The Queen's Gambit (26 page)

Frowning, she attempted to rally from the shock. A dozen questions ran through her mind at once, confusing her. “How?” she asked, feeling stupid and slow. “When?”

“We'd coursed a fine buck in Waiseun Forest, the first sighting of the morning, and he gave us splendid sport. Aye, how well the king did ride, all out, like he used to in the old days. He whooped every time his horse jumped a fallen log. We had a hard time keeping up. And the buck was a wily one, wise and old and full of tricks.”

Pheresa wanted to shake the man. What in Thod's name did she care about a deer? “Go on, man,” she said impatiently. “Tell it!”

“The buck led us well, but after the king's arrow went into him he tired rapidly and went down soon after. We drew up to rest our horses and watch the huntsman pull back the dogs. His majesty was laughing and saying what fine sport it was. He c-called for wine.” The man broke down a moment, then stiffened his shoulders. “It was brought to him in a stirrup cup, but before he bent down for it, he—he twisted in the saddle as though a stone or arrow had struck him.”

“What?” cried out elderly Lord Pelane from among the courtiers. “Do you mean to say his majesty was shot?”

“We thought so at first, by the way he stiffened and cried out in a loud voice. He fell before any of us could help him.”

“Say you that an arrow brought him down?” Pheresa demanded in horror.

“Nay, your highness. We only thought it. But there was no mark on him.” The equerry lifted stricken eyes to hers. “He is dead, my lady. The physician says his g-great and noble heart failed him.”

Around her, people were weeping openly. Lord Pelane stood with his hand across his eyes. Lady Carolie sobbed in the arms of her sister.

Pheresa stood frozen and numb with disbelief. It could not be real, she told herself. The king could not be dead. By now another messenger should be coming to say the king had only swooned, and did not lie dead in Waiseun Forest. She could see Verence so clearly in her mind's eye, revived by now, sitting up and demanding wine.

But such fancies were only tricks in her mind, she realized. The messenger kneeling at her feet had no reason to lie. Yet how could the king's heart fail? There had been no sign of illness in him, no hint of weakness.

Verence had ruled Mandria since before Pheresa's birth. She could not imagine anyone but him on the throne. He'd been so heroic, so bold, so full of vigor and health. Last night he'd laughed and caroused with more energy than usual,
drinking deep and even dancing with Pheresa so boisterously she grew dizzy and had to stop.

Even if she could not believe it, there was no way to deny it. Verence had ridden out at dawn with vim and spirit. He would not ride home.

It was Sir Talmor who knelt first, Sir Talmor who said in his deep voice, “Long live the queen.”

Her courtiers and friends looked startled, but they quickly knelt around her, each of them repeating the words.

Pheresa accepted their homage numbly, while from the chapel a bell began to toll solemnly.
The king is dead,
she thought.
I am the queen, the queen, the queen. Dear Thod preserve me, for I rule Mandria now.

People began streaming out into the gardens, guardsmen and ministers and courtiers and servants. Some wailed in honest grief. Others called out prayers. Still others shouted her name. In the growing confusion, Pheresa was conducted swiftly back into the palace, to be met by her chancellors and highest officials, all looking very grave. One by one, they knelt to her, pledging their allegiance and loyalty.

Then she was led to the throne in the privy chamber. She sat down, her heart hammering wildly, her face aflame with a rush of emotions she could not describe. There were guardsmen everywhere, as though someone feared for her safety during this transference of power.

A bishop came and spoke to her at length, saying a prayer over her that she did not hear. She was talked to, and asked to make decisions about whether the army should be ordered forth to support coastal and eastern holds before the terrible news was sent to all corners of the realm. She could not think, could not assimilate it all. Her head was buzzing. She felt cold, and when the royal seal was solemnly placed in her hand, she gripped it with such white-knuckled determination that her hand soon ached.

And when she could take no more discussion of treaties or how to avert possible war or funeral preparations or the schedule for her coronation seven months hence or speculation on what illness had felled the king with such sudden
finality, she rose to her feet. The babble fell silent as she stood there, white-faced and shaking.

Without a word, she fled the privy chamber, half-blind and trembling, forcing her way out without heed for where she was going. Although she sought the privacy of her own apartments, instead she found herself steered into the passageway leading to the king's chambers. She stumbled across the threshold in a kind of dazed horror.

Two sitting rooms, an immense bath, a dressing room as large as her entire apartment, and the royal bedchamber. How spacious, nay, vast everything was, how lofty the ceiling overhead. The bed, enormous and canopied, with heavy hangings embroidered with gold thread, stood in the center of the room with a low fence around it and ample room for the courtiers who usually came each morning to observe the king when he rose from slumber and took his breakfast.

Instinctively she tried to retreat, for no one wandered unbidden into the king's private apartments. He would be brought here, she thought wildly. His body would lie in state in this bed, and the court would file through, observing the final rites of passage before the state funeral.

But it seemed she was mistaken. Her servants were already at work arranging her belongings. She saw her sewing box, her lute, her case of poetry scrolls, her clothes chests. Everything lay scattered and disordered, and confusion reigned between her servants bringing her belongings in and the king's staff hastily taking his possessions out.

“No!” she wanted to cry out. “Do not remove his presence like this. Do not strip him away!”

But her throat seemed incapable of uttering a sound. The servants stopped their work to curtsy to her, and dismay filled her as she realized she could not seek refuge here, nor anywhere. Her head felt light, and she longed to lie down in private for a few minutes of rest. She needed to weep for Verence, needed to grieve, but she could not do so openly.

In despair, she turned to Sir Talmor, who stood, as always, just behind her.

He bent his head to her at once. “What may I do?”

