's mercy,” Talmor said doubtfully.

“I can trust him,” Pheresa retorted.

Carolie looked increasingly distressed. “ 'Tis said there is much danger in upper Mandria. And they have such strange ways and customs. Must the queen go so far—”

“We have more to fear at present in lower Mandria than in upper,” Pheresa said. “Why do you dawdle and refuse to obey your queen? Is the canker of treason to spread among my closest companions as well?”

Carolie burst into tears. “No, your majesty! Oh, no!”

She hurried from the room with her face buried in her hands.

“She is worried about her husband,” Talmor said quietly. “There's been no word as to the baron's fate, or her son's.”

Pheresa sighed, already regretting that she'd been so harsh. “Of course. I have prayed for the baron's safety, but her child is safe at their estate, and well she knows it. I cannot afford to indulge her desire to go home, not when my crown—indeed my life—are at stake.”

Talmor said nothing, and Pheresa shot a fierce look at the countess. “You have my permission to withdraw.”

The countess curtsied slowly, picked up her needlework off the floor, and went out.

Pheresa turned on Talmor. “Well, sir? You stand here frowning. Have you objections to my orders, too?”

“Nay, majesty.”

She knew him well enough to see that he had doubts of some kind. That annoyed her, for it made her wonder if she was erring again.

“Something troubles you. Speak, sir!”

He crossed his arms over his chest. Stalwart and quiet, he looked worn from the strain of recent days. A pang of worry touched her, and she wondered for the first time if he even slept at night or instead stood guard over her slumbers. When did he eat? He never absented himself when she dined alone from a tray, and insisted on personally checking her food. Was he taking proper care of himself? Did his squire and servant see to his needs adequately? A monarch usually employed two protectors, yet she'd never considered anyone else but him at
her back. She realized now that she'd been unfair in using him so harshly. And Talmor, so quiet, so dependable, so loyal, never complained.

“Will you not say what you are thinking?” she asked again, less sharply.

He hesitated still, but when his gaze at last met hers, there was no wavering in it. “Does the queen realize that when she crosses the Charva and appeals to the upland lords against lower Mandria, there will be—”

He broke off, frowning.

She stared at him in growing impatience. “There will be trouble. Yes, of course.” Then she suddenly understood his meaning, and something cold passed through her bones. “You mean there could be civil war.”

“Upper versus lower.”

Defiance spread through her, and she tossed her head. “It will not happen. The realm is unified, and it will stand for its rightful monarch.”

“I pray unity will hold under the strain of this conflict.”

She shook her head, unable to believe that lower Mandria would support the coward Lervan had proven himself to be. “Lervan has a few supporters now, but he hardly speaks for the entire realm. Am I to stand aside and let him usurp me?”

Under knotted brows, Talmor's eyes met hers in grave warning. “As long as the queen understands the costs if she takes this course.”

“Is there aught else I can do?” Pheresa asked rather shrilly.

“I'm no adviser, majesty,” he said.

“No.” She frowned, hugging herself against the dreadful vision conjured up by his words. Verence, and his father before him, had worked long and hard to bring the two halves of the realm together. She thought uneasily of the Treaty of Blood in her possession. It had been forged at a dreadful cost. Families had been torn asunder. Lands had been confiscated. Punishment had been harsh indeed to bring the rebellious Edonia to heel. What if Talmor was right, and she broke that uneasy union apart? Yet what else could she do?

“Faldain will advise me,” she said, clinging to that
assurance, and ignored Talmor's exasperated frown. “He understands the problems of upper Mandria, and he knows what it's like to be betrayed. He will give me the answers I seek.”

“This king is not Mandrian,” Talmor said doubtfully. “He has not your majesty's concerns at heart.”

“You do not know him!”

“He has his own realm to think of. Would a foreign king not welcome division in Mandria, and take advantage from—”

“Nay, sir!” she said angrily. “Faldain is my friend and a man of honor. He saved my life. He saved Verence's life. He found the Chalice when it was lost and restored it to his people. Were he not a man of pure heart and unquestioned valor, he could not have even touched the sacred relic without grave harm. There is no finer man alive than he. I trust him absolutely.”

A little silence followed this ringing speech. Overheated with defiance, Pheresa drew a quick breath and looked down, embarrassed now by the ardor that had filled her words. Talmor's amber eyes took on an expression she could not read, and the line creasing his brow deepened.

“This Faldain is the man your majesty would have married,” Talmor said slowly.

It was as though he had peeked into the most secret corner of her heart. It was the last thing she'd expected him to say, and she felt exposed, suddenly raw.

