The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) (27 page)

“Have you heard, Wil?” the soldier said.

Wil flinched. “What?” he asked as he took a step back.

“The meetings between the queen and the fen lords are over,” he said. “It’s come to an end.”

“And what have they decided?” Wil asked.

“Aemogen fights.”

Wil swore and, without taking his leave, changed the course of his direction and went straight into the castle. Fen lords were walking down the corridors, greeting Wil, discussing amongst themselves, but they weren’t coming from the direction of the throne room.

“Miya!” Wil grabbed the maid’s arm as she passed him in the crowded hall. “The queen and the others, did they not meet in the throne room?”

“No,” she said as she shook her head. “This evening, they met in the library.”

“Thank you,” he said. Wil took the flight of stairs that led to the east wing of the second floor, passing Thayne with scarcely more than a nod as he hurried by. The door was ajar, so Wil pushed it open.

“Wil!” Crispin said. He and Aedon were standing just inside the door, talking, and Wil had almost knocked them over.

“Crispin,” Wil nodded, just out of breath. “Aedon, is Eleanor here?”

“Yes,” Aedon answered.

They stepped aside, and Wil saw Eleanor, sitting at the end of the long table, speaking in low tones with Gaulter Alden and Sean. Doughlas and Briant were talking with one another at the other end of the table. Eleanor looked towards the door, and her eyes locked on Wil’s.

“They said you’re going to fight,” he said, his voice loud enough that all sound in the room stopped.

Eleanor continued to stare at Wil, unblinking.

He took a step towards her, his hands spread out, baffled. “Your
only
chance of survival is immediate surrender,” he said. “You know there aren’t enough men in Aemogen to battle! What did you tell them, the fen lords, to make them think this was possible? Eleanor?”

There was no audible response from anyone; quiet filled the room. Aedon closed the door behind Wil and followed Crispin back to the table, where they sat down with the rest of the war council. Doughlas and Crispin exchanged a look, seeming uncomfortable, but Eleanor remained still, a thought lingering behind her eyes that Wil couldn’t decipher.

“You don’t have enough men to sustain a position of any kind against the Imirillian army,” he said. “There will be thousands of soldiers down that mountain pass. Aedon is right when he estimates that Aemogen has, perhaps, three thousand men. And what, with only two hundred of them trained soldiers? Your
best
chance is one man against two, and each of those Imirillians will be a battle-hardened professional. They are neither farmers nor merchants nor miners. Accept the terms of surrender, and save your people!” Wil pled with the council.

“We will not surrender our sovereignty,” Eleanor replied. “I am afraid that I cannot give on that point. So, we must find ways to increase our chances of fending off the Imirillian forces.”

“Eleanor, it’s impossible,” Wil said desperately. “Don’t you see?”

“We will not surrender,” Gaulter Alden said, sounding steady and sure. “We will work with the resources we have. Our men are far more ready than they ever have been and will be even more so after they have spent a few more weeks in Ainsley before marching to the pass.”

“Aemogen can still exist as an independent nation, Wil,” Aedon said next. “We simply have to make that happen.”

Wil wanted to pull his hair out. He settled, instead, for pacing, crossing his arms over his chest, biting nervously at his thumbnail, and muttering. “This is madness,” he said as he turned, almost laughing from frustration. “Do you hear yourselves? You’re delusional, all of you! You cannot win! Every man that you send to war will die, and then, so will you, Eleanor.” Wil turned towards her, his voice growing strained. “They will kill you as an example to the people,” he explained. “You will die. Is there nothing that I can say to make you understand? I have seen wars all over the North. What waits at your door is like nothing you in Aemogen have ever imagined.”

“The Imirillian army will march up the pass in a month’s time,” Wil continued, walking forward and leaning against the table, his hands spread out. He stared at the face of every person sitting silently at the table, before pleading again with Eleanor. “And, unless you can bring down the very mountains to block the pass, nothing will stop them!” Wil hit the table with his fist and stepped back, perspiring.

Eleanor looked to Gaulter Alden and then to Aedon. Crispin cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on the table. Sean scratched the scruff on his chin and whispered something to Doughlas.

“What?” Wil said, his question sounding flat as he stood with his hands on his hips. “I can see that all of you have something that you’re not telling me.” Suddenly, Wil registered a thought, an impossibly wild and improbable thought. He looked at Eleanor, who stared at him evenly, looking unapologetic.

