The Queen's Gambit (48 page)

“No!”

“I must go from you,” he said firmly. “Nor can I accept a reward when someday I might strike you down.”

“You could not do it!” she cried.

“But I have foreseen—”

“No, Talmor! No matter what you think you know, only Thod is witness to our future. Take the title, for I bestow it on you whether you are willing or not. 'Tis done and signed. Besides,” she said with a wry little laugh, “until I am crowned it isn't worth the parchment it's written on.”

His lips curved in reply, and for a moment their gazes looked deep. Then someone in the Hall coughed, and with a start Pheresa recalled that while she and Talmor might be out of earshot, they were hardly alone.

“Enough,” she said sternly. “You are a baron now, and I need you with me.”

Whatever he might have replied was interrupted as he suddenly turned pale and swayed on his feet. Alarmed, she beckoned for assistance.

“We have taxed your strength too much this day,” she said. “Withdraw, my lord, and let your injury be tended.”

“Better see to that scratch,” Sir Thum warned him. “Here, you men, help him.”

“Majesty,” Talmor said, his eyes filled with such a mixture of emotions she could not read them all, “I—”

“We will speak more of this later,” she said softly, “but I warn you my mind will not be changed. Go and rest now.”

As he walked out slowly with the support of two knights, Pheresa watched him with concern.

“What was all that about?” Sir Thum asked.

Believing enough of Talmor's secrets had been shared for one day, Pheresa shrugged. “These events have overwhelmed him. With a few days' rest, he will be more sensible.”

Sir Thum frowned as though he intended to ask more questions, but at that moment a courier came striding in. His cloak was white with snow, and tiny icicles hung from his beard. Looking half-frozen, he peeled off his gloves and swept Pheresa a bow.

It had been many weeks since she'd received any dispatches. She stared at the man now in surprise, especially when he flung back his cloak and revealed the royal crest on his tunic.

“I bring a letter from the king,” he announced, and handed it to her on bended knee.

A low muttering swelled through the men still standing in the Hall.

Shocked that Lervan now openly dared to call himself king, Pheresa stood rigid and stone-faced while the countess stepped forward to take the letter. She held it up, and at Pheresa's curt nod, broke the seal and unfolded it before she handed it to Pheresa.

Taking the letter without glancing at it, Pheresa said, “Someone give this courier warm drink and food.”

The man was shown out swiftly. Sir Thum and Lord Renald, pale and hastily bandaged, stood beside each other, frankly watching as Pheresa turned her back to read the letter.

It was short and to the point, with none of Lervan's usual style of preamble. In fact it was no letter at all, but instead an announcement of his petition to the church to dissolve their marriage prior to his coronation. She read it three times before its meaning took hold in her mind.

Feeling as though she'd been stabbed with ice, she crumpled the letter, walked somehow to her chair, and sank down. Her ears were roaring, and the room seemed to have grown misty and distant.

After a few moments she grew conscious of buzzing voices and someone bending very close to her, asking over and over, “Majesty, are you ill? Majesty, can you hear me?”

With a slow blink she perceived that it was Sir Thum, his freckled face creased with concern. She shivered, then somehow marshaled her strength and looked up.

“What has happened, your grace?” Lord Renald asked her, looking equally concerned. “What can we do?”

In a toneless voice, she told them the news. Lord Renald's expression grew cautious, but Sir Thum swore openly.

“Legally, Duc Lervan has no right to pursue this action,” he said to her. “Your majesty understands this, of course.”

“He says that I deserted our union,” she replied, feeling both shame and humiliation at having to air such matters
publicly. “He says that I—I fatally endangered our child. These are his grounds for the suit of divorce.”

She tried to go on, tried to remain calm and composed, but her mouth began to tremble. Never before had she hated Lervan so much.
He
had been the one who betrayed their union. He had dallied with numerous other women from the beginning of their marriage. He had usurped her rights of sovereignty, committing treason by naming himself ruler in her stead. And now, he punished her for losing the child. Nothing could have wounded her more cruelly.

“May I?” Sir Thum asked, and pulled the letter from her unresisting hand. He read it swiftly, then wadded it into a ball. “Morde! That cur!”

She forced her gaze up to his. “An unnecessary blow, is it not?” she asked with a smile as false as her husband's heart. “He has already won everything.”

“Ten to one he's got another woman he wants to marry,” Renald said, then turned red as Thum glared at him. “Uh, forgive me, your grace. I have no right to speak so bluntly.”

“You do but say the truth,” Pheresa said wearily. “Her name is Lady Hedrina. She has been his secret mistress for some time. No doubt he now flaunts her openly.”

“A fine fellow who would be our king,” Renald said in disgust. “I heard how he pays tribute to those Vvord dogs. 'Tis said he's too cowardly to fight them.”

