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

by Beth Brower

  They soon came to a large room, separated from the extensive gardens by only a series of delicate arches, lining the perimeter. There were no tables in sight, only large cushions of colorful silks and velvets. Basaal led Eleanor to a raised platform at the north end of this outdoor room, where deep red cushions lined with gold were piled.

  Hannia ordered the maidservants to be careful as they spread Eleanor’s train out behind her, and Basaal helped Eleanor sit down before settling himself next to her, reclining comfortably on his elbow, facing Eleanor.

  After ensuring Eleanor was comfortable, Hannia kissed her cheek. “I will be there to help you tonight,” she comforted, “to care for your dress and prepare you for the wedding night.”

  Eleanor nodded and murmured a thank you but did not meet Hannia’s eyes. Basaal watched this brief exchange with interest, and Hannia winked at him before she disappeared. Eleanor blushed, and she could feel his eyes wander along the lines of her neck, down past her collarbone, taking in Eleanor’s figure with a faint smile.

  Eleanor had been admired before, and it had little pleased her in any case. But, under Basaal’s attentive gaze, she felt flustered and self-conscious—yet, admittedly, not displeased. Basaal sighed as he turned his attention to the room that was still filling with guests. He played with the skirt of her dress absentmindedly with his fingers. Not wanting to betray how much this distracted her, Eleanor forced her eyes to follow the guests who continued to pour in, claiming cushions in family clusters and circles of acquaintances. The emperor was soon seated, surrounded by his eldest son, Emir, and Emir’s family on a similar platform at the other end of the room. Eleanor was glad that he was seated so far away.

  “How many people are invited to the wedding feast?” Eleanor asked, leaning slightly towards Basaal. She felt his chin brush her arm as he looked up into her eyes and then back towards the gathering crowd.

  “I requested a more intimate group,” he said, looking around seriously. “So there should be no more than five hundred guests—mostly friends and acquaintances of me or my father.”

  “Intimate?” she said, raising one brow.

  “Were we in Aemogen I suppose intimate would mean no more than fifty people?” Basaal laughed.

  “Try ten,” Eleanor replied.

  Soon, music could be heard throughout the hall, and everyone settled in, ready for the meal to begin. Once all had entered, Basaal stood and raised a glass handed to him by a servant.

  “Welcome,” he called out, loud enough for all to hear. The people stopped talking and looked towards their prince. “I hope you have enjoyed this day and am pleased to have you join me and my family in celebrating my marriage,” he began. “I will not make you suffer through long declarations of my devotion as my brothers are wont to do—” The crowd’s laughter came quick, and Emir raised his glass at Basaal from across the room. “Let me just say there is food and drink aplenty. Let us feast!”

  He raised the glass to the people and eliminated its contents in one gulp. More cheers resulted, and Basaal smiled, holding up the cup for an extra moment before throwing it to a group of his friends, reclining nearby. Eleanor wondered what the contents of the cup might have been, for Basaal sat back down more free and jovial than she had ever seen him before.

  Then the doors were all opened, and what seemed to be hundreds of servants entered the garden hall holding golden trays. They came first to Basaal and Eleanor, offering them endless amounts of meats, cheeses, savories, and sweets. Basaal pointed out his favorite dishes to Eleanor, telling the servants which to place on the two plates before them.

  “How is one to eat all of this?” Eleanor asked, suspicious of the entire process.

  “Slowly,” he replied with a wicked grin. “None of your quick Aemogen meals in Imirillia; here we can feast for hours.”

  “Hours?” Eleanor felt almost desperate. “And the fact that I can hardly breathe and am carrying around pounds of precious jewels on my gown won’t have any sway on the time?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Basaal said as he began to eat, looking relaxed. “We will be greeted by all the guests, at some point, but mostly left alone to enjoy our first meal as man and wife.”

  “What do we talk about,” Eleanor asked, eyeing the food on her plate.

  “Well,” Basaal said, snapping his fingers so that a servant brought him and Eleanor each a drink. “Traditionally, we talk about our lives, our hopes for children, whatever we consider important. For it is not modest to discuss these things before a couple is wed.”

