The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) Page 9

  “And you are free to enjoy the festival instead of serving at your post?”

  “Of course,” Crispin grinned. “My duties of the day were strictly ceremonial.”

  “But, will the queen be safe?” Wil asked in surprise.

  “She has all of Aemogen watching over her—and Hastian. Of course she’ll be safe,” Crispin said, actually taking his eyes away from the displays of the festival to look at Wil while speaking, a rare touch of seriousness in his manner. “The queen is never safer than with her people.”

  “Does she ever dance?” Wil asked as he fought for space in the crowd.

  “She used to dance more,” was all Crispin responded, distracted by a wrestling competition.

  Not relishing the thought of rolling through the dirt of the square, Wil returned upstream, as it were, to the castle grounds. The Rise was still bursting with people, as he knew the travelers’ house would also be, and everybody was cheerful, friendly, which Wil, remembering he was hungry, was beginning to find suffocating.

  He ducked behind the travelers’ house and started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, towards the western battlements that overlooked the Ainsley downs. Perhaps there he could find space enough to breathe above the clatter.

  Passing through a string of arches, he emerged onto the open battlements, taking the panorama into his lungs with the tight air. The general current of festivalgoers drifted into the streets, leaving the Rise more subdued.

  As Wil walked the west wall, its view and wind to himself, he thought about the rituals of the ceremony and Eleanor’s part in it. He felt the need to cleanse himself somehow: to bathe, to pray, to receive pardon for his presence there. Wil’s fingers searched his right forearm, still strangely disappointed to find nothing except the small, knotted braid of black leather.

  Touching it with the ridges of his fingertips, he closed his eyes. “Though I wander, I am the deep well; I seek transcendence by honor, as the seven stars.”

  These words flew into the indifferent wind, and Wil exhaled, his anxiety eased but not answered for. A gust at his back pushed him towards the stone battlement, and he opened his eyes, seeing a flash of copper. Wil looked towards the northwest tower. Eleanor had walked out onto the battlements, still in her blue cloud gown, the wind whipping the fabric around her like ribbons of sand in the storm-ridden desert.

  Wil straightened himself, wondering if he should turn to go, or greet the queen. She lifted her hand in acknowledgment, and he, unsure what protocol would dictate, moved towards her.

  “Queen Eleanor,” he said. She smiled briefly, but did not turn towards him. Rather, she looked away towards the north. “I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Wil said, assuming that she wished he would leave.

  Laughing at his worried tone, she met his eyes, the trace of tears on her cheeks. “If you want to make a brave man fearful, just cry,” she said. She brushed her fingers, turned red from the lingering cold, across her face. When she spoke, it was with a cryptic relief. “All is well, Wil, no need for alarm. I’ve been hiding out in my secret sanctuary inside the northwest tower, an old room no longer in use that I’ve transformed into a study of sorts. No one can hear you through the walls, so it’s a grand place for a good cry.”

  “I’d imagine,” Wil said before he could check himself. “If I’m ever in need of a good cry—”

  Eleanor laughed again and brushed the loose hair away from her face. “It’s been such a beautiful day,” she said. But her eyes were burdened.

  “And tomorrow, you have to tell the people of the threat,” Wil finished.

  “Yes.”

  Wil turned around, leaning against the battlements, gazing toward Ainsley castle. “The ceremony of the seed bringers,” he began. “I was honored to have witnessed it.” Then, braving a direct glance, he continued. “Quite touched, actually. And the rituals remain the same, then, year after year?”

  “Yes.” Eleanor took a deep breath. “And no. Each monarch gives the seed bringers their bags and offers some gesture unique to their reign. My father shook their hand. My grandfather offered them a salute.”

  “And you,” Wil said, looking at the queen, “a kiss.”

  “I was thirteen when I came to the throne,” Eleanor began, laughing again, “and petrified. I didn’t know what to do. Everyone promised I would, that it would be a natural show of the affection between the people and myself. But, I was trembling. The first seed bringer was from Common Field, an old man whom I had known since childhood. He was so encouraging, so sweet that, after I gave him his seed bag, I forgot what I had intended to do and spontaneously kissed him on the forehead. And that was that.” Eleanor’s words were wrapped in such sincerity that it aggravated Wil’s own unease.

  “What did you give them?” he asked in an effort to deal with his discomfort. “What were the seeds?”

  “A flower, revealed when it blooms.” Eleanor drew her lips together, squinting her eyes against the coming emotion, but she continued to speak. “It happens every spring, you see. The people try to guess what flower it might be—it becomes a game among the fens. The monarch chooses a flower as a symbol for the coming year, a gift to the people.”

  “You love them.”

  “Yes.” She had control over her voice now, and it was strong and quiet. “You should be down in the streets, Wil.” Eleanor waved her hands at nothing, apparently finished with the discussion.

  “My mother,” Wil said, “used to say ‘Never leave a soul who cries, until you have seen them smile seven times.’”

  “If you follow that rule you may never leave.” Eleanor laughed again as she used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes. Wil turned back towards the downs, offering another phrase with a casual tone.

