The Queen's Gambit (36 page)

Tears broke from her despite her efforts to hold them back. She pressed her hands to her face, and Faldain was suddenly before her, his hands gripping her shoulders.

“Ah, Pheresa, my dear friend,” he said softly. “Do not weep. I hate to see your tears.”

She clung to his chest for comfort, grateful that at last she could let her emotions out. “I need you. I need your help,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. “You are the only one I can trust. You can drive him out, send him running, and get back my throne.”

Gently, Faldain pushed her back from him.

She stared at him woefully. “You are the only one who can save my realm from disaster.”

“Nay.”

“But you can! You're the best warrior in all the—”

“I'll not invade Mandria with my army,” he said harshly, and turned away from her.

“But, Dain—”

“We have a treaty. I'll not violate it.”

“The treaty binds our realms together in friendship. If one is threatened, is not the other obliged to help?”

“Aye, against a common foe. But not this.”

“Lervan is my foe. I want him punished for what he has done. He opened Savroix to the barbarians. He let them pillage it and gave them all that they wanted. He has shamed Mandria, and shown the world that we can be cheated and humiliated by anyone bold enough to dare.”

Faldain frowned. “And to punish this man who has wronged you, you would summon a foreign army across your borders.”

“Aye, I would! I will bring war to Lervan. I will teach him to dare reach for my crown. I will make him pay for what he has done!”

“And what will Mandria pay?”

She stared at him, her fury slowly ebbing. “I don't understand.”

“What will Mandria have to pay? What glory is there in having a foreign army—a Netheran army—bring Mandria to heel?”

“Not Mandria,” she corrected him swiftly. “Lervan.”

“Can the two be separated?”

Her anger surged over her like a tide, swift and hot. “
I
am Mandria!”

“Pheresa, put aside your emotions and think like a queen.”

“How dare you! I—”

“Hear me! You're angry at this husband of yours, and with good reason. He's caused you no end of trouble, and he's a craven rascal besides. Paying off invaders does no good, for they'll come back for more.”

“I know,” she cried. “I think him a fool.”

“But you must deal with him, not I.”

“And so I shall, once you've driven him from Savroix.”

“You must drive him out. I cannot do it for you.”

“But you are my only hope.”

He stared at her and slowly shook his head.

Bitterness filled her mouth. She could not believe him so unsympathetic, so selfish, as to refuse her.

“Don't you see?” he asked. “If you would be queen, then face the man down. Drive him out. Rally your lords and knights to your cause, for without them you have nothing.”

She stood there, feeling cold and alone as she faced the harshness of what had to be done. “Then I have no choice but to call for the support of my upland lords and lead them southward.”

“Are you mad?”

Her eyes flashed to his. “I have no choice. You have said it.”

“I said rally your—”

“Are the uplanders not my men?”

“If you pit upper and lower Mandria against each other, you will start civil war. Lervan's actions—no matter how foul—do not warrant such retaliation.”

“Do not defend him!” she said, so angry she did not care what she said. “You think him better suited to rule than I. Why? Because he's a man, and you are a man?”

“You twist my words. You deliberately misunderstand me,” Faldain said coldly. “That's a dangerous road.”

“ 'Tis easy to stand here, far north from the trouble that besets me, and make your judgments. I thought you my friend, not a coward.”

Faldain stiffened, and fire now glittered in the depths of his pale gray eyes. “I have given you sound advice,” he said after a moment of silence. “If you will not heed it, 'tis your choice.”

“What good is advice if you will not back up your words with action? I need troops, sir, not speeches.”

“Then return to Vurdal and call forth your troops. Summon them, hold by hold, and make them crown you there. Be bold, Pheresa, and assert your rights as sovereign. If you stand aside in modest, womanly fashion, remaining quiet, looking pretty, and acting helpless, by Thod, you will soon find yourself without any supporters at all.”

She stared at him, her pulse throbbing in her throat, and
hated him for what he said to her. “If I retreat to Vurdal, then all is lost. They have orders to take me prisoner and conduct me to trial for abdicating my throne.”

“Then find another garrison and make your stand,” he said in exasperation.

“I shall do it here,” she said, then gave him an inquiring nod. “With your permission.”

“You'll not suck Thirst into your troubles,” he said fiercely.

“Thirst is a Mandrian hold!”

“Thirst belongs to me, and while I rule it, it will remain neutral.”

“Thod rot your bones!” she cried, her patience at an end. “Will you turn me out now and leave me wandering without shelter?”

“Don't be a fool. You may shelter at Thirst as long as it pleases you. With the deep cold coming on, you will not be able to travel, and when your child is born you will need a place of safety.”

She bowed her head in thanks, hating the need of his hospitality.

“That much I can do, and gladly,” Faldain said, “but I will give you no men. Nor will you ask Sir Bosquecel for any Thirst knights after I depart.”

