The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) Page 5

  ***

  When Eleanor arrived in her rooms, she left Hastian in the antechamber and, pausing only to light several candles, rolled the scroll open across the thick table. It was in Imirillian above and her language—the language Aemogen and the country of Marion shared—below.

  She could read both.

  Eleanor had studied hard and spoke many of the continental languages. Her father had provided excellent tutors, who were pleased with their dedicated student. So, now, her mind fought the anxiety by meticulously reading the Imirillian text.

  “Unbelievable,” Eleanor said as she brought her hand down on the table, reading the scroll through in both languages again.

  The terms, Eleanor thought, were ludicrous: Aemogen would surrender its sovereignty to the Imirillian Empire, which would send an occupying force from Zarbadast, the capital of Imirillia, to oversee Aemogen’s agriculture and its several prosperous mines. Aemogen would also release a map of their southern port at Calafort, which was filled with dangerously impassable reefs—knowledge Aemogen had been unwilling to share with anyone for seven hundred years, ensuring that only Aemogen ships came in and that all other ships stayed out. Shaamil, emperor of Imirillia, would negotiate open trade with his continental allies out of Aemogen’s port. If Eleanor cooperated, she would continue to reign as a figurehead queen. The terms would leave her people poverty-stricken, slaves.

  “If the queen of Aemogen chooses to reject this treaty,” she read, “the Imirillian Empire will secure the country and its resources with no regard for the queen, nor her people, and all members of the royal house and the queen’s council will be executed.”

  They were given six months. Eleanor frowned, pulled at the corner of her lip, and read the line again. In six months’ time, the Imirillian army would invade Aemogen through the mountain pass that separated Aemogen from their Marion neighbors. Six months. That set the invasion to the final month of summer, just before the harvest. Six months. It didn’t make any sense. Why would she be given such a lengthy amount of time?

  Eleanor sat and pressed her hands to her face. She must think. What lay before Aemogen, in the form of this scroll, was a threat greater than any her father or grandfather had ever encountered. Now that the shock was wearing into somber reality, she felt an undercurrent of intense dread. She must grasp in her mind what this meant for Aemogen. Exhaling, she stood, walked to her desk, and removed several sheets of paper from a smaller drawer. Grabbing an inkwell and a quill pen, Eleanor sat at the table and began to write down Aemogen’s options and the ramifications of each choice.

  “Gaulter Alden is waiting,” Hastian said, his voice pulling Eleanor from her notes. His blue eyes waited on Eleanor’s face for a confirmation.

  “Tell him to come through, Hastian,” she said. Gaulter Alden entered and sat down across from Eleanor.

  “I have been over the scroll several times in our own language and in Imirillian,” Eleanor said. “Ultimately, the terms are these: surrender our sovereignty while the Imirillian Empire takes a percentage of our produce, wares, commodities, plus gains open access to our port for them and their allies. In such a case, I would remain queen of Aemogen as a figurehead only, taking orders from a foreign government. I don’t need to tell you that the levies would be difficult for our people to sustain and not fall into poverty.”

  “Or,” Eleanor continued matter-of-factly, “we can choose to resist. If we fail, Aemogen becomes another colony of the Imirillian Empire, and I, my sister, and my entire council will be killed and replaced by an Imirillian governor.”

  Gaulter Alden slumped in his chair. He was a war leader who had never seen combat, the last of Aemogen’s wars being in the days of Eleanor’s great-grandfather, who, after maintaining Aemogen as an independent nation, took precautions to ensure that it would never experience such a loss again. He had forged an alliance with Marion, the only country adjacent to Aemogen, which had held for over one hundred years. Aemogen had no other allies, having refused any other trade agreements. The indomitable mountain range that shielded Aemogen’s border to the north was impassable, and both the east and the south were safeguarded by tall cliffs that fell straight to the sea. The entry into Aemogen’s port remained a navigational secret, ensuring their isolation. And their isolation, Eleanor had been taught, was their protection.

