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

by Beth Brower

  “Do you dream of your home?” Ammar asked unexpectedly. “When you sleep?”

  Eleanor shivered. “I see the faces of those that I love. I dream of Ainsley, but it isn’t Ainsley—how could I describe it to you?—I know that it’s Ainsley, although it looks different,” she explained. “But the cliffs—the cliffs are the same. And the ruins—I dream of the ruins that once formed the fortress of Anoir.”

  Ammar played with the tassel on the pillow he leaned against. “I am sorry for you—that so much has been taken from you—a surprise, even to myself, for I never invest feeling in matters of politics anymore.”

  “Why, then, do you now?”

  “Let me just say,” Ammar said as he stood and lifted the lamp into his hand, “that the emperor has made it personal.” He paused. “I wish my foolish brother was not so bound to the covenants of his Safeeraah,” Ammar said, surprising Eleanor, for it was with great force. “I wish he did not feel that honor was his only path, that honoring his father and his country were as vital as honoring his god. It would make things easier for him. He could make different choices. He could have salvaged his life—and yours.”

  Eleanor pulled her eyebrows together. “It is his strict adherence to the Safeeraah that makes him the man that he is.”

  “But it cannot save you,” Ammar said. Eleanor opened her mouth to speak, but Ammar continued. “Will he regret his strict adherence, I wonder? Will honor be enough?”

  As the physician left the room, his words echoed in Eleanor’s mind. But it cannot save you. Eleanor caught her own breath and stood up, pacing in the darkness.

  Of course. It was so clear. Why had she not remembered? His Safeeraah could save her—possibly. It was a chance, at least, a wild, desperate sliver of possibility. And, though the emperor’s retribution could be terrible, what more could he do than claim her life?

  Eleanor folded her arms and walked to the window, her eyes wide open in the darkness.

  ***

  On the edge of consciousness, Basaal opened his eyes with the feeling he was falling from a dark dream. It was quiet save for the sound of a chattering bird outside the window, and the sky was pink and gray—the sun yet to break over Zarbadast. It took a long moment for Basaal to realize where he was, and then, the events of the preceding day came crashing into his mind, like a wave on the south sea cliffs.

  “Oh!” Basaal said. He pulled his face together at the memory and turned, remembering his injuries too late. Severe pain reverberated throughout his entire body. Every bruise and scrape, every strained muscle from the day before screamed, let alone the pulsing agony of his useless arm. But now, having woken the pain, no position would quiet its noise.

  It hurt almost as bad as the pain around his heart.

  Basaal pulled himself up towards the window, groaning as he eased to the edge of the bed. The state of his head fared no better than the rest of his body, for it pounded and sharp pains slid, crossing behind his eyes. Lifting his right hand to his face, Basaal realized that he was still in his dirty clothing. He even still wore his jacket, the blood-soaked sleeve now dried and stiff.

  “Would you like something for the pain?” a voice behind him said.

  “Go away,” Basaal said.

  “We have to talk, Basaal,” Arsaalan answered.

  “I have nothing to say to you.” Basaal set himself on his feet, forcing his bones to hold himself together when no other part of his body wanted to do so.

  “Shall we talk about my impending nuptials, then,” Arsaalan said. “Or would you rather we discuss, in detail, the wedding night?”

  “You bastard!” Basaal yelled as he spun around to face Arsaalan.

  “I thought you would have something to say,” Arsaalan replied. Arsaalan didn’t look as if he had slept at all the entire night. His clothing was rumpled, his eyes, heavy and purpled. In truth, he looked as miserable as Basaal felt.

  “I did not ask for this,” Arsaalan said. “And I do not want this.”

  Basaal waived him off, pacing, determined to walk off the stiffness in his body.

  “You know that Father is trying to aggravate our relationship,” Arsaalan pressed.

  “Well, he’s succeeding.”

  “It could be worse,” Arsaalan said. “He could have given her to Kiarash.”

  Arsaalan’s words tasted like bile in Basaal’s mouth. “Why are you here?” Basaal demanded. “Is it to make me feel better?”

  “It’s to ask that we not be divided by this,” Arsaalan said. “I have no desire—”

  “When is the betrothal to be announced?” Basaal interrupted, brushing him off.

