The Queen's Gambit (38 page)

The dream seemed so real in that moment as he held her. He could see it all, could hear the teasing laughter, could feel the joy of each day like sunlight warming the skin. He thought of her smiling in a garden, happy and contented. How she would blossom if only someone loved her for herself.

Her trembling eased, and the rigidity in her body slowly relaxed. Realizing he was holding her too tightly, Talmor
drew back, forcing his dreams away into the black dungeon of no hope, and smiled at her.

“Better?”

She gave him a slight nod and turned pink as she grew aware of his arm around her.

“If she can stand, let's be on our way,” Sir Bosquecel muttered.

At once she looked alarmed, and Talmor wanted to smite the man for frightening her anew. He wanted her to remain quietly where she was until he could be certain the birthing had been stopped, but already the queen was sitting up, awkwardly holding her stomach as she tried to regain her feet.

Helping her, Talmor made sure she was safely upright, then left Pears to steady her while he hurried over to the knight who spoke dwarf.

“Will you speak for me?” he asked the man.

“Aye?”

“Tell these men that I was wrong to slay their comrades unjustly. I ask their pardon for my mistake.”

Missing his front teeth and already battered from too many battles, the young knight looked dubious. “Don't know that I can say all that.”

“Try,” Talmor urged him. “I owe them—the queen owes them—a great debt.”

“Like as not they were trying to carry her grace off, when these Nonkind came at them,” the young knight said, spitting in the bushes. “Don't get too friendly with their like.”

“Just tell them what I said,” Talmor ordered grimly.

The knight took a step in the dwarves' direction, held out his hands, and fumbled awkwardly through the apology.

The dwarf who seemed to be their leader, a wizened old fellow with a face like dried leather and a beard tangled with bits of twig and leaves, tugged at his jerkin and scowled. He said something curt and gruff, then he and his band melted away into the trees as though they'd never been there.

Talmor stared, but saw no glimpse of them and heard no footstep as they retreated. “What magic have they, to vanish so?” he asked.

“Little pagans,” the young knight said, spitting for emphasis.

“What did their leader reply?”

“Well, sir, it weren't too complimentary.” The knight grinned. “Best leave it at that.”

“Sir Talmor!”

He turned at Sir Bosquecel's call and saw the queen walking unsteadily over to her horse. Swiftly rejoining her, Talmor said, “I'll mount, then the men will lift your majesty most gently up to me.”

She looked at him, her mouth trembling a little. “I have caused such trouble,” she whispered. “I shouldn't have ridden out alone.”

“We'll talk of that later,” he murmured to her, aware that she was not herself or she would never have apologized.

He jerked his head in silent command at Pears, who led Canae forward. The big horse was snorting and rolling his eyes. The other horses flung up their heads, ears flicking forward in alarm.

A baying sound from a nightmare filled the air, and with it came the awful stink of Nonkind. As Pheresa screamed, Talmor whirled around and saw the fourth hurlhound charging from the trees. It leaped on a knight and tore out his throat, then sprang after the next man, who stumbled back, slashing and cursing it.

Drawing his sword, Talmor shoved Pheresa toward her horse, but her mare squealed in fright and broke away, galloping off into the trees. The knights struggled to mount up, while their horses tried to bolt after the mare.

In the confusion, Canae reared, nearly knocking Pears off his feet, and Talmor knew he had no chance to get the queen safely mounted.

“Get back,” he told her. “Stay behind me!”

A warning shout made him turn and brace his feet just as the hurlhound came his way. Gripping his sword with both hands, Talmor swung with all his might, and lopped off the creature's head. It dangled by a flap of tough hide, the jaws
still snapping ferociously. Stumbling, the hurlhound hesitated, then blundered toward Talmor again.

Unable to believe it, Talmor stumbled back in horror.

Screaming something, Pheresa suddenly darted past him at the beast.

“No!” Talmor shouted.

She flung the contents of her salt purse on the hurlhound. It reared up and screamed, slinging its bloody head like something gone mad. Talmor pulled her back just in time to save her from being knocked down by the thrashing creature.

“Get back!” he shouted. “Pears, get her back!”

The hurlhound lunged crazily next at Sir Bosquecel. Mounted, the commander leaned low from his saddle and swung his sword in an effort to finish taking off the hurlhound's head, but the monster dived under his horse's belly and ripped it open.