  “Which would make our courtship a complete scandal,” Eleanor replied. “Since we have already planned the entire length of our marriage before the ceremony ever took place.”

  “Quite so,” Basaal nodded. “Now, eat. I would recommend starting here,” he said, pointing to a rice dish covered in seasoned meat. “Your staid Aemogen tongue will come to know what it has been missing.”

  The food tasted strange, yet delicious, and Eleanor favored some flavors over others. She didn’t care much for the drink being served, for its bittersweet tang burned her throat, so Basaal ordered water to be brought for his new bride. Friends of the prince began to pay visits, offering congratulations and speaking jovially with Basaal. Most of them did not speak to Eleanor directly, which suited her fine. She prefered to observe rather than to entertain.

  An hour passed, perhaps two, and servants still entered the room with new delicacies. People sat, talking loudly, telling stories and jokes. One friend of Basaal’s, a boisterous and loud young man, spent much time speaking with them. He reclined nearby, laughing, occasionally taking food from Basaal’s or even Eleanor’s plate. She found him appalling.

  “And what have you said of children?” he asked as he winked at Basaal.

  “We actually have not had time to discuss that as of yet. Our stream of well wishers has been so steady.” Basaal seemed a little tired of this guest, so Eleanor was not surprised with his response.

  “Ah,” the young friend said as he took something from Basaal’s plate, put it in his mouth, and nodded before speaking past the food in his mouth. “I will leave you, then, to discuss such things. There are many young ladies here whom I desire to spend time with as it is,” he added. “I hope to convince one of them to be my first wife, rather than hold out to be your second.”

  After he left, Eleanor leaned close to Basaal and whispered in his ear. “Watching him eat food from their plates will not encourage their affection, I assure you.”

  Basaal laughed and sat up, moving their plates of food away, sitting so that his shoulder rested behind hers. “Well, my dear, let us plan out our children. Would you like to have boys or girls?”

  “You would want a son, I assume.”

  “I would,” Basaal said. His expression was pleased, and his eyes were bright from the music and, Eleanor speculated, from whatever they had served him to drink. “Let’s do start with a son,” he suggested. “What should we call him?”

  “Thistle Black?”

  “That sounds like a wonderful way to begin our marriage, me feeling angry every time I look at our son,” he said wryly. Basaal sat musing for a moment. “We will, of course, have to have a daughter—or two. So, what if, after the boy, we have twin girls?”

  “You want me to carry twins?”

  Basaal eyed Eleanor with a teasing eye. “Why not? Afraid it would be too much for you?”

  “What will they look like?” Eleanor asked, refusing to be baited.

  “Like you,” he said quickly. “Every young man in the Imirillian empire would seek them for his bride.”

  “In the Imirillian empire?” Eleanor asked, sincerely surprised. “Surely you would prefer Aemogen, spending the summers by the sea.”

  “Perhaps,” Basaal shrugged, “we could visit.”

  Their conversation continued, and so did the feast. Eleanor told Basaal how tired she was becoming, trying to breathe in the impossibly tight wedding gown.

  “The gown is lovel
y,” she conceded aloud, “and ridiculous. But it is the most beautiful garment I have ever seen.”

  Basaal looked apologetic. “I’m afraid we still have much time before the celebration is over. Why don’t you lay down and rest,” he suggested.

  “Can you do that?” Eleanor asked, offering a blank expression. “That’s the most absurd thing I have ever heard.”

  “Look around,” Basaal said as he shrugged.

  He was right, she realized. Several people were reclining or even sleeping while their groups continued to converse. They looked ready to spend the entire afternoon together. Even some of Basaal’s brothers and their families were resting.

  “It’s not uncommon for the bride to sleep during the feast,” Basaal stated simply. “I will be here the entire time, so you need not worry.”

  “No,” Eleanor began as she shook her head. “It may be acceptable in your culture, but—” she hesitated, surprising even herself when she spoke again. “I would love to lay down—just for a moment.” Eleanor settled herself, comfortable at last.

