The Queen's Gambit (41 page)

“I did seek the advice of those who are wise and true,” she defended herself angrily. “Faldain gave me nothing!”

Sir Thum nodded as though her comment had proven his point. “If your majesty expects the king of another land to do your work for you, then you deserve no throne.”

“How dare you!”

“Aye, I dare. My father would call you liege, and my brothers, too, had you shown yourself worth a crown. You came here, cowardly, weak, and calling out to Nether for help. You turned to Nether first, before your own chevards. How could you insult them so deeply?”

Her lip curled. “Their insult to me—”

“Came after you insulted them first! If you would ask brave men to follow your banner, majesty, then you must lead them. You! Not Dain or your generals. And in Thod's name, show men your trust if you would have them give you theirs.”

Silence fell between them. She was breathing in short, hard jerks, her fists clenched and trembling at her sides.

Abruptly he bowed. “With your majesty's permission, I will withdraw. 'Twas not my intention to say so much.”

She was too angry to respond. He strode out of the cellar and up the steps, leaving her alone with her gawking attendants.

After a moment she felt the rage drain from her, and bowed her head.

“Majesty, you are too ill for this!” Lady Carolie cried.

Pheresa flung up her hand without turning around, and Carolie subsided. She kept her back to everyone, refusing to deal with whatever sympathy, pity, or condemnation she might possibly see in their faces.

Sir Thum's words continued to ring in her ears. Was this the way others saw her? she wondered. As a weak, spineless, uncertain creature? Was this why she could stir no followers? Was this what Faldain had tried to tell her the day he refused to lead his army behind her banner?

Her mind was spinning. She felt dazed by what she'd heard.

“Come away now, majesty,” the countess said to her. “There's no more to be done here.”

Pheresa's shoulders stiffened. Her head came up, and she stared at the door to Sir Talmor's sick room. “Oh, but there is,” she said.

Stepping back inside the storeroom, she faced the physician's inquiring look and the squire's resentful one.

Now she understood why the squire was so defensive and uneasy. She met his eyes for a moment, then turned her gaze to Talmor.

They were in the process of changing the bandages, and she could not help but flinch at the gruesome sight of Talmor's wound. Beyond the ugly scarring and stitches, his flesh was inflamed and discolored. His blood looked dark and foul.

For a moment she feared she would lose mastery of herself, but with a hard swallow she walked forward.

“He can't talk to yer majesty now,” the squire said. “Goin' Beyond, he is, bless 'im, and naught we can do about it.”

“Something can be done,” Pheresa said, staring at the physician. “You know how to save him.”

The physician dropped his gaze and gave no answer.

“What's this?” the squire said suspiciously. “Is this true?”

Caught between them, the physician gave a delicate shrug. “Well, of course Nonkind wounds can be purified, to stop the spread of poison. But this man has lost too much blood. He cannot live in any case.”

“You mean the knights of Thirst do not want him to live,” Pheresa said harshly. “He's been condemned to die like this, untreated.”

The squire's face turned red. He glared at the physician as though he meant to attack the man, then he knelt before Pheresa. “In Thod's name, majesty, if there's aught ye can do, order it before it's too late.”

“What is your name?” she asked gently.

“Pears, majesty. I've served him all his life. He ain't what they're saying. I'll swear to that on the Circle! Calls the fire a curse, he does, and hates it. He spent his boyhood trying to drive it out of himself, only his mother's blood in him was too strong. He's put it away for years, he has, and it never gets away from him unless he's too angry or—or hurt to control it. He wouldn't never have used it if he hadn't been trying to save—”

She touched his shoulder briefly. “I know,” she said.

Wringing his hands, Pears stared up at her. “Please, majesty! Ye know he's arrow true and would serve ye to his last breath. All he thought of was saving yer majesty's life!”

“Physician?” she said.

But the man, as soft of character as he was of form, shook his head. “I'm afraid I don't know what your majesty is asking me to do. I have treated this man to the best of my ability.”