Screaming, the horse reared and fell over, bringing Sir Bosquecel down with it before he had a chance to kick free of the stirrups and jump clear. Held pinned beneath his dying horse, Bosquecel cried out in pain, and the lurching hurlhound closed in on him.

Talmor ran at the creature from behind, knowing that he couldn't get there in time to save the commander. His sword seemed to be of no use anyway.

And suddenly, in his fear, urgency, and rage, the fire coiled within him. It filled the palms of his hands and flashed heat through his head and body. Long ago, he had sworn an oath that never again would he willingly unleash his curse on another. After that terrible day when he hurled fire at Etyne, determined to repay his older brother for taunting him; after he knelt screaming at his burned brother's side and inhaled the sickly stench of charred flesh and clothing; after he gazed into Etyne's eyes and saw their agony, Talmor swore to Thod that never again would he use this power by choice. It was too horrible a thing, something no mortal could properly control. And although Etyne had lived, the incident had cost Talmor his home . . . and his father's love. But now, he knew he had no stronger weapon than fire, no other way to save a life. Seeing
the hurlhound pounce on Sir Bosquecel, Talmor broke his oath and let the fire go.

The hurlhound should have exploded in a huge puff of ash. It should have been torched, set on fire, and destroyed by the force Talmor unleashed. Instead, he saw the flames engulf the monster, blaze up with such intensity that everyone stumbled back, raising their hands to shield their faces. He saw the hurlhound crouch low as though it meant to topple over, then it jumped to its feet, restored and whole again. It absorbed the fire into itself until the flames vanished completely.

Red eyes blazing, it grew larger than before. Shaking itself like a wet dog, it threw back its head and howled an unworldly cry that sent shivers up Talmor's spine. Wondering what he had done, Talmor stared at it in horror.

The creature stared back, then came at Talmor impossibly fast, much faster than it had moved before. Realizing his attack had only strengthened it and endowed it with perhaps greater powers of destruction, Talmor swung his sword at it, determined to kill it or be killed. But it was too quick for him. Leaping above his swing, its huge paws hit his shoulders and knocked him back. Sprawling, Talmor hit the ground so hard all the air was driven from his lungs. In the impact, he dropped his sword, and with a desperate twist reached for his dagger. The hurlhound snapped at his throat, missed, and closed its jaws on his arm instead.

He felt a searing pain, so immense, so horrible, that he cried out. The creature shook him the way a dog shakes a rat, and he heard—and felt—the crunching snap of bone beneath the hurlhound's teeth. Agony poured through him, and he screamed again.

Then he slid deep into the darkness—where all was foul and terrible—and could not find his way out again.

A fire was burning on the hearth while a cold winter's rain pelted the windows at Savroix. Snug in the privacy of Lady Hedrina's chambers, Lervan stretched his long legs with a sigh of contentment and held out his cup for a servant to fill with more wine. Drinking deep, he turned back to smile into Hedrina's sated blue eyes. She lay tangled in the bedclothes, one bare shoulder exposed where the sheet had slipped down. In front of the fire, a maidservant was filling a copper tub with fragrant heated water. The whole room smelled of steam, warmed wine, and Hedrina's perfume.

Sliding out of bed, Lervan wrapped himself in a velvet robe and stood drinking more wine. When Hedrina reached out to him, he clasped her hand happily.

“Come back to me, dearest,” she murmured, her voice throaty with invitation. “I feel lonely.”

Smiling, he leaned over to kiss her fingers. “Can't, my sweet. I've duties this afternoon.”

Her full lips pouted. “Can't you dismiss your ministers for the day?”

“But we're planning my coronation,” he said with a laugh, and released her hand.

She climbed out of bed, wrapping herself in a sheet, and came padding to him, all tumbled hair and dark blue eyes, her voluptuous lips parted in invitation.

He took a step back from her, refusing to let her kiss him. Annoyance flashed in her eyes, but he shook his head. “Nay, my sweet, no temper today. My coronation is of vital concern, and every detail must be right.”

She frowned. “I care nothing for your majesty's coronation, since I cannot attend.”

“Now, now, you must be patient. Are you not installed in the palace at last? Does that not make you happy?”

She lifted her gaze to his. “But I long to be with you at public functions, not hidden away as though you are ashamed of me!”

“You know the answer to that. You must be patient. While I remain wed, we must take certain precautions.”

