The Queen's Gambit (42 page)

“The smith can break that,” he said, hefting it. “Got somethin' in it, all right.”

There was nothing else to find. She opened a scroll case of moldy leather and felt something strange and unseen pass by her face. Wondering if a moth had flown at her, she blinked a
moment, then reached into the case. When she touched a scroll, her fingers tingled.

Excited, she yanked it out but dropped it so that it went rolling beneath a chair. The steward dived after it, but when he picked it up he yelped and dropped it again.

Eyes bulging, both men backed away from it.

“What is it?” Pheresa asked.

“Best keep away, majesty,” the steward said, making a hasty sign of the Circle. “That's evil, that is.”

Kelchel put down the strongbox and drew his sword. He advanced on the scroll as though he meant to destroy it, but Pheresa darted ahead of him to grab it and stuff it in her pocket. Her fingers tingled and hurt from the brief contact, as though she'd touched prickly thorns.

“Come,” she said.

“Majesty, ain't safe fer ye to keep that.”

Well aware that she'd kept the scroll more from defiance than from any sense of true curiosity, she met Sir Kelchel's gaze steadily. “So I understand. Now let's seek out the smith.”

The smithy was a circular building constructed around a forge. The roaring fire was fed by a sweating assistant manning the bellows. The smith, clad in a leather apron and an old tunic of linsey much spotted with cinder holes, tapped his hammer skillfully at the anvil as he formed a nail from a glowing red splinter of metal.

Hailed by Sir Kelchel, he gave a final rat-tat with his hammer before plunging the nail into a pail of water with a hiss. Tossing the nail onto a small pile, he put down his tools and wiped his large hands on his apron as he came over to the open window.

The protector told him what was wanted, and with a shy bob of his head to Pheresa, the smith fetched a chisel and his hammer. With one fierce stroke, he broke the lock, and Sir Kelchel opened the lid as though he feared a demon might leap out of the box.

The smith prodded a lump of gray stone with a grimy forefinger. “That's alchemy stone there,” he announced.

Peering inside the box, Pheresa saw a strange collection of
objects. A purse of money containing foreign coins. A faded ink drawing of a girl's oval face and sad dark eyes. A woman's locket on a chain. Five little jars of liquid that sloshed when the steward shook them. He started to unstopper one, then flinched back with a curl of his nostrils and hastily replaced the jar.

Pheresa frowned in disappointment. “There is nothing here of use.” Sighing, she lifted her gaze to the smith. “Have you any knowledge of—”

“Morde!” Sir Kelchel breathed out in an awed tone of voice that made her turn.

He was unrolling a piece of velvet between his hands, the shimmering cloth falling away to reveal a sheathed dagger. Even on this gray, snowy day, it shone and glittered. The sheath was made of hammered gold studded with an intricate pattern of large, faceted jewels. Admiringly, Sir Kelchel hefted it in his hand. “ 'Tis a weapon fer a prince.”

“Aye,” the smith breathed, his own gaze avid.

As Pheresa admired its beauty, a wild, desperate hope began to dance inside her. Was it possible that this was the very weapon she sought? Hardly daring to believe it, she reached out and gently picked it up.

It was surprisingly heavy. She turned it this way and that before pulling the dagger from its sheath. The hilt was an intricate twist of writhing serpents, the pommel jewel an emerald cabochon as big as her thumb. The blade, slightly curved with a wicked, jagged point in no style favored in Mandria, was not steel but instead some golden-hued metal.

Excitedly she handed it to the smith. “Is this magicked metal?”

He looked instantly uneasy. Reluctantly turning it over and over in his large hands, he checked the balance and heft before wetting his finger and running it along the side of the blade. He lifted it and squinted down the edge, and finally he sniffed it from one end to another like a dog. He did everything but taste it, and she barely kept herself from urging him to hurry.

“Saelutian bronze,” he said at last. “Very old, but still good. Not like steel, of course. Pretty, ain't it?”