A little stunned, she said, “You're leaving? But when?”

“This afternoon. My business here is finished, and I cannot be gone from Grov for long.”

“What is your haste? I have hardly seen you.”

Faldain looked at her sternly. “Surely we have discussed this matter enough. Lingering will not change my mind, and you, no doubt, have more important matters at hand than old reminiscences.”

She felt a tide of heat spread from her throat to the roots of her hair. “In the past, you were kinder to me.”

His eyes softened momentarily. “Forgive me. My tongue has grown rough and blunt. It never did have much polish to it.”

“Aye, I remember well. But even without courtly manners,
you were kind then. I knew I could rely on you for anything I required.”

“ 'Tis a kindness I offer you now,” he said with a frown. “Perhaps in time you will come to recognize it.”

“Do you not remember when you had nothing, Dain?” she asked in desperation. “When you ached to claim your rightful throne, but you had no supporters, no army of your own? People laughed at you, and you were sore tried. I thought you would remember, and have sympathy for me now that my plight is similar to yours.”

He turned away, his keen eyes gazing out the window. “Aye, my lady. I remember well,” he said quietly. “I had to find my own way and prove myself worthy of my throne before any would serve me. So must you find your path.”

“I know what to do. I just need your help.”

He shook his head. “Pray for guidance, Pheresa. Put aside your anger and listen to what is right.”

“But—”

“I'll not invade Mandria. I'll not break our treaty and the good faith that lies between our realms with such an invasion, not even at your bidding. That is not the solution for your troubles.”

She stamped her foot in frustration and felt the baby kick inside her. “And where, pray, am I to find this solution? Where am I to turn?”

“I cannot say. Trust to what is right, and keep your honor.”

“Why not advise me to retreat to a nuncery and devote myself to a life of prayer?” she asked scornfully.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I wish you well, but I am not the answer you seek. Were it help in driving out these Vvordsmen now, then I—”

“Thank you,” she said woodenly.

That was that. She went back to her rooms in a daze, feeling bewildered, furious, and betrayed yet again. It had never occurred to her that he would not help her.

Sir Talmor, his tanned face grave, walked behind her, and when she reached her room he opened the door and hesitated, blocking her entry.

“I—I am sorry, majesty,” he said in quiet sympathy. “I know you were counting on his support.”

He should not have spoken to her that way, and for Sir Talmor it was a most unexpected breach of protocol. She stared at him, but was not angered—not even offended—by his pity. Instead, all she felt was deep sadness.

“I am not beaten,” she said in a low, determined voice. “I will not accept defeat.”

“Whatever you choose to do, I remain your man,” he said.

His loyalty quickened her heart, and she tried to give him a smile of thanks. “I know it. I rely on you.”

He stood taller. “What, then, is to be done?”

“I shall summon all the upland lords to me. They are plain men of good sense. I know they will not support Lervan when mine is the legitimate claim. They are my one remaining hope.”

“I'll see to it at once, majesty.”

She busied herself writing letters to each chevard, and by the time she was finished and ready to dispatch them, noise from the stableyard made her look outside. She was in time to glimpse Faldain striding forth to his charger. He mounted his steed with graceful economy of motion, flinging his cloak out of the way as he settled himself into the saddle. At the head of his armed escort, flags flying, he galloped away, while his people cheered and waved farewell.

As she watched, she felt a bitter lump in her throat and implacable purpose in her heart. He was a friend no longer, and she had discovered today the true worth of the treaty between their lands. He had not even troubled to bid her good-bye. She wondered why he had bothered to meet with her at all.

But no matter what he said, she was not beaten yet. She would not yield her crown without a fight. She would find an army, and she would somehow bring battle to Lervan the coward.

That she swore on all she held sacred.

Dawn . . . gray and cold. Her heart . . . bleak and cold.

Three days after her ill-fated meeting with the chevards of upper Mandria, Pheresa walked across the deserted courtyard of Thirst Hold with Sir Talmor a quiet shadow at her heels. Wrapped in a heavy cloak, with her hood pulled up, she shivered in the icy air and wondered why she had ever come to this dreadful place. She remembered the cold all too well from the time when she was a prisoner in Nether. She remembered how, when she returned to Savroix, she'd sworn she would never look at snow again. Yet here she walked in this cold, friendless place. Why in Thod's sacred name had she ever sought help up here?

She paused at the entry to the chapel, saying nothing, while Sir Talmor pushed open the door for her. He went inside first, and she followed impatiently, giving him no time to tell her the way was safe.

The interior of the chapel glowed with votives, and she smelled incense. As plain and primitive as the rest of the hold, the chapel had little to recommend it. Crude religious murals
were painted on its walls. The altar was modest at best, featuring a brass Circle instead of gold. The pews were only rudimentary benches built from wooden planks. Damp and cold, this small place of worship did not feel welcoming; but as she could find no comfort in her sore and angry heart, it was time to seek solace in prayer.

