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

by Beth Brower

  Eleanor obliged, putting each piece into place. She first set the black king before Shaamil and then the white queen before herself.

  Shaamil’s expression was dark as he tilted his head and smiled. Eleanor understood Basaal had crossed a line and Shaamil wanted her blood for it. Eleanor placed each piece and then looked up towards the emperor.

  “Your move,” he waved.

  Eleanor moved.

  The game began slowly. Eleanor tried her best to remember the subtle variations of Imirillian chess from what she’d learned in Aemogen. Rather than seed bringers, she reminded herself, Imirillian chess had physicians; instead of a horse-bound warrior, a prince; and, instead of a rook, a holy man.

  Shaamil was thoughtful and confident as he set his graceful fingers on each piece before making a move. The lines began to loosen, and it was not long before Eleanor captured his pawn. Shaamil responded by taking her holy man. Shaamil did not move to foil her attacks, but he kept her at bay while focusing on an agenda of his own. The game still moved slowly, and the audience began to whisper amongst themselves, as they could not see. Only Basaal knew the state of the game, for he still stood close by, his arms crossed, a scowl on his face.

  Eleanor knew she was good, that her mind was quick, and that her scope of the game was impressive. Shaamil too recognized this as he showed surprise over her choices. But it did not take her long to see that he was masterful at the game. He continually struck at Eleanor’s pieces with his two princes, sending them out for attacks, succeeding, and bringing them back to defend his king. His movements seemed pointed, and Eleanor knew that he meant to send her a message with how he controlled each prince.

  “I should kill you outright,” Shaamil said quietly so only she could hear.

  Considering how she should answer, Eleanor looked at his face, handsome, finely drawn. His expression was not like King Staven’s: worn from self-indulgent pleasures. Rather, it was a hardened face, stripped of kindness and consideration. But there was something else in the emperor’s eyes that caused Eleanor to be wary. It seemed to be the memory of honor, and Eleanor could see why the emperor’s sons still followed him and why the people still gave him their fidelity.

  “I wonder why you have not” Eleanor responded.

  “Curiosity,” Shaamil replied as he moved his king one space. “Manipulation. Power.”

  “Power over your seventh son?” Eleanor asked as she raised her eyes to Shaamil’s.

  Shaamil shifted his head. “Loyalty and fidelity from my people is expected; exact obedience from my sons? Demanded. So, I find your presence in Zarbadast to be a tool of manipulation, one helpful in measuring Basaal’s commitment. Had I thought you were of no value, I would have left you in the dungeon for less than a day before ending your small life,” he added. “But, you have sway over him in a way no one else does, hide it as he might behind words of conquest and advantage.”

  Not giving any external reaction to his words, Eleanor returned to studying the game. She captured the emperor’s prince, and it took Shaamil by surprise. He scrutinized the board, cleared his throat, and stared back at Eleanor. She had intended to deliver up a confident smile, but instead Eleanor found herself with a staid expression on her face, wondering how this man had become what he now was. Soon after that, he captured her remaining prince.

  “Your skill is clearly beyond mine,” she admitted. “And you will have my head either way. Why, then, humor me by playing this game?” she asked. “Only because you believe I have sway over your son? You believe you can get to him through me?”

  Shaamil did not answer immediately, but Eleanor noticed he deliberately placed his queen in a precarious position. She made a move to capture her, but Shaamil pulled her back again, and Eleanor took his pawn. Eleanor waited for him to respond as they slowly whittled down one another’s pieces with no apparent advantage on either side.

  “There are fates worse than death,” Shaamil said after some time.

  “Pardon?” Eleanor asked.

  “In answer to your question,” he said. “I humor you because there are fates worse than death.”

  Eleanor tried to keep her expression even, especially as Shaamil took one of her physicians. Soon he took the other.

  “One can’t hide behind the robes of a physician forever,” he said as he raised his eyebrows and smiled. He continued to allow her to pick off certain pieces, personally choosing which to send out for capture to suit some larger plan of his. Not only was Shaamil playing the game well but his true focus seemed determined to also needle Eleanor’s mind.

