The Queen's Gambit (16 page)

The fog seemed thicker than ever here at the base of the walls. She watched and listened, but no figure loomed at her from the mist. She heard no furtive footsteps, nothing in fact save the measured cadence of the sentry walking the wall overhead.

Reasoning that the sentry could not see her if she kept near the base of the walls, she hurried on, keeping one hand on the wall for guidance. The rough-cut stones snagged at her fingertips. Her skirts dragged in the long grass, and she soaked her slippers in its dampness.

As she neared the turret corner, she slowed her pace and paused again to look back. But there was no sign of Sir Brillon. She began to relax, and told herself that she would never do anything as risky as this again. It seemed absurd that she could not simply request a private audience with the king, and yet all her petitions had been denied with the greatest
politeness. Verence was interested in no one, wanted to talk to no one. He had isolated himself to a dangerous degree.

How, she wondered, did Lady Carolie dare slip outside the walls like this? Why did she, Sophia de Brit, Angelia, and even Verine take such risks? Could they not rendezvous with their lovers inside the palace?

“Of course,” Lady Carolie had said once with a shrug, looking smug, while Pheresa stared at her in astonishment. “But it is twice as wicked and twice as fun to thwart the rules and meet in the forest. Someday, you, too, will risk all to meet your lover. Danger makes his kisses sweeter, you see.”

Now, Pheresa waited while two sentries met at the corner, saluted each other, and marched away again. She crept warily past the stout door of the turret, then hastened onward. The fog thinned to mere patches, then thickened again so that sometimes she seemed to walk straight through a white wall of it. In the distance she saw the spire of the ruined church that had once belonged to the Sebein cult. She hated to look at the place and wished the king would tear it down. Nothing grew around the church, not even grass, as though the very ground was poisoned. By all she'd heard, only two walls and part of the spire remained of the evil structure, but now, wrapped in fog, the church looked intact in the dim, gloomy light, as though some dreadful spell had restored it. She even thought she glimpsed a light shining in its windows.

Blinking and rubbing her eyes, she looked again. There was no light. All stood dark and silent, and she told herself to stop letting her imagination frighten her so. The Sebeins were long gone, their cult stamped out and the members scattered. She'd do better to worry over whether the king would forgive her for intruding on his company like this. He could order her punished. He might even banish her from court.

Her rapid pace slowed, and she could hear her own harsh breathing. Perhaps she ought to go back to her rooms and bide patiently, letting Verence work out his troubles on his own.

But she did not retreat. Whatever prudence or common sense she possessed seemed to have left her. She felt an
overwhelming instinct to talk to Verence without delay, as though a force larger than herself drove her onward.

Minutes later, her hand brushed not stone, but instead wood. She'd found what she sought, a narrow old gate that should lead into the king's garden. Designed originally to permit access to the gardeners, it looked long unused, for weeds and vines grew across it. She tore some of these away, then, with shaking hands, used her dagger to pry open the lock. As she pushed the gate open, it creaked loudly on rusted hinges. Squeezing through the narrow space, she pushed the gate shut behind her.

Her heart beat like thunder. Shoving back her hood, she wiped some of the moisture from her face and tried to brush away the grass stains and damp from her skirts. How disheveled and wild she must look. If the king did come, he would be offended by her appearance. She sighed, feeling as though the day was already a disaster.

After she settled herself on a bench by the fountain, she heard a gate creak open sharply and the sound of voices. Shooting to her feet, Pheresa strained to listen and recognized Verence's deep voice. He had come despite the foul weather.

Her heart leaped inside her breast. Suddenly she did not know what to say to him. She knew the urge to hide among the yews and not approach him at all, but this was no time to be a coward.

Squinting in an effort to see through the fog, she called out, “Your majesty! 'Tis I, Pher—”

Something tackled her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides and nearly knocking her over. Startled out of her wits, she cried out in fear, and found herself manhandled ruthlessly.

“Release me!” she cried. “How dare you—”

“Name yourself or die.”

The dangerously angry voice that threatened her belonged to the king's protector. “Lord Odeil,” she said breathlessly, aware that if she was not quick his dagger would be in her ribs. “ 'Tis Lady Pheresa. No assassin. Please let me go.”

She was released so suddenly she nearly lost her balance.
He spun her around to face him, making her dizzy, and as the fog momentarily thinned she saw his scarred, wizened face looming over her.

“Ah, so 'tis,” he said, much less fiercely. “What in Thod's name are you—begging your majesty's pardon,” he called out, his tone abruptly changed as footsteps approached them. “Lady Pheresa, sire. Alone with no escort.”

“Alone?” Verence said in surprise.

He, too, loomed out of the fog, wrapped in a dark, hooded cloak. She curtsied to him, her face burning, and wondered how in Thod's name she could explain her fears and worries to him. Her nightmare seemed foolish now. And how dared she presume to advise him? She must take great care.

“How came you here?” the king demanded. “This is my private walk, where I am never disturbed.”

“I know, majesty,” she said hurriedly, afraid he would dismiss her before she could explain. She sank down at his feet. “Forgive me, I beg you. I am much worried about you. I thought I would—”

“Leave us,” the king said to Lord Odeil.

The protector bowed, but did not obey. Instead, he stared at Pheresa. “She is armed in your presence, majesty.”

“Armed? How so?”

Lord Odeil reached for Pheresa, but she needed no prompting. Rising to her feet, she produced her small dagger from her pocket and held it up.

Verence took it from her and laughed hollowly. “Mercy of Tomias, Odeil, would you fear this little toothpick? She would never harm me.”

“Your majesty, 'tis forbidden to carry weapons into your presence.”

