The Queen's Gambit (5 page)

One look at the king's grim face sobered her high spirits. She curtsied to him in silence.

“You should be here for this,” he said, his voice echoing around the vault. “Together we shall finish it.”

Plentiful torchlight illuminated the area, holding back the shadows. Gazing about, Pheresa gained a confused impression of damp-glistened stone and low ceiling beams. She had never been in the crypt before, the burial place of Mandrian kings. She found the immense weight of history and tradition oppressive.

Verence offered her his hand, and she rested her fingertips lightly on his knuckles as together they walked forward to where the priests and church knights in attendance waited.

The prince's tomb gaped open; the torchlight did not reach far into its black depths. She and Verence halted, but the king continued to grip her hand very hard.

Words were spoken. The sword she had placed atop the coffin was removed. Verence stepped forward and kissed the coffin.

For a terrible moment, Pheresa thought she was expected to do the same. But as she hesitated, Verence took off his cloak,
putting it around her shoulders and holding her close against his side while the coffin was lowered into the tomb. The stone lid closed it with a thud that boomed through the vault.

She flinched, and Verence's grip tightened. His face revealed nothing, but she felt his strong body tremble. Tears shimmered in his eyes.

“Dear uncle,” she said softly, “I am so sorry.”

Verence stared at the stone effigy carved in Gavril's handsome likeness. A muscle worked briefly in his jaw as though he were fighting for control of his emotions. “A waste,” he said gruffly. “A damned, stupid waste.”

Before she could speak, he thrust her roughly away from him and strode toward a flight of narrow stairs leading outside. His protector hurried after him, and with a start Pheresa realized the king was leaving.

Gathering his heavy cloak around her, she cast aside her usual dignity and ran to catch up.

“Your majesty!” she called. “Please—”

The protector blocked her path as the king started up the steps. Someone opened the door at the top, and a shaft of gray daylight plunged into the gloomy crypt.

“Please, lord protector,” Pheresa said urgently, all her fear in her voice. “Let me speak to him.”

“Not now, my lady,” Lord Odeil said. “He is leaving Savroix to hunt. He must have time alone.”

“But the priests are going to cloister me!” she cried out desperately. “Your majesty, please! I don't want to go to Batoine. I don't want to live out my days in isolation or be interrogated for sainthood.”

Verence paused on the top step and looked back at her with a frown. “What is this?”

She held up her hands to him imploringly. “Please let me stay at court. I want only to—”

“Of course you will stay at court.”

Relief made her weep. “Thank you! And may I ask about the—”

“No more now,” Verence said wearily, turning away from her. “I must get away.”

“But, your majesty—”

Verence was gone.

She stood there at the foot of the steps, and felt raindrops splattering her upturned face. Lord Odeil hurried after Verence, and she thought in disbelief,
No one heard this exchange except the priests. Theloi will still do as he pleases.

But then an equerry wearing a burgundy tunic appeared and came hurrying down the steps. “Quickly, my lady. It's starting to rain. I am to escort you back to the palace in all haste.”

Feeling as though she'd been saved from the jaws of disaster, Pheresa put her hand in his and allowed him to assist her up the steps. Together they hurried through the rain around the corner and back into the square. Sir Brillon came running down the steps to intercept them, but the equerry bundled her into a fine carriage bearing the royal crest and shut the door.

Huddled beneath the king's warm cloak, Pheresa wiped the rain from her face and listened to Sir Brillon arguing with the equerry.

“The king said that I am to see Lady Pheresa safely back to Savroix,” the equerry said firmly.

“But she is to leave for Batoine at once,” Sir Brillon protested. “I have my orders.”

“So do I, sir knight. Would you refuse the king's express command?”

Red-faced with frustration, Sir Brillon retreated. Peering at him through the window, Pheresa felt safe at last. If nothing else, she had gained herself a few days' respite. She knew Theloi would not abandon his plan to remove her from court, but now she had time to plan also. Watching Sir Brillon stride angrily away, she allowed herself a smile and turned around, to find herself face-to-face with her mother.

Princess Dianthelle, her legendary beauty undimmed by the years, sat there in gray velvet and ermine, diamonds glittering at her throat and on her slender fingers. She stared at Pheresa with acute displeasure.

“You fool,” she said in a voice that cut. “Batoine was the perfect solution for you. Now you've botched everything.”

The northwest coast of Mandria could be bleak and damp in the spring. This morn, the skies looked black with the ominous promise of storms coming in from seaward, and the waves crashing onto the rocks below Durl Hold were rough and violent.

Sir Talmor, adjutant to the chevard of Durl, kicked his reluctant horse down the treacherous little trail snaking along the cliffs. The fortress of Durl Hold, ancient and still strong despite centuries of being blasted by sea and wind, stood at the top. Overlooking the ocean, the stout walls blended so perfectly with the stone they rose straight and sheer as part of the unassailable cliffs themselves. But despite its strength, the fortress was small and inconvenient. Its keep was tiny, and the accommodations primitive and cramped. The chevards of Durl had abandoned it long ago and built a larger, more modern hold at the base of the cliffs, snugged into a protected spot of high ground between beach and the hills rising eastward. With the fortress available for emergency protection against armed attack, less attention—and coinage—was spent on
building stout walls to guard the new hold. Resembling a small palace, the rambling stone edifice was added onto by each succeeding chevard, so that parts of it remained in a state of perpetual construction. Low garden walls surrounded it, and its turrets were designed to capture the view rather than to serve as lookout points.

