The Queen's Gambit (45 page)

His eyes narrowed at the challenge she flung him, but he said nothing.

“You are the best warrior in this realm,” she said. “Even with your left arm, you should be able to prove yourself at least the equal of other knights.”

“The queen has an exaggerated opinion of my abilities,” he whispered. His face had lost its faint color, and looked gray and strained again.

She knew she had stayed too long, and this argument was doing him no good. But she intended to make her point. “You talk as though my cause is lost, sir. Well, I have not given up, nor will I permit you to.”

“I think I have no choice but to retire from the action, majesty.”

This new cynicism in his voice frightened her. He sounded so cold, so remote, as though everything but anger and bitterness had died in him. This Talmor was not the man she knew and loved. And she did not know how to reach him.

“You speak nonsense, sir, and when you are a little stronger you will feel differently.”

“The queen refuses to face facts.”

“Say nothing to me about what the queen does or does not do!” she said furiously, and both men looked sharply at her. “You heard me talking to your squire about the best way to cajole you, but the queen is tired of using feminine ways to achieve her ends. You have your orders. I expect you to obey them.”

He scowled. “I'm half a man—”

“There's no gain in lying abed and feeling sorry for yourself,” she said sharply. “I tried that, and”—her throat suddenly
choked with tears as she thought of her baby—“it avails nothing save to beget more misery.”

No sympathy softened his expression. “Your majesty's anxiety about her throne is—”

Pears hurried to him and bent low, murmuring rapidly in his ear. Talmor's frown deepened, then he shot her a look that held both startlement and compassion.

“Majesty,” he said in an altered voice, and suddenly the man she knew was back, “I regret what I just said. I did not know about the child.”

Pretending her eyes were not ablur with tears, or that her arms did not ache with emptiness, or that her thoughts did not turn to that tiny grave where it was so hard to believe that Thod's will was always for the good, she lifted her chin with a pretense of pride. “I need you, Talmor, whole or half. You must stay until my cause is won.”

They stared at her, Pears and Talmor both, as though they could not believe their ears. Glaring at Pears, she longed to say,
What did you expect from me if I am not allowed to weep and be gentle with him?

The compassion in Talmor's eyes faded, replaced by anger of a different kind.

In an instant she realized her mistake, but there was no undoing her rebuff of his apology. In her effort to hearten him, she realized she'd acted too arrogant and cruel. And now she'd made him hate her. Despairing, she did not know how to correct her blunder, and so she gave him a curt nod, her eyes awash with tears, and fled.

Reaching her rooms, she waited impatiently while Kelchel went in first to check that all was well. Her bedchamber lay in shadow, and when he would have lit a lamp, she bade him go. Her ladies still slumbered in the adjoining room, and she did not want to awaken them. Dealing so harshly with Talmor had swept her emotions in every direction, and all she wanted at this moment was solitude and privacy.

Stifling a yawn, Sir Kelchel departed for his small quarters just steps away. There were sentry knights posted outside her door as usual.

Sighing, she threw off her cloak. It would be dawn soon, and at this moment the night lay still and cold and somehow at its bleakest. She started for her bed, only to turn away for she knew she could not go back to sleep. Yet if she sat down and waited for day, she would only worry about Talmor. She might even weaken and go back to him.

Both her instincts and intelligence told her she must not do that. Talmor must be allowed to find his own way through what had happened, without her clinging pity. She dared not
state her love for him until he was ready to hear it. All her life she had turned to any mentor or friend she could find to solve her problems for her. But now, because she loved this man, she found herself caring more about his welfare than her own. She understood that he needed time to heal. He could neither protect nor advise her right now. Already she regretted her urge to flee with him into exile. It had been an impulse born of sheer emotion and most ill-considered. Not because he could not abide in Saelutia. There were, naturally, other places of exile. But because she would know herself to be a coward, a failure, and an abdicator, and he would always fear that she'd gone with him because she could find no other alternative. How, she asked herself, could love exist on such a crumbling foundation? They would end up resenting and hating each other, and she did not want that.

She decided that the best way to distract and calm herself was to take action of some kind. She would issue an official warrant requesting the royal treasury safeguarded at Clemenx. If Lervan had not spent that as well as Savroix's treasury, she could use the gold to pay hire-lances. And she would pen orders to her father, directing him to bring her the Mandrian army under his command. Although the Duc du Lindier had always seemed extremely fond of Lervan, Pheresa told herself that a father's loyalty was surely stronger toward a daughter than toward a son-in-law.

