The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) Page 13

  In the silence that followed Wil’s narration, the sounds of crickets and owls pressed against Eleanor’s ears. She watched the moon and thought of Seraagh. Wil turned his eyes on Eleanor, and then looked away again into the sky.

  “It seems a long time to wait,” Eleanor finally said after some time.

  “She has her work,” Wil offered.

  “Yes.” Eleanor felt a small, worrisome feeling, creeping along the back of her neck. She shook it off. “Is there any more written in the Seven Scrolls about Seraagh?”

  “Much is written,” Wil said. “There are some lines, a mark in the Sixth Scroll, that state, ‘And Seraagh, clothed in white, rode her fair horse above the earth to fulfill every command of the Illuminating God. And she reflected His glory: aflame and alight. And all were humbled by the beauty of her obedience before Him.’”

  “My mother loved the tale of Seraagh,” Wil continued. “She would teach it as a story of obedience before the Illuminating God, explaining that all rewards would be ours if we served Him first in our station. She would also point to the sky on the days when night mingled with day and the horizon was purple, the days when the moon was already in the sky long before dark. She would say to me, ‘Seraagh has come to her post early, so she can glimpse the sun, setting across the ten thousand miles of the world, and be glad for the future.’”

  “Oh, that is lovely,” Eleanor said, looking at Wil. “And awful.”

  He seemed surprised. “Awful? How so?”

  “To see the one you love across ten thousand miles of the world, and not be able to go to them, not be with them? It is no wonder that, some nights, the moon is so melancholy in her beauty.”

  It was not long before Eleanor said good-night and returned to her tent, her mind full of Wil’s story. Before sleeping, Eleanor sat with her writing board and copied down the tale. She would show it to Wil another day to be sure she had not forgotten anything.

  Wil Traveler. Eleanor put the cork in her inkbottle and blew out her candles. She crawled to her bed and pulled herself under the blankets. His conversation with her had been sincere and straight: no sarcasm, no jaded edge. Eleanor’s final thought, before falling asleep, was wondering how long it would be until he was across the ten thousand miles of the world from Aemogen.

  Chapter Ten

  “Try again,” Wil said, motioning to his opponent, who was struggling with one-on-one combat. They were at Midland fen. Training at Large Wood, Small Wood, and Faenan fens had gone well, encouraging Wil, but the people of Midland fen showed no predisposition for fighting. Crispin and Wil took far more time, instructing the men individually, on basic sword maneuvers.

  His current student was pathetic. As Wil watched the old farmer lift the sword again into position, he hoped his expression did not betray his thoughts: these men were no match for a horse boy in the Imirillian army, let alone a soldier.

  “Don’t drop your shoulder like that, and don’t lean back,” he instructed as they began a slow conversation with their blades. “You give away the advantage of having your weight behind your movements.”

  The farmer nodded and tried again, paying painstaking attention to Wil’s instructions. Finally, when the man had mastered at least two proper movements, Wil told him to keep practicing and moved on to a group Crispin was teaching.

  “How did it go with old Rion?” Crispin asked pleasantly. Squinting against the afternoon sun, Wil chose not to answer; rather, he adjusted the strap of his quiver, which was biting into his neck. He wished he had his personal archery effects with him as his own quiver was sized to fit his frame perfectly. The day was getting warmer. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.

  “That bad?” Crispin smiled. “That must have been a sore trial for you.”

  “Why do you say that?” Wil asked.

  “Well,” Crispin shrugged, “it’s easy to see when you’re displeased with an exercise versus when you have found a bit of challenge in it. Granted,” Crispin added quickly, “very few actually challenge your skills.”

  “It’s tedious work, teaching a plowman the art of war.” Wil pulled at the black cloth around his left forearm, checking it to be secure. “We are finishing the sixth of fifteen fens, and it feels like getting my teeth pulled. Is your entire country lacking in physical coordination?”

  Although usually good-natured, Crispin took exception to Wil’s slight. “I think you may be going about it in the wrong way, if not looking at it backwards.”

