The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) Read online

  “You are rather complimentary,” Eleanor frowned. “But, something else worries you.”

  “I am complimentary to his skill,” Thayne said. “What bothers me is, I swear I have seen him before, but I can’t place his face.”

  “You have not traveled much in the North, have you?” Eleanor asked. “Perhaps you and he met in Marion?”

  Thayne stood and walked towards the window, looking down on the soldiers gathering around fires in the courtyard below. “When I look at that young man I can’t help but feel I am staring into the eyes of a ghost.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Wil woke early to the sound of the ocean. He was wet, his cloak covered in heavy dew. Standing, he shook it off, throwing it over a bramble to dry, and walked towards the predawn light along the cliffs. No one else stirred. The ocean rang with sound, deep and dark, but the silver clouds hinted at sunrise.

  Wil walked the path parallel to the cliffs, stretching his legs, running his fingers through his hair, and enjoying the sharpness of sound that morning always seemed to bring. He continued on, out of sight of the fen hall, beyond many of the houses, towards the wilds that tumbled seaward. Wil had never seen anything like it before. In the dim of early morning, the hills and rocks rose and fell, settled into their places for years, yet not appearing restful. It was a wild corner of the world, and Wil could see why Thayne and his people had chosen to stay here. He could also see why others would choose to leave, for to his back were the southern edges of the barrows.

  “Getting acquainted with our ghosts?” a voice behind Wil said. Wil turned, his hand instinctively moving to his sword. Thayne stood on the slope, watching the ocean. He was dressed in fine clothing but looked very much in place.

  “I see I’ve startled you,” Thayne continued. “I’ll take that as a compliment, as I assume it’s not an easy thing to do. Speaking of ghosts, Wil Traveler,” Thayne said, stepping down beside him. “I’ve been racking my brain about you. I’ve no clear recollection of where I may have seen you before, yet you’re as familiar as my own blood.” Thayne moved his tongue along his bottom lip and looked out over the sea. “Then I realized,” he glanced again to Wil, his eyes intent and strong, “you’re a ghost.”

  Wil stared at the older man.

  “You are a ghost,” Thayne repeated. “I just can’t figure out whose ghost.”

  Bending down, Thayne picked up a smooth rock, weighing it in his hand before tossing it over the cliff and into the water. “But, I know your eyes,” he continued. “They press into my soul, and I’ve not slept for it.”

  “I am certain we’ve never met before,” Wil answered, wishing he had not come so far, wishing the tumbled hills and stones could disappear and take him away from this sacred, haunted place.

  “Tell me of yourself, Traveler,” Thayne said. “I admit that my curiosity has gotten the better of me. I’ve invented stories all night.”

  “It’s dangerous to live in stories,” Wil said, meeting Thayne’s eyes briefly.

  “Yes.”

  Thayne’s stare would not let Wil rest. Wil took a few steps forward, towards the edge of the cliff, and crossed his arms, watching the sun begin to make its appearance.

  “I know you have more questions for me,” Wil said. “It would be easier for both of us if you simply asked them instead of hinting around.”

  “Yes. But would you answer them?”

  “I’ll give you answers,” Wil hedged. “Though, I’m almost certain they will not satisfy you.” The sun was lifting itself above the line of the sea, a soft golden tone pressing against the cliffs beneath Wil’s worn boots.

  “Who are you?” Thayne asked.

  “A traveler, caught in the middle of another man’s war.”

  “Where does your allegiance lie?”

  “With my own individual honor,” Wil said. Out of habit, he moved his right hand to his left forearm, which was still bound, concealed with the now filthy strip of black cloth.

  Thayne’s eyes followed the movement. “What is your true intent in all of this?” Thayne asked as he had asked all the other questions, with a subtle challenge in his voice.

  “To cause as little blood to be shed as is possible,” Wil replied.

  The sun broke fully over the water, causing Wil to squint against the morning and lift his arm to block out the blinding light.

  “Why do I know your face?” Thayne asked.