There had been a time, in the past, when the fortress had often been necessary. But Mandria's coast was secure. Sentries grew bored on duty in the fortress, watching prosperous merchant ships sailing by on the horizon. Only in the autumn was there any excitement, when raging storms swept in hapless ships to founder and break on the rocks. Salvaging the wreckage gave the village fishermen an extra bit of prosperity to tide them over during the bleak winter months when the sea was an icy monster full of tempests and treacherous currents.

But it was springtide now, with buds swelling the tips of the gnarled little trees that clung precariously to the hillside and cliffs. The sea hollies looked fresh in new green and displayed sprays of delicate white blossoms. Here and there, sundrops growing among the rock crevices poked up their tiny heads in glorious color.

The currents running past the headland had shifted, and the fishing boats had been venturing daily farther and farther into the taming sea. Come sunset, they returned with swollen nets, for in the spring the codni and brill migrated into these coastal waters. At night, laughter could be heard in the village. The folk went to and fro about their business with smiles and quick steps.

But no smiles or laughter today, Sir Talmor thought. No fishing boats out plying the nets today, with death waiting for any man who dared defy Lord Pace's order. Today, they mourned Prince Gavril, as did every hold across the land. The Heir to the Realm was being buried, and due respect must be given.

Talmor sighed. According to the orders in the dispatch brought by courier, the state funeral held in Savroix today was to be observed by every hold and village across the realm. At
noontide precisely Prince Gavril would be laid to his final rest. At noontide precisely, Durl Hold must acknowledge the event. After much thought and stewing, Lord Pace had decided not to use his tiny—and very precious—horde of saltpeter to salute the prince.

“Damne! A waste of good supply,” were his exact words. The saltpeter had been imported at exorbitant cost to blast away some of the granite cliffs so Lady Alda could expand the north wing. Lord Pace intended the stone to be used to finish building a seawall across the harbor. The saltpeter was not going to be blown to the winds in honor of a prince dead and of no use now to his erst subjects.

Instead, Lord Pace had elected to light bonfires on the cliff edge past the fortress. They would shine as a beacon to any merchant ships out to sea. They would look spectacular from the beach. They might even be visible to the shy hill folk, who so rarely ventured to Durl. If the fires weren't visible, Lord Pace asserted, the smoke certainly would be.

Accordingly, he had ordered three bonfires built to exacting specifications. At noontide, on his signal, they would be lit and a prayer spoken. Afterwards, a somber feast of salted fish and flat mourning cake would be eaten, followed by priestly exhortations to consider one's soul. Then all folk would disperse and go home.

There was to be no jousting or games, much to the disappointment of the hold knights. Word was that the village folk were grumbling about the loss of a day's catch, with naught reward to show for such abstinence, but Lord Pace knew what was proper and he had no intention of permitting any activity that resembled celebration.

“The king has watchers,” he'd said, when his daughters moaned against his edicts. “Eyes and ears, alike, reporting to his majesty from everywhere. Aye! We'll do this proper, with the right show of respect. Somber garments. Somber eating. Let the priests have the day to preach us into sour stomachs, if they wish. On such occasions we should eat lightly. 'Tis a funeral, not a feast day.”

A dreary day, Talmor thought, squinting at the sky. The
wind had died, and a fine mist was falling. He could see fog rolling in from Goose Point. The tiny island was already shrouded with gray, just the top of its lone pine visible above the fog. His mood darkened more. After all this fuss and bother about the bonfires, which could have been built on the beach with a great deal less trouble, the fog might well engulf everything. Then it wouldn't matter if the fires were lit or not, for who would be able to see them?

His horse stumbled on the trail, snorted, and took another reluctant step. Loose shale and pebbles shifted beneath Canae's iron-shod hooves, and Talmor pushed deeper into his stirrups, bracing himself and leaning back to keep his balance as the horse went downward.

Lord Pace no longer rode up to inspect the fortress, even in good weather. His joints hurt him on damp, cold days, especially his hips, although he wouldn't admit it. Today, he had sent his adjutant to see that all was prepared according to his orders.

Inspecting bonfires, Talmor thought with irritation, was a job for a squire, not a knight of good rank. Yet Lord Pace was known for ignoring tradition and convention. He thought nothing of ordering his sentry knights to redig the south ditch whenever the pikes on that side of the hold began to topple in the soft, sandy soil. Such a job was for peasants, and caused much resentment in the ranks. Yet Lord Pace did as he pleased, without a thought for morale. It had taken Talmor three years to work his way up to his current position of adjutant. Little had he known that his new status would mean that he was often barked at like a servant. Instead of advising the chevard on matters of strategy or evaluating the training of the men or collecting reports on the strength of the walls or inspecting the armory, he was sent to fetch scrolls or instruct the master of horse as to how the mounts were to be shod . . . or to inspect piles of firewood that were to be torched simultaneously in a matter of minutes.

