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

by Beth Brower

  Basaal put on a fresh change of clothing, then he and Ammar began to make their way towards the celebration, just as evening began to fall. The palace of Emir, heir to the empire, stood on the far side of the royal compound. It was where the brothers were to welcome Basaal home.

  They were all waiting when Basaal and Ammar arrived: Emir and Ashim, second son, were reclining, conversing on politics in low voices; Kiarash and Arsaalan were laughing, playing Imirillia’s version of chess.

  “Brothers,” Emir said, and he rose and welcomed them both. “Late, Basaal, as always. Have you been preening before your mirror again?”

  Kiarash looked up and grinned. It was an old joke. Basaal, in all black, wore clothing less expensive and less opulent than all his brothers, but it was in the style of the South—a particular fashion statement, to be sure—and, therefore, he stood out, earning him the title of “The Peacock.”

  “Leave him alone,” Emir said. “It takes a lot of work for him to look the way he does.”

  “On the contrary,” Basaal said, accepting a drink from a silent servingman and settling down besides Arsaalan to watch the game. “I take the extra time to lessen my own natural beauty so that you all will not feel so inferior.” Kiarash muttered something about arrogance and made his next move.

  “What I can’t believe,” Arsaalan said an hour later, after they had eaten,“is why you wish to marry this small-world queen.”

  “Leave it to Basaal,” Kiarash said, “to bring in a half-starved, half-alive foreign woman to be his honored bride.” Kiarash grinned and then laughed out loud at the thought. “You can’t be serious.”

  Emir held up a hand in Basaal’s defense. “If she wasn’t halfway to her grave, then Basaal could never have proper control in the marriage,” he joked. “It is better this way.”

  They all laughed again. Ammar watched Basaal silently as Emir said something about “a soft heart”.

  Feeling a good-natured flush rise in his cheeks, Basaal shook his head and raised a hand. “I will not discuss this issue, serious or otherwise. Father and I still need to have some—what I fear will be—lengthy discussions on the topic. They won’t be pleasant.”

  “Well,” Kiarash said, settling back onto his cushions, his voice sharper now than it had been. “As far as we all see, you’ve made several poor decisions and put the entire empire up for ridicule. I rather hope they’re not pleasant discussions.”

  Basaal looked from his cup to the faces of his brothers around him. Emir was watching both Basaal and Kiarash, Ashim stared at nothing, Arsaalan cleared his throat and looked away. Only Ammar seemed calm, quiet, and at ease with the entire room.

  “It comes as no surprise that some of you do not approve of my course,” Basaal said. “Please, speak out. No need to hide your authentic feelings behind smart comments.”

  “You want authentic feelings?” Kiarash asked as he stood and walked towards Basaal. Of all the brothers, Kiarash and Basaal had always carried the most friction. They loved each other, yes, but if there was a rise or a barb to be had by either, it was had. Emaad had always been the smoothing influence between the two brothers, and Emaad was dead.

  “You have been soft,” Kiarash continued, “a coward and an idiot, by all accounts. The Vestan have not been complimentary.”

  “Kiarash, sit down and give Basaal a chance to explain himself,” Arsaalan urged.

  But Basaal bristled. “Explain myself?” he said. He stood and shook his head as he walked towards the large table and set his glass down. He laughed aloud, feeling tired, and turned back to face his brothers. “What explanation does everyone want?”

  “You have become a threat to the existence of our empire,” Kiarash retaliated.

  Basaal’s jaw tightened. “I have done as I have seen fit. My own honor will dictate my actions.”

  Kiarash’s anger was now an open exhibition. “Your honor should be that of the empire. Can you honestly say there is a higher standard for you to live? You owe your father and your country.”

  “What is it to you, Kiarash?” Basaal fumed. “Do you fear that the empire will not remain intact for your own pleasures?”

  Kiarash swung at Basaal, who ducked out of his way and laughed. “You’re going to have to be faster than that.”

  “Kiarash,” Ammar said, his voice calm, “let us not fight.”

  Ashim gave Kiarash a warning look then spoke. “The question we all have, Basaal, is what are you building?” he asked. “It appears that you are separating yourself from the desires of the empire, dividing yourself from us. Does this not concern you?”

