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

  A trumpet sounded through the camp, followed by the sounds of horses racing through the ranks of the bored men gathered around their campfires. Basaal looked up towards the door of his pavilion. As if answering his unspoken question, Annan entered, his black eyes serious. “The Vestan,” he said.

  A shiver swept up Basaal’s neck. “What of them?” Basaal asked.

  “Four more have ridden into camp just now,” Annan said. “They are speaking with Drakta.”

  “What?” Basaal jumped to his feet. “Are you telling me we now have six assassins here?”

  They could hear footsteps approaching the tent, and Basaal looked back towards Eleanor, who was watching them with curiosity. He motioned for her to hide the scroll and pretend to be asleep. His expression must have appeared urgent enough, for Eleanor responded immediately, tucking the scroll beneath the cushions of the sofa and crouching down, pulling a blanket above her shoulders.

  Basaal sat back down at his table, working to regain a confident expression. Then a call came from outside the tent, and Annan pulled the flap back, allowing the six assassins to enter. All were dressed in robes of purple so deep they were almost black. Basaal lifted his eyebrows and, without speaking, stood. They bowed before him.

  One of the Vestan stepped forward and pulled a silver amulet from his robes, of a large serpent, whose tail was split into seven smaller heads, wrapped around itself.

  “My father sent you,” Basaal said as he nodded towards this token. “May I ask why?”

  “He has concerns as to how you are handling the conquest,” the assassin answered. “He sent us to assist you.”

  Basaal understood the warning, yet he looked calmly at the assassin. “I am glad for your assistance, but do not see it as necessary.” Basaal sat back down, leaving the Vestan standing. Annan waited in the shadows by the door of the pavilion, watching the interactions, his eyes uncertain, his hand on the hilt of his scimitar.

  The senior Vestan gave Basaal an indulgent smile. “Prince, you left Zarbadast over eight months ago, and your army followed soon after. Yet, you remain in Marion, and we’ve just learned that the entrance into Aemogen is rendered impassible. This will not please the emperor.”

  Basaal smiled at the Vestan and leaned back in his chair.

  “I know my father’s temperament,” he said. “Rest assured, I will see the job done in my own way. Your—” Basaal paused, his eyes flickering over the man’s robes, “expertise is not needed, so you are free to return to Zarbadast.”

  “Ah, that brings us to another point of interest,” The Vestan said, lifting his finger. “Drakta mentioned that you have the Aemogen queen captive.” As the Vestan’s eyes moved to Eleanor, laying on the sofa, Basaal’s fingers moved towards the hilt of his sword. When Basaal did not speak, the assassin continued. “Your father’s new policies do not allow for hostages. You should have already killed her for insubordination.”

  “Her people are extremely loyal to her reign,” Basaal said, choosing his words carefully, aware that both Eleanor and the assassins were listening. “I intend to make the Aemogen queen my wife, claiming power in Aemogen through marriage, and all the resources will go to the empire. I trust my father will concede, once we have returned to Zarbadast for the winter.”

  “You have squandered your advantage, young prince,” the assassin replied. “You have been foolish in your diplomacy.”

  “I have decided to spare the lives of my soldiers, if at all possible.” He looked the Vestan up and down. “We are different men, you and I.” Basaal stood and motioned towards Annan. “Allow my general to personally see you to some accommodations. I’m sure your long journey was taxing.”

  The Vestan looked towards Eleanor again. “I would be happy to join your entourage in returning home,” he said. “Your protection is paramount, and the queen must not be allowed to escape before the emperor can decide her fate.” His words were laced with anything but happiness, and his meaning was clear. The Vestan still held the medallion in his hand, and he tossed it to Basaal. “A reminder of whom you serve.”

  Basaal laughed. “I am the son of Emperor Shaamil,” he said, taking a step towards the assassin. “And you are a Vestan; it is you who needs a reminder of whom you serve. You are dismissed.”

