The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (4 page)

“May we speak openly with one another?” he asked.

***

He sat on the low stool, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, looking intently into Eleanor’s eyes. He was so close she could have reached out and touched his face.

“Yes,” she said.

“In short,” he began, “I accepted this conquest because my mother loved Aemogen. Think of me what you will, but I fought hard to buy you six months to surrender, for your sake as much as for mine. If my father or any of my brothers had led the conquest in my place, Mason would have carried the news of an immediate invasion instead of delivering a warning to Ainsley that night.

“Why the deception?” Eleanor leveled in return. “Why could you not have presented the terms in an open explanation?”

“What could I have said?” Prince Basaal countered. “After negotiations failed, you would have taken me for a ransom my father would not have paid. An Imirillian force would have come down and marched into Aemogen, probably not sparing me in the process for having been such a fool.” A flush of color crept into his skin. “I do value my neck, as much as any man.”

Eleanor bit her lip, considering his words. She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the sting of remembering the intimate conversations she had shared with him.

“I have laid awake, cursing you in the dark, searching for the hints of your insincerity while you were in Aemogen,” she admitted. “How simple you must have thought us.”

“No,” he said as he shook his head. “You asked me if I would pledge myself to the battle run, and I committed fully. There was no playing a part in my dedication to that task, no insincerity for you to find, Eleanor. You yourself told me that I was a gamble worth taking, that the odds were you could gain more than I could in return. Your gamble paid off—there is nothing simple in that.”

“I did not imply I
was
simple, merely that your estimation must have painted me so,” Eleanor stated. “And you still feel that I should have surrendered.”

“I wish you had,” Basaal replied. The weight in his voice kept Eleanor from speaking.

The prince held his mouth closed, tight and unmoving, while his eyes betrayed the words he was holding back. Eleanor lifted her chin, and they stared at each other, taking stock, reconfiguring who they each thought the other person to be.

“You are more calculating than I had considered,” he finally said. “Things that I had supposed to have been by chance now feel pushed and pulled, all along, beneath your calm expression.”

“Everything I shared with you was honest.”

The prince cleared his throat, looking down at the rug beneath them before looking back up into Eleanor’s eyes. “I was remarking on your intelligence, not on any kind of deviant design. Have no fear—your integrity remains intact.”

I don’t fear it
, Eleanor wanted to snap in return, but she waited for her anger to pass. “You are beholden to more than I had supposed,” she stubbornly admitted. “I will honestly say, your balancing act is—” she paused and pursed her lips. “How you must negotiate your life. I don’t envy you for it.” When he did not answer, Eleanor moved past her own words. “What, then, is your plan for my escape?”

Basaal half laughed. “You heard for yourself the reality of our situation. If you escape, the Vestan assassins will track you down and see you dead. None operate as they do,” he explained. “You would have no chance. I, in turn, would be held under suspicion, taken to Zarbadast as a prisoner, and removed from my post, if not worse,” he added. “So, I cannot be seen abetting your escape, especially since there are rumors we have become lovers and I aided you in bringing down the pass.”

Eleanor flushed and raised her eyebrow but did not pursue the topic of the rumor. “So, you’re not going to help me escape.”

“I didn’t say that,” Basaal said, and he looked down at his hands. “But, the Vestan will accompany us to Zarbadast. We must continue under the guise that you have come to be my wife. It’s a believable position for a seventh son who will not inherit the crown. If I were more like my father, it would be a solid political move, increasing my own lands while building the empire.” He still did not look up at Eleanor but ran his fingers over the calluses on his palms. “Continuing this charade is the best chance you have of avoiding death,” he added.

“The best chance I had of avoiding death would have been receiving your honesty months ago,” Eleanor clipped.

The prince shook his head. “My world does not revolve around your well-being, Your Majesty,” he replied. His words were said softer than she had ever heard him speak, but they were lined with an intimidating intensity. “I am neither Aedon nor Crispin nor Hastian. I am a young man, anxious to be home. I have my own loyalties, my own difficulties, and my own relationships. I have a life, far from your fortresses and your fens. And I have risked it all for my mother’s memory and to answer my own honor, but I will not lose my life for this.” He looked directly into her eyes. “As much as I respect you, Eleanor, Queen of Aemogen, you are not my guiding star.”