  “Dividing myself from you?” Basaal was incredulous. “I’m doing nothing of the kind. Let Imirillia march forward, by all means. I am only questioning its methods. Do none of you remember Aramesh?” he demanded. It was the first time that Basaal had spoken openly with his brothers about the massacre. They did not seem comfortable with his question, for they did not answer.

  “Yes,” Basaal continued. “I seek the prosperity of our people. But are Father’s twisted methods necessary to our expansion?”

  “This is an empire, Basaal, not a child’s nursery,” Emir said, speaking for the first time in the argument. “If you cannot handle the reality of what it means—”

  “It does not mean razing an entire country,” Basaal spat back. “The emperor never should have done that.”

  “The Desolation of Aramesh was exactly what Father should have done,” Emir said with cold articulation. “Word has spread beyond the Continent, and now, Imirillia is feared by all. We will establish the greatest reign ever known,” he stated. “Aramesh was a blessing.”

  Basaal looked at Emir, stunned. “You would disregard your own honor for such tactics?”

  “I must build the empire, Basaal,” Emir said firmly. “My honor speaks to that.”

  “Build the empire, yes!” Basaal said. “But, does it have to be done with such force and destruction? Let us engage in trade,” he suggested. “Let us have more lawful expansion through alliances and through treaties!”

  “Aemogen will not trade,” Ashim joined in. “But, the resources of that country will be a great asset to Imirillia. Will you really be so selfish as to deny our own people?”

  “No,” Basaal exclaimed. “I would not deny the empire, but—”

  “Or,” Kiarash interrupted. “Do you set yourself up as King of Aemogen that you might remedy the position of being the seventh son?”

  Basaal gaped. His half laugh sounded strangled, and he held his hands out towards his brothers in amusement. “Have I ever sought to increase my power and influence?” he inquired. “Truly, did you ever see me posture for more power than I already had? Or do so when it was not for the benefit of those for whose livelihood I maintain?”

  “No,” Ashim answered fairly. “But, you have gained it just the same. You are the most beloved of the people, for you are their Ruby Prince.”

  This was a popular nickname for him, the Ruby Prince. Basaal had heard it being called out to him in the streets ever since he was fifteen years old. He’d taken a fond interest in the denizens of Zarbadast from a young age, and, in turn, they’d taken a greater interest in him.

  Kiarash was agitated with Ashim’s argument. “He is the people’s toy prince,” Kiarash said. “He carries no weight.”

  Basaal saw a thought cross Emir’s face, but Emir said nothing.

  “We are being ridiculous!” Basaal said, upset. He looked about the room for an ally. Arsaalan had remained quiet, watching the discussion, and Ammar had said nothing. “Brothers,” Basaal pleaded, “do you not recall my fidelity to the honor of this country? What of my fidelity to you? I stand as one of you. But, you must allow that my conscience sees a different way of dealing with our neighbors, more like the way Father was fifteen years ago.” He looked from Emir to Ashim and then to Kiarash. “But he has changed since those days,” Basaal argued. “He has sought more and more war. He has blood on his hands, and The Seven Scrolls say—
”

  “Forget the scrolls,” Emir interrupted. “Forget the Safeeraah. This is life we speak of, not religion.”

  “Religion is my life!” Basaal turned on Emir fiercely. “I will not forget the promises I have made lest the Illuminating God strike me down now.” Basaal held his brother’s gaze, his chest rising and falling with the emotions coursing through his body.

  Emir and Ashim exchanged a glance. But Kiarash shook his head, and Arsaalan remained quiet.

  “Come,” Ammar said. “Let us not argue amongst ourselves now.” He took Basaal’s arm to guide him from the chamber.

  “Run back to your nursery, little one,” Kiarash said, following at Basaal’s heels. “Leave the work to the men. You’ve done enough damage already.”

  Basaal turned and swung at his brother, connecting solidly with Kiarash’s nose. Ashim jumped to his feet, but Kiarash waved him off and shot a black glare at Basaal as he wiped blood on his sleeve. Then Kiarash charged, throwing Basaal to the ground. Basaal cried out in anger as Kiarash threw punch after punch in his face.

