The Queen's Gambit (4 page)

No, they have not,
she thought grimly to herself but said nothing while the priest shooed Sir Brillon a short distance away. Although she had won this small battle, Pheresa knew she did not yet have a complete victory.

Another priest came forth, this one flanked by yellow-robed acolytes with shaved heads. He offered each of the coffin bearers a sip from a plain wooden goblet, then came to Pheresa.

“The cup of bitterness and grief?” he asked.

Pheresa eyed the goblet with distaste. It was black and stained with age. As the man held it up, a whiff of the contents
caused her nostrils to flare. She wanted to refuse, but she was all too conscious of Sir Brillon watching her, of everyone—especially the king—watching her. She'd insisted on playing the role of the mourning bride. Now she had to go through with it all.

“My lady?” the priest said, sounding surprised. “The cup of bitterness and grief?”

He would not ask her a third time. She heard murmuring from the onlookers and nodded a quick acceptance of the offering.

The brew tasted worse than she expected. Concocted of a mixture containing gall, wormwood, and anceit, it burned her tongue. Somehow she swallowed her mouthful and afterwards felt clammy and sick.

Perhaps such punishment was just, she told herself weakly, holding down a shudder while the cup was taken to the king. She was lying to everyone today, and even worse, lying to herself. Every time she assured herself that she would never have married Gavril, she lied. Even mad and cruel, he'd been worth a throne. She still wanted to be queen with an angry, bitter determination that had only grown stronger during the journey back from Nether. It was all that was left to her. Without it, she would lose completely, and that she could not accept.

The king coughed hoarsely as though he, too, found the mourning cup foul. Pheresa drew herself erect. She was the niece of the king, and she wanted his throne. He could name any heir he chose, now that his son was dead, and she wanted him to choose her.

King Verence descended from his carriage. His tunic was a shade of dark burgundy that reminded Pheresa of dried blood, and over that he wore a cloak even darker. His shoulder-length hair hung loose, mostly gray now, and there were dark smudges beneath his eyes. He stared straight ahead at his son's coffin and neither waved nor spoke nor acknowledged the crowd.

Pheresa felt her heart break for him anew. King Verence had ridden away to war with his army, only to come home
with a slain son, that handsome prince with so much spirit and promise, who had fallen to such a tragic end.

Only the king had truly loved his willful son, Pheresa thought with compassion. What a shame that Gavril had been so unworthy of his father's love. He had broken his father's good and generous heart. Gavril had died a madman, died in perhaps the most horrible way imaginable, died Nonkind and not human, and still Verence loved him despite his folly and transgressions.

Pheresa stared hard at the king, willing him to look at her now. He had been kind to her on the journey homeward, kind but increasingly remote. She believed he cared what befell her. Surely he understood that she loved Mandria as deeply as did he. She wanted to be a steward in his footsteps, guiding the realm and ruling it with a just and compassionate hand.

But now, standing here, with Sir Brillon waiting to take her away forever, she wondered if she'd misjudged the king's interest and favor.

An order rang out, and the drumbeats stopped. The palace guards strode forward in unison to line the steps on either side of the carpet.

The king's protector, grim-faced and vigilant, spoke quietly in his master's ear, and Verence visibly pulled himself together. His shoulders straightened. His head lifted. Something regal flashed in his eyes, and he stepped forward.

As he approached the steps, a line of youths emerged from the cathedral, swinging braziers of incense that filled the air with colored smoke and cloying fragrance. Pheresa disliked the smell of it, but it was better than the stink of Gavril's coffin.

As Verence passed Pheresa, he glanced at her but did not speak.

She curtsied to him. “Majesty,” she said, but her voice was too soft.

He turned away, striding quickly up the steps and into the church. His protector followed close on his heels.

Another order rapped out. The coffin bearers started slowly up the steps, the incense smoke writhing around them.
Pheresa followed. The carpet felt warm and soft beneath her cold, numb feet, welcome indeed.