She glared at him in fury. “Who told you that? Faldain is married, as am I. Think you that I go to meet him for some other purpose than saving my realm? How dare you!”

Talmor's expression grew stonier, his gaze remote and fierce, so that for a moment he seemed to be almost a stranger. “I do not criticize the queen,” he said in a colorless voice.

Scowling at him, she realized too late that her own angry defensiveness had given her away. It was as though some madness seized her, making her horrid in all that she said and did. She wanted to lash out at everyone, punishing those around her as she longed to punish Lervan.

She opened her mouth, but queens did not apologize. She
had to be a sovereign now and somehow hold on to her realm, even when everything seemed to be slipping from her fingers.

“Go outside and leave me to myself,” she whispered, and it took tremendous effort to speak calmly.

Talmor was still looking at her in a peculiar way.
Is he disappointed in me?
she wondered, and felt fresh anger wash over her.
He has no right to judge me, no right at all.

“Your majesty—”

“Stop questioning my every command!” she shouted. “Obey me!”

He bowed, his mouth tight, and left without another word.

Pheresa whirled around and ran to the window for fresh air. Gulping in deep breaths, she realized she'd been shouting at a man who could not answer back. Shame at her behavior flooded her, and she picked up a pen case and hurled it across the room. Then she put her hands to her face and let the scalding tears fall. Her anger was something wild inside her, clawing and horrid. And Talmor was wrong about Faldain, very wrong. There must be a good reason why he had not replied to her letters. He was a true friend, and he would not fail her. There was nothing wrong in wanting his wise counsel, and Talmor was a fool if he believed otherwise.

Biting her lip, she hastily slammed a mental door on further consideration of what Talmor thought.

She must keep her concentration on Lervan instead, and think of nothing else save his black treachery. She wanted to hurt him, as he had hurt her. She wanted to punish him. Dear Thod, how she wished herself a man this day, so that she could ride home and challenge Lervan to fight. He had besmirched her honor. He had made her think of another man, a man she had once loved, with a degree of regret so deep and strong it was unbearable. He had made her quarrel today with two of her most faithful companions, obliging her to face their censure and disappointment.

How could she have been so deceived by Lervan's handsome looks and charming manners? He had told her the things a woman most longs to hear when she lies in the arms of her husband, and in gratitude she'd tried so hard to please his
unfaithful heart. It shamed her now, bitterly and deeply, to think of how desperately she'd worked to pander to him. And all the while, he'd been waiting for the perfect opportunity to steal from her everything that mattered.

She would never forgive him.

Never.

The last time she'd come by Thirst Hold, Pheresa had been desperately ill, kept alive only through a precarious spell. Long had she been curious about this remote hold, where both Faldain and Gavril had been fostered and come to manhood, for Thirst stood wreathed in legend. Here was where the evil sword Tanengard had been forged. Here was where a Nonkind shapeshifter had nearly killed Gavril until Faldain saved the young prince's life. Here was where Faldain had been adopted by kindly Chevard Odfrey and later had proclaimed himself rightful King of Nether.

Pheresa sat wrapped in a fur-lined cloak in the lurching, slow-moving wagon, hardly feeling the cold and discomfort. In rising anticipation, she squinted against tiny needles of intermittent sleet.

“We're nearly there,” she said to Lady Carolie, sitting huddled under a cloak and a blanket, her pretty little nose red with cold. “At any moment, I'm certain we'll see the walls.”

“I hope so, your majesty,” Carolie replied through chattering teeth.

The road rounded a bend and emerged from dense forest into open country. A flock of black-winged keebacks broke from the trees, noisy and sudden, and Pheresa saw the hold at last.

Nothing prepared her for how bleak and impoverished it looked.

Flat marshes teeming with waterfowl seemed to stretch out forever beyond tall levees of packed dirt. Fields were small and muddy, the village a mere cluster of pathetic hovels peopled with ragged serfs who watched her ride by in suspicious silence. And beyond, standing between village and the marshes leading to the river, rose the gray stone walls of Thirst.

How small it was, how grim. Most nobles in lower Mandria had expanded their fortresses into stately villas or grand homes that displayed their prosperity, softening the harsh lines of old castles with new architectural styles. Here, no one had altered the formidable walls, thick, squat turrets with arrow slits, or the stout gates with an old-fashioned portcullis hanging behind them.