  “Tonight. All the royal house must attend,” Arsaalan explained, “by order of the emperor.”

  Basaal scowled. “If you think I am going to sit there while you become engaged to my—to Eleanor, then you’re fooling yourself.”

  “It’s a direct command,” Arsaalan said. “You can’t disobey without losing your head.”

  “That sounds a relief,” Basaal snorted as he walked towards the door and away from Arsaalan. “I’m beginning to think,” he added, “that the only person with any sort of peace is Emaad.”

  ***

  “Come,” Hannia insisted, waiting with her hand on her hip. “You must dress now for the banquet.”

  “I told you I will not wear the colors of Arsaalan,” Eleanor responded without looking up from the Fourth Scroll.

  “You are to be dressed in the colors of your betrothed,” Hannia said. “You must wear the orange and gold of Arsaalan’s house.”

  “What are Basaal’s colors?” Eleanor asked, focused on her own thoughts.

  “You cannot wear the colors of Basaal’s house!” Hannia said as she threw her hands up in the air. “We have been arguing this point for a quarter of an hour.”

  “Only tell me what they are,” Eleanor persisted.

  “Black and red.”

  “Then that is what I will wear,” Eleanor replied.

  “No!” Hannia said and shook her head. “It would be the highest disrespect,” she explained. “If you walk into that ceremony, paying respect to another prince, you will—I can’t imagine.” The woman put her fingers against her forehead. “What a sweet, aggravating thing you are. But I am preparing you to gain a husband, not lose your head.”

  It was amidst these words that Ammar returned to the physician’s suite.

  “Who is losing a head?” he asked. He did not look at either of them as he waited for an answer, placing his physician’s bag where he kept his powders and supplies.

  “She thinks she will attend the banquet wearing the colors of Basaal’s house,” Hannia explained.

  Ammar stopped what he was doing and turned as Hannia muttered nervously at the floor.

  “Are you trying to provoke Shaamil into killing you?” Ammar asked Eleanor.

  “I believe that I have a claim,” she said, “that will challenge the emperor’s decree.”

  “A claim?”

  “Here,” Eleanor said, pointing to the scroll before her.

  Ammar stepped to her side and read the marks that Eleanor had indicated. She watched his face as he read, his eyes narrowing. When he finished, he read through the marks again.

  “And you did this?” he asked.

  “I did,” Eleanor answered.

  Ammar seemed incredulous. He looked at the scroll then back at Eleanor twice before pulling his mouth to the side. “I do not wish to deny your opportunity for marriage with Basaal,” he said. “But, I’ll not aid you in sending yourself to your death.”

  “And you do not wish me to make such a statement while in your care,” Eleanor added. “For you value your own neck too much.”

  “But of course,” Ammar replied sardonically, trying to downplay the seriousness of what Eleanor was suggesting she should do. “It is the most expensive thing that I own.”

  “Is it?” Eleanor countered. “I thought that in Imirillia, honor came at the highest price?”

&nbs
p; “What has made you so bold,” Ammar deflected, flicking a finger in Eleanor’s direction as though she were a fly. “Have you been spitting fire all morning long?” he added with an unintended smile.

  “Ammar,” Eleanor said. “Would you truly counsel me not to try?”

  He did not answer, rather he returned to his things and began to measure out powders. Both Hannia and Eleanor waited for any indication of Ammar’s true thoughts, but he seemed as impassive as ever.

  So Eleanor tried a different tack. “Have you been to see him?” she asked.

  “I have. I’ve spent the better part of two hours trying to rectify the damage he did to his arm.”

  “Is he going to be alright?”

  Ammar set down the powder he was mixing and considered Eleanor. “If I help you, it would only be for his sake,” he said.

  “Call down the seven stars,” Hannia said, shaking her head. “She’ll bring condemnation on us all. First, from the Illuminating God, and then, from the emperor, which is worse by far.”

  Eleanor ignored the maid, unwilling to break eye contact with Ammar.

  “Hannia,” Ammar said. “Go and procure clothing for Eleanor. We must dress her in the black and red of Basaal’s house.”