Her hopes collapsed. She took the dagger, tempted to hurl it away into the snow. “Then it isn't magicked?”

“Nay, yer grace. Not so's I can tell. Not dwarf-forged, nor eldin made. There's where yer grace ought to look for spell-cast steel. In the mountains of Nold, deep in the Dark Forest, see? That's the best place to find it. Course there's no going there now with the deep cold on us.”

Her disappointment hurt so much she wanted to weep. Instead, she quietly slid the foreign dagger into its magnificent sheath and handed it to Sir Kelchel. Her feet were numb from standing so long in the snow, and she was shivering under her cloak. Realizing her efforts today had been in vain, she suddenly felt very tired.

“Thank you, smith,” she said, and trudged away.

The steward and her protector trailed after her. At the storehouse, she paused, but she felt so discouraged she did not have the heart to visit Sir Talmor.

“Forgive me, majesty,” the steward said, “but what do you wish done with this box?”

She glanced at the strongbox under his arm. “Take it back where it was found, and lock up the turret.”

With a bow he hurried off, his feet making tracks in the deepening snow. Although it was but midafternoon, lights were burning at some of the windows, and smoke from the cookfires curled dark on the dense, cold air.

“And this, yer grace?” Sir Kelchel asked, holding up the dagger. “Want it put back, as well?”

“Of course. It's King Faldain's property, I suppose.”

Sir Kelchel started after the steward, but on impulse Pheresa called him back. “Wait. Perhaps the sight of it will cheer Talmor.”

The protector frowned. “He don't need no weapon to hand.”

“Say nothing against him!” she said sharply, taking the dagger from his hands. “He's not what you think.”

“Yer majesty believes in him, an' that's a sign of a good heart in ye.”

Pressing her lips together, she hurried down into the cellar so fast Sir Kelchel had to trot to catch up with her. But at Talmor's door, she bade the protector remain outside with the sentries. Kelchel frowned, but her gaze was so fierce he obeyed her.

The sick room smelled oppressive and foul, far worse than before. In fresh fear, she forced herself to smile and nod graciously in response to Pears's weary greeting.

“How does he?” she asked.

“Worse,” the squire answered, exhaustion dragging through his voice. “The salt's kept him living, but I can't help but think it might be a mercy to let him go.”

His voice cracked as he spoke, and he turned away, swallowing hard. She touched his shoulder a moment in silent comfort. “I won't stay long. Is he awake?”

“Aye, but not much in his right mind, bless 'im.”

She steeled herself, then donned a cheerful expression and sat down at Talmor's bedside. “Hello, my friend,” she said. “How fare you today?”

When he opened his eyes, such suffering lay revealed in their depths that it took all her resolve not to retreat.

After a few dreadful seconds he recognized her and dragged his lips into a brief smile. “Maj . . .”

Even the effort to speak clearly exhausted him. She put her fingers on his lips to silence him.

“Look at what I found today. Is it not pretty?”

As she spoke, she held up the dagger, making its jewels glitter and shine in the lamplight.

Pears hurried over. “Blessed mercy of Tomias! Is that—”

“No,” she said with a swift headshake. “I'm sorry. I've failed.”

Sorrow crumpled the squire's face. Turning away, he went over to the table, where he picked up a towel, then wadded it and threw it down. Lutel spoke to him timidly, and he swore in answer.

Tears pricked Pheresa's eyes, but she blinked them back.
She held the beautiful weapon before Talmor like a dazzling toy, then unsheathed it.

His face lit up, and he tried to reach for it. “Aldana!”

She did not understand what he said, and for a moment Sir Kelchel's warning filled her mind. But Talmor's smile made her stifle her qualms, and she put the dagger in his hand, curling his hot fingers around the hilt.

“Aldana's knife,” he whispered, his golden eyes shining in wonder.

“The smith said it was Saelutian made,” she remarked.