  The assassin bowed, but his eyes held no look of submission as he, followed by the other five assassins, left the tent with Annan. As soon as the curtain had closed, Basaal threw the medallion onto the table. It rang as it circled around itself before shivering to a stop. Basaal bit his lip and leaned against the table, fighting the sensation of having a noose around his neck.

  “You seem to have put yourself in a dangerous position,” Eleanor said, sitting up, regarding him with a curious stare. She made no reference to her own precarious state. Basaal bunched his lips together, as if he had swallowed something bitter, and nodded.

  It was then that Annan returned.

  “Are they settling, then?” Basaal asked.

  Shaking his head, Annan drew his mouth into a line. “They are speaking with Drakta again.”

  Basaal almost smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. “Double the perimeter around my tent, Annan, with only men sworn to me by death,” Basaal said. “Then have the line step away ten paces, and you walk the inside perimeter yourself. I need to speak with the queen without being overheard.”

  The prince waited and listened for several minutes, knowing Annan would fulfill his assignment without drawing any attention to himself. Eleanor sat quietly, her knee tucked up under her chin, a blanket over her shoulders. Crossing his arms before his chest, Basaal paced beside the table, glancing up to study the face of the waiting queen, feeling his pulse quicken at her patient expression, then looking down again at his own feet. Finally, he heard a soft whistle. Basaal picked up a small stool with one hand and walked to the back of the pavilion, setting it down before Eleanor.

  “May we speak openly with one another?” he asked.

  ***

  He sat on the low stool, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, looking intently into Eleanor’s eyes. He was so close she could have reached out and touched his face.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “In short,” he began, “I accepted this conquest because my mother loved Aemogen. Think of me what you will, but I fought hard to buy you six months to surrender, for your sake as much as for mine. If my father or any of my brothers had led the conquest in my place, Mason would have carried the news of an immediate invasion instead of delivering a warning to Ainsley that night.

  “Why the deception?” Eleanor leveled in return. “Why could you not have presented the terms in an open explanation?”

  “What could I have said?” Prince Basaal countered. “After negotiations failed, you would have taken me for a ransom my father would not have paid. An Imirillian force would have come down and marched into Aemogen, probably not sparing me in the process for having been such a fool.” A flush of color crept into his skin. “I do value my neck, as much as any man.”

  Eleanor bit her lip, considering his words. She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the sting of remembering the intimate conversations she had shared with him.

  “I have laid awake, cursing you in the dark, searching for the hints of your insincerity while you were in Aemogen,” she admitted. “How simple you must have thought us.”

  “No,” he said as he shook his head. “You asked me if I would pledge myself to the battle run, and I committed fully. There was no playing a part in my dedication to that task, no insincerity for you to find, Eleanor. You yourself told me that I was a gamble worth taking, that the odds were you could gain more than I could in return. Your gamble paid off—there is nothing simple in that.”

  “I did not imply I was simple, merely that your estimation must have painted me so,” Eleanor stated. “And you still feel that I should have surrendered.”

  “I wish you had,” Basaal replied. The weight in his voice kept Eleanor from speaking.<
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  The prince held his mouth closed, tight and unmoving, while his eyes betrayed the words he was holding back. Eleanor lifted her chin, and they stared at each other, taking stock, reconfiguring who they each thought the other person to be.

  “You are more calculating than I had considered,” he finally said. “Things that I had supposed to have been by chance now feel pushed and pulled, all along, beneath your calm expression.”

  “Everything I shared with you was honest.”

  The prince cleared his throat, looking down at the rug beneath them before looking back up into Eleanor’s eyes. “I was remarking on your intelligence, not on any kind of deviant design. Have no fear—your integrity remains intact.”

  I don’t fear it, Eleanor wanted to snap in return, but she waited for her anger to pass. “You are beholden to more than I had supposed,” she stubbornly admitted. “I will honestly say, your balancing act is—” she paused and pursed her lips. “How you must negotiate your life. I don’t envy you for it.” When he did not answer, Eleanor moved past her own words. “What, then, is your plan for my escape?”