  “If the Illuminating God is merciful,” Hannia said, “why has he put this before me?” She shook her head and, with a disapproving but sympathetic look at Eleanor, left the physician’s suite.

  “You very well might hang for this,” Ammar said after a lengthy silence.

  “Yes,” Eleanor said. “But how could I live, knowing that I’d had a chance and had not taken it?”

  Ammar nodded but did not reply.

  ***

  Kiarash guided Basaal firmly towards the cushions farthest from where the emperor sat and, consequently, farthest from where Arsaalan would stand to received his newly betrothed. Basaal shrugged his brother’s hand from his shoulder as he sat, his mood as black as night. He had not spoken a word all day, for it was, Basaal found, the easiest way to ensure that he did not say something stupid.

  Now, sitting in one of the many formal gathering rooms, with its open arches looking out over the city and hundreds of red and orange candles burning around the perimeters of their gathering, Basaal found himself staring straight ahead, his fists clenched, his face a midnight warning to all those present.

  He had decided that he would not look at Eleanor when she entered the room. He would not watch the betrothal ceremony. He would not raise his glass in celebration with those gathered. And, when the time came for the wedding, if Basaal had not managed to get Eleanor away from Zarbadast, he would not be present for the ceremony.

  His brothers were now gathering with their wives and children and many distant relatives and members of Zarbadast’s nobility. It would be a small ceremony, with less than two hundred in attendance, or so Kiarash was saying, regardless of Basaal’s stonewall response.

  Arsaalan was now there, Basaal noticed, but he only looked at him once. The third son looked deeply unhappy and would not accept drinks or converse with those around him. His wives also glowered.

  Basaal noticed that those in attendance were strangely quiet. When Shaamil entered, Basaal stood with the rest only because Kiarash gripped his uninjured arm and lifted him to his feet. At his soonest opportunity, Basaal sat down again without looking at his father, unwilling to give Shaamil the satisfaction of a victorious expression.

  Music was playing, and the whispers around Basaal seemed to gain confidence and grew louder. Servants with trays of sweet fruits and breads and drinks circulated the room. But Basaal took none of this, for he just sat, his eyes towards the floor, waiting for it to be over.

  Soon the emperor stood, welcoming the assembly, and speaking at length of the great advantage Aemogen would be to the Imirillian Empire. His seemingly magnanimous speech even included praising his youngest son, who he announced would leave to finish the Aemogen conquest in just over a month’s time. Basaal did not acknowledge the applause this news evoked. Then came his words about Arsaalan’s plan to take the Aemogen queen to wife, and the room responded with a stifled cheer, a polite applause, but nothing more.

  “Some really believe that she is Seraagh and fear God’s judgment,” Kiarash whispered.

  “Then, without further delay, let us bring the bride to meet her husband,” Shaamil finished.

  The back of Basaal’s eyes burned, and his chest constricted as the sound of the doors opening rang through his ears. He had prepared to hear the customary cheer, the exclamation, but, instead, a collective shock rippled through the room.

  “By the seven stars,” Kiarash muttered. “What is she doing?”

  Basaal’s eyes shot up, and his mouth clamped together. For Eleanor was not wearing the colors of Arsaalan’s house but the black and red of his own.

  ***

  Eleanor knew that she was supposed to walk until she stood before the emperor. But, overcome by trepidation, she found herself rooted in the center of the room. She wore a deep red gown with a black sash tied about her waist, gold bangles adorning her wrists and a filet of gold about her flame-colored hair.

  Shaamil stood, his face looking as sharp as lightning. “You dare defy me again, Queen of Aemogen,” he demanded.

  It was her own instinct that informed Eleanor what to do next. Despite the dryness of her mouth and the feeling of birds swirling inside her body, she rushed forward and threw herself on her knees before Shaamil, her eyes to the ground.

  “I do not desire to defy you, Your Grace,” Eleanor said, sounding as penitent as she dared. “But, I beg of you: do not make me marry another man.”

  She guessed that Shaamil’s eyes looked at her with a measure of distain. “At last,” he said, “I have found something to make the mighty Queen of Aemogen bow.”

  “I beg you,” Eleanor cried again, lifting her eyes to see his face.