“You are king,” she said, stamping her foot. “You can do what you like. And if I am your mistress, why can I not be part of the court?”

“You will be, very soon.”

“You promised me.”

“And I shall keep that promise,” he said, kissing her below her ear. She arched closer, a wicked smile curving her lips.

He could not resist sliding his arms around her magnificent curves, and inhaled her perfume with a heady sigh. It was a shame to leave her, a shame not to give her all that she desired.

“Stop that,” he said sharply, and pulled away. “You know that I permit you to bewitch me at times, but you will not keep me here when I wish to go.”

“Forgive me. It's just that I adore you so.”

He gestured, and a servant brought him his clothes.

Hedrina watched him pull them on. “There was a time when you could not resist me, Lervan.”

He tugged the laces of his doublet impatiently. “When I am
crowned, my sweet, you will be allowed to rule this palace as you already rule my heart. Now I must go.”

When he left the overheated rooms, still feeling a tug of regret for the duties that called him away, a delegation of guardsmen was waiting in the passageway to escort him to the privy chamber. Lervan strode along easily in their midst, and as they reached one of the public galleries, the smattering of courtiers present broke apart to bow to him as he walked by. He smiled at everyone, but his expression grew a little forced.

There was but a quarter of the court present. Some of the nobles were dead. Some had been hauled away as captives. The rest had fled to their private estates, ignoring his summons back to court on the pretext that bad weather prevented traveling.
The cowards,
he thought scornfully. He knew they feared another attack and preferred to keep their distance from the coast. Well, he'd dealt with the Vvordsmen quickly and decisively, and that was an end to the matter. He did not understand why his nobles remained shaken, nervous, and fearful. The attack had been a dreadful event, aye. But the barbarians were gone, and Mandria would recover from the insult.

As for the missing tapestries, the burned wing of the palace, and the gouges on some of the finest parquet floors, those were mere inconveniences, and they would be repaired.

He ceased to smile the moment he left public view in the gallery and entered his private passageway past the audience hall. Lackeys sprang to open the doors to the privy chamber.

With his thumbs hooked in his belt, Lervan swaggered inside and glanced around at the somber faces present. Dispatch cases and courier bags lay piled atop the desk. Chancellor Fillem was busy unlocking the documents chest to pull out unfinished business from their last meeting.

Lervan sighed, already bored with it all. Being king was supposed to be endless merriment, with banquets and tournaments and dancing and pretty maids all willing to enjoy the royal favor. He hadn't counted on endless meetings, boring talk, numbing details, or petty arguments among the
ministers. Once he was crowned, and enjoyed complete power, he intended to eliminate much of this misery.

Cardinal Theloi, looking thinner than ever and very grave, advanced to meet him. “The king looks well,” he said in greeting.

“The king
is
well,” Lervan announced impatiently. “Well? Let's be at it. I suppose you intend to tell me that the price of silk velvet is now too dear for my coronation robes.”

His little joke brought no smiles.

Chancellor Fillem, Lord Salba's successor but no improvement, was a plump individual with a greasy, pockmarked face and bushy brows. He bustled forward obsequiously. “Your majesty, we have received a communication from Thirst.”

Lervan's patience dwindled yet more. “By that I suppose you mean another message from my wife, still threatening to bring upper Mandria down on us. She's all bluster, as I have told you before. The upland lords refused her, as was only right and proper, and she has no support.”

“Your majesty, I fear this message is of graver importance.”

“What?” Lervan said in mock dismay. “More trouble than my wife? Then let's hear it, man! At least 'twill be some variety from the usual dreary news of civil war and imminent disaster.”

Fillem opened his mouth, but Theloi said, “If your majesty and I might have a private word.”

They moved over to a distant corner of the room away from the others. The cardinal was frowning. “The queen has given birth. I regret to say that the child did not survive.”

Lervan's momentary bewilderment gave way to consternation. “Damne! But it wasn't due until—”

“The queen suffered a mishap and came to her time early. The infant was born alive, but died within the hour.”

Lervan frowned and looked away. He was not sure what to say about it. The child's prospective arrival had not meant much to him until now. “Girl or boy?”

“It was a son, your majesty.”

“My son.” He felt stunned at the thought that there could
have been a boy in his image, tagging at his heels, learning to ride and hunt at his side, growing up manly and tall. “What happened? Has she been ill?”

“We are informed that the queen was unwell when she reached Vurdal. She seemed to recover, but then suffered an accident at Thirst.”