She caught Sir Talmor looking at her with concern. The memory of last night flashed through her mind, and she frowned.

She'd dined in her room, too heartsick to eat in the communal Hall and unwilling to face Sir Bosquecel after he had asked her, albeit courteously, if she planned to winter at Thirst. He said he needed to know so that additional supplies for her comfort could be laid in before the deep cold. What he so obviously meant was,
When will you go?
Mortified, she had as yet given the man no answer, but there it was, another problem that must be dealt with soon.

And after she finished toying with her food last night, pushing bits of it about, unable to swallow more than a few morsels, Sir Talmor had knelt before her and offered to take her to Saelutia.

“ 'Tis warm there, always, on the isles,” he said, his honey-colored eyes searching hers. “The breeze blows soft, and in the afternoons rain showers clear the air, so that the evenings are cool and fragrant with the perfume of flowers.”

She sat rigidly in her chair, her heart drumming inside her, unable to look away from his eyes. His voice, calm, deep, and quiet, mesmerized her.

“The people are not fractious,” he went on. “They are gentle folk, quiet and restful. Their ways would seem queer to your majesty at first, but it would be a haven—”

“Do you miss your mother's people so much?” she broke in, unable to bear the temptation. “Are you so unhappy in Mandria?”

“Nay, majesty. I know little of the islands, save that they are very beautiful. I have only visited them once, as a boy.”

“But you would like to live there.” She frowned, feeling an
unexpected sense of loss. “Do you wish me to release you from service?”

“Nay!” He jumped to his feet in affront. “I seek no release. Thod's bones! Does your majesty think I am so poor spirited as to quit when all stand against you?”

She stared at her hands, which were clenched in her lap. She knew what he meant; alas, nay, she did not. She knew nothing anymore, for nothing was as it had been. Nothing could be relied on. Lies lay in everything.

The silence drew out too long until the air between them became awkward and wrong. She would not look at him. She feared that she would weaken and agree to the temptation he offered. How easy it would be to surrender her troubles and let Sir Talmor take her to a sweet and gentle exile. How easy to let everything fall from her hands and struggle no more.

He retreated from her, standing at attention with his hands clasped at his back. The fire on the hearth burned behind him, so that his face lay in shadow. “Your majesty has misunderstood,” he said stiffly.

“Have I?” she countered. “The upland lords will not serve me. They have called me an uncrowned queen, and they will not pledge their swords in my cause. They say they will seek Edonian independence rather than fight to hold this realm together. And you offer me exile, sir. I am to leave my realm and my people to fend for themselves. I am to throw it all away, choosing a dignified exit, rather than see even the pittance of power still remaining in my hands wrested from me entirely.” She looked up at him. “Have I misunderstood, sir?”

He was angry. She saw the blaze of it in his eyes, in the quick flare of his nostrils, but his extraordinary self-control held firm.

“I beg the queen's pardon,” he said with a bow, and retreated.

At that moment she hated him for not daring to quarrel. Her pent-up emotions needed a fight. She wanted to scratch and yell and throw things. She wanted to release all that churned inside her, but Talmor never let the barrier down between them. He never forgot she was queen. He would not
argue with her, equal to equal, and she was left alone with nothing save her bitter dignity.

Now, this morning in the chapel, with dawn's light falling gray and dim through the ocular window overhead, she met his golden eyes briefly before shifting her gaze away. She remained angry with him; it was easier to be angry than to face the truth.

His bronzed face showed no expression at all beneath his unruly curls. His mouth remained clamped in a tight line.

“You have the queen's permission to withdraw,” she said. “I wish privacy in my prayers.”

Bowing, he retreated to the door, standing where he could stop anyone who tried to enter.

“Nay,” she said sharply. “Withdraw, sir. I have no need of you here.”

He looked at once alarmed. “Majesty, I do not advise—”

“The queen has not asked for your advice. Leave, sir!”

“Majesty—”

“What will harm me here in Thod's house?” she demanded, tired of his constant presence, tired of never having true privacy. There had been a time when his devotion, his admiration, had supported her. Now, they created a burden she could no longer endure. She wanted to be alone; here in Thod's eyes she wanted to be weak. Not a queen, deposed and lacking allies, but a woman in trouble. “See to your breakfast, sir, and return in an hour.”

Although disapproval furrowed his brow, he made no more protest. “As your majesty commands,” he said, and left her.

She sighed, turning toward the altar just as the priest, no doubt having been roused by their voices, pattered in. He was a short, nearsighted creature, his tonsure in need of a shave, his robes crumpled as though he'd slept in them. She accepted communion before sending him away.