“You are going to bring down the mountain,” he said.

***

Eleanor watched Wil as he almost stumbled back, stunned. His eyes traveled around the war council, all of who knew of Eleanor’s plan—all but Wil. Eleanor rubbed her finger against the wood of the table as he continued speaking.

“You’re going to bring down the mountain,” he said again. “That is your plan? You have a way to close off the pass so that the damned could not enter, let alone the Imirillians.” Wil laughed, but it did not sound entirely sane, and his voice broke. “The battle run was more of a ruse than anything. I have been agonizing all summer, almost sick, to think of your people slain—” He laughed again, harsher. “And you have been planning on bringing down the mountain all along.”

“The battle run was not a ruse, Wil,” Eleanor said, quietly. “We needed to know how many men we had, to train them, and to prepare them for any eventuality. It may not work, despite our careful planning. And, the idea only came to me when we were in Rye Field fen,” she explained. “From one of the texts we had translated, actually, the one about being unable to fight against the mountains.”

Wil laughed again as Eleanor continued. “There are old mines, riddling the mountains above the pass,” she said. “But, significant repair work has been needed—”

“Please.” Wil held up his hands. “Don’t tell me anymore.” He seemed shaken, but his eyes were less haunted when he finally looked at Eleanor again. “I’m greatly relieved that you have a means of defending yourself. But, please, spare me talk of any details. It’s something that I do not desire to know. Please, excuse me, Eleanor.” Wil took another step back before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Chapter Nineteen

Wil spent the following morning training with Hastian. The Queen’s Own had sought Wil out, asking for individual training, and Wil was happy to oblige the quiet soldier.

Frustrated and relieved from the evening before, Wil was relentless in his aggression. Hastian tried his best, but he could not fend off Wil’s attacks. Only after Hastian held up his hand, begging for breath, did Wil allow the soldier time to regroup.

“You are the last defense between any threat and the queen,” Wil said, sounding impatient even to his own ears. “I cannot be soft with you.”

Hastian breathed in deeply, kneeling on one knee, looking at the ground. Wil’s thoughts turned to the meeting of the night before, wondering if their scheme was truly even possible.

“I’m ready, Wil,” he said.

“Alright, then.” Wil did not come at Hastian again in straight combat. Rather, he took time to work with the soldier on small details that would improve his efficacy. “Hold your sword like this if someone is coming straight at you,” Wil said, demonstrating. “It will allow you to cut both under and above as needed. Here, like this.”

Wil stopped their spar to arrange Hastian’s hands. “I know it doesn’t feel like much, but it will make a difference when using this particular attack. Ready?” Wil swung his sword in a steady rhythm, counting out loud, reminding Hastian of the best ways to defend his skilled blows. They worked through the exercise several times, before Wil began to build up speed and let himself fight more forcefully. To his surprise, Hastian not only kept up but also improvised, which showed he had been practicing what he had observed during the battle run.

A brief flicker of Eleanor’s determined words from the night before split Wil’s attention, and, suddenly, Wil found himself on the ground, dazed, looking up at a triumphant Hastian.

Cheers and good-natured insults came from the men watching nearby. It was the first time that he had been knocked down in Aemogen. As Wil sucked the air back into his lungs, Hastian offered him his hand and pulled Wil up from the ground. Wil took another breath and clapped Hastian on the shoulder.

“You caught me completely unaware,” he admitted. “Bravo.”

“To be honest with you,” Hastian said, indulging in a modest smile, “I could see that your mind was elsewhere and figured that I would take advantage of the only time I could get you to the ground.”

“Quite right. As you should have.” Wil brushed the dust from his clothes. “Enough for today, I think, Hastian. We’ll do more training tomorrow.” Wil sheathed his sword. “No doubt, I’ll be a bit stiff.”

Hastian met Wil’s eyes, the modest, self-congratulatory satisfaction still in his face, before he turned away, accepting the praise of the castle guard. A messenger boy came running to Wil as he was leaving the training ground, a note in his hands. Wil took the folded paper, rubbing it almost absentmindedly between his fingers. Once he was alone, leaning against the wall of a supply shed, he opened it between two of his fingers, staring at the words before him.

She had written in Imirillian.

