The Queen's Gambit (15 page)

“How lovely you are. I have heard much of you, but still I was unprepared for how much your beauty eclipses the other ladies'.” He bent his head and lightly kissed her hand before releasing it.

Despite herself, Pheresa felt a momentary shiver of physical attraction. At close quarters, she saw no cleverness in his face, only good humor and an easy readiness to smile. But there was something about him that was appealing. She found herself smiling back, forgiving him for what in another she would have found offensive.

“Your Aiesliun manners go too fast for me, my lord,” she
said in her quiet, rather low-pitched voice. “We are not cousins, and you do not know me well enough to have the privilege of kissing my hand.”

“Alas,” he said merrily, cocking his head to one side and giving her a wink. “Since I arrived, I've had endless lessons in court manners and etiquette, and I believe I cannot remember half of it all. Why should I not call you cousin, for I wish you were my relation.”

Her father murmured something and slipped away. To her surprise, Pheresa found herself enjoying Lervan and his silly prattle.

“Wishes, my lord,” she replied, choosing to banter with him, “do not alter reality.”

His mouth was mobile, with a habit of quirking slightly at one corner before he spoke. “And if we never indulge in dreams, princess, how can we change our circumstances?”

“I am not a princess.”

“Not yet,” he whispered, stepping closer. He gazed down intently into her eyes, so that she was momentarily mesmerized.

But someone else approached and spoke to them. The little moment shattered, and, with a blink, Pheresa glanced away. She was astonished by how audaciously he flirted. It was as though she found herself teetering on a precipice. Unwilling to fall, she stepped back. No doubt her father had been coaching Lervan, hinting of the suitability of marriage between them. She disliked such meddling, and had no intention of being rushed.

As for Lervan, this fine young lord had best learn he could not sweep her athwart with his charm. She curtsied slightly to him, giving him the respect due to a minor member of the nobility but nothing more. He might be playing on his prospects at present, but she knew how quickly the court flocked to a newcomer, and how quickly the court's favor could turn away whenever it grew tired of the novelty.

“Excuse me,” she said, and walked away from him.

He hurried after her, causing people to stare. She heard the
murmurs, saw the smiles of speculation. Flushing with annoyance, she turned on him. “Why do you chase after me?”

“Do not go so soon,” he pleaded with her. “We were just getting acquainted.”

“I retire early,” she said. “Good night.”

Again he hurried after her. The buzz of laughter and voices grew louder. She was blushing now, and that made her angrier than ever.

“Do not bounce after me like a puppy, my lord!” she rebuked him sharply. “I am finished with the evening.”

“But I do not want you to go,” he said, giving her that quirky smile. “Can you not stay a while longer and give me courage while I meet so many new people?”

Immediately she saw through him. He wanted her to introduce him about, as her father had introduced him to her. Drawing a sharp breath, Pheresa realized this man was not a fool after all. She must never again underestimate him. However, if he thought she was going to lend him consequence by turning herself into his closest friend and ally at court, he could think again. Despite his charm, she was not sure she liked him. At present, he remained her only serious rival for the throne.

She smiled at him warmly enough to rekindle the admiration in his eyes. He reached for her hand, saying, “Ah, that's better. I was feeling as though you did not like me much, my lady.”

With equal smoothness she evaded his grasp and turned away. “You have such easy manners, my lord, that I cannot believe you ever to be at a disadvantage, whether the company is new to you or familiar. I believe you can manage very well without me. Good night.”

Again she walked away, her head held high. This time, to her great relief, he did not come after her. But as she slipped out of the room, she glanced back and saw him at the center of a cluster of people. A cold little feeling of apprehension passed through her. She realized that he had that gift of instant popularity which she lacked. He seemed already at home,
while her own natural reserve always made her hold back from people.

Was it wise, she wondered, to leave him to charm the court tonight? What might he do, what might he gain in her absence? Yet she knew she could not stop him from making others like him, even if she stayed glued at his side for the whole evening. And she was not yet ready to be swept into an alliance, no matter what Lord Lervan and her father plotted together.

Just as she started across the threshold of her rooms, she glimpsed something from the corner of her eye and looked back.

It had been a furtive shadow at the end of the corridor, but it was gone. She frowned, her gaze lingering on the spot where the figure had vanished. Man or woman, she could not be sure, but she felt certain she'd been followed.

Here in the palace it meant little. A shadow might be an admirer. It might be a spy or even an assassin. She sighed at her own fanciful notions and told herself it was probably Sir Brillon.

The thought of the church knight made her frown anew. She stepped inside rather hurriedly and watched as the door was shut.

“Bolt it,” she said.

Her servants looked surprised. “But, my lady,” Verine said, “we do not usually bolt your chamber door until after you've bathed and dressed for bed, and your posset is brought.”

“I know that,” Pheresa said impatiently. She still felt uneasy, and it sharpened her voice. “Bolt it. I want no bath tonight, and I'll have no posset either.”

“You are sickening for something,” Oola said. “Come and lie down.”

“Leave me, both of you. Light the lamps and leave me. I want to be alone.”

Her attendants exchanged troubled looks but obeyed. Oola loosened her laces, so that she could remove her gown unassisted if she wished. “You have only to ring for me, my lady, and I shall come and help you.”

“Yes, now go away,” Pheresa said.

When they were gone, Pheresa tested the bolts on both window and door just to make certain they were secure. She moved restlessly about her chamber, unable to settle herself, then finally unpinned her golden hair and brushed it out.

The long, slow strokes soothed her greatly. She could not explain why she felt so uneasy, except Lervan had disturbed her in a way she was not prepared for. Physical desire did not come to her as readily as it did to some.