Anger scorched through her. “Get out,” she said in contempt.

Reddening, he scuttled away.

She turned back to Talmor, who lay lost in the fever that consumed him. He was frowning, muttering beneath his breath, his left hand moving aimlessly back and forth across the blanket. Determination hardened inside her. She had lost everything else. She would not lose him, too.

“Pears,” she said.

“Aye, majesty?”

“You love your master?”

The squire's face puckered. “Bless 'im, I do.”

“Do you understand that his wound is tainted by Nonkind venom, and that this poison will turn him into a horrific creature if he dies?”

“He—that's why they lock us in, ain't it?”

She nodded.

He drew in a sharp breath. “Ah, damne, everywhere we go, it's always the same. Him doing his best to fit in, doing his best to be perfect for whoever he serves, even if it kills him and breaks him down, and then getting blamed for whatever goes wrong. I reckon this time, with yer majesty involved, they aim to make something profane of him so they can kill him sure.”

“It is forbidden to kill the queen's protector without her permission,” Pheresa said, feeling hollow and cold as she said the words.

“But if he turns Nonkind, they don't need to ask.”

She nodded.

“Ain't right, majesty!” he cried, his eyes hot at the injustice. “Ain't right.”

Pheresa thought of all the times Talmor had shown his valor. She would never forget the first time she saw him joust, when he had won the contest of lances with outstanding skill. She recalled how his handsome face had lit up when she chose him protector. So honest and forthright had been his admiration for her that she knew not then how to cope with it. She'd felt unworthy of such total devotion, shy of it, and too gruff with him in consequence. Never, from the moment he entered he service, had he failed her. And after they came here to Thirst, on that black day when a little band of dwarves tried
to save her from harm despite her own stupidity, Talmor had once again come rushing to her rescue. She remembered the screams of battle around her, her own panic like something alive and clawing in her throat, the horrific baying of the hurlhounds, and Talmor—magnificent on his steed, his sword swinging, his face that of an avenger—plunging straight into battle against monsters he had never seen before, against monsters whose evil he did not fully comprehend. A lesser man would have hesitated, would have listened to fear. But Talmor had protected her to the end, despite his fateful mistake. He had revealed his deepest secret, had sacrificed everything, including his honor, to save her.

What price her life? This man's sword arm? This man's life? That the knights of Thirst should criticize him for his magic, should so misconstrue his intent and his powers, angered her past bearing. They had no right to do so, and if it meant putting aside her mourning and self-blame to defend Talmor and his tarnished honor, then she would do that. She owed him far more, but this, at least, she could do.

Meeting Pears's eyes, she studied the middle-aged squire and believed him to be as sound and true as his master. When she was a little girl, her nurse used to tell her that a man could be judged best by his servants. If they were honest and loved their master, then he was a worthy man. If they cringed, lied, stole, and feared him, then no matter how charming his manners and how fine his figure, he was a man to distrust.

Pheresa sighed. Why had she forgotten such excellent advice until now? She realized she had forgotten many things in recent years, had cast aside common sense and her own true feelings in favor of pride and ambition. She had much to answer for, she told herself. Much to reason through and rethink.

But now, there was Talmor to save if she could.

“His wound must be salted and cauterized with a magicked blade,” she said.

Pears winced, and his gaze shifted to his master's face.

“I know,” she said quietly. “That is why I asked if you love him.”

“Aye, but—I don't know if he can withstand all that,” Pears whispered fearfully. “We'll kill him sure.”

She believed so, too, but she said, “Better he should die cleansed, with his soul intact, than otherwise.”

The squire bowed his head, his shoulders shaking as he fought to command his emotions. “Aye,” he said thickly at last. “Yer majesty knows what's best.”

“Only I know not where a magicked blade can be found for the task.”