Prayers would not come. She frowned, closing her eyes to force them, but her heart remained too angry, too knotted with resentment and bitterness to be soothed. Even the ritual of communion had eased her only momentarily. She felt as
though the Circle of Thod's love had broken to bits around her.

“Lead your army,”
Faldain had said.
“Make them follow you.”

It seemed she did not know how. She had spoken rousingly to the chevards who obeyed her summons. She had greeted these gruff, hard-faced men with their mud-splattered leggings and serviceable swords and thought to stir their blood by speaking of injustice. She had urged them to join her cause in regaining her throne.

But there had come no cheers. Their suspicious faces had not lit with enthusiasm or support. Their eyes measured her when she spoke of Lervan's betrayal, and she knew they felt contempt for a woman both gullible and trusting, a woman who had been given a throne and lost it.

“Merciful Thod,” she prayed aloud now, lifting her gaze to the Circle hanging above the altar. “Why have I failed? What must I do? What must I become, to win these nobles' hearts?”

No answer came to her restless, unhappy mind. All she knew was that two choices lay before her. She could go into exile, living forever on someone's mercy, or she could find another way to force Lervan off the throne. But what? She'd tried every avenue she could think of, and nothing had worked. Was she to acknowledge herself beaten? Was she to give up?

Her clasped hands dropped and she frowned. No, she thought angrily, she was not ready to quit. Verence had entrusted her with his realm. He had put the kingdom in her hands, not Lervan's. She must find a way.

But the answers she sought were not going to come to her in this chapel. Restlessly, she climbed to her feet and caught the priest peering at her from the shadows.

Realizing he must have been spying on her during her prayers, she frowned and suddenly wanted to escape, to get away from the constant stares and prying eyes. Since she'd become queen, she'd never been entirely alone. This was her chance to get away.

Exiting the chapel, she crossed the courtyard, clutching her
cloak hood about her face to keep it hidden. Servants were stirring now. The gate leading out to the stableyard had been opened, and sentries were calling out to each other as they changed shifts. The air smelled like snow, and pewter-gray clouds hung low overhead. It looked like poor weather for riding, but she knew of no haven in the hold where she would not be sought and found by someone anxious about her welfare.

Reaching the stables, she ordered her courser saddled.

“Am I to saddle yer protector's horse while ye wait, yer grace?”

“No. I wish to mount my horse at once. Will you assist me?”

“Aye.”

With a saucy grin, the stableboy lifted her into the sidesaddle. Hampered by her large belly, Pheresa crooked her right leg in place across the pommel while the boy fitted her left foot into the single stirrup.

“Will yer grace be wantin' someone to lead the mare at a nice, quiet pace?”

Pheresa gathered up the reins in her gloved hands. “No, I ride alone this morning.”

“ 'Tain't safe to go out alone past the fields—”

“Thank you for your warning. Stand away.”

She wheeled the mare away from him, knowing she was being foolish and not caring. She rode through the stableyard and across the bailey. It was full now of peasants coming in from the village to bake their bread in the hold ovens. The smithy had opened up, the hot fire of his forge blazing away. A flock of geese waddled across her path, honking, as a little girl herded them with a stick. Shoats squealed, as a pair of boys carried them hastily around a corner of one of the barns, and from the kennels the dogs were barking for their breakfast.

She rode out beneath the portcullis, jostled on all sides by a group of pilgrims who were leaving after having spent the night safe inside the walls.

A sentry shot her a startled look, and someone called after her, but Pheresa pretended not to hear. Trotting clear of the
pilgrims, who had begun to sing in ragged harmony as they headed for the road, she kicked her frisky little mare to a canter and headed toward the marshland. Little flakes of snow stung her eyes. All she could see ahead of her was open land and blessed solitude. And if bandits accosted her, or Nonkind monsters leaped at her, what of it? She'd become nothing to this world, to this kingdom she had once considered her own. Tears welled up hot and blurry in her eyes, and she hated herself for feeling self-pity. She must escape such a worthless emotion, push past the anger, confusion, and self-doubt. She was tired of living in a muddle, of trying to cope with one crisis after another without any chance of succeeding. The air whipped back her cloak from her shoulders, and her hood slipped down. Suddenly, she found the cold bracing, even exciting. In this bleak landscape she felt stripped clean of wealth and trappings and honeyed lies and intrigue. There was honesty here, brutal, yes; but the simplicity of this remote countryside appealed to her. She knew a fresh surge of determination. She would find a way. Somewhere, out among the marshes and the forest, there had to be an answer that she could find.

Or she would not come back.

Talmor stared at the priest. “Gone?” he repeated in alarm. “What mean you?”

“The queen left not a quarter hour after you took your leave,” the priest told him. “I gave her grace communion and thought she meant to—”

“Where did she go?”