  Basaal sat, leaning back against his hands, his legs stretched out before him. Eleanor intended to merely close her eyes and listen to the hum of conversation, mixing with the ever-playing music. She thought through lazy pictures, feeling more adrift than present, even when she heard an acidic comment in Ammar’s voice, followed by Basaal’s laughter. She intended to rise and speak with him, but she found it easier to breathe, and the rest felt sweet and perfectly smooth. It did not take her long to fall completely into her dreams.

  ***

  “Eleanor.” She could hear Basaal saying her name, feel him touching her face with the backs of his fingers. “Eleanor, wake up,” he urged gently. She opened her eyes to his voice and, for a moment, confused, but then her eyes focused on Basaal’s face.

  “Did I sleep too long?” Eleanor asked as she sat up, lifting her fingers to her hair to ensure it was still in place.

  “No,” Basaal said.

  Looking around, Eleanor saw that the guests were reclining and speaking softly. Night had fallen around the palace, and the high torches had been lit, leaving the rich colors deep and satisfying in the room. The soft murmurs wove in and out of the quiet music still being played. All the food had been cleared away, leaving only the drinks and several plates of what appeared to be sweets of some sort.

  “We are winding down to the final hour of the feast,” Basaal explained. “My father will bestow on us a gift, then we will, rather ceremoniously, slip away towards my quarters, where you can sleep.”

  Basaal had a distant, but pleasant expression on his face as he watched her run her fingers beneath her eyes.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I was thinking of the desert. I was thinking of you in the desert.”

  “With sand in my untidy hair and bedraggled clothes?”

  Basaal moved as if to speak but hesitated, keeping the thought to himself.

  Silence. Eleanor looked up. Shaamil was standing, and everyone soon followed suit. Basaal eased to his feet and offered Eleanor his hand.

  The Emperor’s speech was short. He praised his son. Then he praised the empire. Shaamil did not waste words, but eloquence seemed the natural state of his speechmaking. When he began to name the many gifts that Basaal would receive upon his marriage, Eleanor was shocked. Cities, towns, trade routes, an entire province—all these holdings were gifts for Basaal and his posterity. He also listed gold, silver, and an extension of his palaces in Zarbadast. Eleanor turned her face towards Basaal, who was acknowledging the gifts without any show of surprise.

  When the speech was over and the gifts had been read, each brother stood and offered a token of his pleasure, fast horses from their stables, fine gems, or enviable parcels of land. Ammar’s gift was simple, a collection of ancient Imirillian fables, beautifully written and illustrated. This third son had glanced at Eleanor as if to include her on the gift.

  When the music began to play, Basaal offered Eleanor his arm, and they withdrew from the room, the crowd’s cheers and calls falling behind them. Basaal waved with a grin before he and Eleanor, accompanied by a small honor guard, stepped away from the celebration and into the dark garden. No maidservants came forward to help Eleanor with her dress, so she struggled against the weight, feeling too tired to drag it along after her.

  “We will cut across the gardens. My personal palace is very near here.” Basaal placed his arm around Eleanor’s waist, helping her as best he could as they disappeared down the large marble steps into the darkness below.

  “It will be very romantic,” Basaal continued. “You, me, a company of my personal guard.”

  She laughed. They walked through what felt to Eleanor like an endless array of gardens, woven between several majestic buildings.

  Strangely, and against Eleanor’s expectations, the recognition of the impossible nature of their attachment seemed to have freed both her and Basaal, leaving them secure in offering small tokens of physical affection to one another. Their admission showed they were no longer mere comrades in arms, thrown together as allies by their honor, but rather, Eleanor acknowledged, two people who would have chosen one another had their commitments not superseded all other considerations.

  Having set the courses of their lives away from each other, Eleanor now needed the reassurance that Basaal’s physical presence could bring while they were yet together. And, the way he touched her now—the way his arm wrapped around her waist and his hand pressed against her stomach—seemed to imply that he felt the same way.

  Finally, they came to a large archway where a line of soldiers in black or red stood. As the honor guard fell away, Basaal and Eleanor continued up through the corridor, past the silent statues of his own men. Despite her tiredness from the day, Eleanor lifted her head.

