The Queen's Gambit Read Online Free PDF Page A

Conceited and spoiled, Gavril had been unwilling to accept responsibility for his own foolhardy mistakes. Had her fate been left up to him, she’d be damned now, as he was, her soul lost forever and her body a rotting vessel vulnerable to Gantese command.
    The horror of it all swept over her anew, driving chillsthrough her body. She stumbled and nearly sank to her knees. A sigh went up from the crowd. Somehow she righted herself and continued on.
    â€œMy lady,” Sir Brillon said anxiously, “allow me the honor of taking the sword.”
    â€œNay,” she said, striving to keep her fatigue from her voice.
    â€œÂ â€™Tis too heavy for you, and gladly will I carry it in your stead.”
    â€œI will fulfill my duty, sir.”
    â€œYour duty now is to be preserved in chaste sanctity—”
    She glared at him. “Get back from me, sir. Gavril’s sword is for me to carry, not you.”
    Sir Brillon’s black eyes bored into her. His gloved hand reached out as though to take the sword despite her command, but Pheresa stepped away from him and walked on. She kept her head high, but her heart was hammering. He had only to seize her and say she was swooning, and the officials would probably let him carry her away without protest.
    With all her willpower, she ignored her weary, trembling arms and forced herself to keep going. The procession was entering the square now. She had only a short distance to go.
    Sir Brillon kept pace with her. “My lady, I think only of your welfare. The cardinal knew this would be too great a strain—”
    She felt as though she were being boiled. He had the manners of a lout and deserved to be treated as one. “You offend me, sir,” she said in a low, furious voice. “You interrupt my prayers. You defile these final moments with my betrothed. Leave me be.”
    Sir Brillon’s face turned crimson, then white. He said nothing more, to her relief, and fell back a pace. She felt a twinge of guilt for her lie, but only a twinge. If she must play a hypocrite’s part in order to get rid of him, then so be it. She did not mourn Gavril. Had he lived, she would never have married him. But today, the dead Gavril served her better than the live one ever had.
    The avenue widened into a spacious square that served thecathedral. Ringed on three sides by stone buildings carved in both plain and ornate architectural styles, the square featured a statue of King Verence’s grandfather on horseback, holding an upraised sword. As the funeral procession entered, a flock of plump white padegins rose from the paving stones with a loud flapping of wings and wheeled about in the air. Their soft, cooing cries sounded mournful against the solemn drumbeats.
    The bearers of flags and coffin halted at the steps of the great cathedral. The groom leading the beautiful black horse vanished with the animal, his part in the ceremony done. Wishing she, too, could slip away, Pheresa stood where she was supposed to. Her sore feet ached with cold. Her hands felt stiff and cramped from holding the heavy sword so carefully for so long. A splatter or two of rain fell on her head and shoulders. She glanced up, but although the skies had darkened ominously, the rain still held off. The wind felt sharp and cruel, and she shivered in her sackcloth gown. It was as though Gavril’s spirit haunted the day, his anger and petulance reaching forth from Beyond.
    She shook off such depressing thoughts and watched crimson carpet being swiftly unrolled down the cathedral steps. Church officials in gold-embroidered robes and mitres appeared in the doorway, and a priest with a yellow sash and a harried expression approached Pheresa.
    â€œThe ceremony inside has been explained to you, my lady?” he asked her.
    â€œYes.”
    Sir Brillon stepped forward. “I request she be relieved of it. She is overwearied and much disheartened by the strain of the day. Let another