  “Do you tell me I don’t know my own craft?” Wil asked, honestly. “I’ve trained thousands of soldiers.”

  “No,” Crispin said, drawing out the word. “Perhaps I am telling you that you don’t know theirs. If we were to suspend training for a day and let the men go into the fields tomorrow, I think you would find yourself surprised with their abilities and, maybe, better understand how to incorporate their natural strengths to teach them weaponry.”

  Wil wiped his forehead and shrugged impatiently. “I’ll try anything.”

  As good as his word, after discussing the plan with Gaulter Alden, Wil and all the soldiers spent the following day helping in the fields or working with the fen smiths. Wil volunteered for the fields and was assigned to a group of men who were removing rocks and stumps. The misery Wil felt during the work was palpable. He and a few others were working a large stump with difficult and extensive roots, and the farmer would allow no shortcuts.

  “Remove all the tree now, or break your plow later,” he repeated in a dialect singular to Midland fen. Wil’s hands developed blisters as he loosened the ground with a pick, ripping the roots from the soil. More rocks than he could have imagined seemed to rise out of the earth, blocking his way. For each stone rooted out and cast to the side of the field, a multitude of others rose beneath it.

  Crispin found Wil when they had stopped for a midday meal, and the two sat stiffly in the shade.

  “Imirillia has no such rocks in its soil,” Wil complained as he ate stale bread and cheese. “Demons, every one.”

  “Imirillia,” Crispin said, his eyes glinting good-naturedly, “has no such harvests, either.”

  Two days later, as they left Small Wood fen, Wil admitted to Crispin that his torture hadn’t been for naught. He had understood better how to describe maneuvers to the men, using descriptions they could recognize from their everyday work. Even old Rion had improved, however slightly.

  ***

  The company left Midland fen, riding straight for the eastern cliffs that rose high above the south sea. To Eleanor, this was the promise of a reprieve, for they would rest three days at the crumbling fortress of Anoir. Miya had ridden ahead with a small company of soldiers to open the old fortress and prepare rooms for the queen and her council. The palace guard would camp inside its dilapidated walls in the courtyard.

  As they came closer to the cliffs, seabirds began to appear with their melancholy cries, and Eleanor began to forget the war and remember her childhood. Every summer they would come and spend time in the old fortress. She had not been back since her father’s death, always telling Edythe they would return, always calculating the reasons not to. But, she had delayed too long, and a freedom she had not felt inside her lungs for years returned, and began to beat with her heart. Even Aedon noticed the change, saying it was good they had come.

  When the company arrived, Eleanor, after telling Hastian he could ease his post in the safety of the isolated ruins, rushed to her room. Miya had tirelessly cleaned it before the queen’s arrival, and it proved itself a sanctuary. Eleanor secured the door, removed her travel worn clothes, and washed herself before lying down to enjoy the isolation. And, with the sound of the sea, she slept.

  It was late afternoon when Eleanor stirred. She smiled carelessly, staring at the leaded window, stretching her arms above her head. Now fully awake, she slipped her shoes back onto her feet. Her hair had been bound up in braids, so she unbound and brushed it before weaving one simple braid down her back, loose and young. She left her roo
m, intent on spending the remaining daylight walking the cliffs.

  The moss-covered stone of Anoir created an enchanting scene, reminiscent of the old tales, and the entire company had settled into its beauty, seeming as contented as the queen herself. As she was leaving the arched entryway of the fortress, Eleanor almost ran straight into Wil. He was carrying firewood, from the few tangles of wind-bitten trees, into the courtyard.

  “To the cliffs,” Eleanor said, when he inquired where she was going.

  “I’ve never seen the southern sea,” he said in response. “Is it much wilder than in the North, as I’ve heard?”

  Eleanor tilted her head. “We may have finally found something in Aemogen you can call neither simple nor sedate,” she said. “Would you like to come and see for yourself?”

  Wil laughed, accepting her invitation good-naturedly, piling the firewood in the courtyard, before coming to walk alongside Eleanor on an old, worn trail that led to the sea.