  Finally, Basaal was able to connect with his left fist to Kiarash’s jaw, throwing his brother off of him. Kiarash stumbled to his feet, only to be knocked back again by Basaal’s left fist and then by a quick jab from his right. Basaal was about to assault Kiarash with another string of punches, when Ammar stepped in and pulled Basaal back.

  “Calm down!” Ammar said.

  Arsaalan had his arm around Kiarash now, but the fifth son glowered at Basaal. “You are a fool, Brother,” Kiarash said. He touched his fingers to his nose and wiped the blood from his upper lip. “An incredible fool.”

  “Kiarash—” Basaal began.

  But Emir interrupted Basaal. “Perhaps it is best if you leave.”

  “Gladly,” Basaal said, and he turned, throwing off Ammar’s restraints, and storming from Emir’s palace. Ammar followed closely behind, waiting wisely for Basaal’s temper to blow over.

  “Am I the only one that sees dishonor in all this?” Basaal asked, turning his head back towards Ammar. “What of their covenants? Their Safeeraah?”

  “They honor their Safeeraah, Basaal,” Ammar instructed. “But they have taken on fewer Safeeraah than you, and those covenants speak of fidelity to the empire and their role in it. Do not judge when another man has kept his oaths.”

  Against Basaal’s wishes, Ammar guided him back to the physician’s chambers in the central palace. “At least it’s a fair match now,” Ammar said. “And, although it was a foolish exhibition, I am glad Kiarash got a challenge from you.”

  Basaal only grunted in reply.

  ***

  Eleanor did not often allow her thoughts to rest on Ainsley and what must be happening there. But she knew that they would be in deep winter soon; snowdrifts hiding the land, the people tucked inside for another two months yet, if not more. Eleanor turned away from the window and lay down. It was night, and the stillness was welcome. She could feel strength returning to her body. Tomorrow, she would ask Ammar if she might walk in the garden outside her window.

  Eleanor’s mother had once said that some situations were beyond your control and not worth fretting over their occurrence, but Eleanor had not agreed. Now, as she lay, thousands of miles from her homeland, with no guarantee for the future in any direction, Eleanor finally understood what her mother had meant. She could no longer carry the weight of the unknown. Trying would wear her down to nothing. She must be calm and wait. She must trust Aemogen in the hands of Edythe and in the hands of Aedon.

  Eleanor heard voices and looked towards the translucent curtains that hung across her doorway. Someone had come into the physician’s apartments, and she saw that the lights were lit.

  “Sit. Let me look at your eye,” she heard Ammar say, his voice soft. “Put this on your lip until I can attend to it.”

  “Oww!”

  “You weren’t like this in Aemogen were you?” Ammar asked, his voice sounded thin like his patience was wearing.

  “Like what?”

  “Argumentative, brash, impetuous,” Ammar said.

  “No, of course not.” Eleanor recognized Basaal’s voice in this defiant answer.

  “I will have to corroborate your story with the queen’s. You have never not been argumentative.”

  “That is wholly untrue,” Basaal said. “Have you been speaking with her?” Basaal sounded interested.

  “Hold still,” Ammar directed. “The skin along your cheekbone has split. And, for all the seven stars, speak quieter,” he added. “Do you want her to wake?”

  Eleanor could hear Ammar moving around the room.

  “Are you going to answer my question?” Basaal continued.

  “Yes,” Ammar said. “We have been speaking extensively.”

  “What does she say?”

  “That is not really my business to tell you, now, is it?” Ammar said.

  Eleanor smiled in the dark. No words were exchanged for some time, the only sounds being those of Ammar’s bottles, clinking against the marble table.

  “Why do I even try?” Basaal complained. “Each time I come up against their hostility, I remind myself too late to keep my mouth shut. I was so eager to be home,” he added. “And now, I just find myself filled with the same anger, the same tensions.”

  “Just remember,” Ammar persisted, “you are the dissenter. It’s hard for our brothers to understand.”

