The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) Page 10

  Two of the scrolls appeared to be the First and Second of the Seven Holy Scrolls. That the Imirillian religion had seven texts of scripture was all Eleanor knew about it. She had never studied them. The third scroll the archivist had found in the archives was thicker than the religious texts for having several loose papers tucked inside. It appeared to be a compilation of philosophers’ essays and poetry.

  With an inkwell, several sheets of paper, and a handful of stones Eleanor had snagged from her desk, she encamped herself at the table. Dust lifted as Eleanor unrolled five feet of the First Scroll, then it settled like a silent spell across the stretch of parchment. Securing the stones on top to keep it in place, she then leaned over the antiquated Imirillian script.

  “Now,” Eleanor said, and she began to translate. It was slow, methodic, difficult work, words pressing against themselves, slanted and winding. She teased out the foreign shapes, writing what she thought was there, changing her mind, and beginning again. Pausing. Continuing.

  Each paragraph of Imirillian scripture was known as a mark. And, after the entire afternoon, Eleanor found it unlikely she would ever make it through the first mark, let alone an entire scroll. The Imirillian volume she’d studied as a child was a modern text, several centuries removed from this language. But, Eleanor kept working, chasing away the specters of doubt that invaded her mind.

  For several days, whenever Eleanor was not meeting with her council or preparing for the battle run, she translated the Imirillian scrolls, maintaining her dedication to unwind their meanings through sheer determination of will. The work remained tedious, and she was dissatisfied with herself.

  One night, Eleanor sat staring at a mark she’d just translated from the philosophers’ scroll. It was a graceful piece, several hundred years old, and Eleanor was doubtful she’d made an accurate translation. She leaned back in her chair, feeling her shoulder blades resting uncomfortably against the polished wood, listening to the sounds of flames coming from the hearth behind her.

  Rubbing her finger along the wood of the table, she stared at nothing, her mind wandering from the translation to the days ahead. The battle run would begin in two weeks’ time, and she was making so little progress. Eleanor’s mind turned to a thought she’d had before and dismissed: should she enlist Wil Traveler?

  They had not spoken in the week since the spring festival. Wil, now a full-fledged member of her war staff, had migrated down the table towards Crispin. After helping Gaulter Alden and Crispin organize an efficient training system and spending his days working with the castle guard, Wil and Crispin were now inseparable. Eleanor glanced at him occasionally at evening meal, and concealed how particularly she paid attention to his opinions during meetings, but she never singled him out individually. Now, before her cautious nature could pull her back, she called for Hastian.

  The Queen’s Own entered, his eyes intent on her face. “Your Majesty?”

  “Is a messenger boy still at the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have him bring Wil Traveler to me,” she said. Hastian nodded, and Eleanor again bent her attention towards the scroll.

  ***

  Wil made no attempt to hide his surprise when Hastian ushered him into Eleanor’s chambers. He’d been in the room only once before, to pledge his fidelity for the length of the battle run. When the queen motioned twice for Hastian to withdraw, Wil found himself wishing he could also retreat. The room was dim, Eleanor’s desk facing him from the left, the fireplace to the right, flanked by two settees and a chair. The fire offered the only light in the room save a collection of candles on a long table, running parallel to a wall of windows just before him. The table itself was cluttered with scattered scrolls, papers, and handwritten notes.

  He realized that Eleanor was already speaking. “—so this is the mark I’m uncertain of. Would you be willing to read it for me?”

  “Excuse me,” Wil pulled his attention back from scrutinizing the space and looked at the queen. “What am I reading?”

  Eleanor set her mouth in an effort, Wil thought, to hide her impatience, and began again. “I’m translating several sections from this Imirillian text,” she said. “But, a particular mark has given me trouble. Would you be willing to read it for me, aloud, that is?”