  “I have given my thoughts to domestic issues, rather than the threat of war,” Gaulter Alden admitted, as if Eleanor didn’t already know. He moved his fingers along his trimmed, gray beard, looking sober and insecure. “How in the shadow of Old Ainsley did we secure the attentions of the Imirillian Empire? It is far to the north,” he waved his hand abstractly, and his voice almost dropped to an incredulous whisper. “We are small,” he said. “We have fewer people in our entire country than they have in Zarbadast alone.”

  “Take the scroll with you tonight,” Eleanor said, thinking through his question. “Read it for yourself. We’ll meet come morning in council to discuss our options.”

  Gaulter Alden sat in his bewilderment a bit longer, then, remembering it was late and that he could retreat into sleep, he lifted his stiff body out of the chair. “You are wise, Eleanor, to wait until morning to discuss this,” he said. “I will think, as will you, and return the scroll early, before the council has a chance to assemble.”

  “Send it to Aedon once you’re done tonight.” Eleanor also stood. “He won’t sleep until he’s looked at it.”

  Crispin was waiting impatiently in the antechamber with Hastian and invited himself in as Gaulter Alden left. “Alright, Eleanor,” he said, “let’s have a look at this thing.”

  “I sent it with Gaulter Alden, but here are the notes I took down.” She moved the papers towards Crispin with her hand. While he scanned the pages, Eleanor pressed her knuckles against her lips, waiting, watching the bleak transformation on Crispin’s face. He looked up.

  “How will we survive this—?” he asked.

  She didn’t know how to answer.

  Chapter Three

  Eleanor’s every intention was to sleep soundly and wake clear minded, prepared. It had always been her determination to prove herself, despite her age, and that responsibly focused her thoughts on handling this situation with whatever wisdom she could gather. But, when she had blown out her candles and the fire had died down—the darkness sleeping around her in the bed—Eleanor found herself grappling with the reality of the dreamlike evening. She knew the tales of the Imirillian army. Stories had traveled south into Marion and then into Aemogen of what people had called the Desolation of Aramesh.

  Shaamil, the Imirillian emperor, and his sons had led their armies into Aramesh, sweeping through the entire country, burning fields, towns, and cities. Any civilians found were slaughtered. As the rumors told, Shaamil—who had raised Imirillia from a poor, desperate state to its current empire—held a boyhood grudge against Aramesh, with its beautiful ports and fertile fields, the least desertlike of all the northern countries. So, he had left it barren.

  As the long night marched haltingly on, Eleanor envisioned what an army of thousands could do to her country. One particular question was the most perplexing: Why had Shaamil given Aemogen a six months’ warning? It was a mystery, for the mercy of it did not seem like the emperor. As Eleanor worried and wound her questions around her mind far into the night, she began to see what the army would look like, coming down the Aemogen pass. She had heard that Imirillian soldiers were trained from boyhood in the art of war, wearing the marks of their emperor or of their prince, and that their officers rode fierce, black mounts, horses of great strength and breeding.

  When she finally did come to the edge of her dreams, Eleanor swore she could hear the countless steps of an army walking towards Ainsley Castle, and imagined that, in the morning, she would look over the downs and see them there, waiting, torches lit, scimitars in hand.

  ***

  Come morning, the council met briefly, the scroll laid across the table between them, discussing
the threat with its untenable terms. In Aemogen, difficulties of any kind were met first with thorough discussion, followed by thoughtful consideration, before possible solutions were set forth. It was how they had always handled pressing concerns. Yet, this was no simple concern. This unfathomable threat could mean the annihilation of their country, of their culture.

  “Keep the threat strictly to yourselves,” Eleanor ordered. “Take what we know, and think through every possibility for Aemogen’s defense. We will meet again tomorrow and decide what we will do.”

  Aedon stayed in his chair as his fellow councilmen, speaking with each other in low voices, emptied out into the hall.

  “I have too many questions, unanswered and raw on my tongue, Eleanor,” Aedon said.

  “Yes,” Eleanor agreed, tired from her long night. “What troubles you the most?”

