The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (33 page)

***

Upon Eleanor’s request, Ammar came for a brief visit. He did not stay long. But as he went to leave Eleanor embraced him, thanking him for his gift and for his attentiveness before the marriage. Ammar’s face almost crossed over into a question, but he caught himself.

“Say nothing of it,” he replied. “I, for one, am relieved to have my personal space back. I would concede to you visiting occasionally.”

Eleanor smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said again.

After Ammar departed, Eleanor and Basaal spoke very little but stayed near each other. In the largest window along the wall of Basaal’s sitting room, they sat on the windowsill, looking down over endless terraces of buildings, markets, and houses. For the final celebration, the holy day of purification, the entire city had gone to the streets. Eleanor sat against one wall of the window’s recess, and Basaal sat across from her against the opposite wall, their feet almost touching. The ledge where they were sitting had not yet seen the sun and still felt cold despite the increasing heat of the day.

Basaal stared over the city, more informal than Eleanor had ever seen him. The sleeves on his black shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and his feet were bare. Eleanor looked away from the city, on occasion, to study him; his face, his olive skin, the bright, flax-blue eyes of Marion. He sat with his arms on his knees, his head resting against the white marble at his back, his eyes wandering the lines of the city. Basaal’s hair was messy, and there were shadows under his eyes. Eleanor studied his face as if it were an Imirillian text that she was committing to memory. Some beauty you never want to forget, she thought, remembering Edythe’s phrase, which she had spoken to Eleanor in exuberance almost a year ago.

“What are you studying?”

Eleanor focused on his eyes. “The memory of you, I suppose.”

“I am still before you,” Basaal said, sounding almost irritated.

“Yes,” Eleanor said, looking back towards the city. “You are.”

“Once they call me in to the council,” Basaal said, raising a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes before dropping his hand, “you must make your way quickly through the tunnel. Dantib will be waiting for you at the far end with supplies for your journey, including the dye. You must dye your hair as soon as you are out of the city,” he reminded. “That red hair will be the death of you if you don’t.” Basaal sighed and then spoke again, almost as an afterthought. “The Vestan will not stop searching for you,” he said, “so you must never stay anywhere for long or draw attention to your travels.”

His eyes paused on the gown Eleanor was wearing. It was an ornate ceremonial gown, covered in jewelry and a sash of bright green over blue and gold. The guards must see her prepared for the evening ceremony when Basaal left; one less detail to declare him part of her escape.

“How long do we have to wait now?” Eleanor asked.

“Maybe an hour, probably less.” Basaal played with the calluses on his hand, but his face was not relaxed. “You should rest while you have the chance, for you will be running many hours before you dare stop.”

“Sitting quietly is what I need.”

Basaal considered what she had said. Then he moved gracefully from across the large windowsill to sit beside her, close to the edge of the steep wall, which dropped down into a sequence of small, empty gardens. He leaned his arm into hers, and Eleanor felt as if she could sense the unspoken thoughts circling endlessly in his head.

“I never thought I would say this,” Eleanor said as she gazed almost wistfully over the city, a humorous smile crossing her face for the first time since the missive had arrived the night before, “but you have been a wonderful first husband.”

Basaal elbowed Eleanor softly, but then he lifted her hand in his and kissed it, holding it to his lips for a moment.

“What will happen to you,” she asked, “when they see that I am gone? If your father finds proof that you were involved…” she whispered, the words, and they were difficult crossing her tongue.

“He won’t.”

“Just give me the likely scenario, Basaal.”

Basaal shrugged. “The likely scenario? If my involvement was proven beyond a doubt, I would be tried as a traitor to the empire and be put to death.” Seeing her expression, he laughed, but it was bitter, filled with vinegar. “I will be fine,” he insisted. “Navigating this world is what I have always done.”