“Very old and . . . holy,” he said. “Sanude had one.”

At a loss, she glanced at Pears, who said, “Sanude was some old Saelutian tutor he had.”

“I'm glad I found this. It pleases him,” she said, watching Talmor shift the blade slightly to catch the light. He made it glow, doing that, and then with a blink she realized the blade was casting a light of its own, shining ever stronger until its radiance cast a nimbus about Talmor's bed.

Pears cried out, and Pheresa moved back with such haste she knocked over the stool.

“Merciful Thod!” she said, drawing a Circle. And then realization filled her. She leaned over Talmor in haste. “Is it magicked?” she demanded. “Has this knife special powers?”

His brows knotted together, and a dreadful expression crossed his face as he suddenly tried to plunge the dagger into his chest. Pheresa grabbed his wrist, and he was so weak she was able to take the weapon away from him.

He stared up at her piteously, the glow off the dagger shining across his tormented face. “Please . . .” he gasped, and fell unconscious.

Shaken by his plea, she backed away from him. The dagger's glow faded with distance. Frowning, she walked toward him, and the dagger shone brighter than ever.

“Put that pagan thing down, majesty, and come away,” Pears said.

Feeling afraid, she laid the dagger on the table as he bade her. “The smith said it wasn't magicked.”

“Well, if it ain't, I'd like to know what he thinks it is,”
Pears said scornfully. “Aldana's some kind of goddess in Saelutia. I don't know much about them pagan things, and Talmor's as much a member of the Circle as yer majesty. But maybe . . .”

His voice trailed off, and as Pheresa met his gaze, she knew they were thinking the same thing.

“We must try,” she said. “There's nothing else.”

He spun away from her, ordering Lutel to build up the fire in a hurry. While the boy set to work, Pears gingerly picked up the dagger with a cloth and squinted at it as though he feared it might cast some spell over him.

“Queer,” he muttered. “Don't feel even a tingle in holding it. But look at it shine, like it's got a life of its own.”

Pheresa frowned. She'd felt nothing when she'd held it either. Faldain and Gavril had both communed in some mysterious way with their magicked weapons, but she apparently could not. A part of her felt humiliation; the rest of her rejoiced at the strength of her inner piety.

While Pears heated the dagger, Pheresa pulled back Talmor's blanket. Unwrapping his bandages stirred up the rot festering in his wound. She thought she would be sick from the stink of it, and wept as she exposed the horrible gash. It was not healing, and the venom in the wound was spreading red, swollen lines of infection across his chest. His flesh looked puffy and discolored, and a murky discharge was seeping through the stitches.

Pressing the back of her wrist against her mouth, Pheresa staggered away from him and opened the door. “Sir Kelchel, I need your help. You and these two guards.”

They crowded in, then halted at the sight of Talmor lying exposed on his bed. One man swiftly drew the Circle, and the other cupped his hand over his mouth and nose.

“Is it over?” Sir Kelchel asked.

She shook her head. “I hope—I pray to Thod—that at last his salvation is at hand.”

“It's ready, majesty,” Pears called out.

“Hold him down,” she commanded the men.

They stood as though rooted, while Pears held aloft the
heated knife. Its blade glowed brighter than ever, shining as brightly as lamplight, and the knights stared with mouths agape.

Sir Kelchel was the first to recover. Swiftly drawing a Circle, he blocked Pears's path. “What did ye to that?”

“Heated it, ye great lout,” Pears said, trying to step past him. “Stand aside!”

But Sir Kelchel held his ground, and when Pears pushed him, the knight seized his wrist. The men struggled briefly, and Sir Kelchel twisted the dagger from Pears's grasp.

“Give it back, damn ye!” Pears yelled.

Holding him off, Sir Kelchel called, “Here, Alto, take it!” He tossed the dagger to one of the sentries, who caught it awkwardly in a fold of his cloak.

Furious, Pheresa headed for him. “Give that back, knave! How dare you interfere—”