Thirst showed no pretensions to being anything other than the fortress it was, and even at this distance it looked primitive. Pheresa was reminded that this was a land where Nonkind beasts roamed and struck the unwary. This was a land of brutally cold winters, hard men, and considerable danger. She recalled Prince Gavril's disparaging remarks about his fostering time at Thirst Hold, how horrid and backward it was, how much he had hated it. For the first time, she began to understand what he meant.

Her excitement died, and she stared ahead in silence, while Lady Carolie looked dismayed, and the countess frowned.

“It's not at all welcoming, majesty,” Carolie said in a small voice.

“ 'Tis at the end of the world,” the countess said with a sniff of disgust.

“You judge too harshly,” Pheresa said, but then fell silent. In truth, it did look awful, the kind of place that had no amenities at all. She found herself longing for a warm fire, a cup of
mulled wine sweetened with her favorite spices, and a bath in hot, scented water. From the look of it, Thirst would be awash with drafts of icy air, have old rushes on the floor instead of carpets, and would be run by a clutch of ignorant louts. Faldain had loved it. Verence had been furious to lose it. And Gavril had hated it.

For perhaps the only time in her life, she found herself in agreement with her dead cousin.

The sleet stopped, and rain began to drizzle instead. The wheels of the wagon were already struggling through mud that sucked and clung.

Sir Talmor rode up alongside. “Sir Ninquin has sent a rider ahead. Look yon. They're opening the gates.”

Pheresa saw. As she pulled up the hood of her cloak to shield herself somewhat from the rain, she heard trumpets sounding a welcome. It was a tinny, ragged little fanfare, nothing like what she was used to at Savroix.

But then she saw the flags of the hold flutter on a sudden gust of wind. And Nether's bold pennon of green and white unfurled proudly.

Gripping the side of the wagon, Pheresa leaned forward behind the driver while her weariness fell away, and her heart felt light again. “He's here!” she said, turning to smile at Lady Carolie and Sir Talmor. “Faldain is here and awaits my arrival. I knew he would not fail me!”

Lady Carolie's eyes widened. “The king himself attends your majesty's bidding?”

Pheresa tossed her head with renewed confidence. “Did you think he would not?”

“Of course, majesty.” But there was a sly little smile that curved Lady Carolie's lips as she spoke.

Their welcome was warm. Once inside the gates, the riders of her escort milled around the wagons, while geese and chickens scattered out of their way, squawking, and stableboys hurried out into the rain. Servants of all kinds appeared from nowhere, to stand and stare. Pheresa was assisted to the ground. The rain began to fall harder, and she had a confused
impression of stone walls, snug, well-tended barns of wood, and a well-swept stableyard.

A tall knight wearing a surcoat in Thirst's colors bowed to her in greeting. “Your majesty is most welcome,” he said. His firm voice was clipped in the manner of uplander speech. “I am Sir Bosquecel, commander of this hold, and am bid by my lord and master to escort you inside.”

Again her heart gave that absurd leap. Smiling, she extended her gloved hand to Sir Bosquecel in warmer greeting than was her wont. “Thank you, sir. Then King Faldain is in residence? I saw his pennon flying, but could not be sure.”

The man bowed again. “Aye, majesty. This hold is well honored to receive your grace, and all here bid you welcome and good cheer.”

Still smiling, she deigned to look around her at the serfs and servants, many of them still gawking with their caps in their hands while the rain soaked them through. When she smiled and nodded to the little crowd, they cheered her.

Well pleased, Pheresa allowed herself to be escorted into a paved courtyard. Here, she saw a tiny chapel, a turret, a small, walled garden with an unruly tangle of vines spilling over its gate, and the stone steps leading up into the keep. Its door stood open, with a liveried steward standing in the welcoming rectangle of light.

She walked inside, her leather slippers crossing an ancient stone threshold worn down in the center, and was taken immediately to a warm fire burning with fragrant apple wood. Seated in a comfortable chair, her feet resting on a carpet, she accepted a cup of warm cider.

She sipped the stuff cautiously, found it agreeable, and drank it down. When she was warm enough, she allowed her cloak and gloves to be taken away, and well-mannered servants escorted her and her party up a broad spiral of stone steps to chambers that were plain in furnishings but supplied with both hearth and well-placed braziers. Glancing at the massive wooden bed with its odd shutters instead of hangings, Pheresa wondered if sleeping inside it would not be like trying to sleep inside a box. Still, it would be less subject to
drafts than a bed with the customary draperies. She saw a writing table adequate for her needs, a tiny alcove for washing, and an adjoining suite of rooms for her attendants. Satisfied, she nodded, and the steward released an audible sigh of relief.

“Where is your master?” she demanded, anxious to see Faldain without delay.