He turned his face towards hers, leaning his temple against the marble wall. “The scenario that I hope for is this: you and Dantib make it safely out of the city—bless the seven stars that you do,” he added quietly. “I will be outraged and insulted, along with my father. We will try to hunt you down, sending the Vestan in several directions. My father will watch my suggestions like a snake, so I must play off of his cues.” The calm exterior of his voice was now laced with distaste. “I will then have to plan the march into Aemogen.”

“And what will happen when I have returned to Aemogen, after the Imirillian army has broken through the pass?” she asked, posing the question to herself as much as to Basaal.

“I can’t see that far ahead, Eleanor.”

A knock sounded at the door. Eleanor sat up straight and Basaal dropped his head and muttered something in Imirillian. He moved around her, dropping to the floor, and answered the door, pulling it open wide enough that the guard could see Eleanor, sitting in the window behind him. After a brief exchange, Basaal closed the door again.

“They’re almost ready for me.”

Eleanor did not answer; neither did she look at his face as she slid from the window to the floor and walked across to the bedchamber.

“We only have a few moments,” Basaal said as he followed her inside, locking the doors behind him. Then Eleanor began removing the jewelry on her arms and wrists, placing it on the bed. Basaal stripped off his shirt, slipping on a clean one, covering it with his black jacket. Then Basal pulled on his boots, washed his face, and subdued his hair with his fingers. He opened the locked trunk on the far wall with a small key he wore about his neck. Rummaging around, Basaal pulled out a plain brown dress, a headscarf, gloves, and shoes.

“These would be worn by a herdsman’s daughter,” he explained. “The gloves and shoes will cover your afta dar for the next few days. But wash it off as soon as you are able.” Basaal handed the clothing to Eleanor. “It will be plain, so nobody should notice you if you keep the headscarf pulled forward and—”

“And change my hair color,” Eleanor interrupted, taking the garments from him. She waited until Basaal had turned towards the window, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket, before shedding the colorful, silk garments for the rough brown weave of the long robe. As she did so, she could feel herself turning back towards her role and her duty; she was the Queen of Aemogen, and it was time to return home. The regret she felt for Basaal was steeled against, pushed aside. It had to be.

Her pouch—leather and nondescript—had been readied earlier, and, after Eleanor finished changing her wardrobe, Basaal pulled it out from behind the bed.

“You will have everything you need once you meet up with Dantib. But here are some coins and a little food if, for some reason, you two are separated.” Basaal handed the bag to her, and Eleanor slung it over her shoulder. “I also made sure to place the seeds that I gave you in the satchel.” He looked towards the bed, where Eleanor had discarded the wedding finery. Reaching down, he picked up the unassuming gold bracelet he had given her.

“Take this,” he said.

“But I can’t,” Eleanor replied. “Were I to be discovered with it, I would be suspected a thief.”

He looked at the simple line of gold draped across his hand then closed his fingers around it.

“Very well,” he said. “Will you help me move the table?”

Basaal’s palace had several secret passages and hallways, the most discreet and unknown lay below a stone in the bedchamber, always covered by a rug and his ornate writing table. He had told Eleanor of these passages, and shown her the only key that could open it, the day before.

Just as they were moving the table, another knock sounded at the door.

Basaal called to the guard that he was coming. Then, quickly and quietly, he rolled back the carpet and placed the key through a cut hole. Eleanor heard a click, and the stone shifted, lifted by a small spring beneath it, allowing Basaal to lift it up and open the wooden door below. His hands worked carefully, his eyes watching the door.

“I can’t give you a light,” he whispered. “But trust me, just follow the wall with your left hand. It will lead you to Dantib within a few minutes’ time.”

Eleanor knelt down opposite Basaal, staring into the dark hole between them.

“I will ask a blessing on your safe journey every day,” Basaal promised, his expression more earnest than she had ever seen before. Then he stood before she could respond. “Give me your arms,” he directed.

Basaal clasped his hands around Eleanor’s wrists. Words, things she could say, did not come. Instead, she leaned forward, feeling him catch her weight as she hung free. Basaal’s final look was one of decided determination.

Then he let go.

Eleanor fell into darkness.