  “I am not the one to answer that question for you,” Wil said as he turned and walked away from the interrogation, back towards the fen hall.

  ***

  The following days of training went well. The tense feelings over Thistle Black were eased, and Eleanor’s council thawed. Although she and Wil spoke little, Eleanor was polite and amicable. Wil returned these sentiments, but spent his time almost exclusively with the soldiers. He did not eat with the council, and avoided Thayne entirely.

  On the final evening, the fen prepared a great meal to precede the traditional music and dancing. Eleanor had spent many hours reviewing her translations of the Imirillian texts, so she was ready for the socializing. Thayne asked her, curious, why she studied the pages.

  “I have crossed my mind for a way to defeat the Imirillians,” she confided to the fen lord. “An idea, a thought, can come from anywhere. My tutor once said that to defeat an enemy, you must know his heart. Perhaps that is why I keep coming back to these passages.” She tossed them across the table to Thayne. “They’re beautiful yet yield little concrete direction, I admit.”

  By day’s end, Eleanor’s maid had packed the translations away in her saddlebags, and Eleanor prepared herself for the night, encouraged by Thayne to leave her worries and enjoy the good conversation and fine music.

  “I know you favor our Marion tunes in your heart,” Thayne said as she joined him.

  “I won’t deny my fondness, Thayne,” she admitted. “But don’t you dare say a word.”

  “I have heard a rumor,” Thayne said as if mentioning the thought casually, “that you have not been dancing. Do prove me wrong.”

  The entire fen had gathered outside the hall. Musicians began to play in a jovial way, and those who had gathered were lively. Wil was not present for the first dances, and Eleanor didn’t worry over him.

  Once it was clear she had decided to dance, Eleanor never lacked for a partner. Even Gaulter Alden agreed to stand up, laughing all the while and saying he was too old. Wil soon appeared at the outskirts of the circle, hanging back with a mug of cider, paying especial note to the music.

  Eleanor sat down and began talking with Thayne, when the musician announced that they would play the Marion Catch.

  “A favorite of my mother’s, I believe,” Eleanor said.

  “So it was,” Thayne responded. “I haven’t danced it in ages, but if you would like—?”

  “I would,” Eleanor said as she smiled. Just as she stood, Wil appeared at her elbow. But he must have realized Thayne had invited her to dance, for he stepped back.

  “I see you already found a partner,” Wil said. “I was going to brave the crowd and ask you myself,” he explained. “It’s one of the few Marion dances I know.”

  Thayne laughed. “I’ve never pitted myself against a younger, more handsome man,” Thayne said. “And, I’ll not start now. Please, let me rest while you show Eleanor how to enjoy a dance.”

  Eleanor took Wil’s arm. “I’m all amazement, Wil Traveler,” she said. “I had supposed that you never danced.”

  Wil didn’t reply until he led Eleanor into the circle. “Please accept this as an apology for the other evening,” he said.

  “You gave sound advice, Wil.”

  “Yes, but my delivery was unnecessarily abrasive.” His gaze was direct. “I want you to succeed in this thing, Eleanor. I know you disagree with my views, but please consider in part what I have said, forgetting my rudeness.”

  He reached out and took Eleanor’s hands. This gesture startled her, until Eleanor remembered that this was
how the Marion Catch began.

  “I don’t care much for such happy dances,” Wil admitted.

  Eleanor surprised herself then—for she laughed.

  The musicians set the rhythm, drums clipping at the pace of a fast horse. Their fellow dancers whooped and called out, but Wil’s mouth remained stern. Then, as the violin began to carry a merry melody, the catch began. Wil led Eleanor around him—to the right, to the left, and facing each other again—before spinning into a circle. All the crowed joined in, clapping along with the beat, as the dancers spun.

  Wil’s enthusiasm did not match that of their fellow dancers on the floor: he remained stiff, understating his own movements, maintaining a certain dignity that he seemed to think important. As he lifted Eleanor’s hand above her head, sending her twirling in rhythm with the song, Eleanor laughed again. Wil did know this dance, and he knew it well.