“Forgive me,” Pheresa said. “I have made it a habit never to be without my salt and dagger. I forgot to leave both behind.” She bowed her head, trembling. “Now have I offended you twice, sire. I can only offer my deepest apologies and beg for your mercy.”

Verence stared down at her. She gazed into his peculiar eyes of blue and green, and saw sadness cloud them.

“Salt, niece?” he said gently. “You carry salt? Even here at Savroix?”

Tears stung her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

He gave her back the dagger and gestured dismissal at Odeil. With a snort of disapproval, the grizzled protector trudged a short distance away. Although he disappeared into the fog, Pheresa knew he did not go far.

“Salt,” the king repeated dully. “Have you not yet put off your fears? You are safe here, you know. Quite safe.”

She did not believe it. “I tell myself so, but I cannot put my little protections aside. Forgive me for recalling misfortune to your majesty's mind. 'Twas not my intention to do so when I came here.”

“You have given offense,” he said, but his voice was gentle. “I will hear no requests, child. I receive no one here. Although I forgive your intrusion this once, you must promise never to repeat such behavior.”

Desperate to avoid dismissal, she said hastily, “Sire, you mistake me. I come seeking neither a favor nor the granting of a petition. I fear for your health, and no one will let me talk to you, or do what I can to ease your troubles. You are not yourself, sire. I—I knew no other way to reach you than this.”

The king placed his hand lightly on her head. “Ah, Pheresa, what a gentle and kind heart you have. Do you truly worry so much about me?”

“I do, sire.”

His hand fell away, and he sighed.

She stepped closer. “How may I help you? How can I comfort you?”

“Nothing can help. I think daily of my son's last moments. If only he had not lost his soul. The thought of it torments me past all bearing.”

“Sire, please,” she said, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. She clutched his hand, shocked by how cold it was. “Dwelling on it cannot lift your sorrow. You must trust in Thod's mercy.”

“There is no comfort in Writ,” the king murmured,
drawing his hand from hers. “It carries only condemnation for the poor boy.”

“Gavril made many mistakes,” she said. “He did much that was wrong, very wrong. But he was not evil, sire. Does not Thod know what lies truly within our hearts? Who is to say what happens between a man and his Maker at that moment of confrontation?”

“Would you blaspheme, Pheresa?” the king asked gently.

She shook her head, but she felt angry at the church for having failed her uncle in his search for answers. “Nay, sire. But I would urge you to consider the teaching of the Circle before Reform. Read the old texts and find comfort there.”

“Turn aside from Tomias? Take care, my girl.”

“I have found comfort from the old writings. Where does the Chalice of Eternal Life come if not from before Reform? Where does the Circle come? Think of it, sire! We were all joined once, before Reform divided us. Oh, I do not urge your majesty to throw away the teachings of Tomias. I would not dare! But—but even Tomias studied the old texts before his revelation.”

The king stood silent for a long while before at last he spoke. “Never utter such things in public, Pheresa,” he said sternly. “You would destroy yourself faster than you think possible.”

The warning chilled her. She stared at him, wondering if she'd gone too far. Would he denounce her to the church? “I've never said anything like this before to anyone. But since I sipped from the Chalice, I've had many questions and new thoughts. I—I thought your majesty would understand.”

“Bring no trouble on yourself, Pheresa,” he said. “Would you suffer interrogation and purging? Would you be flogged, your tongue cut out?” Tears glistened in his eyes. “Mercy of Thod, I lost Gavril to the darkness, and now to see you in danger as well, I—”

Breaking off, he shook his head.

Astonished to see him so unmanned, Pheresa reached out her hand. “Nay, sire, nay! I didn't mean to—”

“Hush,” he said, turning away. “Say no more of this. I shall pretend I heard none of it.”

“Of course, sire.”

“Pheresa,” he said harshly, “swear to me that you will not become apostate. Swear it!”

She curtsied, feeling frightened by his fierceness. “I swear.”

“Perhaps Theloi is right. Perhaps you should be cloistered at once, yet I cannot bear to lose you so soon.”

She felt as though he'd just struck her. Horrified, she lifted her gaze to his. “Dearest sire, do not send me away. I am unfit to be a saint. I—I want to remain here. Please, please—”

“Would you beg and grovel, Pheresa?” he broke in with annoyance. “Where is your dignity, your comportment? I like this not, this new behavior, this coming to me without permission, looking wild and dirty, and babbling anathema. Is nothing to remain pure and clean in this world? Are all things good and right coming to an end?”

Her face puckered unhappily. She was making things worse with everything she said. “What must I do to reassure and comfort your majesty?” she asked, forcing her voice to sound calm.

“Stop meddling in matters of state. Stop alarming church officials. Stop trying to be what you are not.”

Tears stung her eyes at his rebuke. What did he want her to be, she wondered bitterly. Was she to go back to being shy and timid? Was she to remain only an ornament, pleasing to look at but empty inside?

Overhead, a bird began to twitter sleepily in a tree. Fragrance from exotic blossoms suddenly scented the air, and the fog grew noticeably thinner. Pearly coral suffused the sky. The garden, moments before shrouded in mist and shadow, was suddenly gilded with sunlight. Verence shoved back his hood, and his face looked gaunt and drawn as though he had not slept.

“I beg your majesty's pardon,” she said miserably. “I have failed you, and did not know it until now.”

He gave her a fleeting smile. “You're young, child. 'Tis
only natural that you make mistakes. But learn from them. Learn from them, and do not plunge yourself into folly, as Gavril did.”

“I fear for you, sire. You have many years yet. Will you not live them? Can you not bring your heart out of the grave and know joy again? And if not joy, then at least the knowledge that Gavril went forth to save a life. My life.” She sighed. “If anyone should feel the burden of responsibility or guilt, 'tis I. Had I not drunk of that poison—”