The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) Page 14

  “What is he up too?” Ammar questioned with a twisted smile.

  “Don’t think you have me, Kiarash,” Basaal spat at his brother.

  Kiarash yelled, lunging at Basaal, but the younger prince jumped back, running up the stairs, and in one quick spin was behind the throne, his dagger pressed to Shaamil’s neck.

  “One step closer, Kiarash,” Basaal warned, “and the emperor is dead.” Basaal panted as he recovered his breath and looked around the room. “The same goes for the imperial guards and the Vestan—no man moves or Shaamil is dead.” Basaal was yelling now. The audience stood as if frozen, and the many guards, dressed in deep purple, were poised but confused.

  The look on Shaamil’s face would have frozen all of Zarbadast.

  “Curse it,” Ammar whispered. “What are you doing, Brother?”

  Kiarash began to move towards the throne, but he stopped as Basaal’s voice again rose in warning.

  “Not one more step!”

  Shaamil’s cool expression grew taut as Basaal pressed the blade of his knife harder against the emperor’s skin.

  “And yet,” Eleanor whispered aloud to herself.

  “And yet?” Ammar asked.

  “Look into the emperor’s eyes,” she said. “He is pleased with Basaal—angry but pleased.”

  Ammar swore as Kiarash began to approach.

  “Come no farther,” Basaal cried out with a ragged breath and pressed the knife hard enough to draw a small line of blood. Shaamil’s face twitched, and Kiarash seemed unsure. He looked from Basaal to the emperor, but Shaamil gave no indication of what his fifth son should do. Then Basaal leaned his head closer to his father and whispered something in the emperor’s ear. It must have been a devilish string of words, for a look came into Shaamil’s face strange enough to stop Kiarash in his advance.

  Everyone in the room was stuck in surprised silence. The Vestan hovered, ready, waiting for a signal from the emperor, their hands gripping the hard metal of their weapons. Finally, after a second trickle of blood ran down his neck, Shaamil held up his hand.

  “Enough!” Shaamil yelled and waved off Kiarash, motioning for Basaal to remove the knife from his neck. “Basaal, seventh son, has won the challenge. You will retain your post to lead the Aemogen invasion.”

  Basaal’s drew back his knife, and the crowd let out a loud cheer. Kiarash turned away, his face flushed, and Basaal stepped back from the throne, the clarity of relief on his face. The emperor stood and stared at Basaal, who slipped his knife back into the sheath on his wrist before acknowledging the crowd. Then, without speaking to his father, Basaal walked down the steps towards Kiarash, who met him in congratulations.

  The Vestan moved closer to the throne, surrounding the emperor like a curtain of sand. Again the room filled with shouts, and Basaal waved and smiled. A servant soon approached the throne with a basin of water and a towel. Shaamil glanced around, appearing irritated, before reaching for the towel himself and placing it against his neck. Tameez stepped forward, but the emperor waved him off.

  “He is looking for me,” Ammar said, breaking the silence in the hidden room.

  Eleanor watched these dramatics play out with mixed feelings. Her relief that Basaal had managed a victory did little to ease the sharp bitterness of knowing that the Aemogen invasion would inevitably continue.

  A servant had brought the emperor and the brothers each a drink, which they took readily. Tameez tried to attend to Basaal’s injuries, but, like his father, the prince waved the physician away, lifting his glass to the crowd before downing the contents in one gulp.

  The steady stream of voices rose upward, making it impossible for Eleanor to hear anything the princes may have been saying to one another. And the emperor, having sat down, was rolling a glass between his fingers as he watched Basaal. The pleasure on Shaamil’s face was tinged with the altogether impossible emotional pairing of rage.

  This would not end well.

  A call was made with the silver trumpet, and everyone returned to their positions, leaving Basaal standing alone before the throne. When all had quieted down, the emperor leaned forward in his chair.

  “And now,” he said. “We come to the issue of the Aemogen queen.” Shaamil spoke as if Basaal were the only other person in the room. “You want her to live; I want her to hang.”

  “So, what is my challenge?” Basaal asked.

