The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) Page 6

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Fatal touch, no blood,” Crispin said matter-of-factly as Wil drew his sword. The sword, like his clothing, was all black, hilt and blade. One of the nearby soldiers whistled, and even Eleanor could see that it was exquisitely made.

  “Any other rules?” Wil asked confidently.

  “Other than good-mannered sportsmanship?” Crispin asked. He shook his head and took his position. “May the best win.”

  Sean, Eleanor’s councillor of husbandry, who had been in the stables, came out and sat beside her. “Should be interesting,” he said.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  Eleanor watched the two young men approach one another. Crispin circled slowly, and Wil followed suit. When Crispin lunged, Wil spun deftly to the side and engaged Crispin in a brief parry.

  “You’ve a confident form,” Crispin said, stepping back.

  But Wil’s response was to attack. He swung in with strength, forcing Crispin to block the harsh blow. Then Wil, instead of pulling back and striking again, as Eleanor would have expected, applied pressure on Crispin’s blade with his own before spinning around behind Crispin in an impossible instant and kicking him in the back of his knees. Crispin collapsed, and Wil was up, pressing his blade against the soldier’s throat.

  “Fatal touch,” Wil said.

  Eleanor flushed for Crispin’s swift defeat, but Crispin only smiled. “How did you do that?” he asked. “I’ve never seen such a move executed so well.”

  Laughing, Wil helped Crispin off the ground. “Would you like another go?” he asked.

  “Believe me that I do,” Crispin grinned. “Now, I’m going to watch for dirty tricks.”

  Wil bowed.

  The castle guard gathered around, calling out, whistling, and goading the challengers on. This time, Crispin was careful how he defended Wil’s blows, moving fast and not giving him time to anchor his weight and repeat the trick.

  Eleanor watched the spar, amazed. Wil appeared to be a different swordsman altogether, going at Crispin in quick blows, relentless and fast. He never let up. Not once, after Wil began his attack, did Crispin have a respite from the unrelenting strikes. The men watching began to murmur as Crispin was beginning to tire. Still, Wil, never out of breath, continued to assail his opponent. Then, he swung his blade from the left up to the right with such ferocity that Eleanor stood.

  Flying backwards, Crispin tried to keep his feet under him, and he fell against a post belonging to the stable. Sean jumped out of the way as Wil lunged, pressing Crispin against the post, his arm pinning Crispin’s throat. In one swift movement, Wil hit Crispin’s hand with the butt of his black sword, and Crispin’s weapon clattered to the ground.

  “Fatal touch,” Wil said as he breathed heavily, just now showing the signs of fatigue.

  “That was brilliant,” Crispin said, smiling through his broken breath. “You must teach me.”

  “Whatever you want to know,” Wil offered as he stepped back, stooped, and picked up Crispin’s sword, handing it respectfully to its owner.

  Eleanor, who had stepped back towards the stable door as the combat had finished, slipped noiselessly inside, and went out the back entrance. Wil Traveler—attentive, confident, opinionated, yet educated in manners—was a master swordsman. Eleanor wanted to know if he was a master killer.

  Chapter Four

  Evening meal was silent. The members of Eleanor’s council found they had little to say. The remainder of the court was also hesitant to speak, knowing something was wrong and not daring to ask. Most Aemogens did not think highly of idle and unbidden gossip. For this, Eleanor was grateful.

  Wil was seated to Eleanor’s left. He had glanced her way more than once before securing her attention. “You disappeared this afternoon,” he said. “Before I could introduce you to my horse, Hegleh.”

  Eleanor waited to answer until the general sounds of conversation began to fill the room. After a few moments, she looked in his direction, considering.

  “You have showed me something of equal interest, I assure you.” Eleanor took a sip from her glass and continued to eat.

  “What was that?” Wil asked in a direct manner.

  “You’re the best swordsman I’ve ever seen,” Eleanor answered, unabashed. “Your display was astonishing.” She looked him square in the eye. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say your skills put you equal to a professional killer.”