  Despite his stubborn decision to underplay the movements, his style was graceful and sure. Eleanor had never fancied herself a very good dancer, but she found following Wil easy. They traded partners throughout the reel, returning to each other often. The crowd cheered as the dancers put on quite an exhibition, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended in a flourish of melody and sound, with Wil and Eleanor facing each other, out of breath, her hands in his. He even smiled.

  “I’m impressed, Wil!” Eleanor pressed her fingertips into his palms for emphasis.

  “You’re always surprised when I do something well.” His face was flushed, but there was a lightness in his eyes. “I’m not sure if I should be offended by that or not,” he added.

  “Not so,” Eleanor opened her mouth in defense. “Sometimes you do something well and it irritates, rather than surprises.”

  His laugh in response was perhaps the most spontaneous expression she had ever heard, so unlike what he had been these last two months. This brief, authentic moment was significant to Eleanor: it pleased her, and drew her eyes to his face as they wound through the circle of dancers to a quiet spot on the edge of the circle, just down from where Thayne sat with Gaulter Alden.

  “Your mood is obviously improved,” she said.

  Wil tilted his eyebrows up in what seemed some sort of internal concession as he looked over the crowd. “Blame that on Crispin,” he said. “He talked me out of my bad mood. You’ll hear no more from me tonight on politics.”

  “Good,” Eleanor responded.

  “Oh? Is it so bad, my pontificating?”

  It took Eleanor a moment to grasp his self-deprecating humor. “What I meant,” Eleanor explained, “was that I don’t think I can talk about anything serious tonight. I am spent, and my impatience—born of exhaustion—and your complex temper—born of what, I can’t say—are quite the pair when we are worn down. Let us not tempt them.” Eleanor pulled in a deep breath, feeling the smoke from the bonfire in her lungs. “But, do feel free to tell me anything of no significance,” she added. “And I will promise to be attentive.”

  Wil had his arms crossed, his shoulders back, and, when he looked down at her, the edge of his mouth was turned up. The firelight played across his face, and Eleanor looked away, back towards the dancers. She’d had to. What had once been an unacknowledged, nuanced attraction was rather quickly becoming, Eleanor confessed to herself, overwhelming. He was difficult, layered, and stubborn, and she felt distracted by the memory of the weight of his hand on her waist as they had danced.

  “I promised Crispin another dance,” Eleanor said, sounding hesitant, though it had been intended to sound light. “Excuse me, Wil.” She walked back toward Gaulter Alden and Thayne, forgetting to look for Crispin for the feeling of Wil’s eyes on her back.

  ***

  The next day, the company left Old Ainsley, heading west to Rye Field fen. Their parting had been brief but heartfelt. Wil watched as Eleanor said good-bye to Thayne, understanding now that the fen lord was closer to a father than a friend for the queen.

  Reluctant to make eye contact with Thayne, Wil mounted Hegleh and sat stiff and aloof. He wanted no conversation with the Marion nobleman, for he would not play a role in any man’s ghost story. What he wanted was to speak with Eleanor again about things that had nothing to do with wars and politics.

  Along the route, Aedon, Eleanor, and Wil rode side by side. They were halfway through the battle run, and they shared thoughts as to the strength of Aemogen’s forces.

  “I worry,” Aedon questioned aloud, “if our unwillingness to trade has been a forerunner to this invasion.”

  “Has the Imirillian Empire offered you a treatise of trade before?” Wil asked, curious to hear their answer.

  “Not the emperor but merchants, yes,” Eleanor said. “We received requests from Imirillia, Capabolt, and Aramesh, among others.”

  “But you accepted none?” Wil asked.

  “We accepted none,” Eleanor answered frankly. “We do limited trade with Marion, and do not use our resources on the greater international market.”

  “Why?” Wil asked. “It could greatly profit Aemogen.”

  “You heard the tale of Ainorra Breagha,” she said. “Our history bears it out for us. We only entered into treaties with Marion with the utmost caution.”