Inside the cathedral, however, the carpet ended and the stone floor proved to be icy cold. The gloomy interior was filled with shadows that made her stiffen instinctively. Wishing she could rid herself of her lingering fears and horrors, Pheresa reminded herself that there was nothing of Nonkind to harm her in this place.

A draft blew past her, and despite the incense she inhaled a whiff of corruption that seemed to mock her self-reassurances. She battled a surge of panic and managed to keep in step with the coffin bearers ahead of her. Gavril was Nonkind no longer, she told herself. He could not rise again under the control of a Believer. When he was laid in his tomb today, he could not shuffle forth tonight and strike her down. He had been burned with holy fire and salted. The Netherans had even immersed his remains in water until he was frozen in ice. Although the ice had long since melted in Mandria's warmer clime, he remained dead. She must remember that and believe it. She and Verence had not brought Nonkind to Savroix.

The air pressed damp and still against her face, smelling of incense, lamp oil, and antiquity. It was colder in here than outdoors, and she longed for her cloak and a pair of warm slippers.

Overhead, the vaulted ceiling soared as though to reach the very heavens. Pheresa walked the length of the nave, then waited while the coffin was slowly lowered onto a stone bier. The bearers turned about, saluted the coffin, then filed past her on both sides, each man nodding solemnly to her in turn.

She stood at the end of the coffin, her back to the people now filling the church. They took their places with quiet rustles and nervous coughs. She still held the sword, waiting for her part in the ceremony. Sir Brillon had seated himself on a nearby bench among liveried attendants, his eyes watchful. Pheresa surreptitiously glanced at the king's pew, where his majesty now knelt in prayer. She drew in a careful breath. When it came time for her to put down the sword, she was supposed to retreat, but instead she intended to join the king's
side calmly yet boldly, where she would remain. Sir Brillon could not possibly interfere then.

Her plan was simple enough to succeed. She drew in another breath, feeling her heart pounding in anticipation.

On the other side of the church, she saw her parents sitting in state, her father—the Duc du Lindier and a marechal of Mandria—wearing furs and a heavy chain of gold, her mother—Princess Dianthelle—clad in sumptuous gray velvet and ermine, a tiny scroll of Writ clutched in her gloved fingers.

Last night there had been no chance for Pheresa to seek out her parents or speak to them. She had hoped for a message from her mother, but received none. Pheresa was never surprised by her mother's coldness and her father's indifference, but it hurt just the same.

Cardinal Theloi appeared among the high officials now filing into view. Pheresa met his green eyes without expression, but inside she was flooded with relief that he had not placed himself at the king's side. That had been her greatest worry. Now she felt confident that her plan would succeed.

The service began, and she let her mind go blank, refusing to listen until the moment came when someone gestured discreetly to her. She stepped forward, the momentary silence roaring in her ears, and laid the sword across Gavril's coffin. The act symbolized the cutting of their troth, and the relinquishment of her rights as Gavril's bride. A sense of freedom swelled through her. She let her hand linger a moment on the coffin before she stepped back.

Chantsong rose up in pure sweetness, the voices blending and echoing to the vaulted ceiling.

She turned around to face the crowd, her heart pounding and her face hot with anticipation. Now was the moment. She must not falter. Although a strange mist seemed to engulf her, she walked steadily toward the king. Everything faded around her but the sight of his majesty. Each step brought her closer to him, closer to safety.

She bumped into a hauberk with a surcoat of white and black over it. Sir Brillon stood in her path. An elderly priest
was at his side. Smoothly they intercepted her and turned her away from the king's pew. Despair filled her. She wanted to cry out to Verence to help her, but it was impossible. Nothing came from her throat, not even a whispered protest.

“This way, my lady. This way,” the elderly priest murmured, guiding her to a box pew containing several highborn ladies.