  Shaamil made the sound of a half laugh, and his eyes lit briefly. “You have been successful in your first request,” he said. “And I think you deserve a rest.”

  Ammar tensed noticeably at Eleanor’s side.

  “What does he mean?” she asked, but Ammar did not respond.

  Shaamil leaned back in his chair and raised his hand to his neck. The movement looked casual, but the meaning was clear: he would retaliate for Basaal’s spectacle.

  “If the queen is to live,” Shaamil said, “she must come and fight for herself.”

  Ammar cursed, and the entire room below burst into conversation, their words hovering over the white stone floor.

  “But, Your Grace,” Basaal said, addressing his father as if trying to sound submissive. “A woman has never come before the emperor as a challenger in this way.”

  “And, a woman never shall,” the emperor said, waving his hand. “But, a queen? A monarch? I shall grant her special privileges. If her life is to be saved, she must save it. We will all take our refreshment now,” Shaamil said, looking at Basaal’s blood, splattered on the white marble. “And, have the floor cleaned,” he added and then turned back to Basaal. “You have one hour before the Aemogen queen will appear before me to learn whom she must fight.”

  At a simple motion from Shaamil, music began to play, servants poured into the throne room with trays of food and drink, and men in white robes bent over the floors to clean up the blood. Eleanor sat still, blinking, watching as Basaal’s oldest brother approached him, trying to speak with him. But Basaal waved him off, leaving the throne room immediately.

  “Come,” Ammar said, placing his hand on Eleanor’s shoulder. “Basaal will be joining us. We must see to his arm.”

  Eleanor heard these words, but she did not move. So this is how it would end. She was to be killed in a mock fight on the white marble of Zarbadast.

  Numbness seeped through her veins, clouding her thoughts, and Eleanor was only aware of the pressure of Ammar’s hands on her arms as he guided her out, down a corridor, past some curtains, and into the physician’s familiar sitting room.

  When Basaal burst through the doors, the sound woke Eleanor from her fear.

  “Father wants Eleanor’s head!” Basaal yelled as he went straight towards Ammar. Eleanor took a step back, preferring to observe the two brothers from the shadow of the hallway.

  “We saw,” Ammar replied.

  Tameez followed Basaal into the physician’s quarters and closed the doors behind Basaal, remaining in the corridor.

  “That was quite the stunt you pulled,” Ammar said. He poured Basaal a drink and handed it to him. “Let me attend to your arm quickly.”

  A curt nod was all the response that Basaal gave as he downed the contents of the cup Ammar had given him. Then, throwing the cup across the room, he sat on a cushioned sofa in obvious pain. As the physician went to a table and prepared supplies, Basaal tried to roll up his sleeve past the wound. It appeared painful. As Eleanor watched, her reason began to run itself routinely through her mind, clearing past the shock and searching for the facts of what was before her.

  “Curse it!” Basaal said, struggling to lift his shirt off. He threw a pillow across the room instead. Eleanor bit her lip at his outburst and, with a forced calm, passed through the curtain into the sitting room.

  “Well, there’s no sense in getting so upset” she said simply. “You did win after all.”

  Basaal’s eyes shot towards Eleanor, but before he could argue back, Ammar spoke without taking his eyes from his preparations.

  “Eleanor, seeing as how
Tameez has stepped out, would you please assist me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Eleanor, my father—” Basaal began.

  “First, we will attend to you,” Eleanor interrupted. “Then, we’ll discuss the emperor.”

  Basaal flushed and pressed his lips together as Eleanor sat beside him and looked at his wound. Once she had seen his arm, Eleanor knew that lifting his shirt over his head would only aggravate it.

  “May I?” Eleanor asked. She slid the dagger from the sheath at his wrist and began to cut his shirt away. As Eleanor worked, she was careful with his wrists, for they were cut and swollen from the abuse by Kiarash’s boots. Basaal watched her, shifting his shoulder forward in an effort to help.