  “As you have noticed,” Aedon said, his response to Wil almost sounding congenial. “We are fierce about Aemogen tradition and all we have fought to attain. This is a peaceful country with good laws, a working justice system, and endless resources. To enter into negotiations with another country puts all that in jeopardy.”

  Wil was dissatisfied. He felt a conflict rising in his chest.

  “Say what is on your mind, Wil,” Eleanor said. “You’re frowning.”

  “It’s only that I have seen all these countries who have sought trade with you,” Wil answered. “They are filled with barren lands, where people suffer to sustain themselves. They have arts and skills to trade, knowledge of many things, but hardly any food to speak of. You are an abundantly blessed nation, which—from what I have seen and heard—has food and materials to spare after every harvest. Do you not feel it your duty to reach out and aid the hungry in return for valuables that could benefit your own people?”

  Wil paused, choosing his next words. “I feel passionately that the strong must help the weak. And, as much as you might criticize the Imirillian Empire, I think it would surprise you to know the earnest endeavors of some in the noble class on behalf the of the poor. Imirillia’s expanse has blessed many with abundance.”

  “Yes,” Aedon replied. “But, it is through taking the rights of other people. Even if something is done with the best intentions, it cannot be done through force.”

  “But, you do not share when asked,” Wil retorted.

  Eleanor looked towards Wil. “My role as queen is to protect my people, to see them thrive,” she said. “I commit myself first and foremost to this responsibility. If our isolation causes pain, I am sorry for it, but I can’t risk the well-being of my people for another country.”

  “Then, you are held captive by fear,” Wil responded.

  “It is reason,” she said, “not fear.”

  “It is seeing to one’s own stewardship,” Aedon added.

  “Well, I will enlighten you on one thing,” Wil said, looking at Aedon then at Eleanor. “Your isolation does not only cause pain—it causes death. People in the North starve. Remember that the next time you feed your pigs such fine slop.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Again!” Wil yelled. The young man lifted his sword, swinging at Wil with all his force. Wil defended the blow as he would flick a grasshopper. “Again!” Wil yelled with each swing. “Again! Again!”

  Finally, the young man dropped to the ground, exhausted of his strength. He looked up at Wil with an almost fearful resignation.

  “Up on your feet,” Wil said. “Again.”

  But the young man bent his head, his hands shaking.

  Wil slid his own sword into its sheath. He knew the men of Rye Field fen were all watching,
waiting to see how he would respond to this young man, who had failed so miserably in his training. Wil knew he should berate the young man or encourage him on with visions of success. But, instead, he motioned for Crispin to continue without him and crouched down before the youth.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Tarit.”

  “What is it that you do, Tarit? Farmer? Thatcher?” Wil guessed.

  “Potter, sir.”

  “You make pots? Clay vessels and the like?”

  Tarit nodded.

  “Alright,” Wil said as he stood. “Come, show me your work.”

  Tarit looked up, confused. “But, it’s the training day. All men must be present by order of the queen.”

  Wil shrugged. “I’m friends with the queen. She’ll not mind.” Wil helped the young man to his feet.

  Rye Field was set up differently from the other fens Wil had seen. There were separate buildings for tradesmen to work in, directly surrounding the fen hall, so all commerce remained in the center of the fen. Then the houses sat in a loose circle, and the fields behind them, spreading out like the spokes of a wagon wheel. Tarit led Wil to a humble, but sturdy building that was full of well-proportioned pieces of pottery.

  Wil whistled. “Are all of these yours or are some of them your father’s?”

  “All mine,” Tarit said, setting his shoulders back, like a man discussing his trade. “I’ve no father; mother and sisters is all.”

  “Is all?” Wil replied. “That must be quite the responsibility. How old are you? Fourteen?”

  “Thirteen, sir.”

  Wil shook his head and looked about the small workroom. It was clean, but humble. The wheel was set in the corner so that Tarit could see anyone coming in or out of the door.

  “Will you show me how it’s done?” Wil asked, pointing to the empty wheel.