“A petition of divorce takes time,” Sir Thum said thoughtfully.

She shrugged. “I doubt it. He is in league with Cardinal Theloi. I am sure his eminence will see the matter accomplished swiftly.”

“It will still take time. They cannot break all the rules without exposing their hand too openly.”

“The coronation will occur three months hence,” she said bleakly. “Even if I contest the petition, it will avail little.”

“What does your majesty intend to do?” Thum asked.

She met his hazel eyes with a look of implacable determination. Gone were her feelings of resignation, gone her intention to go quietly into exile. Lervan had insulted her in every
way possible as a monarch; he had insulted her as a woman, and now he insulted her as a wife and mother.

“I shall face him,” she said with a voice of steel. “I shall stand before him and force him to steal my crown before the people as witness.”

Thum and Renald exchanged glances.

“Forgive me, your grace,” Renald said in a kind voice, “but that's folly. If you go back, you play right into his hands. He'll have you arrested and silenced forever.”

“Let him try!” But she was nodding as she spoke. “Aye, my lord, you are right in what you say. But if he arrests me, he'll have to do it before the people and on the very steps of the cathedral.”

“You can't go south without an army. That's madness,” Renald said. Then his gaze faltered from hers, and he turned a bit red. “The upland chevards have met again. We've decided not to proclaim ourselves Edonia but to remain a part of Mandria.”

For a moment she knew a ray of hope, but as she gazed into Renald's eyes it died within her. “I see,” she said coldly. “You will give Lervan your allegiance.”

“We shall give the
sovereign
of Mandria our allegiance,” Renald said firmly. “Whether, and until, the throne is won by either you or Duc Lervan, we'll take no sides.”

She wondered why he thought this news would comfort her, but then rallied herself and gave him a nod. “Thank you, my lord. 'Tis a proper decision. The queen should never have demanded such infamy of you. You are right to avoid civil war.”

“Your majesty—”

“The queen came to her upland lords angrily seeking revenge on the man who had wronged her. She did not consider the cost of such revenge, and she deserved the answer you gave her. She deserves it still.”

Renald stared at her with both surprise and dawning respect.

“If your majesty has no army,” Sir Thum interjected
calmly, but with a tiny nod of approval, “you cannot ride to Savroix. 'Tis a noble intention, but a futile gesture.”

She frowned. “Savroix was given into my care by King Verence. I surrendered that responsibility temporarily to Lervan, and he has created disaster. Futile or not, I shall go back.”

“But—”

“I have sent word to my father, asking him to give me the forces under his command.”

“Lindier support you?” Renald burst out in disbelief. “He'll never—”

“I believe he will,” Pheresa said firmly. “Give way, sirs. Lervan has flung a gauntlet down, and I mean to pick it up. There's no other course I can live with.”

Lervan entered the palace chapel with his customary swagger, his cloak swinging from his shoulders, and flung up his hand to stop his retinue. “Leave me! The king's prayers are private ones.”

Bowing, his courtiers and attendants backed out. Lervan listened to them gossiping in the passageway as the thick wooden door was closed. Leaving Sir Maltric to guard it, Lervan walked alone up the aisle, went past the altar, with its snowy cloth and burning votives, and ducked into the shadows beyond. A private door opened for him, and he found himself inside a small robing room, stuffy with the smells of incense and ecclesiastical wool.

Cardinal Theloi, as thin and cold-eyed as ever, rose to his feet. “I thank your majesty for agreeing to this meeting.”

“Well, 'tis damned inconvenient,” Lervan said, tugging off his gloves. “I'm in the midst of a thousand details—”

“Preparing for a coronation is no easy task, but surely the end result is sufficient reward?”

Lervan threw back his head and laughed. “Your eminence
grows more pompous every day. Come, excellency! Let's get to the matter at hand, for I've little time.”

“It concerns the queen—”

“Damn the infernal queen!” Lervan said. “If that's all you want to talk about—”

“She is precisely what we must discuss,” Theloi said sternly. His green eyes bored into Lervan. “She is en route—”

“So I have been informed. It matters not a jot. I've given orders for her arrest the moment she shows herself at the palace. Or in the town, for that matter.”

“I do not believe that would be wise.”

Lervan snorted. “She's a traitor!”

“She's the legal Heir to the Realm,” Theloi insisted. “I have warned your majesty repeatedly that the greatest caution must be exercised in dealing with her.”

“She's a traitor and an abdicator,” Lervan insisted.

“Even accused of both crimes, she still has a legal claim to the throne. It is hers by right of—”

Lervan scowled. “Have your sympathies swung to her?”

“Not at all,” Theloi replied smoothly. “But I am a pragmatist, your majesty. I do not expect problems to vanish simply because I want them to.”

