The Queen's Gambit (31 page)

Talmor's fingers closed over it. His heart was pounding. Swiftly, he glanced past the old man to see if anyone had noticed their exchange. The other men were dispersing. Clune, Talmor saw, was already gone. No one was paying him and Salba any attention.

He looked into Salba's eyes. “Where—”

“There is another way out of the palace, known usually only to the king and someone he trusts.”

Talmor's breath caught in his throat. “Known to King Verence, and now . . . only you?”

Salba nodded.

“The queen does not know of it?”

“Her majesty has much to learn,” Salba said in a soft voice. His brown eyes were intent on Talmor. “What danger lies in this path, I know not. Perhaps none. 'Tis so secret it has hopefully been long forgotten. It leads into the forest.”

Excitement leaped inside Talmor. “Perfect.”

Salba's hand closed on his wrist in caution. “I pray that it proves so. Keep her majesty safe, sir knight.”

“I swear it with my life,” Talmor answered.

A shout was raised outside the privy chamber. Talmor stiffened, and he and Maltric reached for their swords as one man. Those few still remaining in the room stepped back as Talmor and Maltric rushed for the door. Reaching it first, Talmor eased it open.

A page came flying up the passageway, shouting, “My lords! They're coming! They're coming! They've reached the park.”

Cursing, Talmor spun around and looked back at Pheresa, standing within her husband's arms. She was weeping, and Lervan was dabbing at her tears, murmuring endearments to her.

Jealousy twisted inside Talmor, but there was no time for that. With no pretense of courtesy he walked up to the queen and interrupted what her husband was saying.

“Your majesty, there is no more time. We must depart.”

“Your majesty,” Salba said, “I beg a final word with you.”

“Come, chancellor,” Lindier called to him from the door. “Leave them to say their farewells in private.”

Salba frowned, looking frustrated, but Lervan, it seemed, had finished with the queen.

He kissed her cheek hastily, flourished a bow, and with a jaunty wave strode out with Lindier. Salba limped after them, but instead of leaving, he shut the door swiftly on their heels and locked it.

Pheresa and Talmor exchanged a quick look. She frowned. “My lord, I—”

Salba hurried back across the room. “Your majesty, quickly.”

He reached behind a tapestry. Talmor heard the creak of a hidden door swinging open. A scent of mustiness rolled into the room.

Pheresa was staring. “What is this passage? Where does it lead?”

Salba came out from behind the tapestry. His ginger blond hair was ruffled on one side. “It leads, your majesty, outside the palace.”

She took a step back. “To the catacombs? To the clutches of the priests? I thank you no, my lord!”

“There's no time to argue. Your majesty must hurry.”

“The priests are not my friends! Cardinal Theloi—”

“Even Theloi does not know of this passage. The king and I alone held this secret.”

Talmor attempted to shoo her toward the passageway. “The queen must hurry—”

“Where does this lead?” she asked Salba suspiciously.

“Your majesty, I assure you that—”

“Where, my lord?”

Lord Salba sighed. “To the ruined church of the Sebeins.”

“What?” Her gaze flashed from him to Talmor. “Know you of this?”

Talmor's own suspicions were aroused. He glared at the chancellor. “You said this passage led into the forest.”

“Does not the forest lie behind the ruin?”

Pheresa was sputtering questions, and with a scowl Talmor tried to soulgaze the old man. But Salba's brown eyes slid expertly away from his. Talmor sensed nothing from him, as though something shielded the chancellor's thoughts and emotions.

“Nay, majesty!” Salba said urgently. “Put aside your fears. 'Tis no trick. On that, you have my word.”

“But what connection lies between the throne and those—”

“The passageway happens to emerge there. Nothing more. That's why the old ruin has never been pulled completely down.”

