The Queen's Gambit (35 page)

She realized that Faldain kept the old ways here, in this old-fashioned hold, for lord and knights ate together in common, with even a long trestle table set up at the rear of the Hall for the servants. There were rushes strewn on the floor in here, clearly the most ancient part of the keep. Pikes, swords,
and archaic shields adorned the walls, and proud banners hung from the massive rafters above.

The knights parted to make way for her, and every man present went down on bended knee in her honor as she walked the length of the Hall to the head table.

There, she was seated in the place of honor, to the right of a tall, beautifully carved chair. Sir Talmor stood behind her, watchful and wary among so many strangers. The Hall was cold, and a whistling draft seemed to be pouring right down the back of her neck. She kept herself from shivering by an act of sheer will.

Although this place was crude, the faces staring at her were loyal ones, weathered and pocked and scarred from old battles. These were experienced fighters, warriors to the last man, not puffed-up, primping court daisies. She gazed out at them, warmed by their simple allegiance, and gave them a smile.

Their faces lit up, and they cheered her loud and lustily. Then a staff was rapped on the stone floor, and new quiet fell over the company. A name was announced, but Pheresa's ears were buzzing, and she heard nothing. She clenched her hands together hard in her lap and stared at the man striding up the length of the Hall toward her.

Yes, it was the same easy stride. Those were the same powerful shoulders. He still stood head and shoulders above most men, his black hair flowing to his shoulders, and held back from his rugged, manly face by a narrow circlet of gold. His pale gray eyes flashed to hers, and she felt a rush of emotion she could not name.

“Dain!” she cried out in gladness, and behind her Sir Talmor stiffened.

Faldain came up beside her, clad in blue and gold, his garments made of rich fabric but plain of adornment as had always been his custom. His long, tapering fingers wore but an ornate seal ring and a plain iron ring of marriage.

The sight of the latter sent a pang through her, and she tempered herself swiftly, bringing her feelings back under control. Clutching her Circle with a swift mental prayer for
forgiveness, she forced herself to hope that he was as happily married as she was ill matched.

Smiling, she held out her hand to him. “Faldain,” she said warmly, “how well and stalwart you look. The years have treated you kindly.”

He bowed over her hand, his own warm and rough with calluses. “Aye, 'tis good to see a friend, even if that friend comes in need.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “The need is great. I—”

“Ah,” he said, his gaze moving past her. “The feast is being brought in. Let us dine!”

With the order, he seated himself and banged his cup lustily on the table. The knights sat down on the benches and began banging their cups in unison, filling the air with such a racket Pheresa thought her skull would crack. She sat there, astonished and disapproving, while a line of servants carried in platter after platter of venison, roast, and pig. There were huge bowls of taties and carrots and turnips and knobby rootlike vegetables called poldacs. There were apples baked to a deep red hue and sprinkled with sugar and spices. There were ale and mead and cider. There were pastries filled with savory meats, pastries filled with cream, and pastries filled with fruits and spicy sauces.

It was all plain food, served on platters and huge wooden bowls, most of it still hot from the kitchens, and surprisingly good. Long bored by the artistic creations of her palace chefs, in which every night her supper was teased into the shape of some mythical creature, complete with dyed feathers and jewels for eyes, Pheresa found that she liked plain, hearty fare. Here at Thirst, pork looked like pork, and venison looked like venison. The baby kicked as though it approved as well, and she ate until she hurt; but it was a good ache, and she did not regret it.

After the food, toasts were given, with each man trying to outdo the next. The music was simple and old-fashioned, piping and fluting in merry jigs. She watched the dancing, but soon grew bored by the entertainment. There were few ladies present, and they all looked too awestruck by her to offer her
any conversation. She knew they were eyeing her clothing with avid gazes, and more than ever her appearance displeased her, but Faldain seemed not to have noticed.

When she caught his eye, he leaned toward her with a polite smile, and she said with great seriousness, “We must talk. I have little time.”

“Aye, I know it,” he replied softly beneath the swirl of the music. “But tonight 'tis neither the place nor time. In the morning, my lady, you shall have all my attention.”

Annoyance pricked her. She realized that she was wasting her time tonight.

Yawning behind her hand, she rose to her feet. “Your majesty, I shall retire,” she announced.

Faldain stood up swiftly, and the music came to an abrupt halt. He bowed to her. “Rest well. Sir Thum will see you safely to your door.”

She gave him a perfunctory curtsy, displeased with how smoothly she'd been given a dismissal, and walked away with her head held very high. Her attendants hurried to her, but graciously she allowed Lady Carolie to remain behind and went out with only the old countess at her heels. Sir Thum walked beside her, saying little as he escorted her back upstairs.

At her door, while Talmor opened it and walked inside first to check the premises, she sent Sir Thum a look of appeal. “I must speak to him in private. My concerns are most urgent. Will he listen?”

“Aye, your grace,” Sir Thum said quietly. “He will. I'll come for you in the morning. Good night.”

With a bow, he was gone. Pheresa's frown deepened. Pleasant courtesy aside, she had the impression that Faldain was not eager to offer her the aid she sought. As she walked slowly into her chamber, she felt unsettled by thoughts of his cool reception and failure to give her his complete attention. Another matter occupied his thoughts, she believed, and she did not like being forced to wait her turn.

Was not the throne of Mandria of the greatest importance? She sighed, forcing herself to consider the matter from a
perspective other than her own. Perhaps Faldain did not care all that much what became of her.

“No,” she muttered aloud. “I cannot believe it!”