She did not like the way Lervan's face kept returning to her thoughts or how flushed and restless she felt beneath her gown. He had kissed her hand. What would it be like if he kissed her lips or held her in his arms?

For the first time in her life she saw that a man could undermine a woman, sweeping away all her plans and intentions. How? How could a man do it? Was it his look, his smile, that quirk of his red lips? Was it the admiration in his eyes, the blatant invitation he issued so silently with his look and touch?

Her mouth tightened. She would not lose the throne to ordinary lust, she vowed to herself. No, Thod help her, she would not.

That night, dreams troubled her sleep, making her restless indeed. A dark mist crept constantly toward her, pursuing her no matter where she sought refuge in the palace. Ankle deep, the mist was a dark, narrow ribbon of menace that flowed snakelike through the galleries and corridors of Savroix in her wake. There were no people to help her. The palace stood empty, and her footsteps echoed as she ran here and there in search of help.

At last, she found herself in the throne room. A medallion of king's glass hung suspended from the ceiling. All the lamps were lit and shining. Red silk covered the walls in loose folds, like blood running down. The throne stood empty, waiting for Verence to come. She waited, too, breathing hard, knowing time was running out.

The king did not appear, but the mist did. It flowed beneath the door and aimed itself at her. Fearful of being cornered, she
ran to the private door used only by his majesty, but it was bolted shut. She pounded on its thick panels and tried to call out, but her voice was silent.

No one came. The mist kept flowing toward her, and when she darted away from it, it widened and spread across the room. Edging back, she stood pinned against the throne while the mist slid beneath the hem of her gown. How cold and evil it felt around her ankles. Shivering, she tried again to call out for help, but her throat would give no sound.

Desperately, she knew she must break the law and climb onto the throne. No one was permitted there except the monarch, on penalty of death.

The mist curled deeper around her ankles, so cold she shuddered with pain. She retreated, and the throne skidded away from her and toppled over. In trying to grab it, she fell herself, hitting her jaw and one elbow most painfully. The mist engulfed her, spreading up her legs to her hips and waist. She could not move in it, although she struggled to drag herself clear.

She was held its prisoner, and now she sensed something alive and malignant within it, something intelligent and cunning. It had hunted her a long time, and at last it had her.

The mist spread across her body, making her heart jerk and thud painfully. It touched her face, smothering her as she was pressed down. She tried to struggle, but she was so cold, so terribly cold and weak. Her mouth opened to scream, and the mist flowed into it, tasting rotten and numbing her tongue. It filled her whole being, making her a part of itself.

And she and the evil were one.

Pheresa sat upright with a gasp, breathing hard, shuddering and spitting as though to vomit the mist out of her body. She felt clammy with sweat. Her bedgown was drenched with it, sticking to her skin. Her hair hung in a wild tangle in her eyes, and she was clutching the sheet with both fists.

“No,” she moaned. “No!”

A faint gray light illuminated the room. She found herself
in her bed, in her chamber,
not
in the throne room. She looked around, still breathing hard, and slowly came free of the nightmare. Realizing it had been a dream, no matter how vivid or real it had seemed, she lifted her hands to her face and began to cry.

Why did she continue to suffer such dreadful nightmares, she wondered, wiping at her tears. Was she not home in Savroix, far from the evil that had once held her prisoner? Was she not safe? Why did she continue to fear?

Perhaps it was not herself she feared for, she reasoned, but another. She thought about the empty throne and the empty palace. Surely such a dream reflected her belief that Verence must renew his heart and spirit. A demoralized king could not rule long. Already Mandria's enemies took advantage of his weakness to attack. If he did not meet these challenges soon, Mandria's problems would escalate into war.

Who dared tell the king that he was not doing his duty? Would Chancellor Salba speak bluntly to his majesty? Would Lord Meaclan? Would Cardinal Theloi?

Suddenly she felt certain that she must try to help Verence. She did not know what she could say to him, but she knew she had to offer what comfort she could. It was time the king made his peace with what had happened to Gavril.

Giving herself no chance to hesitate, she looked outside and saw that it was just now dawn. The air felt damp and cold, as though it might rain. She knew it was the king's habit to walk alone in his private garden at daybreak. If she hurried, she might be able to join him there.

Throwing on her clothes and hastily braiding her hair, she wrapped herself in a warm cloak, made sure she had her salt purse and dagger on her person, and slipped from her chamber as silently as a ghost.

The palace had not yet roused. Not even the servants were stirring. The passageways and galleries lay silent and shadowy, torches and lamps extinguished, ashes cold on hearths. The guards on duty slumbered or gazed blearily at her without challenge as she made her way outside. She knew that the only way she could enter the king's garden unseen was via a
long, circuitous route along the rear wall of the palace. She would have to exit the safe enclosure of the walls and skirt the edge of the meadow between Savroix and the king's forest. The fog frightened her, and the world lay hushed and still in eerie silence, yet she did not turn back.

The elderly gatekeeper snoozing at his post by the small garden gates took bribes from anyone slipping outside for secret assignations, or so Lady Carolie had whispered to her with much giggling. Now, shivering as much from nerves as from the cold, Pheresa made sure her hood was pulled up to conceal her face before she approached the man. She handed him a coin in silence, and without a word he swung open the gate for her.

She ran, clutching her cloak at her throat, and flung herself against the wall past some bushes to stare back the way she'd come. Only the faintest rasp and clink of metal told her the gate was shut now. She waited, her heart beating fast, well aware of the possible danger she'd put herself in by leaving the safety of the palace walls. Her greatest fear was that Sir Brillon might be following her, and if he was, she'd just handed him the opportunity to abduct her.