  Out of nervousness, Eleanor moved a piece in haste. Only afterward did she realize that her queen was exposed. She clucked her tongue in the Imirillian fashion and looked Shaamil directly in the eye. He was smiling at her, although it was not as menacing as before.

  So this, then, was it. Eleanor felt sadness begin to grip her heart, for, while Eleanor’s mind may have wondered, her heart had never ceased believing that she would see Aemogen again. But it was not to be. She waited for him to close in, all but sealing the game and her life with it.

  Eleanor heard Basaal swear, and she could not bring herself to look at his face. But, for what must have been some entertainment all his own, the emperor ignored her blunder, leaving Eleanor’s queen in the game. So Eleanor returned her queen to the protection of her one remaining tower.

  Shaamil settled back in his chair. “And now,” Shaamil said as he raised his hand slightly towards his neck, speaking ever so quietly in Eleanor’s native tongue, a Marion accent permeating his words, “is the time to exact the pain my son deserves. I had quite intended to see you dead at his hand,” he explained. “But, after his exhibition of affection, I have decided on another course of action.”

  Eleanor knit her eyebrows but didn’t speak.

  “No, do not worry,” he said. “You will be alive yet awhile longer.”

  Shaamil picked up his king and set it down again, one space away from any security, leaving it abandoned. All Eleanor had to do was move her queen, and she would win. But Eleanor did not move immediately. Instead, she sat back and considered why the emperor was apparently throwing the game. What did he intend to do with her? Would he expect her, as Basaal’s wife, to be an informant for him in some way?

  While he waited, Shaamil glanced towards Basaal. Eleanor was prepared to see a look of vengeance in the emperor’s face, so she was baffled to find a whisper of concern.

  She had seen his rage, amusement, condescension, and anger, all directed at Basaal. And now concern? Basaal’s volatile humors now appeared simple compared to his father’s.

  She moved her queen and trapped Shaamil’s king. “Check mate,” Eleanor said warily. Yet, regardless of what he intended to do, she felt that if she could stay alive, she could somehow get back to Aemogen.

  “Congratulations,” Shaamil said as he stood, speaking loud enough now for those watching to hear. “You, Eleanor of Aemogen, have won your life.” The irony in his voice was unmistakable. He waved for the table to be taken away and returned to his throne.

  Eleanor stood, feeling uncertain, in the center of the room. Noise again began to fill the throne room as the spectators crowded back to their positions. Eleanor looked towards Basaal, a warning in her expression. Basaal frowned as if he didn’t know what to think either.

  “Eleanor of Aemogen, I promised I would grant you your life if you bested me at chess,” Shaamil said. “You have done so.” These magnanimous words did not seem to match his expression. “And now, I make a present of it.” Shaamil looked toward Basaal as he spoke his next words to Eleanor. “You are to become the third wife of Arsaalan, third son.”

  “What!” The voice was not her own, but Eleanor felt it should have been. She turned to see Basaal, about to rush forward, when Arsaalan and Kiarash grabbed him and held him back.

  The emperor ignored Basaal’s outburst and again spoke to Eleanor.

  “You fought for your life and won,” he said. “And yo
u shall have your life. But, the challenge did not include marriage to my seventh son.”

  Basaal’s face turned scarlet, he was shouting, restrained only by his brothers. But Eleanor could not hear the words he shouted above the crowd.

  “Take her away,” Shaamil said and waved his hand at Eleanor as if she were an animal.

  Before she could even speak, her arms were yanked behind her, and Eleanor was pulled off her feet. She cried out, twisting around, struggling to see Basaal. But his brothers had taken him somewhere and Eleanor could not find his face. Fingers pressed deeper into the flesh of her arms as the guards dragged her through the crowd.

  Then there were shouts. Someone was calling her name. Was it Ammar? Eleanor twisted towards the call, but she was soon forced out into the long corridor. When she heard the brass doors of the throne room close, a fist came down hard on the back of her head, and Eleanor lost consciousness.