  Intrigued, Wil stepped toward the table and ran his fingers over the scroll rolled out across it. This was the First of the Seven Scrolls, with several loose bits of parchment covered in Imirillian philosophy strewn about. Why did the queen of Aemogen have any copies of the Seven Scrolls? he wondered. After scanning the philosophical mark that Eleanor had indicated, Wil read aloud in smooth, articulate Imirillian, “What has undone me is not the sweeping sands that would blow my soul across the earth, nor is it the endless heat and blinding desert; it is crashing against the high mountain, which will not bend to my will, but rather, break me on turrets no man can fight.”

  When he finished speaking, Wil looked towards Eleanor. She was leaning against the table, facing the fire, her arms crossed, her eyes closed, listening intently, the drumbeat of her pulse visible through the white skin of her neck.

  “What did you wish to know?” Wil asked as he straightened his shoulders, looking away as her eyelids fluttered open.

  “That was beautifully read,” Eleanor said, turning towards the table, appearing flustered as she sorted through pages of notes, pulling one from the pile, and handing it to Wil. “Is this an accurate translation?”

  Frowning, albeit with interest, Wil took the paper from her hand and set it beside the mark. He reread the original Imirillian, he then read Eleanor’s translation, three times. How had she managed such work? It was far beyond his own skill, to be sure.

  “It’s well done,” he said. “I can’t find a single fault with your translation.” Wil rapped his knuckles on the table in an effort to appear more nonchalant than he felt. Looking at Eleanor, he spoke directly to her in his own language.

  “I was not aware you had an Imirillian tutor in house at any time.”

  Eleanor waved off his statement with a brief response in Imirillian, “No Imirillian tutor.”

  Wil was incredulous, and he leaned against the table, waiting for an explanation.

  “I learned the fundamentals of the northern languages through my Marion tutor.” Eleanor switched back to her Aemogen tongue. “Beyond that I’ve relied on my own study. My written Imirillian far surpasses my spoken, I assure you. Although, both are lacking.”

  The same sensation Wil had experienced on the practice field—that of an unexpected blow, causing one to stumble, unwittingly phased—was what he felt now, looking at Eleanor’s mastery of Imirillian. The linguistic skill and the scope and intelligence of her mind were—well, unexpected.

  Not wanting Eleanor to read his face, he turned his attention back to the translations before him.

  ***

  Eleanor watched as Wil searched curiously through the papers before him. Regardless of how well she had prepared herself to ask for his help, it required an unexpected nudge of courage. Working through a weakness had always been a private endeavor, one she fiercely preferred to keep to herself.

  “Would you help me?” she forced the words out. “Translating, I mean.”

  Wil did not appear amenable to the idea. Not answering, he continued to look at her work, strewn across the table, and Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek, waiting.

  “I don’t see why you need me at all, Your Majesty,” he said. “This is pristine work. I couldn’t do better.”

  Eleanor set her mouth and pointed to the last mark she’d translated. “If I thought I could translate quickly, I would see to it myself, but this paragraph has taken me several hours of very focused work.” Lifting half a dozen sheets of paper, Eleanor let them fall to the table again. “This is all my progress of the last five days.”

  “So?”

  “So, I don’t have the convenience of time. Will you help me?”

  Wil crossed his arms.

&nbs
p; Breathing out through her nostrils, Eleanor was frustrated. She could translate his movements easily enough: helping her would be the last thing he’d want to undertake.

  “You yourself have worried over the limited time Aemogen has to train an army,” he said.

  “And?” she replied.

  “And, you have enlisted my aid,” Wil said. “I am giving it. Now, you’re asking me to spend my time translating Imirillian scripture? Philosophy? It’s not the best way to utilize what I have to offer. And, I dare say, your time could be better spent as well.” The hint in his voice was dipped in disapprobation.

  “What do you know about how I should spend my time?” Eleanor rounded on his words. “What do you know of all my preparations and discussions and efforts? Is your desire that I dictate training as well? I think not, as my inexperience would be in the way of your experience.”

  She stared at Wil, until he conceded with a shrug.