“Take care, excellency,” Lervan said. “I did not come here to be criticized.”

“Then know this: the petition of divorce is not yet finalized. Nor will it be before tomorrow.”

Fury swept Lervan. He was exhausted, and of late more and more obstructions seemed to block his path. “You promised me that the church council would comply—”

“It takes seven months for a petition of divorce to work its way through channels. Both parties must perform certain acts of penance, and carry out—”

“I don't want a lecture about church policy!” Lervan shouted, turning away from the old man. “I am to be crowned tomorrow, and I don't want to ascend my throne shackled to Pheresa!”

“Are these
your
sentiments, sire? Or the Lady Hedrina's?”

Theloi spoke softly, but his barbed questions stung Lervan's conscience.

“You've disapproved of the divorce from the start,” Lervan said. “Even though you know it's best if I am rid of Pheresa forever, you still cling to your religious prejudices.”

“Royal marriages should not be dissolved,” Theloi said firmly. “Your union with Queen Pheresa is your only legal validation for assuming the throne.”

Lervan clamped his hand on the jeweled hilt of his dagger. “Never say that to me again!”

“I merely state the truth.”

“Well, damn the truth! It's exactly this sort of nitpicking legal trickery that constantly undermines me, and I'm tired of it. Pheresa ran away, while I stayed behind to hold this kingdom together. I deserve the crown, and by Thod, I shall have it!”

“No one is saying you should not be crowned tomorrow. No one has worked harder than I, your majesty, to see that come to pass. I merely suggest that you abandon the petition of divorce. Welcome the queen's return. Treat her gently before the people.”

“Bah!”

Theloi frowned. “Her popularity rises anew. Since your majesty levied these new taxes—”

“I'll hear nothing against the taxes,” Lervan said sharply. “How else am I to pay for both the coronation
and
the rebuilding of the palace?”

“Were tribute not still being paid to the barbarians, the royal treasury would not be drained dry.”

“How many times will that be thrown at me?” Lervan asked in exasperation. “The army failed to repudiate the Vvordsmen. I was against a campaign, but you, and my council, all insisted on it. And what happened? Disaster! Now we pay double tribute, thanks to you. Had the matter been handled
my
way, there would be no need for such heavy taxes. Your eminence wastes my time.”

“I beg your majesty's pardon,” Theloi said quietly. “I simply want to make it clear that your popularity has been
damaged by this unfortunate combination of events. The queen, on the other hand, is the chosen Heir, and the people know she is returning. If your majesty's rule is to be a long and successful one, I strongly advise you to make some sort of public reconciliation with her.”

Of course she was popular, Lervan thought bitterly. She'd remained conveniently absent while he was forced to do all the hard work and make all the unpopular decisions, such as the levying of harsh taxes. He intended to levy more before he was through. As for Pheresa, he knew that if she returned, she would undermine his authority and render him a powerless figurehead. He clenched his teeth together, vowing that he would never be a capering consort again.

“I know it is not what your majesty wants,” Theloi was saying, “but sometimes compromises are necessary for the best interests of the realm.”

“If she returned, bringing my heir,” Lervan said with forced calm, “I would follow your grace's suggestion. But her part in the death of my son is unforgivable. I will never take her back.”

“Tomias teaches that forgiveness is the—”

“A pox on Tomias!” Lervan said, and his blasphemy made even the cynical cardinal's eyes widen. “Pheresa will not dare enter the city without her father's support, and Lindier will not give her the army. I've seen to that. The people will neither see her nor know she's been arrested. Officially, I intend to say that the queen is ill and has retired to the cloister.”

Theloi's green eyes had gone frosty. “And if the people do not believe what they are told?”

“They'd better.” Adjusting the folds of his cloak across his shoulders, Lervan flicked the cardinal a contemptuous glance. “Thank you for your advice.”

“I wish your majesty would follow it.”

Glaring, Lervan strode out of the chapel without another word. The cardinal's disapproval seemed to ride on his shoulders, but angrily he shook it off. He was king, and he would make Lady Hedrina his queen, and that was all there was to it. Already scout patrols were searching the roads, with orders to
seize Pheresa and her retinue. Come tomorrow, he would possess everything.

With a gasp, Talmor sat bolt upright, forcing himself awake. The night pressed dark and quiet around him, while the camp slept peacefully in the woods. Breathing hard, Talmor tried to shake off the terrible dream: Pheresa splattered with blood, lying crumpled at his feet, the stained weapon in his hand. With a grimace, he wiped the perspiration from his face. Thod's bones, he thought in despair, it was still going to happen.