  As Ammar walked over, his eyes noted the forming bruise on Basaal’s chest, and he frowned before leaning down to assess Basaal’s left arm. “It would appear that Kiarash was bent on winning,” he said. “This cut is much deeper than I would have thought. It’s made a mess of your arm,” he added. “The injury from last night looks infected as well.”

  He poured a clear alcohol over the wound. Then Eleanor followed as Ammar gave her instructions, pressing against the blood flow with a clean rag while he applied several different liquids that made Basaal flinch. Basaal’s chest rose and fell, and he looked ahead, his jaw working, but he didn’t speak. Neither would he look at her.

  Eleanor became curious when she saw a mark on his chest over his heart, a five-pointed star with a small, five-petal bloom at its center. Had the situation been different, she would have asked him about it. But, instead, when Ammar went across the room for more supplies, she placed her free hand on his forearm.

  “Are you alright?” she whispered.

  “I shouldn’t have pulled such a stunt,” Basaal said, giving his head a quick shake while looking straight ahead. “My father will see you dead now, and your blood will be on my hands for my failure to win in any other way.”

  “No,” Eleanor said. She moved her hand down to his, aware that his blood had seeped into the lines of her fingers.

  “I am going to sew the wound,” Ammar said, returning. “Eleanor, if you would, please see if the blood flow has eased, then hold the skin together while I work.” Eleanor moved farther back on the couch, giving him more space.

  Basaal’s jaw tightened as Eleanor did her best to hold the wound in place. It was a messy affair—between old and new injury—but Ammar was efficient. It didn’t seem long before Basaal’s arm was sewn up and wrapped.

  “The rest of your injuries can wait,” Ammar said. “We must discuss Eleanor’s situation.” Ammar stood, placing his supplies on the long table. “If you will excuse me a moment,” Ammar said, and he disappeared into the exterior hallway.

  Basaal leaned back, running his right hand through his hair. Eleanor expected him to speak to her, to say something, but he remained silent. When Eleanor finally decided to ask Basaal what he thought Shaamil might do, Ammar returned with another black shirt and Basaal’s militant jacket. He threw the shirt towards his brother and laid the jacket over the back of the couch.

  “Let Eleanor help you,” Ammar stated, “or you will rip out all my work.”

  Basaal stood up, and Eleanor helped him struggle into the shirt, gingerly pulling it over his arm. Eleanor knew that her consideration could not take away the pain of his movements, but Ammar gave Basaal some sort of drink that began to help with the pain.

  Eleanor reached for his jacket, moving her eyes across its stiff shoulders, high collar, gold buttons.

  “I am already sweating,” the prince started to protest. “From the fight, and from the heat of the day.”

  “Wear it,” Ammar commanded. “It will keep pressure on your arm and give you a show of strength for when you return to the throne room. Your face is pale enough as it is.”

  Again, Ammar left the room. With caution, Eleanor brought the left sleeve of the jacket over Basaal’s injured arm, then she guided his right arm into its sleeve and pulled the shoulders of the tight jacket up into place. He winced.

  With an apologetic expression, Eleanor began buttoning at the bottom of his jacket, bringing its sides together and pushing the first gold button through its stiff hole. Once it was in place, she moved up to the next button. As she secured the third button, Eleanor could feel his breath against her face. She realized that she had not been this close to Basaal since the night that he had kissed her in the Zeaad desert.

  Eleanor could feel his eyes on her face, so she lifted her eyes to meet his. She saw an expression there that reminded her of another night, those many months ago before the battle run, when the war council had returned to her private chambers after the women of Ainsley had sung. He had looked at her then as he looked at her now except that now his eyes were traced with fear. Eleanor secured the final button, at the base of his neck, feeling his hand brush against her waist before he let it drop back to his side.

  Eleanor thought he had calmed down by now, but another look at his face proved her wrong; his anger was there, white-hot, ready to spark. Eleanor stepped back when Ammar reentered the room.

  “So, what are we going to do?” Basaal asked his brother sharply.

  “I don’t see any way around this confrontation,” Ammar stated plainly. “It is not as if you can help Eleanor escape.”

  “But—” Basaal began.