  “I think they delight in their assumed superiority of opinion,” Basaal snapped. “It is some maniacal game they’ve invented. No matter how close we are, an argument or a disagreement starts, and our words catch fire—”

  Basaal’s voice sounded raw and exposed. Eleanor shifted, uncomfortable now at eavesdropping on such personal emotions. There were times while in Aemogen when Basaal had appeared so secure in himself, almost dismissive to the opinions of others. Here, in Zarbadast, his youth came out, his need for support and for the approval of those around him.

  “We brothers care for each other deeply,” Ammar said. “Some in our own tepid ways.”

  Basaal’s laugh sounded tart in response. “I wouldn’t call Kiarash tepid.”

  “Hold still,” Ammar said again.

  “Aren’t you finished already?” Basaal asked. “I’m beginning to suspect that you draw out the process so you can play with your victims.”

  Ammar mumbled something in reply that Eleanor could not hear.

  “He deserved the beating.” Basaal’s response came quickly.

  “That was an interesting punch you threw,” Ammar said. “The quick left. It caught Kiarash quite off his guard.”

  Basaal gave a deep laugh. “It’s something I picked up in Aemogen.”

  “Not from the queen, I suppose?” Ammar said, his voice dry. “Done,” he added before Basaal could respond. “May I serve you a drink?”

  “Please,” Basaal accepted. “Is she asleep then? Queen Eleanor?”

  “Yes, if you don’t wake her up,” Ammar answered. “Speak quieter. Do what you will with her later, but while she is my patient, I’ll not see her disturbed.”

  “At least tell me what you think of her,” Basaal said, trying to lower his voice.

  “I think her fine company,” Ammar said, his response practical, as always.

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “What would you like to hear, Basaal?” Ammar asked, sounding impatient. “You seem to be looking for a specific answer. Tell me, and I will give it to you.”

  “Curse it, Ammar,” Basaal said. He sounded tired. “For once, just talk. Speak openly, or rattle on about nothing, as long as it’s not so predictable of an answer, saying nothing.”

  Eleanor was amused by their banter. She pulled her coverlet closer to her face, sinking into it. She was beginning to feel tired.

  “I assume that is your way of asking for my open opinion?” Ammar said.

  “Give me patience. Yes!”

  Then Ammar said something about retiring to his chambers, wher
e they would be more comfortable, and the two moved down the hall, past Eleanor’s doorway. She closed her eyes, straining to hear more, but their conversation faded until the sound of it had disappeared altogether.

  Chapter Seven

  Basaal found what he’d been looking for, a key. He had spent the morning searching for it and just needed to make sure that the lock had not rusted over. Hearing footsteps approaching, Basaal closed his hand around the brass key and dropped it into the pocket of his tunic. He would have to investigate later.

  “Annan. Are we going to ride?” Basaal said as the footsteps arrived. But there was no answer, so Basaal turned. The man standing in the high arched doorway was not Annan.

  “Father,” Basaal said as he lifted his chin, his eyes searching Shaamil’s expression.

  “Son.”

  Wordlessly, the emperor walked around Basaal’s chambers, touching a drape, picking up the occasional trinket from a table. Shaamil was tall and strong despite his age. His hair and well-trimmed beard had streaks of gray. He wore a long tunic, as did his contemporaries, contrasting starkly against Basaal’s southern fashion of boots and breeches.

  “It is a surprise to see you here, in my chambers,” Basaal said slowly.

  “Is it?” Shaamil looked at Basaal with a smile. “It is a surprise to see you here, in my country—” he replied. He picked up a brass box from a nearby desk, eyeing it with indifference. “With such paltry results,” he added.

  Placing his hands behind his back, Basaal knew that he could either be subservient and humble or confident and unapologetic, so he chose the latter.

  “I told you the Aemogen conquest would be handled in my own way, with my timing,” Basaal said. “You need not concern yourself with the process.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Shaamil snapped, and he turned his full attention to Basaal. “You could have marched in and subdued the entire population of Aemogen. Instead, I find that you have left your army in Marion, spending your time doing who knows what, while offering Aemogen the endless option of surrender. Did they surrender? No!” Shaamil shouted. “They brought down a mountain!” The emperor threw his hands up, looking disgusted.