  “I aim to be prepared in every way possible,” Eleanor continued, speaking more to herself than to Wil. “I will know the mind of my enemy. No preparation is inconsequential. And, for a scholar—which I am—that means studying Imirillian scripture and philosophy.”

  They stood in silence for a full two minutes before Wil replied. “Training keeps me occupied all day. You can’t possibly feel it is more important that I be here—”

  “And at night?” Eleanor parried. “After evening meal? Do you train the guard then?”

  Wil laughed, exasperated now, and looked directly into Eleanor’s eyes. “No. I retire to my room for rest, or enjoy the company of the guard.”

  “I’ll provide a chair for your rest.” Eleanor couldn’t help but smile. “And, the scrolls are company enough. Shall we begin tomorrow evening?”

  ***

  Wil soon discovered that Eleanor was a dogged scholar. He joined her after every evening meal, to find she had worked far past where they had stopped the night before. These translations were difficult—it was an old form of Imirillian—and he did not have the ready equivalent in Aemogen’s language on the tip of his tongue. This required that they work closely together, often for hours at a time.

  Occasionally, they would exchange thoughts or observations on other things. Eleanor showed keen interest in Wil’s personal reports of training with the castle guard and the men of Ainsley. He, in turn, asked questions about her studies and Aemogen tradition. But, translating absorbed most of their time together.

  “You’ve such a quick mind,” he stated one evening. Eleanor looked up, his words bringing her out of her work, before she registered what he’d said.

  “Oh?” she said, her surprise genuine. “I think rather I’m just persistent.”

  Wil had seen persistence. She was bright. Her persistence only added to the intellectual force he struggled to keep stride with each evening. They had managed to translate the first scroll, in its entirety, in the two weeks before the battle run began because, early on in the process, Wil had taught Eleanor something she didn’t know.

  “Look,” he’d said as he pointed to the text of the scroll on the table. “If you start with the first mark, it will give you a veiled outline of what will be spoken of in the next six.”

  “So, beginning with the first, every seventh mark is a summary of the text?” Eleanor knit her eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Wil said, leaning against the table. “I believe that scholars in Zarbadast first translate the Seven Marks, as they are called, and then return to fill in the remaining text as time allows. Many texts are found only in their Seven Mark form. And, it makes the work of translating the remaining marks faster because you have an idea of what will come.”

  “Then, that is what we’ll do,” she said.

  It was not long before they had developed a system. Wil would read a mark aloud once, and Eleanor would sit, ready, with a quill in hand. They would work out every line, until the entire mark was translated, then they would review each word, until Eleanor was satisfied that it represented the text authentically in her own language.

  Some evenings, Wil would read a mark in Imirillian, and Eleanor would ask him to continue on, listening to his pronunciations.

  One night, Wil read, “All men are lost in their wandering, are lost in their sleep, lost to those they love, lost in their country, lost in their tongue, until they find in themselves honor. Then, no land is unknown, no sleep is but sweet, no stranger unloved, no language misunderstood, no love deemed unworthy. He who has honor has found himself forever and, as consequence, allows all others to be found.”

  Eleanor moved her finger across the tabletop, an idiosyncrasy he’d noticed before. “It’s a beautiful thought,” she said, “that freeing oneself allows others to be free.”

  Wil nodded, leaning back, away from the scroll. It was late, and the shadows in the room were reminding Wil of his exhaustion. He was having a hard time concentrating on, let alone appreciating, the nuances of holy scripture.

  “From the text,” Eleanor leaned towards him, “I assume that honor overshadows all other virtues.”

  “Yes,” Wil said. “Honor is the ultimate way to transcendence.”

  Eleanor sat still, looking intent, as if expecting him to continue. Bringing his right hand to his eyes, Wil rubbed them a moment before obliging. “Honor of self, family, country, the seven stars—it creates expectations, codes, the way you are mandated to live your life. It’s encouraged from a young age, this finding what honor means and what it will require of you in your life.” Wil yawned as he leaned his head forward, resting his eyes and wishing for sleep.