“Couldn't his own blade serve? Or even my dagger?” Pears raised an angry fist. “I don't even know where his sword has got to, damn 'em. Got us confined down here like rats trapped in a bucket, and his mail and weapons rusting, most like, Thod knows where.”

“Use this.” She handed over her salt purse. “Liberally. I shall see that you are brought more. Use salt every time the bandages are changed.”

She thought of how the physician obviously knew to do that, and how Talmor had been denied even such rudimentary care. Her anger burned even hotter, and she glared at Pears. “Can you do as I say?”

“Aye,” he answered grimly. “That I can.”

“You will not shirk from it? You will not falter from misguided feelings of mercy?”

“No, majesty. I'll do what he needs.”

“Perhaps I should help—”

Pears flung her a look, and she fell silent. “I'll do it, majesty,” he said. “I've done for him all his life. If anyone's to hurt him now, it had best be me.”

She nodded, and gazed down at Talmor with her heart clutching anew. She saw death's hand on him, and fought a momentary surge of panic.
I shall not fail you,
she thought silently, making a vow of it, and gently traced a Circle on his fevered brow.

All was dark, save for a candle burning low, guttering a little in the molten tallow around the wick. Intense heat consumed Talmor, bringing him from a troubled sleep with deep gasps for air. Wildly he looked around for a pail of water, but no fire blazed from him. He threw nothing, not even a spark. The blazing heat remained inside him, making his skin feel as though it would burst.

He thrashed in his blankets, trying to throw them off. If he did nothing else, he would cross the room and douse that candle. 'Twas the only fire in the room, for the hearth had crumbled to a pile of ashes and glowing embers. Water? He turned his head from side to side, seeking it to throw on the candle and the embers. There was too much heat. He could not breathe, could not think, because of so much heat.

But although he tried to get up, he could not. Something was wrong with his body, and it would not obey him. He rolled onto his right side, and pain shot through him with such intensity he could not even cry out. He flopped onto his back, shuddering and panting, while wave after wave of agony
poured through him. At last it subsided, and he thought he would be sick. But he did not even have the strength to raise himself to vomit.

He lay there, spent and sweating, and after a time opened his eyes again. A hurlhound sat on the foot of his bunk, its black, scaled hide glistening in the candlelight, its hellish red eyes glowing intently. For an endless moment their gazes locked, then it parted its jaws so that saliva dripped off its deadly fangs, hissing as each small splatter landed on his blanket.

Transfixed with horror, Talmor stared at the beast, but it came no closer. It seemed to be waiting, and its evil gaze never left him for a moment. Another hurlhound crossed the room, seeming to materialize right from the shadows themselves, and leaped onto his bed. He could feel its weight pressing heavily on his foot, and fear choked his throat.

This one did not attack either. The loathsome pair simply waited, panting, their breath fouling the air as they watched him.

His heart raced and faltered. He had the sensation of drowning, and the huge beasts leaned closer, crouching as though poised to spring.

He struck at them weakly with his fist, but touched nothing save the air. They settled back, one of them licking its muzzle in disappointment.

They are waiting to eat my soul,
he thought.

He realized then that he was dying, and they stood vigil over him. They would eat his soul, and he would be forever lost, unable to reach Beyond, damned in the most terrible way for all eternity.

Weeping, he cursed them, and reviled them, and denounced them in the name of Tomias. But they watched him patiently and did not go.

In desperation, he reached for the old ways that had been born in him, legacy of his mother, and with the force of his mind gathered the candlestick and hurled it at them.

The candlestick clattered against the wall beyond the foot
of his bed. The hurlhounds vanished, and Talmor felt a cool hand touch his face.

A worried voice said, “Sir! Oh, sir! Just have yerself a drink of this good water and lie still.”

Talmor tried to swallow, but choked on it and instead let the mouthful dribble from his lips. “Tired,” he said, moaning. “So . . . tired.”

“Go back to sleep now. I'm with ye, lad, and all's well. Just sleep nice and quiet.”