Talmor tucked his chin lower and tried to quell his rising sense of dissatisfaction. On a day like this, it was hard to consider his blessings and not wish himself in one of the upland
holds, where battle action was a frequent occurrence and there was something
useful
to do. Still, there was a job at hand to be finished, and he told himself to get on with it.

The fog to the south seemed no closer. Talmor hoped it would stay seaward until he reached safe ground. A steep, narrow trail such as this was best used by a goat, not a knight in full armor atop a charger.

As for his suit of mail, the hours spent polishing and oiling it were going to be wasted, for he was certain he would rust ere he reached the ceremony planned for hold and village. His new surcoat, orange and gold in Lord Pace's vivid colors, was splashed with mud and soaked through. Mud dripped from his spurs, and his charger—a big, nervous brute already ill-tempered from being washed and combed at dawn—pawed and balked on the trail yet again. Canae was a fine horse for battle or jousting, but useless as a courser up and down pig trails like this.

Talmor kicked him again, and the horse tossed his armored head, grumbling around the bit as he lumbered down the trail.

A cold, fine mist condensed on Sir Talmor's tanned face, and he shivered in acute dislike of such weather. His mixed, lowlander blood was too thin for this cold, and he felt the winters more keenly than most of the other men. They teased him, urging him to grow a thick beard to warm his jaws, and although he was not a man with a ready sense of humor, he endured the joking stoically. Better to be teased than stoned.

“All's ready, then, Sir Talmor?” called out a youthful voice.

Talmor glanced ahead at one of the beacon boys, standing tall on a large boulder, his flag held ready in eager hands. Four such boys were arrayed on the trail between hold and fortress, ready to pass the signal once it was given.

This particular boy was scrawny and growing like a weed so that his leggings were too short for him and his wrists dangled from his sleeves. His name was Lutel, and Talmor thought he showed promise.

Smiling, Talmor gave him a small salute that made the boy
stand taller, with his chest puffed out. “Keep ready now,” Talmor said. “It's almost time. His lordship wants no mistakes.”

“I'm watchin' below, sir, just like ye ordered. But this rain's about to come in, sure as sure.”

“Fog,” Talmor said.

“Nay, sir. Not in this wind. That be rain comin'. A hard one.”

Talmor frowned seaward. The waters were running green beneath the dark skies, and where the fog—or rain—met sky the horizon was lost altogether. Goose Point was gone from sight now, the pine tree engulfed completely.

At that moment, a finger of unease slid up his spine. Talmor felt suddenly cold to the marrow, as though he'd been plunged in icy water. In that second he could not catch his breath, and in the next he was shaking as though with the ague.

No,
he thought angrily, shoving such instincts aside.
Not again. I'm done with all that.

“Sir?” Lutel asked uneasily. “Are ye ill? Ye look queer about the gills there—”

“Never mind how I look,” Talmor said gruffly. He was furious with himself for this slip. He'd come to Durl vowing never to use his magical ways again, no matter what the provocation. And now, long after he'd convinced himself that he'd finally driven away that part of his heritage, his powers caught him by surprise today, as strong as ever. “I'm not ill.”

But he felt clammy and cold. A light sweat broke out across his brow, and he fought the impulse to wipe it away.

Something is wrong,
he thought, then scowled and tried again to close off such thoughts.

“Sir?”

With an effort, Talmor forced his attention back to the boy, who was staring at him in concern. He believed the boy had been talking all this while, yet he could not recall a word of what Lutel had said.

“Did ye see somethin' out yon?” the boy asked.

Talmor's gaze swept the vista and saw nothing except the sky, the waves, the rain, and a flock of birds blown about in
the wind. Yet his sense of unease stayed with him.
What is out there?
he asked himself. He felt cold, as though standing by his grave.

“Sir?”

“Never mind,” Talmor said, as much to himself as to the boy. “There's nothing to watch for except the signal from below. Now, boy, see that you keep sharp watch for it.”

“But the storm—”

“You leave the storm be. And watch for the signal. That's your job, not watching the weather.”

“Aye, sir,” Lutel said smartly. “No ganderin' off for me. Not today.”

“Good. I depend on you to do a good job,” Talmor said, and rode on.

“Sir!” Lutel called out.

Surprised, Talmor drew rein and glanced back. The boy was gazing seaward, contrary to his direct orders, his flag dipping dangerously close to the ground.

Irritation flashed through Talmor. He twisted in his saddle to glare at Lutel. “I just told you to—”

“Sir! Look yon!”

Talmor ignored where the boy was pointing. He was disappointed in the lad, and drew in breath to give him a sharp reprimand.

“Boats! Look yon! Who be comin' in?”

Talmor's anger at the boy shifted to the fishermen who had defied Lord Pace's orders. “They'll pay for this,” he said darkly. “His lordship gave strict orders against fishing—”