Preview of Book Three of Imirillia

The Wanderer’s Mark

In loss the Illuminating God declares a journey. His mortals release their loves, just as the desert is stripped of its beauty, and they, His children, are hollowed and hallowed. For loss is His sanctifier.

—The First Scroll

Chapter One

Eleanor hit the earth with a jolt and fell against the wall, her cheek striking the stone. The square of light which led to Basaal and his life disappeared as Basaal put the stone back into place. Eleanor was left in complete darkness. She reached out and touched the stone wall. It was slippery, and damp.

Basaal had told her to follow the wall with her left hand. What if she had been turned around in the fall and went the opposite direction? Her instincts told her to go left, so she placed her hand on the wall and began to move, pushing away any thoughts of what could be occupying the darkness. Several minutes passed, then Eleanor came around a corner, where she could see a soft glow in the distance.
Dantib.

Eleanor moved down the tunnel. When she reached the corner, she looked around it carefully. Dantib was there, hunched against the stone, waiting.

“Eleanor?” he said as he saw her. Her name sounded strange in his heavy accent.

“Yes,” she said as she stepped out before the stable master.

The old man stood, slightly hunched, and motioned to her. “I will tell you more once we have left the city. For now you must follow, quick and close.”

***

Basaal was at war, but it was a war with himself as much as it was a war with his father. The covenants of his Safeeraah were wrapped around him like the strong roots of a tree; while they held him up, they also tied him in place. Basaal now felt that they called for opposing actions.

How could he treat with Aemogen in honor—the honor the Illuminating God required of him—tied as he was by covenant to his father, when he could not condone his father’s current course? And was loyalty to the empire the same as loyalty to its emperor, even as the emperor crossed every line given by the Illuminating God?

Shaamil had separated himself from the religion—he did not practice any form of prayer, he neglected any devotion save public display, and he had exiled the prophets from Zarbadast when Basaal was a boy—enough so that Basaal was still surprised his father had honored Eleanor’s claim to marry Basaal. The emperor thought he could manipulate Basaal more effectively with her alive, no doubt.

“Are you ready to be purified?”

Basaal jerked his head up. “Come again?” he asked.

Ammar had just come from his apartments, meeting Basaal in the general corridor of the main palace. There were several servants passing around them, bowing wordlessly, giving space to the two princes.

“Are you ready for one more tedious ceremony?” Ammar asked.

“I’ve never minded ritual,” Basaal answered, still distracted.

“No, you haven’t.” Ammar fell into step beside him. “What is Eleanor doing while you’re away?” he asked. “Raiding the archivist’s hall?”

“Eleanor?” Eleanor was beneath their feet now, making her way through the tunnels of Zarbadast. “She is unwell today, doubtless from all the festivities,” Basaal answered.

Ammar frowned. “What are her symptoms?”

“Ah—” Basaal ran his fingers through his hair. “A general tiredness is all.”

***

It was an extensive maze of tunnels that ran beneath the palace. And Eleanor wondered who else besides Basaal knew of them—or used them. Dantib must have memorized the route, for she could see the careful attention evident in his face each time he stopped, as if he were trying to remember the correct way through.

Though his movements were agile, he was a very old man. The torch that he held was small, but its light was bright on his gnarled, knotted hand, testifying to years over years of work.

She did not know how long they had been moving through the tunnel, but he finally stopped and motioned towards a dark square above them.

“It is unlocked,” he whispered. “All that you must do is press the wooden door up, and it will give. I will help lift you. Then you must drop the rope down for me. Be quiet as you can.”

He dropped the torch, smothering the embers with his foot. Eleanor blinked in the darkness, looking up. She was now able to make out lines of light around the trap door above her head. A sound from farther down the tunnel echoed towards them, and the muscles in Eleanor’s body gripped her bones.

“A rat,” Dantib whispered.

Her eyes were now adjusted to the dark, and Eleanor could see he had laced his two hands together, motioning for Eleanor to place her foot between his hands. Doubting he could lift her, Eleanor did as he asked, pushing up and steadying herself against the tunnel’s ceiling.