With new purpose, she placed her salt purse and dagger on one side of the desk and fumbled in the gloom with a strikebox until she succeeded in lighting the lamp. Someone had filled it too full with oil, and the wick gave her trouble before it finally caught.

A warm yellow glow of light filled her room, driving back the oppressive shadows. Smoking a little, the lamp gave off a pungent oily scent. Here at Thirst, lamp oil was pressed from greasy colberries harvested in bogs. Poorly strained and stored in wooden barrels, it was much inferior to the fish oil imported into Savroix. If the light stealing under their door did not awaken her ladies, Pheresa told herself, the smell of the lamp oil probably would.

Determined to hurry about her tasks before she was interrupted, Pheresa pushed aside the basket of scrolls the priest had sent her earlier. She opened her writing box, took out sheets of parchment and her inkpot, and placed a length of sealing wax alongside the royal seal. With all arranged to her satisfaction, she was drawing up her chair when the sound of a soft plop from the direction of her bed made her turn around.

Something gray and slick, like a gigantic slug, rolled over on the floor and righted itself. Headless, monstrous, no longer than her forearm and twice as big around, it quivered and pulsated, one end of it lifting as though questing for prey before it began squirming right toward her.

Disbelieving, she stared at the soultaker in dawning horror. In an instant, her memories flashed back to that horrible day in Grov, when she had watched a monster similar to this one cut its way into Gavril, rendering him a soulless husk. And now, it was coming right at her, squirming and pulsating its way across the floor with more speed than she believed possible. She stood rooted, unable to move, trapped with a sick sense of fascination and fear.

The thoughts running through her mind were frantic. How came it to be here? How had it found its way past Thirst's walls? In Thod's mercy, how came it to be inside her bedchamber, hiding on her bed, lying in wait for her?

Her mouth opened, and she gasped for air, but could not scream. It was like being in a nightmare, yet she knew she was not dreaming. The presence of evil filled her room, so tangible it seemed to suffocate her. A part of her mind screamed at her to run, cry out for help, get away from it, yet she remained frozen, as though held by an invisible force.

Her heart was hammering wildly, and she feared she might swoon. Yet she knew that if she fainted, she was lost forever.

Not until the creature bumped against the toe of her slipper and began nudging obscenely along the hem of her gown did she succeed in breaking free of her trance. Screaming, she kicked it with all her might.

It went flying through the air and bounced off the wall, landing with a wet plop that released a noxious stench of rot
and filth. Pheresa screamed again, and tried to run for the door. In her terror, she stumbled into the chair, knocking it over and nearly falling with it. By the time she righted herself, the soultaker was on her, climbing her skirts. Reeling back against the desk, she screamed again, and tried to beat off the creature.

“Sir Kelchel!” she shouted just as Lady Carolie flung open the door. “Sir Kelchel!”

The soultaker latched onto her fingers. She felt its slimy surface, the clammy, half-rotted texture of its hide. The evil of it seemed to flow straight into the marrow of her bones as it started up her arm. She shuddered in panic, knowing it would be at her throat in seconds. The countess was screaming. Lady Carolie had fainted on the floor. The sentries rushed into the room with drawn swords, only to stop in horror. Sir Kelchel arrived, his clothes awry, and halted with an oath. None of the men moved to help her.

Pheresa backed into the desk, beating at the creature on her, uttering little moaning screams with every breath, furious that no one came to her aid. Then from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the salt purse lying on her desk.

By then the soultaker had nearly reached her shoulder. If she stopped beating at it, it would leap to her throat.

“Too late,” she heard Sir Kelchel say. “It's got her.”

Furious, she wrenched herself around and seized the purse. Her fingers fumbled desperately with the strings, but there was no time to get it open. The soultaker was sucking at her throat. Using the heavy purse like a leaded weight, she knocked the monster off. The soultaker landed on the desk, rolled, and sprang at her waist. This time she succeeded in yanking open the purse and with an oath dumped the entire contents on the monster.

A shrill cry rent the air, a cry no human throat could make. Writhing madly, the soultaker fell onto the floor. Its gray skin shriveled and puckered from contact with the salt. While it was convulsing and flopping about, Sir Kelchel stumbled forward.

But Pheresa was quicker. She grabbed her Saelutian
dagger—now glowing with a golden light so intense it made her squint—and stabbed the creature again and again.

The last time she struck, yellow fire blazed through the monster, and it exploded in a cloud of ash.

Kelchel recoiled, shielding his face. “Blazing mercy of Thod!”