Gratitude swept through her. He always understood what she needed. He never wasted time with foolish questions.

Her eyes filled with appeal, and then she frowned and shook her head in silent answer. Slowly, she turned back to the servants, all of whom stood staring at her with shocked eyes and pale countenances.

She stood silently in the vast bedchamber and forced herself to face the realities before her. How suddenly life altered its course. When she first came to court—young, naive, and ambitious—she'd worked hard for the prize she wanted. She'd survived court intrigues, poison, imprisonment, and war on foreign soil. She'd had her heart broken and learned to love again, learned to feel passion's force and its sweet aftermath, learned to live with the kind of hurt that nagged and festered. She'd felt life quicken inside her womb and in the new year she would know the wonder of bringing forth a babe into the world. And now, a man she'd admired and respected, a man she loved more than her own father, would smile at her no more, would dance with her no more, would lose his temper, shower her with gifts, and defeat her at chess no more.

Her throat began to ache. How she longed to hear Verence striding through the passageway. But he would not come in shouting for his slippers, or his bath, or his wine cup, or his supper. His return would be silent, cold, and still.

With stinging eyes, she thought of this morning, when she'd been so angry at Lervan for treating her ill. And now, Lervan did not matter at all. He was a tiny speck, a single detail among a myriad of others, and she must move past him to the new world that awaited her.

Queens do not cry,
she thought to herself while she fought to hold back tears.
Queens do not hide in their rooms to indulge in weakness and tears. I must never run away like this again.

Oola came cautiously, almost fearfully, across the large room and curtsied very low. “Is—is the queen ill?” she whispered.

Pheresa blinked and lifted one hand to her cheek. Her face
was dry. Her eyes were still stinging, but she had vanquished her tears. “No,” she managed to say. “The queen is well.”

She retreated into the passageway, then lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Back she walked to the privy chamber.

The conversations there broke off at her sudden entrance. Everyone bowed, and Pheresa walked through the clusters of men to reseat herself on the throne. Her hands gripped the carved arms as though she would never let go. She could feel her heart racing beneath her breast. Her head was still aching, but she ignored the discomfort as she stared at the men before her.

No longer was everything a blur. She still felt overwhelmed and unsure, but now she was determined not to show it. They had seen weakness in her already, she thought. It made for a poor start, but she would remedy her mistake. They would never see weakness again.

As for Verence's council, whom in it could she trust? Her gaze went first to Meaclan, for he had proven himself a worthy ally. And Chancellor Salba could be relied on, although he was getting old. Who else, she wondered, would give her the advice she needed and not take advantage of her inexperience?

In her absence, a courier had arrived with dispatches from one of the holds. Was all well there, she wondered, or had another raid struck at her coast? How much longer until the season grew too cold, and the seas too rough, for these attacks?

Panic swept over her anew, but she held it back and, with a sigh, took a little courage from Lord Salba's sympathetic gaze. “Let us begin afresh, my lords,” she said to them all. “We have all suffered a great shock, but we must strive to continue in a manner that does honor to my uncle. Let us go slowly and deal with one matter at a time.”

They bowed, and she searched their expressions for hints of who would prove to be friend and who would prove to be enemy. The greatest challenge of her life had begun.

“Lord Salba,” she said, “you will determine which matters are most pressing and which can wait.”

The old Duc de Clune stepped forward with a jerky bow.
White-headed and stooped with age, he spoke gruffly, “Perhaps best if the queen waits for Duc Lervan to return. No need in being hasty with these matters. Her majesty will need—”

“Her majesty seeks the guidance of her counselors,” Pheresa said in an icy rage. She glared at Clune, determined to quell his suggestion at once. “The queen does not need her consort's advice or assistance.”

Silence fell over the room, and Pheresa's angry gaze swept their suddenly wary faces. She recalled that Clune had always caused Verence trouble, and the old duc was wasting no time in giving her the same attention. She would have gladly booted him from the room had it been possible. At least, she told herself, he was not foolish enough to argue further.

But she knew more trouble along this line was to come. Anger curled inside her, burning through her stomach. Lervan again, she thought. How could the man manage to stay at the center of so much trouble?

Her gaze returned to Lord Salba. “Please commence.”

Along the narrow, filthy streets twisting through Savroix-en-Charva's heart, a cloaked, hooded figure hurried through the deepening, late-afternoon shadows. Now and then he paused, pressing himself into the dark recess of a doorway to peer back the way he'd come.

No one followed him.

He hastened on. In the Street of Knives, he passed ragged men grinding new edges on daggers and fish knives, swept past shops selling blades of all kinds, dodged the peddlers hawking wares, and ducked around a corner into the darkest, gloomiest, oldest part of the city. The noise behind him grew fainter. No one walked this unnamed street save he, and he quickened his pace, counting doors beneath his breath until he came to the seventh past the corner.

He stopped, glanced around furtively, and rapped on the weathered door in the prearranged signal.

Seconds later, he was admitted by someone who kept well back in the shadows. The cloaked man hurried through a
passageway to an open door, and descended a flight of rickety wooden steps into a dank, cold cellar. It stank of mildew and rats. When he stepped onto the uneven stone floor, his boots crunched on black beetles scuttling in all directions.

He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light in this gloomy place. Across the cellar, a figure emerged from the shadows and beckoned to him.

Hesitating, the cloaked man put one hand surreptitiously on his dagger as he obeyed.

The figure waiting for him was a Gantese agent, short in stature, with a narrow face and eyes that burned like coals. His robes were brown and old, much stained by wear and travel. He smelled of ashes, and his hands were filthy with soot as he lifted them in a foreign gesture of greeting.