  Basaal half laughed. “You heard for yourself the reality of our situation. If you escape, the Vestan assassins will track you down and see you dead. None operate as they do,” he explained. “You would have no chance. I, in turn, would be held under suspicion, taken to Zarbadast as a prisoner, and removed from my post, if not worse,” he added. “So, I cannot be seen abetting your escape, especially since there are rumors we have become lovers and I aided you in bringing down the pass.”

  Eleanor flushed and raised her eyebrow but did not pursue the topic of the rumor. “So, you’re not going to help me escape.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Basaal said, and he looked down at his hands. “But, the Vestan will accompany us to Zarbadast. We must continue under the guise that you have come to be my wife. It’s a believable position for a seventh son who will not inherit the crown. If I were more like my father, it would be a solid political move, increasing my own lands while building the empire.” He still did not look up at Eleanor but ran his fingers over the calluses on his palms. “Continuing this charade is the best chance you have of avoiding death,” he added.

  “The best chance I had of avoiding death would have been receiving your honesty months ago,” Eleanor clipped.

  The prince shook his head. “My world does not revolve around your well-being, Your Majesty,” he replied. His words were said softer than she had ever heard him speak, but they were lined with an intimidating intensity. “I am neither Aedon nor Crispin nor Hastian. I am a young man, anxious to be home. I have my own loyalties, my own difficulties, and my own relationships. I have a life, far from your fortresses and your fens. And I have risked it all for my mother’s memory and to answer my own honor, but I will not lose my life for this.” He looked directly into her eyes. “As much as I respect you, Eleanor, Queen of Aemogen, you are not my guiding star.”

  Eleanor felt a blush, burning in her cheeks. “Then we understand one another, you with your loyalties and me with mine. Will you still hold to the promise that you will see me home?”

  “I promise that I will see you escape,” he answered as he stood and moved away. Without looking back, Prince Basaal pinched out the candles on the table with his fingers and left her and the pavilion in darkness.

  ***

  The prince had not returned before Eleanor fell asleep. When she woke, it was early, well before dawn. Eleanor looked to where the prince usually slept. But rather than seeing him sleeping, she found him standing silently in the hazy blue of morning.

  His back straight, weaponless, in simple black clothing—Basaal pressed his palms together before his face, the tips of his fingers touching his brow as he bent his head. He did not speak, although his lips moved in silence.

  As Eleanor’s eyes adjusted to the faint light, she could better see the expression on his face. It was one she had never seen before—or perhaps she had, not knowing what it was—an expression of patient devotion. Eleanor’s heart drummed an unaccustomed beat. She pulled her blankets closer around her body, quietly, so as to not disturb his prayer, but still she stared at the prince, the grace of his figure, the striking beauty of his face.

  Eleanor recalled the first morning that she had seen him in the Ainsley gardens, a memory both pleasing and unsettling. She had become so accustomed to his presence over the half a year that he had been in Aemogen. In the clarity of having just left sleep, Eleanor felt a sliver of emotion that she was not expecting, relief that he was well, relief that he was safe, relief that she was with him.

  She bit her lip, feeling a prickle of guilt for this admission. He had his loyalties, and she had hers. The conversation of the night before had served as a contract, reestablishing an unspoken distance between them. And the lines had been redrawn by Eleanor as well as by Basaal. But watching him this morning, Eleanor’s heart was not in it. She even tried to raise her anger towards him but found she was tired of the sentiment. Frightened by whatever it was that had caused her feelings to soften towards him, Eleanor determined to think more of Aemogen.

  Without opening his eyes, Basaal dropped to his knees, placing both hands over his heart. His lips did not move now, but his face expressed an emotion Eleanor could only describe as one of pleading. She looked down towards the floor, offering him the privacy he did not know he lacked. It was several minutes before Eleanor heard Basaal stir.

