Free The Queen's Gambit by Deborah Chester Page B

the princess’s face dissipated. She slumped back against her seat as the carriage rolled forward at last. “You are a paltry creature, to trifle with me in this way.”
    â€œI do not trifle with you, Mama,” Pheresa said. “I want to be named Heir to the Realm. Who else is better suited than I?”
    â€œAny number of people.” The princess uttered a sharp laugh. “How could I have brought such a fool into the world?”
    â€œThank you, Mama, for your support and encouragement,” Pheresa said stiffly. “I am always so gratified to receive your good wishes.”
    Dianthelle slapped her. “Enough of your impertinence! How dare you speak to me in that mocking way?”
    Pheresa’s cheek stung fiercely, but she fought back tears of pain. Her anger was a tide of heat that made her want to lashout, to strike back, to jump out of the carriage and never see her mother again.
    Curbing her fury with a will of iron, she glared at her mother, who glowered right back.
    â€œYou prattle of succession, but on what grounds?” Dianthelle asked. “What substantive promises have you from my brother?”
    â€œNone as yet—”
    â€œYou have none,” the princess broke in harshly, “nor will you get any. If Verence hasn’t named you his successor by now, then he never will. You live in a world of dreams and wishes, like a child.”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I succeed him?” Pheresa demanded. “I am capable. I’ve been trained in—”
    â€œTrained? Bah! What know you, except needlework and wounded looks? Despite all the advantages I’ve given you, you’ve accomplished nothing.”
    â€œNothing?” Pheresa echoed, incensed. “I was betrothed to Gavril. I would have been queen!”
    â€œThe past is past. Gavril cannot make you queen now. And Verence will not.”
    Pheresa smoothed her hand across the cloak she wore. “His majesty is fond of me.”
    â€œWhat has that to do with anything? Do you think you will charm him? Successors are not chosen that way.”
    â€œI have been in his majesty’s company these many weeks and he—”
    â€œYes, many weeks, and you have achieved nothing. Nor will you. In truth, girl, you lack the spine for the job. You would lose your throne in a month, were you given it. Verence is not such a fool. He knows he must have someone strong and popular, someone ruthless, someone with brains and wit enough to hold Mandria safe from its enemies.”
    â€œYou have never believed in me,” Pheresa said, frowning, feeling the old hurt she’d lived with all her life. “But I can do much more than you think. And although he has not yet chosen me, neither has he chosen anyone else.”
    â€œHe will soon. He must! The people demand it.”
    â€œI am very popular with the people just now.”
    Some of the color drained from her mother’s cheeks, and again Pheresa felt a small sense of satisfaction.
    But almost at once, a look of calculation entered Dianthelle’s eyes. “You have two courses open to you. Either you must be married, or you must be cloistered. The people would be happy if you were at Batoine.”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œPut your stubbornness aside and think ! At this moment, the people still see you as Gavril’s bride. They will like you less if you marry another. Seclude yourself and keep your popularity.”
    â€œWhat good is popularity if I do not partake of its benefits?” Pheresa replied. “Why should I shut myself away? I want to live now. I want—”
    â€œNo one cares very much what you want, Pheresa. It is better that you be put aside.”
    â€œBetter for whom?” Pheresa asked suspiciously. “What rival of mine do you sponsor? And why can’t you support me?”
    â€œYou have it in your head that I am your enemy, Pheresa, but I am not. You have no chance of getting the throne.