“But the Sebeins—”

“I cannot explain all the secrets now. There are worse evils in this world than theirs.” With a placating gesture, Salba unlocked a massive wooden chest and began taking out documents hurriedly. “They won't be there. Your majesty need not fear that I'm delivering you into their clutches. Time grows short. Your majesty must not tarry. Come!”

Pheresa still looked doubtful, even angry, but Talmor knew it was a risk they must take. Pocketing the iron key, he picked up one of the lamps. Holding it aloft, he stepped cautiously into the narrow passageway and ducked to avoid a curtain of spiderwebs. He saw a small landing, with a flight of steps leading down in a tight, steep spiral. Talmor detected no danger lurking nearby. He glanced back at the queen, who looked very frightened and unsure.

“Come, majesty,” he said.

Despite her obvious fear, it seemed she still trusted him. Her eyes met his in appeal. “Say you that it's safe?”

“Safer than any other way out,” he replied.

She stepped through the secret door, and Lord Salba hurriedly thrust documents and a small velvet pouch into her hands.

“Thod keep you both,” he said gruffly, and slammed the door on them.

Talmor heard the bolt shoot home, and they stood there, locked out of any possible retreat.

Pheresa hesitated on the narrow landing with cobwebs tickling the back of her neck. Her head was reeling with the speed of events, the amount of danger so close. She did not feel that she'd had time to assimilate the shocks of tonight, and now to find that the Sebeins could gain access into the palace anytime they chose both stunned and infuriated her.

She felt frozen, unwilling to move, her ears roaring and her heart a tempest. All this time, she'd believed that Verence loathed the Sebeins, but had there in truth been some secret alliance? Was it similar to the agreement posed to her by Kolahl two years ago? How many secrets about Verence's reign had she yet to discover?

“Majesty, let us hurry—”

“Nay, Talmor,” she said sharply. She was filled with an acute reluctance to descend into the darkness. “I cannot trust this. I fear we shall meet with disaster.”

His golden brown eyes met hers. “We are committed.”

Pheresa shook her head. “Find another way for me to exit.
Break the lock if you must, but I cannot willingly put myself into Sebein hands.”

A frown creased his brow, but he did not argue. Sliding past her in the cramped space, he lifted the lamp higher in an effort to find the catch or mechanism that would allow them back inside the privy chamber.

As Pheresa pressed herself closer to the roughly mortared wall, her gaze fell on the items Salba had handed to her at the last minute.

The documents featured archaic lettering and illuminations drawn in vivid inks across the top and sides of the pages. Each bore the royal seal stamped in heavy wax. With widening eyes, she recognized the charters of rule, Mandria's most precious deeds. Here also was the Treaty of Blood, much creased and worn, almost falling to tatters in her hands, which signified the unification of upper and lower Mandria. And she found the proclamation of her investiture as heir, with Verence's bold signature, followed by her own small, shaky one.

The last item she held was a velvet pouch containing the royal seal. Wrought of gold, it rested heavy and substantial in her hands, perhaps the most tangible symbol of her position and power.

Realization of what Salba had done made her swallow hard. In her fear and confusion, she'd forgotten these precious items, but Salba had made certain they remained in her keeping.
To be captured with her?
She frowned at the thought.
Or to be kept safe?

“Stop,” she said to Talmor.

He turned to her at once.

She met his calm, intelligent eyes with new hope. “My lord chancellor has not betrayed me. I shall go on.”

What emotion—relief or exasperation—flickered in Talmor's gaze? The expression was gone before she could be sure. But being Talmor, he drew his sword in silence, making neither argument nor complaint over her momentary indecision, and descended the steps ahead of her.

Tucking the documents safely inside her garments, Pheresa made certain the drawstrings of the seal pouch were
tied securely to her belt. Keeping one hand on the pouch, she eased down the steep steps one at a time, her other hand braced on the wall. The steps were so narrow her entire foot could not fit on them. The shadows and uncertain lamplight made it difficult to see where she was going. Her balance, already ungainly from her pregnancy, was unsteady.

