The Queen's Gambit by Deborah Chester Page A

Inthiere was no friend, and would welcome a reason to turn against Talmor.
    Had any of the wounded men seen what just happened? Talmor felt the old fear creep up around him. He’d heard no one in the room cry out, yet he lacked the courage to lift his head and see if any of the others were staring at him.
    Ruin took only a moment, he told himself. No matter how carefully a life was built, day by day, little achievement after little achievement, it could all topple in a heartbeat. The first sixteen years of his life had been lived in the agony of missteps, disasters, and secrets. Then had come exile, and the chance to start over. For ten years he’d lived without persecution, achieving his goals little by little, and now. . . and now. . .
    â€œI’ve brought more water,” Pears said quietly.
    Startled, Talmor rubbed his wrist swiftly across his burning eyes. He had keen ears, but Pears had come back so silently Talmor hadn’t heard him at all.
    He squinted up at his squire, and saw the apprehension in Pears’s eyes behind his stalwart expression. Fresh humiliation plummeted through Talmor. Here at Durl, Pears alone knew the truth. Pears, who had served him all his life. “When a servant fears you, a poor master you are.” So had Talmor’s father always said. Right now, Talmor would give anything to wipe that look from Pears’s face.
    â€œI don’t need it now,” Talmor said, referring to the pail of fresh water Pears was holding. “Let it be.”
    Some of the tightness around Pears’s eyes relaxed. “Thought ye might be wanting a drink.”
    Talmor let Pears bring the cup to his lips. He drank, barely tasting the water this time. It was a peace offering between them. No more could be said.
    But as Pears gently eased him down, urging him to lie quiet and go to sleep, Talmor could read his squire’s feelings. It had happened tonight. It could happen again . . . and would. They both knew that now.
    In the morning, Talmor arose stiffly, every joint creakingand sore. His headache had dulled to a faint throb; his ribs made him move stiffly, but he felt no more discomfort than that.
    â€œAye, healing right up, just like always,” Pears said in satisfaction. But he avoided Talmor’s gaze as he said it, and went to fetch warm shaving water and breakfast.
    Talmor understood the deep-seated Mandrian fear of being enspelled or soulgazed. He pretended he did not notice and shifted his thoughts to more important problems.
    Yesterday’s raid had been a disaster. The village was burned to the ground, the fishing fleet destroyed. Nearly all the women and children had been taken as captives, and would never be seen again. Much of the hold had been looted and burned. Lord Pace, his protector, Sir Albie, and three-fourths of the hold’s fighting men lay dead. A handful of knights, some visibly wounded, had been taken captive. The few men who remained included Talmor, Sir Inthiere, Sir Banjermal, and Sir Pentigne, plus a scattering of sentry-rank knights. Two of the wounded had died before dawn, and another, needing his mangled leg taken off, would probably die within hours. The survivors had retreated up into the small fortress, locking themselves in with limited supplies of food and water, for fear that the raiders would return.
    As soon as he’d eaten, and Pears had eased him into a loose-fitting tunic, Talmor sent for Sir Inthiere.
    The reply came back swiftly. Sir Inthiere was engaged with important matters, and Sir Talmor was to report to him.
    â€œNow, now,” Pears said soothingly. “What does it matter if he’s taken charge? Aye, and him the only officer fit and on his feet.”
    Talmor stood up on rubbery legs. “He’s no business taking command.”
    â€œYer not fit to go out. Better to rest and face him later.”
    There was wisdom in what Pears said, but Talmor was filled with a strong sense of