The Queen's Gambit (22 page)

You won't learn all my tricks,
Talmor thought grimly.

Kedrien swung low at his legs, and Talmor jumped back to avoid the blow that could have crippled him for life. The crowd booed, but the move had broken Talmor's steady attack. Kedrien rallied with courage and hurled himself back at Talmor, hammering at his blade with a strength born of sheer will and courage, nothing more. He was spent, losing blood, and they both knew it was only a matter of time.

Talmor had no intention of dragging this out. He was gasping for breath. Sweat burned his eyes. Conscious of the next, much fresher and stronger opponent waiting for him, Talmor moved to end this contest. He parried two exchanges, waiting for the right moment. As soon as Kedrien gave it to him, he surged forward with a mighty blow at Kedrien's head.

The officer was caught with his weight on the wrong foot. He tried to shift back, seemed unbalanced, yet wrenched his sword up to parry Talmor's blow.

Talmor's blade shattered without warning, lethal shards of steel flying in all directions even as the jolt of impact shuddered through his wrist up into his forearm. Caught off guard,
he could not right himself fast enough, and the flat of Kedrien's blade slammed into him, driving him to the sand.

Disbelief was already filling him before he hit the ground hard enough to jolt his teeth together. Dust clouded up, stinging his eyes. He tried to roll, but Kedrien's foot stamped on his back, pinning him down.

“A victory for Mandria!” Kedrien said hoarsely, puffing hard between every word. His sword tip rested on the back of Talmor's neck, pressing there hard enough to make Talmor wonder if he would shove it through.

Blazing resentment filled Talmor. He lay still, betrayed by his own weapon and sheer bad luck. Raging with disappointment, he lifted his gloved hand in surrender.

It was over.

Attendants came racing up while the herald called out Sir Kedrien's name as victor of the round. Talmor was helped to his feet. Someone pulled off his helmet to give him air. He coughed, gulping in deep breaths, and shook his head at the inquiries. He was too spent, too angry to talk. Right up until the end, he knew the contest had been his. Victory had been within his grasp, yet there strode Sir Kedrien, lifting his hands to the cheering crowd while his squire tried to bind his wound.

Scowling, Talmor reminded himself that
almost
was never the final reckoning. It was win or lose here, and he had lost. All his effort, valor, and skill had been no match for the cast of fate against him. He told himself he had done his best, yet wondered what he had overlooked, what detail he had missed, to allow this terrible luck into his life.

He picked up what remained of his sword and with a curt nod of thanks accepted the pieces handed to him by one of the lads. The blade had broken in the middle, about where he'd nicked it earlier.

This, he thought bleakly, was what he'd overlooked. A weakness in the sword, and he'd given it no thought, no attention beyond dispatching Pears to take care of the nick. He'd been too tired to examine the blade himself during the rest period, preferring instead to depend on his squire. Pears was an excellent man, but dependence was wrong. Dependence opened the door for mistakes. He should have paid the matter more heed, given his weapon the respect it deserved. But, nay, he'd been too distracted by his fatigue, by the attempted bribe, and then the attack, to focus his thoughts on anything else. Had Pears even been able to have his sword attended to by the armorer? Talmor could not remember, and that made him angry at himself.

With his helmet clapped under his elbow, he forced himself to walk out of the arena as Maldriard stepped in. Plenty of knights crowded around Talmor, clapping him on the shoulder in commiseration.

“Thod's teeth, what hellish bad luck,” Sergeant Goddal came up to say. “Lost half my wages on you, damn all.”

Looking like a whipped dog, Pears brought water. Talmor drank long and deep as the trumpets sounded and the herald began the last announcement. Wiping his face with a corner of his surcoat, he pushed back his mail coif and motioned for Pears to loosen his gorget.

“Oh, sir,” Pears whispered. “I thought the blade was sound, damn it, or I'd never have put it back in yer hand. I swear—”

Talmor shrugged. “I do not blame you.”

Pears bowed his head, and silently took the broken pieces from Talmor's hand.

By then Lutel had appeared, elbowing his way through the crowd to stare up at Talmor with stricken eyes. “That win belonged to ye!”