Lervan sent him a sharp look. “Of your planning?”

“No, your majesty,” Theloi replied coldly. “I have informed you repeatedly that my influence does not extend to Thirst.”

Lervan had not forgotten. It just pleased him to hear the old cardinal admit as much.

“I regret, sire,” Theloi continued, “that details are so sketchy. This announcement was issued by Thirst, and my own informants do not—”

Lervan lifted his hand, and Theloi fell silent. “Will she die also?” Lervan asked.

“I do not know the state of the queen's health,” the cardinal replied. “I believe there are concerns.”

Half turning away, Lervan closed his eyes.
Please, Thod, let her die,
he prayed. It would be the answer to so many problems. War averted, no more contention for the crown, and Hedrina appeased, for she would be able to display herself publicly at his side.

Sudden emotion surged through him, rising in a tide that nearly choked him, then ebbed away. He had never hated Pheresa, although his initial interest had crumbled into indifference, then dislike long ago. Now he pitied her, aware that he might have kept his interest in her had she been able to relax and enjoy life the way he wanted to. But she couldn't share, couldn't unbend, couldn't let him rule at her side. She'd insisted on having control of everything, and now she'd lost everything. This news was a relief, in a way, such an easy conclusion to their union.

“Your majesty, may I express the council's deepest regrets at this terrible news,” Fillem said.

Lervan opened his eyes and looked at the man, blinking back the brief moisture of tears. The ministers crowded
around him, murmuring soberly, and Theloi stepped away, giving Lervan the tiniest nod of approval as he did so. Lervan held his gaze a moment, then slid his own away. And inside his heart sang a hopeful little chant:
Let her die. Let her die. Let her die.

A knock on the door interrupted them. A clerk appeared, whispering to Fillem, who turned pale and faced Lervan. “Sire,” he said, “a message has come from King Mux.”

Instantly, the mood in the privy chamber darkened to resentment and fear. “What does that knave want now?” Lervan demanded.

“His representatives are at the gates, demanding more tribute.”

Commotion broke out as everyone started talking at once. Scowling, Lervan said, “Turn them away! We have paid all the tribute we can afford.”

Fillem shooed out his clerk. They waited, with Lervan pacing back and forth. Several of the men were muttering.

“This is an outrage,” Fillem said. “Why can they not be satisfied? Will they ever agree to enough? How can we—”

The clerk returned, perspiring, and said, “They were very angry. They said they will come back in three days for the gold. If it is not given to them, there will be war.”

Late that night, weary to his very bones and half-drunk, Lervan lay in his state bedchamber with Hedrina snuggled at his side. Only one lamp burned, at the far side of the vast chamber. The air felt very cold, and the bed hangings did not entirely keep out the drafts that whistled through the place. Sitting by the door, Sir Maltric snored softly, with his sword across his knees.

Lervan sighed fretfully. “These damned barbarians are ruining everything.”

“Forget them, my dearest,” Hedrina said. “Think only of us, here together at this moment.”

He shrugged aside her comfort. “They will drive me mad with their demands. Do you know that my treasury is nearly depleted?”

“No,” she said in surprise, lifting her head from his shoulder. “How can this be?”

“I am told I spend too much. Well, damne, a monarch cannot be a pinch-purse! Prices are outrageous, and everything imported costs triple this year.” Lervan sighed angrily. “Or so I am informed by my minister of finance. What a worm Ulphonze is, always mewling about accounts. I'm sure that other fellow, Meaclan, had better sense. But where is he? Deserted the court, the craven scoundrel. He probably stole the treasury and sits on it now, counting dreits at night.”

Hedrina kissed his cheek. “You worry too much. Have more wine.”

“I don't want more wine. I'm drunk already,” he said morosely. “I am told that if I pay tribute and thus avert war, I can afford only a pitiable ceremony for my coronation. Or I can spend my remaining funds on a state coronation in full pomp as I desire, but likely I'll be too busy fighting off Vvordsmen to care whether I'm crowned or not. Now, damne, Hedrina, what sort of choice is that?”

“Isn't there another way?”

He snorted in the gloom. “I don't see one. There was trouble enough when I paid Mux the first time. And the complaints that have rained down on my head ever since. Morde! He went away, did he not?”

“Indeed he did.”

“Aye. And it's not my fault if he's threatening to come back again. What can I do about it?”