The wooden door was close, and with a bit of effort, she pushed it open as Dantib held her steady. The rich smell of spices filled Eleanor’s lungs, and she grasped the edges of the stone floor above her, pulling herself up despite the tight strain in her shoulders. Catching her breath, she could feel the hard stones against her knees.

She reached forward in the dim light of what appeared to be a storeroom and found a small rope with a loop at one end. Lowering it into the tunnel below, she gripped it with all her strength as Dantib’s weight pulled the rope taut. Dantib reached up—first, with a single hand, then, two—hanging onto the edge. He seemed unable to bring himself up any farther. So Eleanor dropped the rope and grabbed the old man’s wrists, careful not to make any noise as she hoisted him up into the storeroom.

Once Dantib was free from the tunnel, he shut the trap door and locked it. Meanwhile, Eleanor looked around them. The room was filled with spices, crates and barrels of spices. It was kept cool, and little light trickled in.

Dantib motioned for Eleanor to help him as he rolled an old, faded rug over the door, then they shifted several barrels to cover it. When all was back in place, the entrance to the tunnel was completely concealed.

“Where are we?” she whispered, out of breath.

Dantib motioned for her to be quiet and lead her up a stairway to the ground floor. They passed a small, barred window, and the stable master removed a pebble from his pocket. Standing on his toes, he lifted his hand up and dropped the pebble through the bars. The sound of soldiers could be heard in the corridor above and Dantib froze, waiting for the footsteps to pass. Once the hallway had quieted, Dantib nodded and led Eleanor down the hall, pausing at the corner, and looking around it carefully. Peering over Dantib’s shoulder, Eleanor could see the front doors of a building. They were open, but two guards stood on the street, talking to each other and watching the people. She could also hear more soldiers, moving in a room nearby.

Eleanor was petrified as she waited for Dantib to do something, but he just stood there watching the street then looking down the hallway behind them. Someone laughed, and Eleanor heard footsteps approaching. The muscles in Dantib’s face shifted, and his eyes returned to the front gate. Just then, a man riding a horse appeared outside on the street. It was the guard, Basaal’s guard, Zanntal.

Eleanor allowed herself a slight feeling of relief as Zanntal motioned to the soldiers at the door, calling them over to him. The men stepped a few feet into the street, and Zanntal kept them occupied with a description of supplies he needed for a royal feast. So Dantib and Eleanor flew around the corner just as another soldier came into view. They slipped silently out the entrance, behind the guards, into the busy, festival-filled street. Eleanor looked back once at Zanntal, but he paid them no attention. Pulling her headscarf down over her face, she let out an anxious breath and followed Dantib. They lost themselves in the city.

***

The ceremonial council—and its purification rite—was to be held in a large room in the main palace. In only a matter of moments, the brothers had all assembled, speaking amongst themselves until Shaamil entered the room.

Basaal watched as his father took his seat at the head of the long table. They had not truly spoken all week, and he was uncertain if the hint of goodwill exhibited after the wedding ceremony still held. The emperor’s face was unreadable, but his eyes were active, scanning the faces of his sons as they took their seats. Emir sat opposite the emperor, the remaining brothers—Ashim, Arsaalan, Ammar, Kiarash, and Basaal—flanking both sides.

When all were seated, Emir stood and began the ceremonial council.

“Who is it,” he began, “that has come to swear himself to the Illuminating God, the empire, and the emperor?”

“It is I,” the brothers responded simultaneously.

“And who is it,” Emir continued, “that comes on this day of purification to make himself clean before the same?”

“I,” Basaal said alone.

“Then, let us begin.”

***

The smells of the street were fair and foul: spices; refuse; crowds of people; vendors, calling out their wares; bright colors; and laughter. Today was the largest festival of the year, and not only did all of Zarbadast turn out but, as Basaal had said, many people had also come in from the provinces to buy, sell, and celebrate.