  Eleanor kept her eyes closed as she listened to him move about the pavilion. He sighed, and it was a tired sound—a lonely sound. At length, Eleanor opened her eyes. The prince again wore his black jacket with the gold buttons and was standing over the middle table, studying a map. After a few minutes, Basaal glanced up and met Eleanor’s gaze.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” Eleanor replied as she sat up, pushing her blankets aside despite the chill edge on the air. “Did you sleep well?” she asked.

  “No,” the prince replied honestly.

  “Wil—” Eleanor began then corrected herself. “Prince—”

  “Just Basaal is fine,” he said, but his tone was difficult to understand. “Basaal is my first given name,” he explained. “Wiliam, or Wil, is one of my second names, given to me by my mother.” He returned to his work.

  “Basaal?” she asked. He looked up again, but there was no invitation in the look. “Nothing,” Eleanor said.

  ***

  The next morning, Basaal announced to Eleanor that they would be leaving for the court of King Staven in Marion City and, from there, would travel into Imirillia. The way his tone tilted to the side gave her warning. He motioned towards the fabric walls of the pavilion and shook his head, so Eleanor did not speak.

  Still in her white ceremonial dress, dirty from wear, Eleanor did not enjoy the thought of traveling to the court of her former ally turned traitor. Basaal spent his morning studying a set of maps and reading through scrolls. Annan was in and out of the tent as were several others among Basaal’s officers. After finishing a simple meal, Basaal finally spoke to Eleanor, who was still eating, sitting on the couch.

  “I have some clothes for you to change into, if it pleases you.”

  “A uniform from the ranks of your army?” she divined.

  “No,” Basaal said. “I’ve had some of my men procure dresses that should fit you—or will, after a few alterations.”

  Eleanor’s patience had been thinned by her endless days in the pavilion. In the struggle to separate her emotions regarding this prince, she almost retorted that he was her most faithful wardrobe mistress. Instead, she finished her meal.

  Basaal walked to the entrance of his tent and spoke a few words to the guard. Within moments, a pile of clothing was brought into the pavilion.

  “See if you find anything you prefer,” he said. “Then, wash and prepare yourself as best you can. We leave this afternoon.”

  Chapter Three

  The court of King Staven was far
less simple than the one at Ainsley Castle. The blond stone, quarried from their western borders, was beautifully crafted. As a child, Eleanor had envied its delicate arches and buttresses, its tall windows filled with stained glass, as well as the fountains and the extensive grounds, all private and pristinely kept. They were more predictable than the gardens of Aemogen, with less inherited talent and scope, but their formality suited the architecture and the persona of Marion City.

  Eleanor had always enjoyed her visits here, while King Edvard lived. His reign was the longest in Marion history. Staven had been on the throne only two years longer than Eleanor, although he was older than her father. The alliance between the two countries had persisted after Edvard’s death, yet Eleanor knew that Staven did not honor the long-standing friendship as his father had. Eleanor did not relish the idea of being taken into his court as a prisoner, and she would not be subservient.

  When they were ready, Eleanor rode astride Hegleh, next to Prince Basaal, who was mounted on a large black horse he called Refigh. Their company of seventy soldiers was composed of Basaal’s men and a handful of his father’s war officers. Drakta did not ride with them, having been ordered to remain with the army in Marion throughout the winter—his expression had been anything but pleased. Four of the six Vestan also rode with them, the other two having already left for Zarbadast the day before.

  Late summer was giving way to the first experimental days of fall, and Eleanor was aching to be home in Ainsley. But, one look towards the nearby Vestan, and she forced a form of patience.

  The closer they came to Marion City, the more populated the villages were. People streamed out to watch the soldiers pass with their prisoner. Eleanor had ridden this way many times before, waving and acknowledging an amicable interaction with the Marion people. Now, neither they nor she knew what to feel as she rode past, the hostage of a foreign army.