At last she sat down and lowered herself from one step to the next, around and around, until she grew exhausted. Dust fogged over her, stirred up in a little cloud by the drag of Talmor's cloak over the steps ahead. She fought against sneezing. The stairs seemed endless, and all the while she was thinking angrily,
This is how Kolahl entered the palace, slipped along to my chamber, invaded my dreams. 'Twas no spell at all, no magic, but instead this dreadful passage. If I survive to return, I shall have it blocked up, and the ruins pulled down and buried.

After an eternity, the spiral stairs finally ended. The air was cooler here as they headed along a crude passageway.

In places, it grew so narrow she found it difficult to slip through. They came to more steps, a straight flight this time, not a spiral. She went down them slowly, again using the wall to brace herself, while Talmor hurried ahead to light the way.

Now the air felt very cool indeed. There was an unpleasant smell of dampness and mold, and now and then she had to duck to keep from bumping her head on a support beam.

She began to feel caught in a nightmare, some fantasy that could not actually be happening. She could not be creeping through some dank, beetle-infested tunnel beneath the ground, cut off from her friends, her ladies in waiting, her attendants, her courtiers, her palace guards.

Yet when she had to crouch on her hands and knees to crawl through a space where part of the passage had fallen in, she found the grit on her palms real enough. The sting of perspiration in her eyes was real. The feather-soft run of a spider across her hand was real.

She jerked back, flinging the spider away, and held in a scream.

Talmor glanced back, the lamp glowing in his free hand.
He looked worried but unafraid. His black unruly hair hung over his brow, and a cobweb lay draped across his left shoulder.

He helped her to her feet, steadying her. She glanced down at herself, seeing her garments were now filthy. Some of her hair had escaped its loose braid and was hanging in her eyes. She shoved it back in sudden anger.

She was the queen, not some hapless refugee to be forced from her bed in the dead of night. What trick of fate was this, to send her fleeing for her life down this unknown passageway into an uncertain future? She had no attendants, no servants, no clothes other than what she wore on her back. Chain mail was heavy and most uncomfortable to wear, chafing her in spots. Her boots were designed for riding, not walking, and she was beginning to rub a blister on her heel. And once they emerged from this endless tunnel, supposing they eluded any possible Sebein traps, what then? Where was she to go? Was she to spend the night outdoors in the cold and damp, waiting until the battle was over and the invaders thwarted before she crept back to survey the damage? That these barbarians, these unlettered thieves, should be able to bring her to such a state at all infuriated her.

Mandria was the mightiest, richest kingdom in all the world. Its superb army was unequaled. It worshiped Tomias and served Thod. Pilgrims journeyed yearly to the shrine of Tomias's birthplace in Olmiere. Culture and art abounded under the patronage of educated nobles. She had intended her court to be a center of knowledge, and only yesterday she had met with architects to discuss the design of a great library she intended to build.

How, then, did she—the symbol of so refined a civilization—come to be fleeing ruffians who were burning her city and storming her palace?

A terrible coldness settled over her as she realized that since the day Verence had chosen her as his successor, she had been living a fantasy, believing herself at the pinnacle of life, superior to every other living creature. Adulation on all sides was so easy to believe, so easy to succumb to. She'd been a
fool in that way, letting it all go to her head, forgetting that life is never certain, and all that is golden and perfect is a fleeting gift from Thod, not a daily right.

This,
she thought,
is the reality. This danger. This fear. This anger at having been caught unawares by a wily and clever enemy. I thought I had learned this lesson in Nether, but I forgot it. I must never forget it again, if I live through this night, I must never take my power or my high estate for granted again.

Talmor stopped so abruptly in front of her that she nearly careened into him. He stood very still, his head held at an angle as though he were listening.

She listened, too, but heard nothing. Alarmed, she suddenly feared this dark, unwholesome place and reached into her pocket for her salt purse. Despite the confusion it had been that she chose to carry with her rather than her jewels.