  Wil shifted and lifted his chin with defiance. “I am no mercenary, Your Majesty.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” she replied. “Simply that you have the skill for it.” She knit her eyebrows. “Pray tell, what is your profession, Traveler? A man does not learn the art of war by sleeping on stones and begging for bread. Surely, you can’t have spent many days aimlessly wandering the continent.”

  “I was not aware that your hospitality required each and every detail of my life’s story.”

  “It doesn’t. But, in Aemogen, we say that only those who don’t live in truth keep their secrets close.”

  “With that, I can agree,” Wil answered, an edge in his voice.

  “A few nights ago, Wil Traveler,” Eleanor said, “in jest, I accused you of having no skill worth sharing with me or my people. Perhaps I was wrong. I might find I’ve a very great need of you.”

  She stood and, with a signal for Gaulter Alden, Aedon, and Crispin to follow, left the hall, Hastian ever in her shadow.

  ***

  Later, after Wil had drifted to sleep, a pounding on his door jarred him from his dreams. Before he was fully cognizant, Wil was kneeling, knife in hand.

  “Who is it?” he called out, sleep still in his voice.

  “They want you in the throne room,” a voice said.

  Wil’s heart thumped loudly against his ribs, and he cursed as he jumped from his bed and grabbed his clothes. “In the middle of the night?” Wil answered back while pulling his shirt over his bare chest, covering the mark on his skin.

  “The queen desires an audience,” came the voice, hovering in uncertainty. After Wil was clothed, he reached for his boots, propped where he’d left them against the wall.

  “Just a moment,” Wil said as he pulled on one boot then the other, grunting as he forced his feet through to the bottom. What could the Aemogen queen possibly want this time of night? Wil cleared his sleep-fogged thoughts, breathing in deep, wiping his forehead. His stomach began to twist, and he took another deep breath.

  Washing his face with some water from the basin on a table beneath the window and hiding his knife under his shirt, against his back, he moved towards the door, expecting Crispin to be there, waiting. He wasn’t. Two guards that he recognized from sparing in the yard were before him, conversing with the two already assigned to watch Wil’s room. They asked cordially if they could escort him to the throne room, as if Wil had any other options. Crispin joined them en route, falling into step with his men after giving Wil a tired smile.

  When Wil entered the throne room, it was empty of all but two men and the queen. Few torches were lit, but he saw their faces clear enough, recognizing Aedon and Gaulter Alden. A shadow in the dim chamber moved, and Wil could see Hastian a few steps behind the throne. Crispin took a seat next to Aedon and said something to the councillor.

  “Wil Traveler,” the queen addressed him from her throne. Wil shifted his weight, moving his hand instinctively close to his hilt, but it, of course, was not there.

  “We both know you are more than what you initially shared with the Aemogen court,” she said.

  Wil’s chest tightened. His heart jumped, and he felt the pulse of tension he had long grown accustomed to in his life. Uncertain whether the queen expected him to speak, he maintained his silence.

  “You are obviously a man of the North,” Eleanor continued, “with knowledge and skills, Gaulter Alden assures me, that could only have come from formal training. You have spoken little of your past. Regardless, we have given our hospitality as a long-standing traditi
on of honor among our people.” Eleanor studied his face. “We haven’t pressed you, but now, for reasons obvious, we need to know who you are and why you have come to Aemogen at this time.”

  Wil nodded once, returning Eleanor’s direct gaze. Gaulter Alden frowned. Aedon was rubbing his hand across his chin and staring relentlessly. Crispin watched the floor.

  “Well?” Eleanor said as she waited.

  “I’m from a noble family of Imirillia,” Wil said.

  Crispin brought his chin up. Gaulter Alden exchanged a glance with Aedon. Although no one spoke, Wil could feel the tenor of the air change. Each person had questions, but they waited. For what? Wil wondered. He did not know, until he followed the movements of their eyes. They were waiting for the queen. Had she been angry, suspicious, or cold, Wil would have felt prepared to negotiate the situation. Instead, Eleanor remained placid, calm, almost serene.