Coughing, Pheresa straightened upright and tried to convince herself it was over.

“Is yer grace hurt?” Kelchel asked.

Shuddering, she tossed the dagger on the desk and slapped the ashes of the destroyed monster from her wrist and hand. She was trembling all over, filled with disgust and horror and anger.

Stepping over the unconscious Lady Carolie, the countess hurried to Pheresa. “Your majesty,” she cried. “What
was
that thing?”

“A soultaker,” Pheresa said.

The countess uttered a little scream, but although she turned as white as her bedgown, she did not faint. “Quick,” she said to the men. “Send for the physician. Send for the priest.”

“I'm unharmed,” Pheresa said. As she spoke, her gaze went to Sir Kelchel, her sworn protector. He had hesitated. Her safety was at stake, and he had hesitated. As had the sentries. Thinking that this was twice he'd failed her, she glared angrily at Sir Kelchel, who reddened and looked away. To the sentries, she said, “Tell me how Nonkind came to be lying in wait in my chamber.”

Looking disconcerted, the men shook their heads.

“Find out,” she snapped.

Saluting, one hurried off to sound the alarm, while the other searched the room systematically. By now Lady Carolie had revived, but as soon as she gained her feet, she climbed atop a chair, sobbing and calling on Tomias for mercy. The countess, still pale and shaken, her gray hair hanging down her back in a braid, remained close to Pheresa.

“Will your majesty not sit down?” she asked.

Pheresa shook her head. This was not yet over.

Kneeling, Sir Kelchel bowed his head. “Yer grace, forgive me. I could not strike it for fear of taking off yer head.”

She thought fiercely,
Talmor would have pulled it away and then cut it to pieces.
She thought,
I saved myself. With three armed men in the room, I saved myself.
Beneath her anger, she felt a surge of new self-reliance and confidence.

“Majesty,” Sir Kelchel said, pleading as she remained silent. “What else could I do? Forgive me, for having failed ye.”

“We shall discuss this later. Help the man search.”

His eyes clouded, and he rose to his feet like a whipped dog. “Aye.”

“What may I do, your majesty?” the countess asked softly.

“I must bathe,” Pheresa replied, shuddering. “And the room needs airing.” Glancing down at herself, she saw specks of the creature's ashes scattered across her skirts. Fresh repugnance filled her. “This gown,” she said in a choked voice. “Take it away and burn it.”

The countess curtsied, then turned to Lady Carolie and clapped her hands sharply. “Climb down from there and stop your hysterics,” she said. “Make yourself useful to her majesty and attend her, as is your duty.”

“But the room!” Carolie answered fearfully, holding her skirts close. “ 'Tis unsafe!”

“There's nothing here, m'lady,” the sentry announced, his hair ruffled from his search beneath the bed.

Lady Carolie jumped off the chair and ran to order water heated. By now, the entire hold was in an uproar. Pheresa could hear shouts and slammed doors everywhere. Outside in the courtyard below her windows, the cadenced sound of marching feet told her the entire fighting force was being assembled.

Sir Thum arrived, clad only in tunic and leggings, his eyes wide with alarm. In his wake came Sir Bosquecel, limping on his crutch and looking like a thundercloud.

Kelchel went to the commander at once. “A soultaker was in her grace's room, sir. 'Tis my fault it got to her. I was tired and thinking only of the human kind of assassins. Never
thought Nonkind could be lurking about. I've asked her grace's pardon, but she'd be right not to give it.”

Sir Bosquecel growled something to the wretched protector, while Sir Thum studied Pheresa with a frown. “There's a mark on your majesty's throat.”

Reaching up to touch the place, she could not conceal a shudder at how close she'd come to death. “It was hiding in my bed, lying in wait there.” In the darkness, she thought, she had nearly lain down, unaware of its presence in the bedclothes. It could have been at her throat in seconds, and she would have had no defense. She swallowed hard, well aware that even in a lighted room, with a weapon at hand, she'd barely survived. “I was going to write letters at my desk, and it came at me there instead.” She touched her throat again, trying to push the memories away, and lifted her gaze to Thum's. “All these years, since Nether, I have carried salt everywhere with me. The courtiers at Savroix always teased me for it. Had I listened to them, had I ceased to carry it—”

The horror of the attack swept over her anew, and she suddenly had to sit down. They surrounded her in concern, asking questions like quacking ducks, until the commotion made her head pound. She was trembling all over now, unable to stop herself, and furious about it.