Sir Brillon, his black eyes gleaming with triumph, closed the door of the pew and stood there as though to guard it. Two of the ladies glanced at her in curiosity and moved apart to make room for her. Pheresa sank down on the seat. Wanting to cry, certain her face was scarlet, she wrapped her cold feet in the hem of her skirts and fought to maintain her composure. Inside she was drowning. She could not think, could not reason. Fear and despair held her fast.

What was she to do now? Nothing. There was nothing she could do, she told herself wearily.

Now that she'd been foiled by Sir Brillon, what other opportunity would she have of reaching the king's side? None. She knew how the rest of the ceremony would go. The king would enter the crypt to see his son interred, and he would leave by another exit. She would go straight to Batoine, never to be seen or heard from again.

She was shaking so hard one of the ladies next to her put a comforting arm around her shoulders. Pheresa barely noticed. If only Verence had beckoned to her, or even spoken to her outside on the steps.

When she'd been betrothed to Gavril, gaining access to the king was difficult. Now she had no chance at all. She might be the king's niece, but her position at court was once more what it had been . . . very small. She had no powerful allies on her side, no means of influence. Her mother could have helped her, but chose not to.

She forced herself to accept the bitter truth. Had Verence truly wished to put her in favor, he would have done so during their homeward journey. What a fool she'd been, living on false hopes, refusing to see the truth. Even if she'd reached the king's side today, would he have listened to her? Would he
have cared? He could be a kind man, but he was so lost in grief that nothing seemed to matter to him now.

She grew aware of faint whispers beneath the sounds of the service. The ladies next to her murmured comments behind their hands, and several of them cast her swift looks of appraisal.

Pheresa no longer cared if they stared or talked about her. She was finished, her dreams in ruins. Forcing her mind away from thoughts of her imminent incarceration in the nuncery, she sent her thoughts in another, equally painful, direction.

“Make yourself Mandria's queen,”
Faldain had said the last time she saw him, and she'd fastened on that course of action, using it to hold off the numbing hurt of his rejection. Faldain had told her to be ruthless and strong. But she was neither of those things. She was gentle, composed, and dutiful, qualities, she supposed bitterly, ill suited for a monarch.

The sermon ended, and everyone rose. As the prayer began, and the responses were made by the mourners, the bearers carried the coffin down into the crypt. Looking haggard, Verence followed, vanishing with his attendants into the shadows.

Sir Brillon leaned over the short wall of the pew. “The carriage is waiting outside,” he informed Pheresa softly. “Your cloak is in it, aye, and a heated brick to keep you warm. As soon as the king departs, we'll go.”

She heard him through a faint roaring in her ears. Everything seemed unreal now. The unthinkable was indeed happening. The church was stronger than she. It would prevail in this matter, and she was helpless to stop it.

Something made her look up, and she saw Cardinal Theloi staring at her from where he stood near the altar. Their eyes met, and he gave her a tiny nod of satisfaction.

The mists around her cleared, and she felt renewed anger. With it came the determination to thwart him somehow.

Intending to run for it, she reached for the door of the pew. But there was a sudden flurry of activity as a small page came hurrying up the aisle.

Evading Sir Brillon's outstretched hand, the child bowed
to Pheresa and said, “His majesty wants you to come right away.”

Her panic faded in a surge of relief. Stepping out of the pew, she went past Sir Brillon, and when he tried to accompany her, she frowned.

“No, good sir,” she said in a clear voice. “The king sends for me alone. You are not bidden to follow.”

Frustration blazed in his black eyes. Concealing her sense of triumph, Pheresa walked away, keeping her expression calm and quiet, while inside her heart thudded and she wanted to shout aloud.

Thod be praised, the king had not forgotten her after all. She was not to be left in the clutches of the churchmen.

With her spirits and strength restored, she descended the worn stone steps into the crypt. At the bottom, a priest waited with a flaming torch to guide her through the maze of eerie tombs and statues to where Verence waited impatiently.