  “Are you part of the Imirillian army?” she asked in the same manner she might ask if he enjoyed dancing.

  “I was pressed into service at a young age,” Wil said, lowering his head, his eyes still trained on the queen’s. “But, as you can see, I am not standing with them now.”

  Eleanor waved her hand. It was subtle, but all the men in the room sat up straighter in response to the gesture. She had effectually opened the room for questioning.

  Gaulter Alden spoke first. “Then, are you a deserter of the Imirillian army?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Wil said as he raised his eyebrows, tilting his head at an angle. He was aware of every person in the room—aware of their movements, who was armed, who was not—and aware of the knife against the bare skin of his back beneath his shirt. “I was recently given a commission in the emperor’s army,” he added, “which I refused.”

  “Why?” Crispin asked, looking genuinely confused, the only one without suspicious hostility. Aedon said something under his breath to Gaulter Alden, who harrumphed. Wil decided to tell the truth.

  “The Imirillian army is responsible for the death of my brother. I have become,” Wil explained as he challenged Aedon with a grim smile, “disenchanted, as it were, with its aggression.”

  Eleanor narrowed her eyes at him.

  “If you are not a deserter,” Gaulter Alden said, then cleared his throat and sank farther into his seat. “Then, how is it you have time to tour the southern nations?”

  “As I said before, I am noble born,” Wil answered. “That affords me certain privileges.” Wil glanced upward, searching his Aemogen vocabulary. “It’s comparable to an extended holiday.”

  The queen acknowledged his words by scarcely breaking the line of her mouth in smile. Her expression made him feel strangely exposed and discomfited. Simultaneously, the queen’s stare gave Wil an intense desire to know what she was thinking, sending Wil’s mood toward an unaccustomed swivet. But, Eleanor sat back, listening, seeming to have no intention of revealing anything.

  “You see,” Wil continued, when no one spoke, “my father knows of my struggles and has given me time to know my own mind. He has a certain amount of…pull with Emperor Shaamil. My desire for time was granted easily enough.”

  “You claimed your mother was a Marion, yet your father is an Imirillian noble?” Aedon asked.

  “My father governs the lands that press against Marion’s northern border, on the edge of the stone sea. It is common, since Marion’s alliance with Imirillia,” Wil explained, “to marry women out of Marion. There are many such alliances in the region.”

  “When do you return home?” Crispin asked.

  Frowning, Wil ran the back of his knuckles across his chin. “I couldn’t tell you as I’ve yet to decide where I stand.”

  “Are you for hire?” Crispin inquired earnestly.

  Aedon scoffed and interjected, “It’s a little premature to ask such a question, before knowing anything about the man.”

  Eleanor seemed to pay no mind to Aedon’s words, but looked steadily at Wil, as if waiting for him to respond to the captain’s question.

  “Wil Traveler’s training could be invaluable,” Crispin said, defending his question, before he pointedly looked back at Wil. “Well?”

  “No,” Wil answered flatly. “I am not for hire.”

  Eleanor finally spoke. “Are you willing to aid Aemogen without pay?”

  His astonishment at her question must have been clear on his face, for she looked at him with, what Wil thought was, a trace of distant amusement. And, in the seconds after she had spoken, Eleanor appeared strangely ageless, a prophetess, perhaps. Emotions rose in Wil’s chest—the edges of pride and shame, of homesickness and freedom—pulsing outward against the inside of his skin and back into his bones.

  “I could be convinced,” he said, the words feeling dry in his mouth. He had not foreseen this request.

  “Then, we will consider if it be worth convincing you,” Eleanor said as she stood. “We are done for tonight. I apologize, Wil Traveler, for taking you from your sleep. I hope you do not object to your retaining the companionship of the palace guard.”

  “I don’t object,” Wil answered, almost disbelieving his interview was over. “It’s very understandable, considering your position.”

  “Good.” With that, the queen stood and then withdrew through the door behind the tapestries. Hastian followed. Then Wil was taken back to his room in the travelers’ house.