  ***

  “Let me go,” Basaal fought, shouting as Arsaalan, Kiarash, and Ashim pulled him out a back door of the throne room. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him!”

  “Get his other arm, Kiarash!” Arsaalan said.

  “Cover his mouth, the fool,” Kiarash replied.

  “Quickly now,” Ashim said to them both.

  His brothers had forced him away so quickly that Basaal hadn’t even had time to look at his father, let alone confront him, as the emperor was swallowed from his view.

  Then Annan was there, saying something to Arsaalan as Basaal continued to struggle and curse. They dragged him away from the central palace, but not without Kiarash getting Basaal’s fist in his face, nor without Arsaalan being called every insult Basaal could conjure in his hot anger.

  Finally, Ashim, the quietest of the brothers, took Basaal by his collar, ordered him to calm down, and marched him to the safety of Emir’s personal suite. Once there, he took Basaal into a private bedchamber while the other brothers remained in the sitting room.

  “Sit,” Ashim demanded as he pushed Basaal into a chair and locked the door behind them.

  The pain in his arms flared, and Basaal could now feel blood soaking through his shirt and into the sleeve of his jacket. Ammar would have his head for ripping out the stitches. But Basaal didn’t care.

  He couldn’t stop thinking of Eleanor—betrothed to Arsaalan. Once their betrothal was made official, she would be kept from Basaal, confined to purification. And, after the wedding, she would be kept in Arsaalan’s palace or the women’s quarters. How could he help her escape if he couldn’t even see her? If he couldn’t reach her? But worse, far worse than the knowledge that he would break his promise to her—and to Aemogen—was the thought of Eleanor being taken to wife by one of his brothers. It made him sick.

  “It’s too much,” he muttered, his face buried in his hands. He knew that Ashim was sitting nearby, waiting and watching, as he always did. “It’s too much,” Basaal repeated. “He means to break me. He means to break me!”

  “He wants your submission,” Ashim answered.

  “And I will give him any submission he requires,” Basaal half choked. “But, I cannot give him her. I cannot.”

  “Would you, then, get yourself killed and leave her completely alone in Zarbadast?” Ashim asked. “For that is what you nearly did. Had the crowd not covered up your screams, Father could not have pretended that he did not hear you. He would have had to take your head right there—but he didn’t.”

  “I wish he would have and just end the torture of his games,” Basaal said.

  “He loves you too much for that.”

  “Loves me?” Basaal asked, pulling his face up and confronting Ashim. “The man’s a sadist.”

  His brother sat on the edge of the bed, a look of patience in the shadows beneath his eyes.

  “I think he is trying to make you greater than he is,” Ashim said. “He tried to do the same thing with Ammar, if you’ll remember.”

  “I do. And, when he ripped Ammar’s heart out,” Basaal said, “Ammar betrayed him in the most foolproof measure.”

  “He became royal physician,” Ashim laughed.

  “I’d die first,” Basaal winced.

  “He’d kill you first,” Ashim countered.

  Basaal moved the heel of his hands over his eyes. “I can’t even think of it, Ashim.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Basaal was now shaking, from the exhaustion of the day, from each injury flaring in tight pain, and from every thought tied to Eleanor. Then there was a knock at the door, and Ashim answered it as Basaal tried to regain his composure. It was Ammar. He entered, glass in hand, face set.

  “I don’t need a drink,” Basaal growled.

  “It’s for your arm,” Ammar replied, undeterred. “I’m guessing you’ve managed to rip out every last stitch I so carefully put in place,” he added. “Here. Take it.”

  Basaal downed its contents in one movement before tossing the glass back to his brother. It was only then that he noted the bitter taste in his mouth. “You drugged me, didn’t you?” he accused.

  “Yes,” Ammar said.

  “Villain.” Basaal fell back into his chair, already beginning to feel his mind cloud. “How strong is it?” he asked.

