The Queen's Gambit (12 page)

“What are you about, pretty Vea?” he asked in puzzlement. “Seeking to put a spell over me? Why? Am I not enspelled enough for you?”

She struggled again, but with a laugh he tightened his hold. After a moment she stopped, and he dropped his hand from her mouth.

“Take me to Savroix with you,” she said in a strange, husky voice. “Take me there! Take me!”

“I shall take you nowhere but here,” he said with a laugh, pushing her down again. He kissed her hard and long, pleasuring himself despite her struggles, and closed his mind to everything save what he wanted.

When he was finished, he gave her a last caress in farewell and straightened his clothes. As he picked up his cap, however, she sat up, flushed and thoroughly disarranged.

“I am yours,” she said in that same fierce, husky voice. “I am to go with you.”

“No, my dear,” he said calmly. “You have been delightful, but now I must go.”

“I go with you!”

“No.”

She gripped his arm, and he loosed a little sigh as he pried her fingers from his sleeve. “Do not be tiresome, Vea. You know your place, and it is here.”

“Then you will stay with me until I make you unable to leave me. You will stay.” She tried to kiss him although he turned his head away. “Stay!”

He laughed. “Would you command me like a dog, Vea? Have done. Our sport is over.”

“I do command you, good lord and sir. I command your heart. I command your loins. You must take me with you.”

The desperation in her voice struck him as odd. He stood up abruptly and paused to glance down at her. In that quick moment her face looked different . . . not as pretty, the cheekbones flatter, the lips thin and pale, the dark eyes fierce and somehow dangerous. She opened her mouth, revealing small pointed teeth and . . . fangs.

Shocked, he stared at her, unable to believe what he was seeing. She hissed at him in fury, and he jumped back, his heart suddenly thudding.

She sprang at him, muttering something in a language he did not know, and caught him by his legs. He could not keep his balance and fell, arms flailing. The moment he hit the ground, she swarmed atop him, fangs bared and eyes wild. Her teeth snapped at his throat.

He knocked her aside with a sweep of his arm, sending her tumbling nearly into the stream. By the time he scrambled to his feet, she was coming on all fours like an animal, panting harshly in her throat.

“What are you?” he demanded, evading her grab.

She came at him again. “If I do not please you, Lord Lervan, take another of us,” she said. “We each have training to capture you. Try—”

“I'll have none of you. Get back!”

“You are to rule Mandria. It has been foretold.”

“Thank you for the prophecy,” he said, backing away. “But my future has naught to do with you.”

“So you think, good lord and sir. So you think.”

She sprang at him again, and this time he lost his footing in his attempt to evade her. He fell awkwardly on his side, the wind knocked from him so that he could not call out to Sir Maltric. He lay there, half-stunned and furious, wondering what in Thod's name had spawned this madwoman.

Throwing herself across him, Vea gripped his jaw, her nails digging in painfully while she bit him where his neck joined his shoulder.

“You will take the spell. You will serve,” she said grimly, trying to force open his mouth. “In the name of Ashnod, I command you—”

Fear burst through his heart. Shoving her off, he reached for his dagger. As she struggled to keep him pinned, he thrust his weapon through her side in a quick, fatal blow.

All the fury and madness left her face. She sagged against him, her eyes dull with shock. He pulled out his dagger and shifted away from her as she crumpled to the ground. Breathing hard, he cleaned his weapon quickly on the grass.

He felt shaken and sick. She was Gantese, and this had been a trap. How had they known? He'd had no inkling of the fabulous future perhaps awaiting him until a week ago, when Father Fornel arrived bearing a letter from Cardinal Theloi. The letter informed him that he had a strong chance of being named Heir to the Realm, but there had been no mention of any danger attached to this honor.

Quickly Lervan sheathed his dagger and stared down at Vea. She opened her eyes and stared right through him. Blood stained her side, and her breathing came quick and harsh. He backed away, appalled that he'd struck down a woman. Or
was she a woman at all? Her beauty, apparently some magical illusion, was gone. She looked strange, peculiar, hideous.

“I'll be no puppet of Gant,” he declared. “You should have been content to sport with me, my dear.”

Anger blazed in her eyes. “My curse is on you, Lervan de Waite.” A gout of blood gushed from her mouth, and she groaned. “You are marked now for those who will come after me. You
will
serve. 'Tis foretold. May blood and disaster cloud your reign. May all you touch wither and fail.”

The air smelled suddenly of fire, and something unseen hurtled past him. He ducked, and fire exploded in the bush where only minutes ago they'd lain happily. Fear gripped his entrails, but Lervan clung to his bravado.

“Your curse has missed me, Vea,” he said. “The only disaster this day has befallen you, not me.”

She stared up at him through eyes that grew steadily dimmer. “So you think,” she whispered, and died.

He stood there a long moment, staring at her while the bush burned and smoked behind him. Reaching inside his tunic, he gripped his Circle very hard while his pity for her faded swiftly. “So I know, witch,” he said softly, and strode away.

After he crossed the stream, he ran, clutching his fine cap in his hand to protect it from being snagged by low-hanging branches. He did not look back. He wanted to be gone from that place forever, and he worried suddenly about the fate of his friends. Were the other girls Gantese witches as well? Had they enspelled his companions in his absence?

When he burst from the trees, it was to find them all standing about looking bored. They seemed startled by his precipitous arrival, and Sir Maltric stepped forward in immediate concern.

“Is aught amiss, my lord?” he asked.

Lervan found himself breathless and unsure of how to answer. A swift glance around told him the other maidens had gone, taking their laundry with them.

“A farmer came by, my lord, and rounded them up,” Jervis said.