  “All of it,” he said. His words were sharp. “What are Shaamil’s true motivations for this strange delay? Will they really hold themselves to the time given? Why give any warning at all before an attack? And, how do we discover how big their army is?” Aedon waved his hand in the air, an unspoken expression that meant there were more questions to be had.

  Eleanor watched him silently.

  “Regardless of the answers to these questions,” Aedon persisted, “how can we defend ourselves against any military, let alone the largest on the continent?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is acceptance of their terms the only option we have?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Eleanor said again as she stood and threw her hands in the air, revealing a personal frustration only Aedon or Edythe ever saw. “I don’t know, and I’ve no notion of what to do.” She looked at her chief councillor. “But, we will open it up to the council tomorrow. Then, we will put forth all our carefully deliberated thoughts and begin to formulate a plan,” she said, lowering her voice. “There must be some way through this.”

  Aedon stood and gathered his notes. “If you need me,” he said, the edges of his words shaking, “I’ll be in my chambers, hunting every corner of my brain for any alternative we might have.”

  ***

  While Aedon cloistered himself in his chambers, Eleanor retreated to the garden. She needed air and space. It was a cold day, with a gray wind and spring clouds all in bluster. The garden, only hinting at the season to come, felt vast and lonely. The space suited Eleanor’s need for a private tumble of emotions that had become too much for her own body, too sensitive to trust to anyone else just now. Thankfully, no one was about, and Eleanor could empty her mind. Ordering Hastian to stay at a distance, she disappeared through the gardens, out beyond the north wall, towards the meadows flanking the river.

  The steel gray water lipped and curled against the stones, the last visage of late winter, soothing her tight, guarded emotions. The sight steadied Eleanor, something to rival the tumult in the center of her own heart. Few were privy to that inner space, where Eleanor battled questions, so she stayed over an hour, breathing deeply of the wind and ordering her thoughts as she walked the worn path at the water’s edge. Between the water’s crystalline voice and the accompanying sound of wind through the winter-weary grass, Eleanor was beginning to calm.

  Feeling the tug of her desk and inkwell, she began to retrace her steps into the garden. It was in the rose garden she noticed the stranger, Wil Traveler, sitting at the far end, reading. Two members of the palace guard stood at a distance, watching him. Wil looked up at the sound of her passing, rose to his feet and bowed. Eleanor paused, nodding in return. He appeared to be waiting to see if her greeting extended beyond a simple acknowledgment of his presence. And, to Eleanor’s own surprise, it did. She turned, walking to where he stood, at the far end of the garden, where the skeletal rose shrubs were beginning to come into their green.

  “Good morning, Traveler.”

  “Your Majesty,” Wil said as he bowed again. “It’s a blustery day to be in the gardens.”

  Eleanor was prepared to respond with a pleasantry or two then be on her way, but she thought a moment about his words before giving a more sincere answer. “It’s the best kind of bluster: better from wind than from men.”

  Wil tilted his head to the side. “And, by that, do you imply mankind or men?”

  “Mankind,” Eleanor said, allowing herself a smile as her fingers reclaimed the loose lock of her hair flying across her face. “Granting your question more thought,” she added, “I’m not certain I don’t mean the other as well.”

  Although Wil smiled in return, his expression was one of thoughtful consideration, not levity. “I’ve been reading some of the historical ballads of your country,” Wil said as he held up the small, hand-bound volume.

  “We are a small nation but an old one,” Eleanor said, looking towards the castle. “We do have our tales.”

  “It’s beautiful—what I can understand of it, that is,” Wil acknowledged, and Eleanor was unsure if he meant the country or the history. He placed his hands behind his back just then, as if he were working through his own thoughts. “I was thinking of walking along the river,” he said. “Would you join me?” Wil motioned towards the path that Eleanor had just come from.

  She could see that he thought she’d decline, but some trace she saw in his expression caused Eleanor to wonder what information he might posses that could be useful in sifting through her own thoughts. She needed to know more about this stranger, and something—the graceful lift of his shoulders as he shifted, his eyes catching hers—stalled Eleanor long enough to find herself accepting. Hastian trailed nervously at a distance, Wil Traveler’s guards watching from the gate, where Eleanor signaled they wait.