“All the sands of Imirillia—” he breathed out. It was not in the formal Imirillian, used for philosophical and scholarly texts, with its stiff articles and rules, but rather the personal form, which is only used between friends or family or in a few conversations inside the Seven Scrolls. It moved him in that cursed way, where someone touches the center of your heart, not even knowing quite what they have done.

The note said that Eleanor wanted him to speak with Edythe, and her request was accompanied by a brief explanation and then by these words: “I realize you would prefer that I did not ask this of you, but I believe it would be of help. Thank you, Wil. Ever, Eleanor.”

He disappeared into the travelers’ house, where he washed, changed his clothing, and reread Eleanor’s note, moving his thumb over her name, before leaving the note lying on the bedside table.

***

“My sister said that you were the one who found Blaike’s body,” Edythe said pleasantly, as if she were asking about something Wil had found at a fair.

Wil sat on a chair, facing Edythe. He held both her hands in his, her knuckles white for how hard she held onto him. He had found her in the records hall, as he knew he would. Sunlight streamed throughout the hall, playing off the colors of the stained glass. The smells of paper and leather permeated the air. And her hands reminded him of Eleanor’s.

“Yes.” Wil gave an empty nod. “I did find his body.”

Hesitating only a moment, Edythe responded. “Tell me what you saw, all the details. I want to know what I can of his death.”

The image of Blaike’s ghost-like face, stilled and frozen, crowded into Wil’s mind. He looked reluctantly at Edythe.

“Are you quite certain?” Wil asked.

She nodded.

“I found his body near the seed hold in the far field,” he said, continuing to hold Edythe’s hands between his, focusing on them and not looking at her face. “It appeared he had been run down by a horseman who’d had a sword or a scimitar,” he explained, pausing before continuing. “His stomach had been cut open, and then he had been stabbed through the ribs. I found him laying on his back, his hand covering his wounds, staring at the sky.”

Edythe did not move for a long time, clasping Wil’s hands, her head bent. Enough time passed for the shadows to rearrange themselves in the room. When Edythe did finally speak, her voice was soft.

“What was the look on his face?” she asked. “Was it only agony or was there any hope of peace?”

“I don’t think he had much time for either,” Wil admitted. “The second strike would have made his a relatively quick death.” Then Wil changed the tone of his voice. “He spoke of you often, during the first time we arrived in Common Field. There was nothing he said that did not commend you in some respect: for your charm, your constancy, or your beauty. It was all I could do to not hear him continually say how much he wanted you to be his wife.”

It was now that Edythe pulled back, as if her hands were stung by these words.

“Thank you, Wil,” she said, “but, I do not wish to speak of what will never be.”

***

Eleanor called all men to Ainsley, and the fen companies arrived within the week. They came somber and uncertain, thinking, she assumed, of their lands and families back home. Rumors of her plan had circulated, but only those directly involved were privy to the details.

“They come with the hope they will never have to lift their swords, that Eleanor can save them,” she’d heard Aedon say to Wil as they watched the men of Aemogen arrive.

If Wil had shown admirable leadership on the battle run, it was with even greater skill and direction that he now organized the camp. Eleanor received reports about Wil’s efforts. Spreading the camp across the Ainsley downs, he had guided Gaulter Alden and Crispin in the placement of arms, tents, and training grounds. The blacksmiths continued to work day and night, making weapons and armor and whatever horseshoes that Sean needed to prepare the cavalry.

In between giving attention to Crispin’s exercises, Wil had worked with Aedon, training archers and overseeing the last of their arrow and bow production. She had noticed that their bond had solidified even stronger than Wil’s easy friendship with Crispin. As the days passed, Wil and Aedon were seldom without each other’s company, discussing, planning, and talking about life far beyond the threat of war. One night, a week before the march to the pass would begin, Eleanor called Aedon to her private quarters, and he sat next to her on the settee near the fire.

“You and Wil have been much together these last weeks,” she said.

“Yes.” Aedon played with a loose piece of braiding on the arm of the settee. “We have moved past our grudging friendship. In truth, I admire him immensely, and we’ve grown in confidence with each other.”

Curious, Eleanor quizzed Aedon. “What is it you speak of?”

Aedon lifted one shoulder and looked at Eleanor. “I suppose we speak mostly of our different experiences and of our views on life, philosophy, and the like,” he said. “He’s a good man, underneath all those edges and flares.”

“Does he ever ask about our plan to bring down the pass?” she asked.