  “It is spoken, and it is done,” Shaamil said as he lifted his chin. “You shall marry Arsaalan, third son.”

  “I cannot—” she said. “I cannot be married to another while Basaal, seventh son, lives. The Illuminating God has declared it so.” These words streamed from Eleanor’s mouth as she looked up into Shaamil’s eyes.

  The emperor’s metallic gaze bore into Eleanor. “And why is that?” he demanded. “Why has the Illuminating God declared it so?”

  Eleanor took a deep breath. “Because it was I who resealed the Safeeraah of Basaal, seventh son.” The emperor’s eyes narrowed as Eleanor swept on. “The Fourth Scroll states: And when he comes to reseal his covenants, if she be not a woman of his own house, and he kneels before her, he has sworn himself as protectorate while he yet shall live, granting that no other man may have her to wife.”

  She heard a noise, a brief exchange of words that came from her right, and Eleanor could see that Basaal had come to stand just ten feet from her. His body was stiff; his face, taut as any bowstring. He was afraid. It was only in that moment that Eleanor realized that she might be risking his life as well, not just her own. Her blood froze, and she looked away.

  “It is an old passage,” Shaamil answered after a time.

  Eleanor cleared her head. “Yet, as part of the Fourth Scroll,” she spoke clearly, although her voice quavered, “it is irrevocable religious law.”

  “You do not practice the religion of Imirillia,” Shaamil answered, making a gesture with his arm. “How, then, lay you claim on its law?”

  “Basaal, seventh son, Arsaalan, third son, and even you, the emperor of all Imirillia, do abide by this law,” Eleanor argued. “Arsaalan cannot take me to wife as I am already attached to the house of Basaal and claim, by right, his protection. His honor is bound by it, as is your honor as Emperor of Imirillia.”

  The whispers of those watching increased until the rumble from them filled the chamber. Meanwhile, Shaamil sat, leaning to one side of his throne, and wordlessly studied Eleanor. He was not a true devotee, Eleanor knew well. He could dismiss this objection with o
ne wave of his hand, and, for a moment, he moved as if he would. But then, his eyes twitched as if seeing a shadow, as if remembering something from beyond where Eleanor now knelt before him. As he looked from her to Basaal and back again, Eleanor’s heart pounded, and she kept herself still, waiting.

  When he finally stood, silence again fell.

  “I will honor the resealing of the Illuminating God,” Shaamil said. “Basaal, seventh son, will take Eleanor of Aemogen as his wife once the days of purification are complete. Consider this their official betrothal.”

  With that, the crowd erupted into noise, and Eleanor, shaking, braced her hands against the cool white marble, feeling like she would retch on the floor for the nervousness of it all.

  Shaamil left the room immediately, accompanied by the Vestan and his imperial guard. Only after the emperor had left did Eleanor dare to turn her face towards Basaal. He had fallen to his knees, his face drained of all blood.

  He stared at Eleanor with an expression of utter relief. What passed between them next was ever so slight, almost imperceptible. But Basaal nodded, recognizing that their relationship had just changed forever, before Eleanor could be whisked away by Hannia from the noise of the throne room.

  Chapter Ten

  “I do believe you are nervous.” Ammar said, eyeing Basaal with accusatory amusement.

  Basaal was supposed to meet Eleanor for the first time since their unexpected betrothal. The first seven days had passed, and the purification rites had begun for both of them. But there had been no communication, no way to know what she was thinking, and no way to know what the aftermath had meant. Basaal pulled at the high collar of his stiff black tunic.

  “So what if I am?” he said as he looked down the arched stairway that led into the Seehfa, the most sacred garden of the seven palaces. He would meet Eleanor there three times—once every seven days—before their wedding ceremony.

  Ammar eyed Basaal and then turned away.

  “You said that Hannia attended to Eleanor well?” Basaal confirmed for the third time.

  “Yes,” Ammar sighed. “She moved Eleanor to a suite in the women’s quarters and is proving to be a considerate chaperone. The Aemogen queen has read but little all week, for Hannia insists that she be rested and well fed,” he explained. “It has been a war of wills, and, as you can imagine, Eleanor is almost going mad.”