Talmor shook his head at both of them. “Put it aside. It's over and done,” he said, gulping more water. “I knew the blade felt off in the last round after I hit the wood. I should have used another sword, and I chose not to. Thod's will stood against me today.”

“Morde,” Pears said, his voice choked. “I had the smith grind out the edge, just as ye bade me. I never dreamed he wouldn't check it for further damage, damn 'im.”

A roar went up, and Sir Pem showed up to grip Talmor by his arm, pulling him away from his servants. “Let's watch this. Sir Kedrien's got to win, for the honor of us all!”

They climbed into the stands, squeezing in although there wasn't much room among the jammed bodies. Talmor cheered for Kedrien with the others, for no matter what lay between him and the officer, he wanted Sir Maldriard defeated.

Sir Pem leaned forward, shouting instructions as though they were on the practice field. “Keep your guard up, man! Higher, damne! Watch him.
Watch him!
Ah, no!”

A groan went up from the crowd as Kedrien staggered back. Talmor's brows pulled together and he felt a suddenly terrible foreboding. “He's letting too much blood. Maldriard won't give him quarter.”

“Nay, he'll have to. Only honorable thing to—”

Someone screamed.

Talmor's gaze whipped back to the fight in time to see Maldriard's sword plunge into Kedrien's chest. The crowd gasped and groaned, and for a moment all seemed frozen. Then Maldriard pulled out his sword, letting Kedrien crumple at his feet. He stepped away from the body, swinging his bloody weapon high in victory.

A few ragged cheers rose for him, but most of the crowd stood hushed, many craning their necks to see if Kedrien would stir. Already the heralds were spurring their horses across the arena, and several guardsmen in green cloaks ran across the sand to kneel beside their comrade.

Gently they lifted him up, and Talmor saw Kedrien lift his hand in a feeble wave. Clapping broke out, and people cried, “He lives! He lives!”

But Talmor knew no one could survive so mortal a wound. He and Sir Pem exchanged somber looks.

The latter swore. “Maldriard's a whoreson. Damn his eyes!”

A sudden wave of coldness moved through Talmor, and he had a vision of himself out there, fighting to the death with Maldriard. If his sword had not broken when it had, would he now be the dying man carried from the arena? He felt as though death had skimmed past his shoulder. Defeat had spared his life today, he thought; of that, he was certain.

The men of Barracks Seven appeared from the crowd, singly or in small clusters, and together they followed their fallen officer off the field. Still feeling shaken, Talmor went with them.

In the surgeon's pen, Sir Kedrien was laid on a table. Blood stained his surcoat, and a cloth had been draped over his face. Knights stood everywhere, many bowing their heads in grief.

Lord Nejel arrived, his face grave as he stood a moment beside his friend and comrade. When he lifted his head, tear tracks glistened on his cheeks. Compressing his mouth, he joined Talmor's side.

“It couldn't be helped,” he said quietly, something raw in his voice.

“Couldn't it?”

Nejel's gaze shot to his. “Do you think you could have defeated Sir Maldriard the Black?” he asked sharply.

Talmor opened his mouth, but Nejel didn't let him answer. “He would have won today, whether you or Kedrien faced him. Thod spared you. Be glad of your blessing and speak not against our Maker's will.”

“My lord, I—”

“Not now,” Nejel said. “I've heard something of what happened to you during the rest period. We must talk of it.”

“Aye, my lord, but—”

“Not here,” Nejel said, gripping his arm in warning. “Make haste, man, and ready yourself to go before the king.”

Talmor stared at him in frustration. There was so much to discuss and report, yet he had no time. Grimacing, he bowed to the commander and left. Pears and Lutel trailed him anxiously.

An official hurried up to Talmor. “You are summoned to
appear before his majesty as soon as you're clean and presentable. Make haste.”

Talmor stared at the long, immense expanse of the palace stretching ahead of him, thinking of the king who would see him, and of the lady he longed to serve. This day, this long, difficult day, was far from over. The objective he sought was not yet won, and if he meant to prevail, he had best turn his attention to what lay ahead instead of what had just happened.