Eleanor felt a blush, burning in her cheeks. “Then we understand one another, you with your loyalties and me with mine. Will you still hold to the promise that you will see me home?”

“I promise that I will see you escape,” he answered as he stood and moved away. Without looking back, Prince Basaal pinched out the candles on the table with his fingers and left her and the pavilion in darkness.

***

The prince had not returned before Eleanor fell asleep. When she woke, it was early, well before dawn. Eleanor looked to where the prince usually slept. But rather than seeing him sleeping, she found him standing silently in the hazy blue of morning.

His back straight, weaponless, in simple black clothing—Basaal pressed his palms together before his face, the tips of his fingers touching his brow as he bent his head. He did not speak, although his lips moved in silence.

As Eleanor’s eyes adjusted to the faint light, she could better see the expression on his face. It was one she had never seen before—or perhaps she had, not knowing what it was—an expression of patient devotion. Eleanor’s heart drummed an unaccustomed beat. She pulled her blankets closer around her body, quietly, so as to not disturb his prayer, but still she stared at the prince, the grace of his figure, the striking beauty of his face.

Eleanor recalled the first morning that she had seen him in the Ainsley gardens, a memory both pleasing and unsettling. She had become so accustomed to his presence over the half a year that he had been in Aemogen. In the clarity of having just left sleep, Eleanor felt a sliver of emotion that she was not expecting, relief that he was well, relief that he was safe, relief that she was with him.

She bit her lip, feeling a prickle of guilt for this admission. He had his loyalties, and she had hers. The conversation of the night before had served as a contract, reestablishing an unspoken distance between them. And the lines had been redrawn by Eleanor as well as by Basaal. But watching him this morning, Eleanor’s heart was not in it. She even tried to raise her anger towards him but found she was tired of the sentiment. Frightened by whatever it was that had caused her feelings to soften towards him, Eleanor determined to think more of Aemogen.

Without opening his eyes, Basaal dropped to his knees, placing both hands over his heart. His lips did not move now, but his face expressed an emotion Eleanor could only describe as one of pleading. She looked down towards the floor, offering him the privacy he did not know he lacked. It was several minutes before Eleanor heard Basaal stir.

Eleanor kept her eyes closed as she listened to him move about the pavilion. He sighed, and it was a tired sound—a lonely sound. At length, Eleanor opened her eyes. The prince again wore his black jacket with the gold buttons and was standing over the middle table, studying a map. After a few minutes, Basaal glanced up and met Eleanor’s gaze.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” Eleanor replied as she sat up, pushing her blankets aside despite the chill edge on the air. “Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“No,” the prince replied honestly.

“Wil—” Eleanor began then corrected herself. “Prince—”

“Just Basaal is fine,” he said, but his tone was difficult to understand. “Basaal is my first given name,” he explained. “Wiliam, or Wil, is one of my second names, given to me by my mother.” He returned to his work.

“Basaal?” she asked. He looked up again, but there was no invitation in the look. “Nothing,” Eleanor said.

***

The next morning, Basaal announced to Eleanor that they would be leaving for the court of King Staven in Marion City and, from there, would travel into Imirillia. The way his tone tilted to the side gave her warning. He motioned towards the fabric walls of the pavilion and shook his head, so Eleanor did not speak.

Still in her white ceremonial dress, dirty from wear, Eleanor did not enjoy the thought of traveling to the court of her former ally turned traitor. Basaal spent his morning studying a set of maps and reading through scrolls. Annan was in and out of the tent as were several others among Basaal’s officers. After finishing a simple meal, Basaal finally spoke to Eleanor, who was still eating, sitting on the couch.

“I have some clothes for you to change into, if it pleases you.”

“A uniform from the ranks of your army?” she divined.

“No,” Basaal said. “I’ve had some of my men procure dresses that should fit you—or will, after a few alterations.”