  “You have traveled a great deal,” Eleanor said, as she stood again by the water.

  Wil nodded in response.

  “So, you know the Imirillian Empire,” she said.

  “Ah.” He squinted for a moment. “Yes. I do know it. Rather well, actually.”

  “Is it as powerful as the stories tell?” Eleanor queried.

  The brief whisper of a frown appeared on his face. “The army is vast. In truth, there is no power on the continent to compare,” Wil said. “Have you traveled north yourself?”

  “No, not beyond Marion,” Eleanor said. “I’m sure it would be educational, enlightening even, to travel extensively, as you have.” She had intentionally laced this thought with subtle irony that had, perhaps, been missed by the stranger. For, after watching her a long moment, Wil glanced away and smiled.

  “To be sure,” he said.

  What did she care if he thought her simple? Eleanor wondered. So, she persisted in asking her questions. “And the Desolation of Aramesh—are the tales true?” Eleanor stopped, the toe of her shoe turning in the mud as she looked earnestly at his face. “They say that the entire country was burned, that thousands were left for dead, who did not escape the Imirillian army. Did you hear like rumors?”

  “I—well, yes,” he said. “The country was desolated.” Shaking his head, Wil ran his fingers through his short hair as he struggled to speak. “I saw what happened to Aramesh, Your Majesty. It was not by rumor that I came to know of their destruction—I passed through and witnessed the scorched earth for myself.” Pausing, he pursed his lips and looked down over the river. “May I ask if you’ve found a solution for your problem?”

  “Do you know,” Eleanor countered, pointedly ignoring his inquiry, “that I have heard the most wonderful things about your horse—unequaled in proportion, beauty, and strength, or so they say. Would you show her to me? I wouldn’t mind judging for myself.”

  With a careful eye on his confused face, Eleanor turned back towards the northern gate. When she glanced back over her shoulder, he looked almost regretful, standing in place, watching her walk beyond him. She motioned for him to hurry. Taking a few long steps, Wil caught up with Eleanor and offered her his arm.

  “To the stables,” he said.

  ***

  The sounds of combat co
uld be heard coming from the stable yard.

  “Either your guards are bored,” Wil speculated, “or your horses are.”

  “Doubtful it’s either,” Eleanor said, half ignoring his humor. “Crispin uses the combat games for training. It’s not an uncommon sound this time of day.”

  Entering the yard, they saw the young captain standing over his fallen opponent.

  “Eleanor! You missed a spectacular moment,” Crispin said as he grinned and helped the soldier up. “Quite a shame, really. I’ve run through all the willing men and still have won every match.”

  “Are you too tired from your last opponent?” Wil asked.

  “Too tired for what?” Crispin huffed as he caught his breath.

  “For a challenger.”

  “You?” Crispin’s tone was doubtful. “Do you have much combat experience?”

  “Some,” Wil said as he pulled his cloak back, revealing his sword. “Isn’t the very nature of life a combat?”

  “Perhaps.” Crispin shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never thought of it in such terms.” He smiled good-naturedly. “I’ll give you a moment to ready yourself,” Crispin said as he caught Eleanor’s eyes and then hastily added, “If the queen has no prior claim on your time?”

  Wil bowed to Eleanor, acquiescing to her desire.

  “I don’t mind waiting,” she replied. “Actually, I’m rather interested in the match myself.”

  Eleanor took up a bench near the stable entrance. Wil followed, untying his cloak and laying it beside her. The scent she remembered from their first meeting in the garden lifted off his cloak, and this time, she could place what it was—cinnamon. It was cinnamon, a new spice just recently brought into the Aemogen port. Eleanor watched as Wil rolled back the sleeves of his black shirt then pulled tight on a cloth wrapped several times around his left forearm, making certain is was secured. The only other thing that caught her interest was a worn, knotted piece of black leather about his right wrist. Without acknowledging how her eyes followed him, he turned towards Crispin.