Talmor let his eyes fall shut, but sleep was no refuge. He dreamed of the queen, standing in an open place with sunlight glinting red sparks through her golden hair. Her brown eyes looked fierce and valiant, and she was shouting at a great crowd of people. He smiled, drinking in the vision she presented. How comely and straight she stood, her beautiful face stern and regal. She lifted her hands in supplication, her musical voice strong as she appealed to them on behalf of her cause.

The sight of her gave him strength, for she was so beautiful and fair. He loved her more than ever.

But a shadow fell across the sun, and the dream shifted. He felt himself seized by a powerful, outside force, one foreign to him. Although he struggled in an effort to throw it off, he could not withstand it. Dread and urgency filled him. He felt menace looming close by, ready to strike, but although he looked at the faces in the crowd, he saw nothing amiss. In the dream's strangeness numerous people suddenly stood between him and Pheresa, blocking his path. Swiftly he pushed them aside, trying to give her warning, but he could utter no sound. It was coming, this terrible danger. It was upon her.

Drawing his dagger, he spun around, elbowing an armed knight aside as the man tried to step between him and the queen. Then there was just he and Pheresa alone, deafened on all sides by a roaring crowd. Everyone was shouting at them, screaming words he could not understand.

Lifting his dagger, he rushed at her.

Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell open in disbelief.

“No!” he shouted, trying to stop himself, to resist the unseen force that drove him forward. “No!”

And she lay crumpled at his feet, blood staining her rich gown. Blood dripped from the dagger in his hand; blood splattered his arm and the front of his doublet.
Her blood.

With a gasp, he jerked awake.

The heat was consuming him, driving him mad, and he could not shake off the horror of his dream. He would not kill her, he assured himself frantically. No force in the first, second, or third worlds could make him strike her down, and yet. . .

“No,” he panted, struggling to get up. “I won't.
I won't!
”

He was pressed down, a voice soothing him, but he heard nothing save his own tormented fears. He would
not
kill her, he shouted in defiance. Yet the darkness and shadows edging closer seemed to mock him.

Frightened, he stared through the gloom at Pears's face. “Keep it back,” he said desperately. “Light more candles and keep it back!”

“I will, sir,” Pears promised, laying a cool cloth across his brow. “I'll keep the light shining for ye.”

“I'll not obey you!” Talmor shouted, trying to lunge upright.

The pain washed over him, dropping him onto his pillows with a groan while the darkness crouched before him, lapping up his life force the way a cat laps cream.

Again he saw the terrible image in his mind, Pheresa lying at his feet bloody and still, and again he cried out his defiance. He would sooner stab the dagger through his own heart than harm her. What madness was this, he wondered in despair. What horrible creature was he becoming?

And the hurlhounds padded forth from the shadows, panting and slavering, to circle his bed.

Pheresa, gowned in velvet, her hair bound up in ropes of pearls, paced back and forth in the sitting room given to her use. Sir Thum, his freckled face looking wary and obstinate,
stood before her. Sir Bosquecel, gaunt and worn, sat with her permission, his splinted leg propped on a stool.

Both men were shaking their heads. “Nothing like that is at hand,” Sir Thum was saying.

“Then get it.”

Sir Bosquecel looked shocked. “Majesty, that is quite—”

Her glare made him break off. “Do not say to me that it is impossible, for I'll believe no such lie,” she told him. “Who makes such metal? Who forges it?”

“No one here!” Sir Bosquecel said quickly.

“No? Then how came Tanengard to be made here?”

He looked blank. “Tanengard?”

“Er,” Sir Thum said, clearing his throat, “the sword that Thirst's smith made for the king years ago. Remember how he and Dain went forth to buy the metal, angering Lord Odfrey, who thought Dain had run away?”

A strange expression crossed Sir Bosquecel's face. He glanced at Pheresa, then let his gaze fall. “Forgive me, majesty,” he said in a much-chastened voice. “I'd forgotten.”