Eleanor’s patience had been thinned by her endless days in the pavilion. In the struggle to separate her emotions regarding this prince, she almost retorted that he was her most faithful wardrobe mistress. Instead, she finished her meal.

Basaal walked to the entrance of his tent and spoke a few words to the guard. Within moments, a pile of clothing was brought into the pavilion.

“See if you find anything you prefer,” he said. “Then, wash and prepare yourself as best you can. We leave this afternoon.”

Chapter Three

The court of King Staven was far less simple than the one at Ainsley Castle. The blond stone, quarried from their western borders, was beautifully crafted. As a child, Eleanor had envied its delicate arches and buttresses, its tall windows filled with stained glass, as well as the fountains and the extensive grounds, all private and pristinely kept. They were more predictable than the gardens of Aemogen, with less inherited talent and scope, but their formality suited the architecture and the persona of Marion City.

Eleanor had always enjoyed her visits here, while King Edvard lived. His reign was the longest in Marion history. Staven had been on the throne only two years longer than Eleanor, although he was older than her father. The alliance between the two countries had persisted after Edvard’s death, yet Eleanor knew that Staven did not honor the long-standing friendship as his father had. Eleanor did not relish the idea of being taken into his court as a prisoner, and she would not be subservient.

When they were ready, Eleanor rode astride Hegleh, next to Prince Basaal, who was mounted on a large black horse he called Refigh. Their company of seventy soldiers was composed of Basaal’s men and a handful of his father’s war officers. Drakta did not ride with them, having been ordered to remain with the army in Marion throughout the winter—his expression had been anything but pleased. Four of the six Vestan also rode with them, the other two having already left for Zarbadast the day before.

Late summer was giving way to the first experimental days of fall, and Eleanor was aching to be home in Ainsley. But, one look towards the nearby Vestan, and she forced a form of patience.

The closer they came to Marion City, the more populated the villages were. People streamed out to watch the soldiers pass with their prisoner. Eleanor had ridden this way many times before, waving and acknowledging an amicable interaction with the Marion people. Now, neither they nor she knew what to feel as she rode past, the hostage of a foreign army.

Once, while leaving a small town, a woman rushed forth with a bouquet of late summer flowers, red and delicate. She bravely slipped through the mounted guard and thrust the flowers at Eleanor, who took them in her bound hands with gratitude. Prince Basaal watched and did nothing. But, one of his guards brought his fist down on the woman.

Eleanor felt nauseous and turned to see what had become of her, relieved that the woman had stumbled into the safety of her friends, who were nursing her cheek. Eleanor raised the flowers in her hands in acknowledgment. What cared she for the loyalty of King Staven? She had that of his people.

***

It took five days to reach Marion City. The palace gates opened before Basaal and his company, and the sound of seventy horses on the smooth stones of the courtyard echoed off the elegant palace. The Marion guards saluted Basaal as he dismounted. Annan had stayed close to Eleanor throughout the journey, so it was he who helped her dismount.

Eleanor wore a peasant’s gown of blue, as light as robin eggs in spring. She had arranged her hair that morning as well as she could, but she knew her disheveled appearance would contrast sharply with King Staven’s court.

Basaal signaled for half a dozen of his soldiers to accompany them, and unprepared stable hands rushed forward to help with the horses. They led the remaining men towards a guardhouse. The Vestan assassins were not invited to follow Basaal.

Their small company walked up the large stone steps towards another sequence of well-crafted gates. Marion soldiers stood there, lining the steps, their armor inlaid with silver, bright in the sunlight. Eleanor noted the beautiful metalwork, aware that most of the precious metals had come from Aemogen.

They were admitted immediately into the throne room. Annan followed, his hand gently around Eleanor’s arm. King Staven turned from a conversation with several courtiers, and looked at Basaal a moment before speaking. Eleanor could not tell if he was more annoyed or unnerved.

“Nephew!” Staven said as he put a calculated smile on his face, raising his hands in greeting. Eleanor raked her eyes over his clothes; they were, as always, very fine.

“Uncle,” Basaal replied.

Staven’s eyes crossed to Eleanor, and he gave a polite nod then offered a slight bow. “Queen Eleanor.”