  “Strong enough that you won’t dream.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “And precisely why I drugged you in the first place.” Ammar’s response was so sincere it caused Basaal to look up. Both his brothers seemed hesitant and sympathetic.

  “It’s hell, Basaal. I know,” was all Ammar would say.

  “Sleep,” Ashim urged as he helped Basaal from his chair. “And I’ll stand guard while you do. No assassin will bother you.”

  Stumbling, Basaal tried to speak, but Ashim led him towards the bed, helping him lie down. Basaal’s eyelids kept falling over his vision, and he decided he was glad for it. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to never wake up.

  ***

  When Eleanor woke up, it was to the soft hands of someone wiping her face with a cool towel.

  “Shh, dear, there you are,” a matronly woman clucked and brushed the hair away from Eleanor’s face. “I am relieved to see you awake,” she said. “Ammar will be, also.”

  “I am,” Eleanor heard someone say, and Ammar came into Eleanor’s room. “The guards must have thought you were a nuisance, for they delivered you unconscious,” he explained. “But Tameez saw to your care.” Ammar nodded towards the woman. “This is Hannia,” he said. “I asked her to come. She once served as Basaal’s nursemaid and now runs his house.”

  “I keep the boy in line,” she said as she smiled.

  At this mention of Basaal, the scene from the throne room flooded Eleanor’s mind.

  “How is he?” she asked, a half moon of tears rimming her eyes.

  “I’ve given him something,” Ammar said patiently. “He is sleeping.”

  “No, no, little Seraagh,” Hannia said, wiping a tear from Eleanor’s cheek. “Do not be sad.” She gathered Eleanor up into her arms in a way no one had since Eleanor was a young child, and it felt so heartbreakingly wonderful that Eleanor let her, turning her face into the woman’s ample frame.

  “Shh, shh, little Seraagh,” Hannia continued. “You have saved your life in such a brave way. All will be well. Shh, shh.”

  Eleanor felt Hannia wave Ammar from the room and then continue to hold her, rocking back and forth, until long after the sun went down.

  ***

  When Eleanor woke again, the outline of her windows framed the ink black sky, still hours away from dawn. Eleanor knew that she was also hours away from more sleep. The tight skin around her eyes reminded her of what had plagued the borders of every dream, that Basaal had lost his gamble and that the emperor had effectually cut Basaal off from Eleanor.

  Sitting up, she pulled her knees under her chin, replaying the challenge through her mind—every word, every gesture—until the point when they had taken Basaal away. She wondered where he was now. This question took Eleanor�
��s mind back to the rainy days in Ainsley Castle after the attack on Common Field, when wondering about his fate had been a painful experience for her.

  If only she’d kept herself pulled away, unwilling to understand, unwilling to sympathize with his difficulties. If only she’d prevented her emotions from leaning towards him. But she hadn’t, and the memory of his kiss still burned beneath her skin. Eleanor rested her forehead on her knees. She felt farther away from herself than she ever had before. And it was hard to conjure any image of Aemogen with the breeze from this desert place whispering along the lines of her arms.

  Then a noise, some sound in the dark, came from the outside rooms, and Eleanor watched as a light moved, like a small echo, down the corridor towards her. As it drew closer, rising and falling in step with whoever approached, the silhouette of a figure appeared outside her curtains and paused, moving the curtains aside with its free hand to look in. It was Ammar.

  “What are you doing awake at this hour?” he asked. The insouciant glow from his lamp was a contrast to the strained angles of his face.

  “Thinking,” Eleanor replied. “And you?”

  Ammar entered, settling into the comfortable chair that he always claimed when visiting Eleanor’s room. “I was looking in on Basaal.”

  Burrowing her chin in against her knees, Eleanor waited for him to continue.

  “His arm is in a bad way, but I dare not wake him. I will attend to the damage come morning.”

  “And you can’t bring him here?” she asked.

  “No,” Ammar said as he ran a finger along the edge of his eye. “You are a woman who will enter into an official betrothal to another man,” he explained. “So I cannot bring him here.”

  Eleanor stared at him but did not speak.