“No,” Aedon said, sounding almost defensive on Wil’s behalf. “Quite the opposite. He eagerly avoids hearing anything of our plans. When a fen rider returns from the mines along the pass with a report, he disappears into camp.”

Eleanor stood and began pacing the room. “I’m worried there’s something we haven’t considered in regards to bringing down the pass,” she said.

“We’ve walked through our plan one hundred times over,” Aedon answered practically.

“Then, indulge me once more,” Eleanor said, gesturing with her hand. “First, the old mines that run through the cliff walls above the pass are almost finished being cleared and prepared. And, ninety percent of all Aemogen’s powder has been moved to High Forest fen—”

“Where it will be placed in the empty mines,” Aedon continued for her. “Within nine days, they will have finished placing the powder throughout the shafts.”

“If everything goes well,” Eleanor nodded, “when we ignite the powder, it will cause the entire pass to crumble in on itself. It will be a full day before the Imirillians are set to invade.”

“If everything goes well,” was all Aedon replied.

“And Doughlas,” she added. “In his last report, he has assured me that the tunnel of Colun Tir is cleared and safe.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The Colun Tir was an ancient Aemogen fortress on the west side of the mountain range that separated Aemogen and Marion. It was forgotten by most, for it had only been used to house supplies for the Aemogen guard, stationed at the pass a handful of miles away. What was not known by most was that during the last wars between Marion and Aemogen, one hundred years before, a tunnel had been constructed through the narrowest point of the mountain, leading from the Maragaide valley in Aemogen to the other side of the mountain, near the Colun Tir fortress, which looked over Marion.

This tunnel had served to smuggle men, weapons, and supplies between Aemogen and Marion without being detected. Its creation had been a long and arduous endeavor, claiming the lives of many who had worked to build the structure. But, it had held firm and strong. Eleanor, like the monarchs before her, had kept its existence and location a secret, except from the few who were assigned to its maintenance, her most trusted councillors, and the fen riders.

“We will go through the tunnel,” she reviewed aloud, “so that when the pass crumbles onto itself, we will be watching any movement of the Imirillian forces below the mountain, on the plain. Once we know that the Imirillians cannot come through, those of us at Colun Tir will return through the mountain tunnel, which will then be sealed off.”

“
If
the tunnel should be sealed,” Aedon ventured.

“Why would we keep it open?”

“Our contacts in Marion,” he said.

“I know, but—” she said, deciding to change the subject. “Your man supervising the preparations in the mines—Tomas is his name, I believe—should we review his report for the day?”

Aedon looked at Eleanor with a funny expression. “We went over all of these details earlier today, Eleanor.”

Taking exception to that comment, Eleanor responded tersely. “Are you accusing me of being too thorough? It’s a bit rich coming from you.”

Aedon raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said, sitting down. “I’m sorry, Aedon. It’s just that—well, why couldn’t I have thought of it sooner? The pass could be down by now, with our men back at home, readying themselves for the harvest, and the Imirillians stuck on the other side of the mountains.”

“It’s well you had the idea as early as you did,” he said. “Come.” He stood, catching Eleanor’s hand and leading her towards the door. “Enough with the din inside your head,” he added. “Our plan is well thought out. Lay your stress down for one hour while we go for a ride. You can see the encampment and fawn over Wil’s wartime brilliance.”

“I have never
fawned
,” Eleanor disputed as he pushed her out the door.

***

Their last week in Ainsley went by fast. The men claimed they were ready to fight, but Eleanor knew that all their hopes were for the success of her plan. As Aemogen’s tradition begged, they planned a large celebration—a dance—the night before the army would ride out to the pass. The thought of dancing did not bring Eleanor pleasure, but plans to gather marched forward regardless; her people believed in joy with their sorrow. Aside from the meetings of the council, where they did not discuss her plan, Eleanor had spoken with Wil only once during the week. She had come upon him in the Ainsley Gardens, now full of late summer color that only just hinted at an early fall.

“The gardens are closed to visitors at present,” she said. She moved a basket, full of cut flowers, from one hand to her other as she stopped before him.

Wil greeted her and then added, “I’d like to think the queen would offer me hospitality.”

“Perhaps,” Eleanor said, looking up at his face. “I have not yet had a chance to thank you for speaking with Edythe. I don’t know what you said, but I believe it was helpful.”