The Queen's Gambit Read Online Free PDF Page B

burgundy that reminded Pheresa of dried blood, and over that he wore a cloak even darker. His shoulder-length hair hung loose, mostly gray now, and there were dark smudges beneath his eyes. He stared straight ahead at his son’s coffin and neither waved nor spoke nor acknowledged the crowd.
    Pheresa felt her heart break for him anew. King Verence had ridden away to war with his army, only to come homewith a slain son, that handsome prince with so much spirit and promise, who had fallen to such a tragic end.
    Only the king had truly loved his willful son, Pheresa thought with compassion. What a shame that Gavril had been so unworthy of his father’s love. He had broken his father’s good and generous heart. Gavril had died a madman, died in perhaps the most horrible way imaginable, died Nonkind and not human, and still Verence loved him despite his folly and transgressions.
    Pheresa stared hard at the king, willing him to look at her now. He had been kind to her on the journey homeward, kind but increasingly remote. She believed he cared what befell her. Surely he understood that she loved Mandria as deeply as did he. She wanted to be a steward in his footsteps, guiding the realm and ruling it with a just and compassionate hand.
    But now, standing here, with Sir Brillon waiting to take her away forever, she wondered if she’d misjudged the king’s interest and favor.
    An order rang out, and the drumbeats stopped. The palace guards strode forward in unison to line the steps on either side of the carpet.
    The king’s protector, grim-faced and vigilant, spoke quietly in his master’s ear, and Verence visibly pulled himself together. His shoulders straightened. His head lifted. Something regal flashed in his eyes, and he stepped forward.
    As he approached the steps, a line of youths emerged from the cathedral, swinging braziers of incense that filled the air with colored smoke and cloying fragrance. Pheresa disliked the smell of it, but it was better than the stink of Gavril’s coffin.
    As Verence passed Pheresa, he glanced at her but did not speak.
    She curtsied to him. “Majesty,” she said, but her voice was too soft.
    He turned away, striding quickly up the steps and into the church. His protector followed close on his heels.
    Another order rapped out. The coffin bearers started slowly up the steps, the incense smoke writhing around them.Pheresa followed. The carpet felt warm and soft beneath her cold, numb feet, welcome indeed.
    Inside the cathedral, however, the carpet ended and the stone floor proved to be icy cold. The gloomy interior was filled with shadows that made her stiffen instinctively. Wishing she could rid herself of her lingering fears and horrors, Pheresa reminded herself that there was nothing of Nonkind to harm her in this place.
    A draft blew past her, and despite the incense she inhaled a whiff of corruption that seemed to mock her self-reassurances. She battled a surge of panic and managed to keep in step with the coffin bearers ahead of her. Gavril was Nonkind no longer, she told herself. He could not rise again under the control of a Believer. When he was laid in his tomb today, he could not shuffle forth tonight and strike her down. He had been burned with holy fire and salted. The Netherans had even immersed his remains in water until he was frozen in ice. Although the ice had long since melted in Mandria’s warmer clime, he remained dead. She must remember that and believe it. She and Verence had not brought Nonkind to Savroix.
    The air pressed damp and still against her face, smelling of incense, lamp oil, and antiquity. It was colder in here than outdoors, and she longed for her cloak and a pair of warm slippers.
    Overhead, the vaulted ceiling soared as though to reach the very heavens. Pheresa walked the length of the nave, then waited while the coffin was slowly lowered onto a stone bier. The bearers turned about, saluted the coffin, then filed past her