  “Did you leave the Imirillian army because of honor?” she asked. “Or did you break your honor by desertion? Or both?”

  Wil snapped his head up. “I did not desert.”

  “You left,” Eleanor said as if she would not retreat.

  Wil clenched his fist, causing a string of pops. He was agitated with Eleanor now.

  “There are not two directions, neither are there four; all direction is infinite,” Wil answered her with a line of text they had translated the night before. “Life is not so simple, Your Majesty. It’s not just a matter of one way or the other.”

  “Life may be unknowable, but self is not,” Eleanor replied with an Imirillian quote of her own.

  “Seven stars, you are difficult!” Wil threw his hands up. “If you need an answer, then, no, I cannot fully reconcile honor to myself and honor to my country. It’s a line I endeavor to understand.”

  “Are they not the same?”

  “Are they?” Wil brought his hands down on the table with a slap and stood. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I believe I am past being useful to you. May I retire?”

  “Of course,” Eleanor said, appearing surprised, yet polite. “Thank you for your work.”

  He shifted on his feet, but, seeing that Eleanor had gone back to translation, Wil withdrew. Hastian was sitting by the door of the small antechamber. He stood sleepily and saluted as Wil let himself out.

  Chapter Eight

  Wil had just removed his boots, when a knock shook the door. He groaned as Crispin showed himself in. It had been a week since he had walked out of Queen Eleanor’s chamber, tired and raw. They had continued their translations, but the conversation was now negligible. Wil was relieved, and unsettled.

  “I’ve brought the stones, wood clamps, and polishing cloths,” Crispin said. “Did you get the buckets?”

  “Yes,” Wil said as he closed his eyes and draped his arm across his face. “They’re in the corner.”

  “Can’t get lazy now, Wil. We leave tomorrow. Get up,” Crispin added. “Your sword could use some attention.” Crispin settled against the wall by Wil’s bed and set his supplies next to him.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t be back so soon,” Wil answered. He forced himself into a sitting position and raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t anyone in Aemogen sleep?”

  Crispin laughed. “Sure we do. And you’ll be happy to know that Eleanor sent a message: there will
be no translation tonight.”

  Wil raised his fist in triumph and reached for his sword. A rag hit him in the face.

  “Let’s get to it,” Crispin said, motioning towards a stone and clamp he’d left at Wil’s bedside. “Steady it with your feet there.” The two soldiers set about sharpening and polishing their blades. Crispin taught Wil the Aemogen technique. It took longer than he was accustomed to, but left a beautiful edge. He soon moved on to his smaller pieces of weaponry.

  “Tell me,” Wil said as he looked up from his knife. “Hastian, the soldier who is always following the queen, why does he not share the detail with the other men of the castle guard?”

  “Hastian is the Queen’s Own,” Crispin said. “He’s not attached to the palace guard.”

  “You operate separately from him then?”

  “No.” Crispin offered a confused look. “We operate in tandem: he’s the Queen’s Own, and we’re the castle guard.”

  “Do you envy him his position as Queen’s Own?” Wil pressed.

  Crispin tossed his rag away and looked at Wil with an expression near impatience that gave way to a smile. “What is it that you hope to hear, Wil?” he asked. “I have no envy of Hastian, and neither does he of me. We work together, with every soldier of Aemogen, to do our jobs. That is all. There’s no malice among any of us here.”

  As he eyed Crispin skeptically, Wil knew that his expression lingered between admiration and incredulity. “I have seen more corruption in a country tavern than what appears to be in the court of Ainsley.”

  “Three cheers to that,” was all Crispin responded. They continued their work in silence.

  Wil finished before Crispin and set his weapons aside, lying on his back and thinking of the day. Tomorrow they would leave to tour the country, calling out the men, training them, and counting their numbers. Wil had unsuccessfully presented surrender as an option multiple times. But, the entire council was against it, saying they would not make a decision until they had completed the battle run. Wil was sick to death of waiting and thinking. Another three months of it would be tiresome.