He went straight to the sluice room behind the barracks and stripped off his clothes before Lutel threw a bucket of water over him. Then another. Scrubbed with soap, his bruises and welts complaining, he submitted to the dousing, then dried himself and stepped into the leggings Pears held for him. He put on his dress-issue tunic with the guardsman crest embroidered on its front. His green cloak was fastened at his throat, his gauntlets thrust into his hand. Pears secured Talmor's belt.

Frowning, Talmor fingered the empty scabbard hanging at his side. He felt lost without his weapon. The sword had been plain and serviceable, not even custom-forged, but it had served him well for many years and he was sorry to lose it.

“Hurry,” the official said.

Pears looked Talmor over and hastily ran a wooden comb through his wet hair. “Thod's luck be on ye, sir,” he said softly. “Do us proud.”

Talmor sent him a ghost of a smile and followed the official away. Inside the palace, he was hurried along through galleries of breathtaking grandeur. Clusters of courtiers stood about, attempting to look nonchalant, yet their curiosity was palpable. Talmor felt their stares as he strode by, heard their murmured wagers on whether he would be chosen.

When he reached the audience hall, so grand, so immense with its tall pillars and arching ceiling, Talmor's steady stride faltered. A huge lump filled his throat, and his mouth felt as dry as dust.

His heart began to hammer.
Please, Thod,
he prayed.
Let the lady choose me.

Watched by many, he and his escort walked up the center
of the audience hall. Talmor's keen ears picked up the buzzing whispers and idle talk.

The throne, magnificently carved with its tall back and massive arms, stood empty. Staring at it, Talmor felt a convergence of great power—old power—around the throne. Here was Mandria's heart, its center.

Awed, he found himself rooted there until the official plucked at his sleeve.

“Hurry,” he whispered.

Past the throne they exited the audience hall and walked through a passageway lined with guardsmen on duty. Magnificent tapestries hung on the walls, and there were furnishings of tables and finely carved chairs, none of which seemed to serve any purpose.

Through another door, opened for him by a bowing servant, Talmor found himself in a small, crowded antechamber. Lacking windows and lit by dim lamps, it felt like a cave.

The tapestries on the walls smelled musty. Too many men, clad in finery that put Talmor's simple clothing to shame, were already crowded in here. Talmor saw Lord Nejel among them, smiling in encouragement. He also saw Sir Maldriard, standing head and shoulders above the others. The knight looked huge and sinister. His black hair was sleeked back from his low, heavy brow, and he wore a fancy doublet of black cord cloth, its sleeves slashed to reveal lining of yellow silk. Sir Silvrie, victor of yesterday's contest and a rugged individual with curly gray hair and a jaw like granite, stood as far away from Sir Maldriard as possible in the room's close quarters. He wore a blue tunic and a fine, soft red cloak. He was fingering his sword hilt nervously, and gave Talmor a curt little nod of acknowledgment, which Talmor returned. Maldriard glared at Talmor and gave him no courtesy at all.

Confidence radiated from the man, along with a fierce sense of satisfaction. Staring at him, Talmor began to frown. Was Maldriard simply pleased with today's outcome, Talmor wondered, or did he feel certain of the ultimate victory?

The door opened, and several officials and lords of the
court stepped into the next room. The three champions of the tourney were held back.

“You will wait here until you are called,” an official instructed them. “Come into his majesty's presence as you are announced. Singly, mind! Not together. Do not stare at his majesty. Do not speak unless you are spoken to.”

They bowed to him in compliance.

The official frowned. “Those of you who are armed, remember that this is not customary in his majesty's presence. There are guards on duty, and his majesty's protector will watch you closely. Keep your hand off your weapon, sirs, at all costs. To do otherwise is to threaten the king, and such treason will be dealt with harshly.”

Sir Silvrie released his sword hilt and cleared his throat nervously.

As soon as the door shut, leaving the three of them alone, Maldriard turned on Talmor.

“You are not to be chosen,” he said. His voice was heavy and gruff. Although he was the best dressed of the three, it was obvious to Talmor's nostrils that he had not bathed. “You are in league with the darkness or you could not have unhorsed me the first day.”

His verbal attack made Talmor stiffen. Staring up into those hostile dark eyes, Talmor said nothing.

“Aw, let it go,” Silvrie said nervously. “The contests are over.”

Maldriard ignored him and went on glaring at Talmor. “You should have been beaten hard.”