  As soon as he had shut the door behind him, Wil let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and smiled.

  ***

  Eleanor’s knees felt limp. She had almost run to her apartments, and, after leaving Hastian in the antechamber, she had dismissed her maid and fled to her own room, where she fell across the bed. Her heart was pounding; her breathing, quick in her throat. She had used all her energy in containing her emotions: measuring out equally each word, each movement, and shaping her face to appear entertained, as if it were a game. The council had already spoken at length before the interview with Wil, whom she now knew to be an Imirillian soldier.

  Now, the deep night left her alone with the reality of what was before her, and she could not quiet her mind or her pulse. Eleanor’s heart pounded out in double rhythm. And, with each breath, she tried to fill her lungs but found she could not reach the bottom.

  She looked around her, searching for an anchor, something to catch her thoughts and settle her mind. The windows were now dark shapes, arching to a point, rimmed with cut stone. She had studied those windows every day of her life, and now she ran her eyes along the familiar angles of each line, calming her heart with the steadiness that was the stone of Ainsley.

  The candle near her bed was almost melted away. Eleanor turned, blew it out, and fell onto her back, giving herself over to the static darkness of her room.

  ***

  Early the next morning, Eleanor assembled her war council.

  They met around the long table in her private apartments.

  “There is no sense in the Imirillian army waiting until almost winter to invade,” Aedon repeated again, even though the council had spoken of this several times.

  Eleanor looked away from the window to her councillor. “Unless they suppose that, rather than a fight, this will be the simplest campaign,” she said. “They march in, anticipate little resistance, considering the size of our country, and plan to winter comfortably. That means Aemogen needs to have a substantial harvest for them to live on.”

  Gaulter Alden nodded. “You may be right, Your Majesty,” he said. “Though they must think very little of our abilities to give us six months to come up with a defense.”

  “Regardless, we supposedly have time,” she said. “The question before this council is what should we do with it?” Eleanor leaned forward in her chair and looked at each member of her war council individually: Gaulter Alden; Crispin; Aedon; Sean, councillor of husbandry; Briant, to oversee the armory; and Doughlas, leader of Eleanor’s fen riders.

  Hayden, the aged historian and scribe, was also there, as secretary. U
sually content to listen, he made a motion with his hand. Eleanor turned her eyes on him.

  “What have you to say, Hayden?” she asked.

  “A full battle run must take place,” he said, his voice paper-thin, his hands shaking with age, as he shuffled through the old sheets of vellum before him on the table. “Its benefits are clear; its tradition, important—but, it would need to begin soon.”

  Eleanor motioned towards Gaulter Alden. “We discussed the battle run last night,” she said. “For, a decision to fight or surrender can only be made once we’ve assessed the numbers and abilities of Aemogen’s men. My suggestion to the council is this: the spring festival is in a matter of days. We will inform the people of the threat the day after, then encourage them to plant their fields, prepare their gardens, whatever needs be, within the month.”

  “Following that,” she continued, “we begin the battle run, which can take two or three months’ time.” Eleanor moved her finger along the wood of the table before continuing. “We can’t trust the Imirillian army to keep its word on timing, but we have been so long away from war as a country that our men need this training. I am willing to make the gamble that we will at least have three or four months, if not the full six months promised.”

  “And, if we have no time at all?” Aedon asked. “If they are mere weeks away from attacking Aemogen?”

  “You know I ordered fifty men to the guard tower in the pass,” she said. “They should be arriving today and sending word on what they find. I’ve also dispatched our fastest fen rider—”

  Doughlas cleared his throat.

  “Pardon, Doughlas,” Eleanor said wryly. “I have dispatched our second fastest fen rider to the court of King Staven, asking if he will stand with us, since the Imirillian army will have to cross through Marion to reach us. Our harbors, as we all know, are inaccessible to outside ships, so the only possible threat will come through the pass.”

  “If Staven will stand with us?” Sean asked. “Marion has been our closest ally for almost one hundred years. Surely, King Staven stands with us.”