Still unsettled, Lervan brushed off the dirt and leaf bits from his clothing while Fornel scowled even harder. Some of the armed men were sending Lervan sly grins and nudging each other. He smiled at them in return, feeling less sick at heart than he had a few minutes ago.
If they only knew the truth of it,
he thought wryly, and kept silent about his adventure.

He did not know why. Perhaps he didn't want Sir Maltric to worry and fuss. Perhaps he didn't want to face Fornel's questions or endure some kind of cleansing ritual the priest would no doubt insist on performing. He'd killed the witch, and no harm had been done. The trap had failed, and that was an end to it.

“Let's be gone from here,” Lervan said.

Soon the little crossing was behind them, and as Vea did not reappear as a walking ghost, shouting or hurling more spells, and nothing else came forth to hinder them, the tension in Lervan's shoulders slowly dissipated. He began to whistle again, filling his mind with memories of the sweetly willing milkmaid he'd left behind at home. Alica was the perfect companion, always pleased by his advances, always laughing, never one to whine or demand things she couldn't have. There was no need to think further of today's unpleasantness, he told himself, and swiftly forgot how close he'd come to disaster.

Two days later, he rode into Savroix, his ears ringing with Father Fornel's advice on palace protocol and how to conduct himself. He ignored most of it, his eyes filled with the immensity of the palace, the towering stone walls, the spires, the flying pennons, the pageantry, and the endless pomp. The palace held so many people—palace guards, servants, officials, and courtiers in addition to the visitors, ambassadors, emissaries, and countless others—that it seemed to be a town of its own. Yet there was Savroix-en-Charva, a bustling port city of such prosperity and promise he could not wait to explore it. At almost every corner, he saw well-favored maidens. And inside the palace, almost every face was comely. What
finery they wore, these ladies in their jewels and silk gowns. Cosmetics and fragrance made them even more alluring. He felt quite giddy from the sheer abundance of milky skin, sweet lips, and sparkling eyes.

But there were duties to be performed before he could enjoy himself. He was given a set of splendid rooms, with windows overlooking one of the many gardens. He washed, clothed himself in his best tunic, quite a handsome bit of tailoring in vivid blue, and was already aware that he was completely behind the fashion. That would have to be corrected as soon as he began to receive an allowance.

And the allowance could not begin until he'd seen first Cardinal Theloi, his sponsor at court, then the king. He did not worry about the possibility that his suit would fail. Lervan believed completely in himself, his many abilities, and his charm. Furthermore, he loved to hunt as much as the king, if not more so. How could the monarch fail to approve of him?

Hastening to finish his preparations, Lervan smiled at himself in the handsome looking glass at his disposal and followed a haughty little page through the maze of passages and corridors that filled the palace.

“Great Thod,” he joked to Sir Maltric, “I shall be lost in this place for a year.”

Father Fornel walked on his right. “You will soon learn your way, my lord. The passages are linked by colors. Hues of red lead to the audience chamber and the royal apartments. Hues of green lead to—”

“Thod, yes,” Lervan said with a yawn. “I'll catch on soon enough.”

Folding his lips into a thin line, Fornel fell silent.

When they reached the cardinal's apartments, Lervan admired them very much, although the air was too stuffy and warm for his liking. The furnishings were magnificent, and he promised himself that he would make over his own rooms as soon as he had enough money. Already he knew that he never wanted to return home to Aiesliun. It was at the end of the world compared to Savroix.

And here, seated in a heavily carved chair, was the man
who offered Savroix to him. Lervan waited while he was announced in hushed tones, then strode forward in his easy, self-confident way.

Sweeping off his cap, he bowed low in the best courtly style, before kneeling at the cardinal's feet and kissing his ring. “My lord cardinal,” he said politely, “how honored I am to meet you at last.”

Thin and gimlet-eyed, the cardinal stared at Lervan without a smile, taking his time. Lervan didn't mind being looked over. He knew himself to be well built and fair visaged. Thod had favored him in all respects. He danced well, hunted well, jousted well. He had charm and understood how to enjoy himself so that life was always pleasant. And now, this man wanted to make him the next king. For that, Lervan was willing to stand on his head and caper like a fool if it would please Theloi.

“Well?” he asked at last, when the silence stretched out too long. He smiled at the cardinal. “Do I pass muster, despite my provincial clothing?”

“Perhaps.” Theloi did not return his smile. His cold green eyes bored into Lervan as though he wanted to make the younger man squirm.

Lervan merely stared back at the cardinal, sitting there in his brilliant white robes, his diamond-studded Circle winking and flashing on its chain.

At long last the cardinal permitted himself a small, satisfied curve of his lips and indicated a nearby chair. “Will you not sit, my lord?”

“Thank you.” Lervan seated himself and accepted the cup of wine a servant handed to him. The first sip made him sigh in pleasure. “This is very fine indeed, lord cardinal.”

“Yes, I keep a passable cellar,” Theloi said without much interest. “Let us speak plainly, my lord. You realize what's at stake.”

“I have a chance to be the next king.”

“A chance,” Theloi stressed. “You do understand that nothing is settled, or certain, at this stage.”

Lervan shrugged. “I'm sure his majesty and I will get along splendidly. Why shouldn't he like me?”

“I admire your self-confidence,” Theloi said dryly. “There are, however, a few things you should do to advance your case.”

Lervan finished his wine and hoped the servant would refill it. The servant, no doubt under orders, did not. “I am here, lord cardinal, to be advised by you,” Lervan said.

“Very sensible. I understand that you indulge your carnal passions with little or no self-discipline.”

A faint line creased Lervan's brow. “You make it sound like—”

“You seem to think that every maidservant in your father's household exists solely for your pleasure.”

Lervan's frown deepened. “I—”

“You avail yourself of any female in the fields, stableyard, or nobleman's home. In short, my lord, you have no taste, no restraint, and no discernment.”