“Majesty?” Talmor asked.

With a glare at her protector, she turned away, holding out her arms so that the countess could begin undressing her. Talmor exited without a word, and when she was in her bedgown and safely shuttered in the queer, creaky old bed, she lay shivering beneath the fur blankets, and felt afraid.

In the morning, she found Faldain's study a small room with inadequate windows that let in both sunshine and a great deal of cold air. Faldain faced her across a desk littered with parchments, scrolls, old musty ledgers, and assorted maps. His dogs sprawled next to the hearth, snoring. Outside, she could hear an altercation in the stableyard, and somewhere a pig was squealing.

In silence they stared at each other. This morning Faldain was dressed in a tunic of soft gray, with leather leggings and riding boots already splashed with mud. She knew, by the scent of wind and horse on him, that he'd been out early. His pale eyes were keen and alert as they met hers.

“Now, Pheresa,” he said without preamble, dispensing with all formalities, “I've received a spate of letters from you this past month, all urgent. Your situation is dire, I agree, and growing worse, according to the reports I receive. What is it you want from me?”

“Your army.”

He blinked at that, and stubbornness entered his face. “I think not.”

“Dain, I am in desperate trouble. My throne is in jeopardy—”

“Your throne, my lady, is gone. This husband of yours—”

“He is a scoundrel, a betrayer!” she said angrily, pacing back and forth. “Lervan commits treason. His claim lacks any legality—”

“He possesses the throne. That's claim enough.”

She whirled around with a glare. “What mean you by that? I will not accept Lervan's usurpation.”

“You may have to.”

She could not believe what Faldain was saying. She'd expected sympathy and an instant offer of help, not this cool appraisal in his eyes.

“Where, Pheresa, is
your
army?” he asked, resting his hand lightly on his sword hilt.

She stared at the weapon, suspecting it was magically endowed. There was something slightly different about Faldain this morning, as though wearing the sword made him carry himself more erect, more kingly. With his hair braided back warrior-style today, he looked remote and foreign, especially with his prominent cheekbones and slightly pointed ears. He had changed much since she last saw him. No longer was he a raw boy, fresh from his first hard-won battles. This was a man who stood before her, a king in obvious command of himself and his realm. All these years, she'd pitied him a little, imagining him struggling to hold his impoverished, much-troubled kingdom together. Yet this morning he looked calm and at his ease, while she—monarch of a prosperous kingdom—stood here as a supplicant in terrible trouble.

“Will you not answer?” he asked, jolting her from her thoughts. “Where is your army? Why have you no supporters?”

“I do!” she said defensively. “That is, I would if I could get word to them. But—”

He cocked his head to one side. “Where is your army?”

“Fending off Klad raids and seafaring barbarians!”

“And why did you fail to keep a standing army close to Savroix for its defense?”

She angrily averted her gaze from his, yet there was no point in lying or evading his questions.

“Because I thought no harm could come to Savroix,” she said, her voice hard and brittle. “Because the border holds needed additional men.”

“Was this your idea, or the advice of your ministers?”

“My protector thinks it the work of a plot.”

Faldain's brows shot up. “He is a man of intelligence.”

“Of course he is,” she said impatiently. “Faldain, I—”

“In my experience, when a throne is at stake, enemies can be very patient indeed,” he said. “They lie in wait for years, sometimes a generation, before they strike. And sometimes their reach is long.”

“What does that matter?” she asked impatiently. “A solution must be found, and quickly. I must get my throne back before Lervan's foolish claim is made a reality.”

“Then summon your army to you. Call up your church soldiers,” Faldain said, rearranging the maps on his desk. “You have vast resources at your disposal. Why not avail yourself of them?”

“Are you saying you will not help me?”

“You have an army, Pheresa. You do not need mine.”

“But my army is not with me.”

“Then claim it. Go to it. Make your appeal directly to the men.”

She stared at him in bewilderment. He made it sound simple, and she knew it was not. A rush of emotion nearly overwhelmed her. “I—I—you do not understand the situation.”

“Explain it.”

“The church has opposed me since the miracle when I was healed by the Chalice. I cannot depend on church knights for aid.”

“This is serious indeed.”

“Of course it is! I would not have come to you for help had I not been desperate. I—I think my father also supports Lervan. I cannot be sure, but I sometimes suspect it.”

“Is he still a marechal?” Faldain asked in surprise. “I thought him too old.”

“He has not been replaced. Of course, he spends most of his time at court instead of in the field. The other marechals are stationed across the realm. I”—she looked down in sudden shame—“I have not met them.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but this is slack work indeed.”

Her head snapped up. “I have not been queen long, sir! There has not been time.”

“Not time to secure the absolute loyalty of your primary generals?” he asked without masking his scorn. “I wonder at your priorities.”

“Mandria is not like Nether,” she said defensively. “We are secure, peaceful, not constantly at war with all sorts of dangers. Except of late. I expected to meet these men on the day of my coronation.”

“It looks doubtful that you'll see a crowning.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she turned away. “I thought you to be my friend,” she said, hurt and angry. “You, who have had no easy time with your own reign, can surely understand my plight.”

“I do understand it,” he replied, his tone softer now. “What I do
not
understand is how you come to be in such a mess. Your own husband, Pheresa. What sort of cur did you marry?”

“If a man lies and charms all who meet him—if a man professes to esteem, even to love the one bound to him in the sight of Thod . . . if a man swears his allegiance, yet has no honor, no truth, no loyalty in him . . . how can a person suspect until it is too late?”