He hadn't dreamed this for several weeks, not since the Nonkind venom was purged from him. Consequently, he'd convinced himself that it had been only a nightmare born of the fever, not a real premonition. Besides, she'd survived two, possibly three, assassination attempts at Thirst Hold during the winter, especially if he counted his suspicion that she'd been somehow enspelled or lured into riding into the Nold forest on that fateful day. He even suspected that there'd been an attempt to poison her, but a greedy page sneaking treats off the tray intended for the queen had fallen ill instead. And now that they were traveling southward, they had faced countless dangers, including muddy, almost impassable roads, a river too swollen and swift for barge travel, and throngs of people heading for Savroix to see the coronation, attracting bandits and cutthroats at every bend. All these dangers she had survived, and he'd let himself believe they might yet have a chance to prevail.

Tonight Pheresa's little party camped close to its destination, just under three leagues from Savroix. If they rode out at dawn, and evaded whatever traps surely lay ahead, they should reach the city just barely in time to stop Lervan.

And then I will kill her,
Talmor thought.

Anguish choked him, and he flung aside his blanket to stride out of the camp. The sentry standing guard let him pass without question. Ducking beneath low-hanging branches, Talmor pushed his way through the brush and out to the edge of the woods in sight of the road. A fat, white moon blazed in
the dark heavens. Insects were singing in the wet grass. It had rained in the night, and the air felt fresh and pure.

But he felt tainted and hot and desperate. What was this evil inside him that planned to do so horrible a deed? What lingering contamination from his Nonkind wound still festered in his heart?

For weeks now, his sleep had gone untroubled. Every day he'd driven his body to the limits of its strength and endurance, training himself to fight with his left arm, and every night he'd tumbled into his bunk to sleep the dreamless sleep of total exhaustion. Each dawn, when he awoke, he felt relief, but now he knew he'd been deluding himself.

The dream had returned tonight, on the eve of Pheresa's greatest challenge. Talmor told himself he would not harm her. No force, however dark and magical, could ever prevail on him to strike her down and yet . . . the dream remained as vivid in his mind as though it had been branded there.

It made him afraid, so afraid his entrails knotted, and he wanted to run far from here, as far as a man could travel, and go even farther beyond that.

A soft rustle through the grass startled him. Gripping his knife hilt, he turned swiftly to face the shadow approaching him from behind.

Despite the darkness, he recognized her. The tight line of his shoulders relaxed, but although he dropped his hand from his weapon, inside he felt tenser than ever.

“Is something wrong?” Pheresa asked, her voice a soft whisper.

He stiffened.
Yes!
he longed to shout. Instead, he backed himself against the trunk of a tree and tried desperately to remain calm.

She came closer. “Talmor, what is it? Do you hear something—bandits?”

“No.”

She sighed, halting next to him beneath the tree canopy. He found the intimacy unbearable, for he both longed to put his arm around her and take possession of her lips even as his mind screamed at him to get as far away from her as possible.

“I could not sleep either,” she said in her low, musical voice. He could listen to her speaking forever, and yet . . . and yet. . .

“I must leave you,” he burst out, unable to contain himself. “Forgive me, but I—I cannot complete this.”

“Talmor!” she said in surprise. “Not this again!”

He could not continue for fear he would blurt out the truth. Wildly he strode away, moving blindly, thinking only of getting free of her.

She followed, running out into the open next to the road. At once, he whirled around and grabbed her arm, pushing her back to safe cover.

“Are you witless?” he whispered furiously. “You will give away the whole camp if anyone is lurking nearby and sees you.”

She wrenched free of his grip. “If I am witless, then you have run mad. What is wrong? Speak plainly, and no more evasion.”

He groaned to himself and struggled to find a reply that would satisfy her. They had grown close during their time at Thirst, no longer queen and protector, but friends finding tentative, common ground. He had taught her how to fight, although many disapproved of the queen running about the practice field in leggings like a man, learning to wield both dagger and thinsword. She'd worked very hard to acquire competent skill, although not mastery, of these weapons. In private, they'd dropped all pretense of formality, and if at times their eyes met and held too long, or if he sometimes forgot what he was trying to say simply because he was thinking of how the sunlight spun gold in her hair, well, what of it? She'd given him wealth and a lordly title. She'd given him purpose again as her teacher. She'd kept him from wallowing in despair during the first bleak days following his injury, and he knew her heart was his for the taking. For a few weeks, they'd enjoyed a special time, where it was possible to forget what lay ahead. Every day, he'd yearned to declare his feelings openly, yet caution had stopped him. She was not yet free; once she returned to Savroix she might never be; and
baron or not, his rank would never approximate her own. Oh, Thod help him, right now he longed to pull her into his embrace and kiss her until she was soft and pliant against him, until they were both lost in a kind of sweet madness, whispering soft words that meant nothing and everything to each other.