The steward wore a silver collar with Thirst's coat of arms engraved on it in the ancient custom. “Hunting, my lady. I mean, your majesty.”

“Hunting!” she said in disappointment, and spun around so that her skirts billowed wide. “Can men think of nothing else?”

The steward bowed. “ 'Tis but an hour left before twilight. We expect his grace back anon.”

“When he arrives, inform him that the queen has arrived.”

The man bowed and hurried out, as though glad to escape. Pheresa swiftly quelled her disappointment and turned to Lady Carolie. “I shall have time to put off these travel clothes and dress myself more becomingly. Have Oola see to it. And tell her to hurry.”

Lady Carolie went to do her bidding, and Pheresa's swift calculation of which of the few gowns in her clothes chest were suitable for the occasion was interrupted by Sir Talmor.

“If I have permission, I'll withdraw for a short time.”

“Yes, of course,” she said at once. “See to your needs, Talmor. The queen is well fixed here for the present.”

He frowned, his unruly hair falling as usual over his brow. “I want to familiarize myself with the hold and these passageways, majesty. It won't take me long.”

The door closed in his wake, and she stared after him with a little frown. All the way to Thirst, he had been a little stiffer than usual in his manner, distant, his thoughts seemingly far away. Yet, if anything, he was more efficient than ever. But although she could not fault his service, he was not himself. No doubt he was tired. She reminded herself to add another protector to her service. Perhaps Faldain had a knight he would be willing to spare for such duty.

Her smile returned, and she set about making good use of the hot water provided for her.

Eventually she put on a gown of dark green velvet, chosen because it was Thirst's colors, but sadly creased despite Oola's efforts to improve its appearance. Fuming, her slippered foot tapping while the countess gravely fastened an emerald necklace around her throat and Carolie hung matching earrings in her ears, Pheresa felt she had never looked more dowdy. Her hair was coiled about her head stylishly enough, but there were no jeweled pins to fasten up her golden tresses, jewels that would flash fire with every turn of her head. She had pearls for her hair, but they did not go with her gown. There was no scarf of fine silk gauze to drape over the back of her hair in soft, artful folds. Her slippers were pretty, beaded things, but they did not match her gown, and they pinched her swollen feet. Her fingers had grown so plump she could no longer wear her rings.

She told herself that Faldain would be appalled when he saw her, this fat, ungainly creature in a creased dress and inadequate jewels. She wanted to charm him, delight him, and render him sorry he'd ever rejected her, but that wasn't going to happen tonight.

She frowned in distress, then suddenly laughed at her foolishness. 'Twas not his heart she needed to captivate now; 'twas his cooperation and a quick agreement to give her his army.

For she had decided on the perfect way to avoid creating civil war in her realm. If she moved against Lervan with a Netheran army, she would not be asking Mandrian to fight Mandrian. It was a simple, and therefore perfect, solution.

A knock on the door made her whirl around with her heart thudding too fast. It was not Faldain who entered, however, but a slender man with a light brown beard and smiling hazel eyes. She recognized him at once with pleasure, but could not recall his name.

“Sir Thum du Maltie, majesty, at your service,” he said with a flourishing bow.

She smiled at him, pleased to see the courtier manner here
in this backward place. “Sir Thum, yes, of course. How good to see you again. You look well. 'Twould seem that Nether agrees with you.”

“Aye, your grace. But 'tis good to stand on Mandrian soil tonight.”

She pretended to misunderstand him. “I thought Thirst belonged to Nether now.”

“Well—”

She laughed, relenting. “Forgive my pranks, good sir. I know what you meant. Have you had any chance to visit your family?”

“Not yet.” His thin face, freckled and rather serious, lightened briefly in a smile. “We but arrived four days ago. There is always much to be seen to when his grace comes back to Thirst.”

“You must make Faldain relent and give you leave to visit your people.”

Sir Thum inclined his head. “May I escort your majesty to the Hall? A feast has been prepared in your honor, and I am bidden to see to your entertainment until his grace can join us.”

She nodded graciously, and put her fingertips on the back of his hand as he led her out. Sir Talmor fell into step behind them, and Sir Thum's protector followed him. They went downstairs at a slow, dignified pace. As they descended, a quartet of hounds came bounding up to meet them, uttering excited little barks, and were quickly shooed away by an energetic page in a plumed cap.

Music was playing in the distance, and Pheresa heard the hubbub of many voices talking at once. The doors to the Hall opened before her, and she was struck by a rush of light from blazing torches and a terrible racket that fell silent abruptly as the knights assembled within caught sight of her.