  She walked free of the path as they came over the rise, the view of the ocean stretching endlessly before them, a spangle of silver and green under the heavy clouds. Eleanor hurried faster, consuming the view with a fierce desire to be as close to the sea as she could. Once they arrived, Wil leaned against the remains of a wall that ran along the cliff’s edge. The sound of the birds rang off the stones, and Eleanor laughed out loud as the wind blew its saltwater smell against her face. What a wonderfully, overwhelming thing it was to return to the happiness of one’s childhood. She fought the sudden emotion of it.

  They kept quiet company, neither speaking nor feeling the need. Eleanor chased down the shoreline with her eyes, the vibrant greens of the grass shocking and bright above the petulant sea. The image of herself and Edythe passed her mind, as if she could see them playing along the cliffs, only children, barefoot and wild.

  “We came here every year,” she said, breaking the silence, “to the fortress of Anoir.” The words felt like home on Eleanor’s tongue. “Edythe and I spent hours, playing along the cliffs and climbing down to the sea.”

  “I’m sure your mother wasn’t pleased with that,” Wil said, eyeing the steep, sharp stone dropping down into the riotous water.

  “She was never worried. It was my father who was cautious and staid.” Eleanor considered the ocean before her, her mind working over an array of memories. “My father may have been too cautious. And, I suppose, the irony in all of this is that if my mother had had her wish, we would have created an alliance with Imirillia long ago.”

  Wil shifted and looked at Eleanor. “In truth?” he asked. “Tell me.”

  “Do you want to know?” Eleanor paused, a small smile on her face. “It will sound more like a tale of faerie than one of lost political advantage.” Wil looked at Eleanor, studying her nostalgic demeanor with a strange expression.

  “Please,” he said.

  “I suppose you may have heard bits of the tale,” she began. “Seeing as how you are from Imirillia, but—” Eleanor bent to pick up a small rock, tossing it out towards the sea. It fell and fell, until the small gray stone disappeared soundlessly into the waves. “My mother was close with the Marion princess, Edith. Friends enough to have named my sister after her, obviously.”

  “Now,” Eleanor continued, “Edith of Marion was the youngest daughter of Edvard, King of Marion. He had five children—the oldest, Staven, is now their king. When the Imirillian Empire began to grow in strength, Edvard thought it wise to form an alliance: to keep Marion protected and in favor with the country that was coming into such great power.”

  “So, he sends his beautiful young daughter to the Emperor Shaamil for bargaining,” Wil provided in answer.

  Eleanor shook her head. “Actually—and I only know of the details because of my mother—Edvard tried first to send his elder daughter, Anne, to be Shaamil’s bride.”

  “Did he?” Wil asked, now fully engaged in the story. “So, what happened?”

  “Anne did not please Shaamil. He sent her away within the hour of her arrival in Zarbadast, declaring that she had neither the beauty nor the spirit he demanded from a wife. You see, he had two already,” Eleanor explained as she gave Wil a mischievous look. “I suppose he knew what he wanted.”

  Wil laughed. “Go on.”

  “Anne was sent home in quiet disgrace. My mother never cared for Anne, so she told the story with more harshness than do I.” Eleanor laughed. “King Edvard now began to worry what might happen to Marion if he did not provide another alternative for this alliance.

  “Edith was his youngest daughter. And, by all reports the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen. My mother used to tell me she was a most striking, delicate girl with eyes of so brilliant a blue that she could just look at the rain, and it would stop.”

  Wil smiled. “Hmmm.”

  “So, King Edvard, though he preferred Edith to all his other children, requested that Shaamil take his youngest daughter to wife. Shaamil accepted but on the penalty that if she did not please him, then the alliance would never come to pass, and she would be executed.”

  Eleanor crossed her arms, feeling the sea wind on her fingers as she looked over at Wil. “Edvard deliberated much, for it broke his heart to send his daughter so far away. Finally, he decided to send Edith north. She was a guest at Ainsley castle, when the news of her betrothal came. My mother said they cried and cried, but that in the end, they began to speak of the wonderful things that might come of this marriage: how their children would wed and how Edith would bring her family to Aemogen. So, Edith left Ainsley with courage and determination, and my mother waited anxiously for news.