  “We have nothing in place,” Ammar interrupted, his words stern and practical. “And you would certainly be indicted.”

  “So she goes for the challenge?” Basaal asked.

  “Yes,” Ammar replied.

  “Of all the seven stars—” Basaal said, turning away from them.

  “If—” Eleanor began, but Basaal cut her off.

  “So she goes before Father penitent, humble, ready to submit?”

  Eleanor looked up at him sharply in annoyance, not only for the interruption, but for the implication.

  “Do we accentuate her finer features and make her look more like a woman?” Ammar questioned. “Or play off her youth and have her appear as a child? What would garner any sympathy?” Ammar asked.

  Basaal shook his head in obvious aggravation. “Neither,” he said. “If we send her in there, she dies. So, we must get her away from the palace.”

  “It is impossible,” Ammar reinforced.

  “I am capable of speaking for myself!” Eleanor exclaimed, her voice carrying enough edge for the brothers to look towards her. “If we could sit down and think—” she suggested.

  Basaal spun to face her. “You don’t know the emperor as we do,” he argued. “He’s expressed his clear intent to see you dead. He has twisted centuries of rules to bring you before him. Can you fight? Can you defend yourself?” Basaal demanded, pausing and looking at Eleanor as if she were a different species altogether. “No,” he said. “You are a scholar, and your quill will not save you.”

  “Then my mind must,” Eleanor snapped back.

  “You are walking into something I cannot save you from.”

  Eleanor stiffened. “When have you really saved me from what would hurt me most? Are you not part of the threat against my people? I can’t trust myself to your motives now or to your character, no matter how honorable.” Eleanor softened her tone. “I will decide my own fate, be it life or death.”

  “Those are fair words,” Basaal stated, his eyes stripped of all confidence despite the businesslike expression he forced onto his face. “How much time do we have?”

  “Three quarters of an hour,” Ammar answered, looking towards Eleanor. “What, then, is your plan?”

  Eleanor began pacing the room, thinking, the soft white fabric of her dress moving about her feet.

  “The emperor seems to value independence that he can still control,” Eleanor said, pressing her fingers together. Basaal began to pace at the opposite end of the room, watching the floor as she spoke. “The question seems to be,” she added, “how to use this against him, as Basaal did just now.”

  Ammar w
aited.

  Eleanor looked towards Basaal, a new thought occurring to her. “Does he remain faithful to your Imirillian religion?”

  “I’ve no real answer for you,” Basaal said. “Ceremoniously, yes, but his level of inner devotion isn’t clear.”

  “He did study the Seven Scrolls in his youth,” Ammar offered.

  “Well,” Eleanor said. She paused near the table and rubbed her fingertips against the wood grain to think. “What in the Seven Scrolls can we use against him?”

  “I don’t follow your thought,” Ammar replied.

  “It was how she delayed our invasion,” Basaal said from the other side of the room. “Eleanor analyzed a key passage from Imirillian philosophy and realized that she could bring down the mountain to defeat us.”

  Ammar laughed.

  Eleanor looked towards Basaal. “And what about Thistle Black’s face,” she suggested, “when I rode into Black Mountain fen?”

  “Yes,” Basaal said. “That direction could work.” Basaal walked to the table and leaned against it, looking across at Eleanor. “Although, you’re dealing with two men made of entirely different metals.”

  “What?” Ammar asked.

  “My entrance needs to be a show of power,” Eleanor answered Ammar while still looking at Basaal. “It will be what he expects least,” she explained. “In his mind, I am the young queen, sick with fever, weak. So I need to surprise him. Power is intrigued by power,” she added, “in your Imirillian way of thinking.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” Basaal questioned.

  An image flickered crossed Eleanor’s mind before bursting into full picture. “I am going to ride Hegleh into the throne room,” she said, “dressed in all white, bangled in whatever gold and silver you can find, just as I rode out before your army.”

  “Do you mean to imitate the messenger angel?” Ammar questioned. “Seraagh?”

  “Yes,” Eleanor answered, her own pulse rising.