Eleanor lifted her chin. “I don’t greet traitors with friendship.”

Staven raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. Then a thought seemed to change his mind, and he indulged himself by offering her a wicked smile and motioning towards Basaal. “Well, little Eleanor, that’s not what I’ve been hearing.”

The courtiers, many of whom were acquaintances or had even been friends to Eleanor, whispered among themselves. Their whispers itched at Eleanor’s ears.

King Staven turned back towards his nephew. “I see you’ve brought your dirty Imirillian thugs with you,” he said. “Queen Eleanor should be pleased. They have about the same level of class as those she usually associates with in any matter.”

Eleanor glared, and Basaal seemed to simmer.

“Your manners have not improved since the last time I was here,” Basaal said, walking slowly towards his uncle. King Staven lifted his fingers, notifying his guards to be on the ready. Basaal laughed outright and paused before the king.

“Really, Uncle,” Basaal said. “You are so primitive. I’ve not come to harm you. Neither have I come to hand over Queen Eleanor as a trophy for you,” he added. “No, she travels back to Zarbadast with me despite your plans.”

Eleanor eyed the Marion king with a sinking feeling in her stomach. What plan of Staven’s was Basaal talking about?

“I have simply come to let you know that I’ve decided to return home for the winter,” Basaal continued. “You, no doubt, know of our little setback with the mountain and all. But, bringing home seven thousand troops of infantry and cavalry with supply wagons through the desert, only to turn around and come right back?” Basaal clucked his tongue. “No, I think they will winter here, in Marion,” he said. His tone was light but his mannerisms were not. “And you will see that they are comfortably kept and fed,” Basaal added, “until I return next spring.”

King Staven laughed. “Really, Nephew, surely you jest. I cannot house seven thousand men over the winter. There must be another option for you.”

Basaal put his hands on his hips and looked around him impatiently. “There is another option, Staven. I could send word to my father, and another fifteen thousand troops would arrive not only to keep here for the winter but also to take control of Marion.”

Eleanor resisted the desire to open her mouth and stare at Basaal for his casual brashness in another king’s throne room. But King Staven did not. He gaped, and then he turned red.

“I have a treaty,” he said, gulping at his anger, but to no avail, for the man was shaking.

“And I have the ear of the emperor,” Basaal replied.

“The wedding of my sister was the symbol of Marion’s alliance with Zarbadast.”

“Yes.” Basaal shrugged. “But she is dead.”

These cold words seemed to hang in the air between the two men. Staven apparently did not know what to say, and neither did Eleanor. Basaal signaled to his men, who then moved towards the exit.

“I will pay you handsomely from my personal coffers, Staven. You’ve never turned your nose at gold before,” Basaal said. “I can’t picture you doing it now. You will have enough and to spare. I’ll take my usual suite for the night,” Basaal added, giving the king a slight wave as he turned to leave. Annan guided Eleanor by the arm, following the young prince out, as surprised whispers trailed them out the door.

***

“Are you determined to burn every bridge that I have as you take me north?” Eleanor demanded. “Or will you leave some of my relationships intact?” Eleanor’s voice carried a sharp edge, for she was agitated, albeit slightly amused, as if they were back on the battle run, and Wil, or rather Prince Basaal, had lost his temper. They had arrived at the guest suite and had been left alone, Annan remaining with the other soldiers in the antechamber.

“What are you talking about? King Staven?” Basaal asked as he turned away from the window and looked at Eleanor with incredulity. “Trust me, he has never been a friend to your reign.”

“Yes, and I know we are no longer allies,” she said. “That does not mean I wish all diplomacy to be thrust aside in exchange for insults. I still plan for an Aemogen future, independent of Imirillia. And Marion is still Aemogen’s neighbor.”

“My uncle is a slimy creature, far below your consideration. You need not spare any time for his opinion.”

Eleanor sat down in a carved chair and moved her fingers against the grain patterns in its wooden arm. “You mentioned that he’d had other intentions in his dealings with Aemogen?”