“What is it?” she whispered. “A Sebein trap?”

Her protector glanced back at her, and she saw the lamplight shimmer across the golden surface of his eyes. He looked in all directions, then, without a word, he handed her the lamp and crept forward, holding both sword and dagger in his hands. As always, she was struck by the lithe, predatory way he moved, like no other man of her acquaintance. She imagined a giant lyng cat, flexed and ready to spring, powerful muscles rippling beneath fur. His alertness and intensity made her wonder what he sensed, heard, or knew that she could not determine for herself.

Unwilling to be left behind, she followed him.

He shot her a warning look and shook his head. “Stay,” he whispered.

“I am no dog, to be commanded thus,” she retorted, but kept her voice soft as well. “What lies ahead? Magic? A spell—”

“The end of our path, I think.” He hesitated, glancing above them. “Wait here.”

Fear made her cold. She drew her dagger and found breathing difficult. “Sebeins?”

“Nay, there are no Sebeins here. Their doings are long since faded away.”

“If only I could believe that.”

He eased forward again, glancing over his shoulder only to add, “Please stay here while I check ahead.”

She obeyed, although she did not want him to leave her. Where their narrow passageway ended at a stout door, Talmor inserted an iron key into the door's rusty lock, struggled with it a while, and finally turned it. He pulled the thick, ironbound door partway open, slipped past it, and vanished from sight.

She hesitated only a moment, then tiptoed forward to peer past the door.

A small cellar lay beyond. Clearly it was a musty, long-unused place. Dust-coated cobwebs hung from the beams overhead. An overturned table and some broken stools were the only evidence that anyone had ever been here. Along one wall stood an altar of pagan design. She frowned at it fearfully, but saw no artifacts of heathen worship left there.

Talmor's footsteps tracked across the dusty floor, clear evidence that no one had come here for a very long time. On the opposite side of the chamber rose a flight of rickety wooden steps. Talmor stood at their base, half-crouched and listening. A rat squeaked somewhere, and he spun about with his dagger raised to throw before he stopped himself. He glanced at Pheresa, frowned, and eased one foot onto the bottom step.

The whole structure creaked and trembled under his weight. He hesitated, then returned to her. Taking the lamp, he put it out, plunging them into darkness.

She stood squeezed between his muscular bulk and the wall, and imagined that her thumping heart could be heard. “What—”

His fingers touched her lips, and she fell silent.

“The stairs lead up into the open. Our light can be seen,” he explained softly. “Wait here in the passage until I return.”

“Where do you go?”

“To find our horses.”

He pressed a slim, heavy object into her hand. She realized
it must be the key, and her fingers closed around it convulsively.

“Have patience and wait here,” he said. “I'll be as quick as I can, but if anything goes wrong, bolt the door.”

Impulsively she gripped his sleeve. “Take care,” she whispered.

He hesitated, then eased himself through the doorway and was gone. Pressing herself harder against the wall, Pheresa bit her lip and tried to hold her fear at bay. She listened to the creaking of the steps as Talmor climbed quickly from the cellar, then all grew very quiet. The darkness pressed around her, and she smelled the unpleasant stink of mice.

Her body was trembling with fatigue, and she lowered herself to the ground. Ah, how she ached, especially her feet and low back. Cold air poured into the passageway through the open door, making her shiver. And the waiting grew long indeed.

Doubt crept into her mind. Would Talmor desert her? Had he been killed? Or taken captive?

Numbed with exhaustion and worry, she fell asleep, then woke with a start, disoriented and anxious. The cold darkness oppressed her, and she dared stay there no longer. For all she knew, hours could have passed. Whatever had happened to keep Talmor from returning, Pheresa understood that she was now responsible for her own safety. If she could get away, she must try.

Cautiously, she crept from her hiding place. All was silent and still in the cellar save her ragged breathing. She had never felt more alone.