Eleanor’s simple brown clothing did not call attention, for it was poor in comparison to what she saw around her. Dantib held her by the elbow, guiding her through the crowds, following a path that crossed the busiest streets.

“How much time do we have before they begin looking for us?” Eleanor asked in a side street that Dantib led her down.

“The prince said we would have, at the very least, one hour, at the very most, three,” he said. “Almost an hour has already passed.”

Eleanor pulled again at her headscarf. “What is our plan?”

“There are many travelers in and out of Zarbadast today,” Dantib explained. “We must leave through the east gate and reach the eastern rock lands before nightfall. Our horses are waiting a handful of days outside of Zarbadast. Are you prepared to travel all night?” He peered in her eyes for a moment.

“Yes,” Eleanor said, her heartbeat up her throat as she looked around the jumble of the marketplace they were passing through. “Just show me where to go.”

Dantib grabbed Eleanor’s hand, and they fled through the endless maze of stairs and streets, moving towards the East.

***

“Basaal?”

Basaal shot his head up like the flick of a whip’s end and looked into the eyes of Emir.

“Pardon?” he asked.

“The correct answer would be, ‘Yes, my Lord Emperor.’” Emir’s tone was impatient. Evidently, seven days of celebrations had worn on the first son, and he had little tolerance now for this final ritual.

“Yes,” Basaal said as he nodded towards his father, repeating the words with all the steadiness he could muster, “My Lord Emperor.” Shaamil paused, his eyes on Basaal, then turned his attention back to the words that Emir was speaking.

The ceremony continued, and Basaal shifted from the uncomfortable emotion in his chest, the hollow pounding in his ears threatening to undermine his warlike state of mind. But the fear gnawed at him that at any moment Eleanor would be reported missing. Basaal again tried to give himself over to the words of the ceremony. But it was another failed attempt. His thoughts could not leave Eleanor for a moment, and he felt strange, as if he had defeated himself and lost his center.

“
Honor for Imirillia, Honor for Imirillia, Honor for Imirillia
,
and blessing upon her emperor,
” the brothers repeated together. Basaal joined late in the chant. No one seemed to have noticed.

“Basaal,” Kiarash hissed.

Basaal blinked and looked up. They were all staring at him.

“It’s time to make your covenant to the empire,” Emir said.

“Yes, I was—I was thinking,” he explained. “I was preparing myself.”

Basaal stood in place, his hands clasped before him and his head bowed, and repeated the ceremonial phrases. He remembered all the words, but his mind was still with Eleanor, who should have slipped from the palace storehouse by now, into the streets of Zarbadast. As he spoke, he thought about how they would run down into the markets, weaving amongst those there to observe the day of purification. Then Dantib would lead Eleanor to the east gate and out onto the busy road, where merchants, travelers, pilgrims, and revelers would be pouring back and forth in a busy stream of celebration.

He finished speaking his pledge and knelt on the ground beside the table as a silver bowl was placed before him. Pushing his sleeves back, Basaal dipped his hands into the water, washing them in symbolic promise of cleansing himself to honor God, empire, and emperor. Then Emir handed him a towel, uttered a final blessing, and it was over.

Kiarash clapped Basaal on the back and helped him stand, which dissipated his dreamlike vision of following Eleanor from the city. The noises of the room flooded his ears, and Basaal finally felt present. Each brother congratulated him, and Kiarash made a comment about being the only brother still unmarried.

“Aside from Ammar,” Kiarash rushed to add. “Not that he could get a girl if he tried.”

Ammar did not look entertained. Shaamil rose from his chair at the head of the room and actually smiled as Ashim said something to him that Basaal could not hear. Then he walked to where Basaal stood and extended his hand. “You have taken upon yourself the covenants of cleansing necessary to fully commit to God, empire, and emperor,” he said. “May you have the honor to keep them.” Basaal took his father’s hand and nodded. Then Shaamil continued. “Your seriousness in this thing pleases me.”