  She could see the perfect craftsmanship of the intricate patterns that were carved into the white stone. Every design was lit by the flickering flames of tall brass lamps, adding to the mystery and beauty of the palace. The walkways, the rooms, the elegance that she could only partially see in the shadows—these felt endless. At the end of a long corridor, they came upon two large doors, brass with decorations matching the markings on Eleanor’s arm. Several guards, dressed in all black, stood at attention.

  The guards stepped forward and opened the heavy doors. Basaal spoke a quick word to them as he and Eleanor passed through, and then the doors closed behind them. Sofas, fabrics, gold furniture, lit candles, incense burning—these elegant furnishings surrounded them. Then a figure in white came forward, and Eleanor recognized Hannia in the dim light. She came up quietly behind them, locking the door, and then took Eleanor’s hand.

  “I will prepare your bride,” she said as she smiled at Basaal, leading Eleanor out of the dimly lit sitting room towards the bedchamber.

  Feeling too tired to speak, Eleanor followed her. In the faint light, Eleanor could see the shadows of furniture and a low, elegantly appointed bed. Hannia was speaking, but Eleanor did not hear her words. She only felt the wave of freedom as Hannia unclasped the ornate gown and pulled it down. Eleanor almost fell from the relief of not having to hold up the weight of it, and she sank down onto the bed.

  Then Hannia brought a towel, bathing Eleanor’s face, helping remove the gold and pearl sandals. She slipped a delicate white nightgown over Eleanor’s tired body before placing a transparent turquoise robe over her shoulders.

  The maid did not remove any of the jewelry from Eleanor’s hair or her pendants or her bracelet, but she kissed Eleanor’s forehead before gathering up the wedding dress with a grunt and disappearing through a small door in the shadows. Eleanor pulled her feet up off the floor and lay down. Then she pulled the robe close around the nightdress—the lace-trimmed neckline was far lower than she was accustomed to. Large windows invited the desert breeze, still warm from the heat of the day, to weave through the chamber, but Eleanor felt cold nonetheless. As she began to fall into sleep, she realize
d that the incense burning in both rooms was the scent of cinnamon.

  ***

  It was not long before Hannia slipped from the bedchamber. “Your Grace, you may attend to your bride,” she said with agitation.

  Basaal looked up from the collection of tales that Ammar had gifted them and nodded, wondering why Hannia seemed upset.

  “Why are you in such a bother and fuss?” he asked as he closed the book and stood. The maid was about to wave him off, but he stopped her. “Hannia?”

  “I prepared your bride, Your Grace, and before I could leave the room, she was asleep.” The older woman shook her head as she walked towards the door to take her leave. “I told her to wait for you, but she was already dreaming.” She clucked her tongue in disapproval.

  “I am glad to hear she’s asleep,” Basaal yawned. “Thank you for your help today.”

  Hannia paused and turned to glare at Basaal. “And why are you glad she is sleeping?”

  “She’s exhausted,” Basaal said as he raised his hands in defense of Eleanor. “Walking around in that gown all day, trying to understand everything in a second language, experiencing new customs, tasting new foods—she should be allowed to rest.”

  The maid’s face faded from disapproval to disbelief. “Had every woman such a husband—” With a final shake of her head, she opened the door, chastising the guards sharply for something they did not deserve on her way out. Basaal grinned after her.

  He locked the doors and then let himself into the bedchamber. It was dim inside, but he knew this space better than any other in existence. Eleanor was lying on his bed, looking sweet in the soft fabric of her nightdress. She slept as the dead, and his noises did not wake her. Basaal removed his jacket, throwing it over a couch, and walked towards the table with a basin of water near the window. He washed his face and dried it with a towel before he turned to face Eleanor, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.

  He watched her sleep, running his fingers through his short-cropped hair and thinking about the day. He had never felt like such a fraud as when he had knelt before the holy man to take Eleanor to wife. But as the covenants were read, Basaal had reflected on his small understanding of the ancient Imirillian commitments, and a thought had flashed through his mind—everything the wedding covenants asked him to do were commitments that he could honor.