She was not inclined to forgive him. “Perhaps your memory had better improve swiftly, sir,” she said in a cold voice.

“That smith ran off, years ago,” Bosquecel said. “No one knows what became of the infidel. He was Netheran and not to be trusted.”

She turned to Sir Thum. “Dwarves are said to make the best swords. Do they forge magicked weapons?”

“Sometimes, majesty,” he replied reluctantly. “But such are dangerous things and not to be—”

“They withstand Nonkind, do they not?”

The men exchanged glances. “Yes, majesty,” Sir Thum replied.

“I want such a weapon purchased on my behalf. Immediately.”

“Your majesty is well protected inside these walls and has no need of such articles.”

“Have I asked for your advice, sir?” she demanded in an
icy voice. “I wish a magicked weapon, preferably a dagger. I want it immediately, this day, if possible.”

Sir Bosquecel sat straighter with a wince. “Majesty, even the dwarves do not make a common practice of forging such weapons. They are—”

A month ago, perhaps their obstruction would have stymied her and frustrated her. She would have given way to these fools, who were as hard to budge as boulders. But she was tired, worried nearly out of her mind, and determined to save Talmor at all costs.

“I command it,” she said in a voice of steel.

Again, Thum and Bosquecel exchanged glances.

“Very well, your majesty,” Thum said. “But please understand that in winter the dwarves go into their burrows and sometimes cannot be found until thaw. The master armorers are scattered throughout Nold and—”

“I want no excuses,” she broke in. “Do as I require without delay.”

But as they left, Sir Bosquecel supported on the shoulders of two stalwart men, Pheresa knew her command would come to naught. She had to find another way. But how?

Then an idea came to her. Hadn't Thum said that Faldain's old tutor used to dabble with magic? There must be something among Sulein's possessions that she could use to help Talmor.

When the steward answered her summons, she demanded access to Sulein's quarters.

“Sulein? But, your grace!” he said in dismay.

“Yes, Sulein. The physician who served here under Chevard Odfrey.”

“Aye, of course, but—but all that's been shut up and closed away for years. It'll be dirty, and I've no doubt the mice have been at everything.”

“I am not interested in matters of housekeeping,” she said impatiently. “Conduct me there at once.”

Reluctantly, he led her outside across the courtyard to a turret. Producing an enormous ring of keys, he unlocked the door and opened it, revealing a dim, dusty spiral of steps
illuminated only by occasional arrow slits. Pheresa did not hesitate, but stepped across the threshold.

Sir Kelchel hurried to catch up. “Wait now. Let me go up afore . . .”

Impatiently, she checked herself, allowing the protector to ascend the steps first. On the small landing, the steward wrestled with the lock before he succeeded in opening the door.

A musty smell of mold and herbs wafted forth from the chamber beyond. Repelled, she hesitated, and the steward shouldered inside, pushing the door wide open.

“Filthy, just as I said,” he announced. “Bide a moment while I light a lamp.”

It seemed to take him forever to find one, but at last she heard the unmistakable rasping scrape of a strikebox. Illumination flickered forth, revealing a daunting amount of clutter. A long table was strewn with scrolls, polished animal bones, ancient tomes, fragile old maps, candle stubs, inkpots, and astrology charts. The shelves lining the walls held countless bottles and jars, filled with liquids turned murky. The labels, inscribed with arcane symbols, had faded until they were almost illegible. Everything was caked with dust and cobwebs.

Dismay spread through her. If she had hoped to find magicked metal here, 'twould take a long search indeed.

Putting aside her fastidious dislike of dirt and grime, she picked up scrolls, opened wooden boxes, peered inside cabinets until a sneezing fit drove her to try a different tactic.

“Had Sulein a strongbox?” she asked.

The two men began to search. After a while, Sir Kelchel emerged from an alcove with a medium-sized box under his arm. It was reinforced with iron straps, and its lock looked difficult.