The Queen's Gambit Read Online Free PDF

perform the ritual for her inside.”
    â€œNo!” Pheresa said. “I wish to continue as I have been instructed.”
    â€œVery good, my lady,” the priest said sternly.
    â€œI think only of the lady’s welfare,” Sir Brillon persisted. “She will not think of it for herself.”
    â€œAre you her protector, sir?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo, he is not!” Pheresa said. “And I am quite well.”
    The priest frowned. Behind them, the king had arrived, and the carriages bringing the courtiers were now pulling up inside the square. Knights, country barons, and chevards on horseback began to dismount in some disorder. The prominent citizens of Savroix-en-Charva filed in behind them on foot. Squires and heralds moved discreetly about, trying to marshal everyone into correct order.
    â€œLet us remember that this is a solemn occasion, sir knight,” the priest said to Sir Brillon. “Not a place for courtly niceties and flirtations.”
    Sir Brillon turned scarlet at the rebuke. He belonged to the Order of Saint Qanselm, a sect of particularly fierce fighters who took vows of celibacy and poverty. They were known to be zealots in whatever cause they embraced, and Sir Brillon was no exception.
    His black eyes narrowed with fury as he gripped the hilt of his sword. “How dare you—”
    â€œGood sir,” Pheresa said sharply, swift to take advantage of his blunder, “you have disturbed my prayers, and now you seek quarrel with one of the priesthood. Have you lost your senses?”
    She stared at him in severe disapproval, much aware of the king’s presence nearby. Others were turning to observe the disturbance, and Sir Brillon reluctantly inclined his head. “If my lady will grant me pardon. My intentions have been misunderstood.”
    No, they have not, she thought grimly to herself but said nothing while the priest shooed Sir Brillon a short distance away. Although she had won this small battle, Pheresa knew she did not yet have a complete victory.
    Another priest came forth, this one flanked by yellow-robed acolytes with shaved heads. He offered each of the coffin bearers a sip from a plain wooden goblet, then came to Pheresa.
    â€œThe cup of bitterness and grief?” he asked.
    Pheresa eyed the goblet with distaste. It was black and stained with age. As the man held it up, a whiff of the contentscaused her nostrils to flare. She wanted to refuse, but she was all too conscious of Sir Brillon watching her, of everyone—especially the king—watching her. She’d insisted on playing the role of the mourning bride. Now she had to go through with it all.
    â€œMy lady?” the priest said, sounding surprised. “The cup of bitterness and grief?”
    He would not ask her a third time. She heard murmuring from the onlookers and nodded a quick acceptance of the offering.
    The brew tasted worse than she expected. Concocted of a mixture containing gall, wormwood, and anceit, it burned her tongue. Somehow she swallowed her mouthful and afterwards felt clammy and sick.
    Perhaps such punishment was just, she told herself weakly, holding down a shudder while the cup was taken to the king. She was lying to everyone today, and even worse, lying to herself. Every time she assured herself that she would never have married Gavril, she lied. Even mad and cruel, he’d been worth a throne. She still wanted to be queen with an angry, bitter determination that had only grown stronger during the journey back from Nether. It was all that was left to her. Without it, she would lose completely, and that she could not accept.
    The king coughed hoarsely as though he, too, found the mourning cup foul. Pheresa drew herself erect. She was the niece of the king, and she wanted his throne. He could name any heir he chose, now that his son was dead, and she wanted him to choose her.
    King Verence descended from his carriage. His tunic was a shade of dark