  “Months passed before she received correspondence from Edith. She had made the journey north to Zarbadast and was brought directly into the throne room, before Shaamil and his entire court. But, she was blindfolded, so she could not see the emperor. And, although frightened and weary from the journey, she stood straight with her chin raised.”

  “And he was won over by her beauty, made her his third wife, and she endured Zarbadast life,” Wil guessed with an edge on the words.

  Eleanor paused, almost hearing the words again from her own mother’s lips. “Edith wrote that the emperor had stood without speaking, until a long moment had passed. He then dismissed her from the court, commanding that the guards take her to his favorite garden. She was led to a beautiful enclosure where there were fountains and large basins, holding flowers and plants, above streams of clear water. A young maidservant helped Edith change and bathe and left her to await the Emperor Shaamil alone.” A soft smile crossed Eleanor’s face. “And then, the most unexpected thing of all. Shaamil came into the gardens. He was younger than she had supposed—well, relatively, considering she wasn’t quite eighteen years old. She wrote to my mother that when she saw his face, every question in her life had answers, and she knew that the center of her heart would ever end in Shaamil.”

  Wil did not speak for a long time. He ran his hand through his hair and turned to take in the view of the sea. “How would your mother have formed an alliance with Imirillia through this Princess Edith?”

  “She and my mother wrote for several years, before the letters stopped. Edith bore Shaamil a son,” Eleanor explained. “Basaal, he was named. Edith wrote that Shaamil showed Basaal special favor, despite having many sons already. I was born only a few years after, and my mother wanted an alliance—a marriage.

  “He was not the firstborn as I was, so Basaal would share my throne. Edith also hoped they might secure an alliance, placing Aemogen in an advantageous position. She even sent an Imirillian song for me to learn—” Eleanor paused at the memory. “A peculiar tune that I can’t quite remember, but I loved it as a child.”

  “What happened?” Wil asked, watching Eleanor intently.

  “I’m not altogether sure,” she admitted. “My father didn’t like the idea. The Imirillian Empire was growing in land and in power, and it was a warring nation. For every sweetness that Edith wrote of Shaamil, there were ten st
ories throughout the land of his conquests and dominance. My father wanted, as had his father before him, a quiet existence away from the eyes of other sovereigns, which meant my marrying an Aemogen. Perhaps he felt that the safer road for me.”

  “And what—” Wil paused. “What of the Princess Edith?”

  “She died,” Eleanor said, turning to face the ocean. “My mother had written to her for over a year with no reply. The boy would have been ten or eleven then. I remember when my mother heard the news that Edith had died of a fever,” she said, stopping for a moment at the memory.

  “I had never seen my mother so despondent. She cried and mourned, begged my father to invite Edith’s son to Ainsley. She wanted to know Basaal’s face. But, father would not make the invitation. He said it was for the best, yet I’ve always wondered if that was a mar on their marriage.” This confession was difficult for Eleanor. “My mother died a few years later.”

  Eleanor was reluctant to recall her mother’s sadness. It felt heavy on her chest as it had when, as a child, she could do nothing to make her mother stop crying.

  Wil looked down, kicking his boots in the dirt. “That is a sad tale,” he said.

  “It is,” Eleanor quietly agreed. “I have always thought of it as a beautiful ghost story: bitter and sweet.”

  Wil offered Eleanor a sincere glance. “Perhaps, that is the hazard of loving too deeply.” The wind had picked up, lifting itself off the sea and up the gray cliffs.

  “Do you know him?” she finally took the courage to ask.

  “Do I know who?” Wil asked.

  “Edith’s son, Prince Basaal. Have you met?”

  Wil kicked the earth again and looked away from Eleanor.

  “We have met,” Wil said, “several times, actually. Though, I cannot say I know him well.”