“Yes.” Basaal sunk onto a sofa nearby. “His plans included a marriage with you, now that his wife’s dead, thus annexing your country. If you did not cooperate, he would annex Aemogen some other way—by force, if necessary.”

“King Staven is older than my father—”

“And an old fool at that,” Basaal said, stretching out. “His alliance with your country was growing weak, regardless of the Imirillian invasion. So, now,” Basaal added. “Instead of facing matrimony with him, you get to marry me.”

Eleanor did something then that she had never done before in her life: she snorted. Basaal looked towards her with a grin.

“It’s that appealing?” he asked.

“I didn’t realize you were in a position to make such demands on Staven,” Eleanor said, ignoring his comment. “How could you march into his throne room in such a way and not expect repercussion? Not to mention inviting yourself to be a guest in Marion Palace.”

“We’re not at all close,” Basaal said. “Not that it should surprise you. As for my own invincibility, it’s simple: he knows that if I am harmed, Marion will be desolated, just like Aramesh.”

The prince now appeared uncomfortable with his thoughts. He stood up and removed his cloak, throwing it across a chair. “This apartment has several rooms. I trust that you will be comfortable in there,” he said as he pointed towards a door in the corner. “Several of my men will be guarding outside the door, so you should be safe. I am going for a walk in the gardens.”

“You were there in Aramesh, then.” Eleanor stated it as a fact.

Basaal shook his head. “I will not speak of such things, Eleanor. Not to you, not to anyone.”

Not long after Basaal had left, Eleanor heard voices in the hall. The exchange was brief and sounded heated. When the door opened, it was King Staven himself who entered the suite. Eleanor stood but said nothing.

“Queen Eleanor.” He bowed gracefully, then he placed his hands behind his back. Staven had been a handsome man, but his deeply lined face attested to the pleasures in which he indulged. Eleanor’s father had had little respect for Staven’s character, and she held the same opinion.

“Staven.” She left off his title deliberately. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

“Is it?” he said. “Well, it is my country. My palace.” He settled himself into a comfortable-looking chair across from her. “Please sit,” he said, motioning for her to join him.

Eleanor sat. She was curious to hear what King Staven had to say and would not unnecessarily ruffle his feathers before she found out what she wished to know.

“I see my nephew’s habits of personal attire have not changed.” He sniffed at Basaal’s discarded cloak. “He always did prefer black, from what I understand. A morose fellow, to be sure.”

Eleanor did not respond.

“So, you’ll go away to Zarbadast to become the first bride of Prince Basaal, seventh son.” Staven ran his eyes over Eleanor. “That should please you.”

Again, she was silent.

“That was quite the feat,” King Staven continued, almost smiling. “Pulling down the mountain, racing out on your horse to stall the army. Oh, yes, I read the reports. My own people have been watching the conflict,” he explained. “And yet, you now leave Aemogen and all her resources without a queen.”

“I am Aemogen’s queen,” Eleanor said. “Are you still the King of Marion? Or have you become a lackey to Emperor Shaamil and his egotistical sons?” Eleanor knew she had hit a nerve, for Staven’s jaw tightened.

“It is a foolish king who does not assess what is best for his country,” he replied. “I had hopes that, perhaps, you and I could join our countries. You see, Zarbadast has had its eye on your resources, your port, and your fertile lands,” he explained. “Well, if I annexed your country, then Emperor Shaamil would still respect your sovereignty. He would leave Aemogen to be ruled as it always has been, by its queen—and a new king,” he added. “There may still be a small tax, but the emperor is not unreasonable when he is granted access to what he wants.”

“And the symbol of this annex,” Eleanor said, “would be our marriage.”

“Yes,” Staven said.

“How do you know Shaamil would support the idea?” she asked.

“We have corresponded enough for me to know his mind,” Staven assured. “I certainly believe that he would. I am surprised Basaal is determined to take you north, when our alliance and pledge of allegiance to Imirillia could very well satisfy the emperor. Well,” Staven said, raising his eyebrows. “Perhaps I am not surprised. He desires the crown—and the lady—for himself. He is the seventh son after all, too far down the line to even scheme himself into power.”