  “My father often says, ‘Sing today, tomorrow you die in glory.’”

  “Such an outlook.” Eleanor squinted, looking directly at him. “What else does he say?”

  “That I am his greatest love and his greatest disappointment,” Wil said. This time, there was no amusement in his voice. Wil offered Eleanor a pained smile, regretting having shared anything at all.

  “I am sorry.” Eleanor’s sympathy was apparent, but Wil shook his head.

  “No, you must be glad of it,” he said. “My father is not always a good man.”

  “And yet,” the queen said, moving her hand to a string of white blossoms coming loose in her hair, “you love him. I can hear it in your voice, even as it sounds like you are disappointed in yourself that you do.”

  “Yes,” Wil admitted as he crossed his arms and studied the stone beneath his feet. “I do love him, despite it all.”

  “Eleanor!”

  They both turned their heads towards the stairs. Aedon stood there, paused near the tower. After expressing silent disapproval at Wil’s presence, he walked to Eleanor’s side.

  “It’s time to begin,” Aedon stated after a worried scan of her face. “Are you well?”

  “Yes.” Eleanor nodded. “Wil and I have only been discussing parental wisdom.” Eleanor’s words did not appear to make Aedon feel any better as she linked arms with him in a familiar fashion. “Let’s go down,” she appeased. “There are all the festivities to be had—you’re invited, Wil—and, after we eat, a full evening of revelry, games, and, once night falls, we dance.”

  ***

  Come evening, Ceiliuradh was awash and aglow with lights and occupied by dancers, vendors, and fairgoers. Crispin found Wil and took him under his wing, introducing him around the square.

  “How many girls do you keep company with?” Wil asked, after Crispin led him away from a group of young ladies enjoying the festival.

  “As many as I can.” Crispin stopped at a booth and bought himself and Wil a drink. “Until it’s time to settle down, why not be friends with all?”

  After an hour of wandering through the vendors’ booths and street games—including an agility contest Wil had won with ease—they found themselves watching the dancing. Dozens of couples wer
e swinging to the musicians’ lively tunes. Edythe and Blaike were among them, looking ready for the next dance to begin as soon as the last had ended. Spotting Wil over the crowd, Blaike waved.

  Eleanor sat on a throne, surrounded by councillors, speaking in small snatches when she wasn’t watching the dancing with what appeared to be a serene composure, celebrating the festival as if the next morning nothing in Aemogen life would be changed.

  Crispin was saying something. “What?” Wil asked as he turned towards his friend.

  “Do you have a girl in Imirillia?”

  Wil shook his head. “No.”

  “No one ever caught your eye?”

  Wil shot a glance towards Eleanor, only to find Crispin’s elbow in his ribs.

  Holding his hands up in surrender, Wil laughed. “I don’t have any intentions towards your precious queen.”

  A shout went up and more laughter. The musicians began playing a quick piece, drawing couples from the crowd into the dance. It was lively, fast, as if the feet of those dancing would be burned by the music of the violins if they loitered too long on the ground. A young lady begged Crispin’s company in the dance, and Wil soon found himself alone. He retreated through the crowd to Ainsley stairs. There were a few of the fairgoers—couples, old women gossiping and tending children, men hiding from their wives—also enjoying the solitude and privacy of the steps. Wil sat down behind them all, stretched his legs before him, and watched the queen from his aloof vantage point.

  Eleanor was watching the dancers as she clapped along, and conversed with those around her. Aedon was her companion more often than not. Edythe and Blaike, still dancing except for the occasional break for refreshment, paused a moment longer to speak with the queen. Blaike was so obviously smitten with the princess, Wil shook his head partly in affectionate disgust, partly in envy.

  The festival continued well into the night. Uncomfortable, tired, and intent on slipping back to the travelers’ house, Wil pulled his body onto the soles of his feet and turned his back on the color and spin below him.

  He was almost to the top of the stairs, when a rowdy chanting began. Turning with the corner of his shoulder, Wil glanced back to see about the noise. The people were all facing the queen, calling something he could not make out.

  She smiled, brushing them aside, even as they shouted louder. This continued until a musician walked to the throne and handed Eleanor a simple flute. She took it, running her fingers along the holes. After one last motion of protest, she lifted it to her lips.

  Eleanor charmed a patient string of notes from the instrument, then, as if fire had been poured into her fingers, a rippling tune flew from the flute. And then, drums pounding, the dancers disintegrated and reformed in a dizzying pattern, violins matching the queen’s melody, gaining and gaining through several variations, until, after several minutes, the dance broke like a wave on the shoals and dissolved.

  Eleanor herself then melted into the crowd, and Wil lost sight of her, save for the occasional glimpse of copper hair in the torchlight. Once her face again became visible, Eleanor looked up, right at him, right into him, like she was touching his concealed intentions with her fingertips and spreading thin his soul.

  Wil opened his mouth, as if to speak, to say that what she saw was not what was. That he disagreed with many of her opinions and admired her nonetheless. Standing outside the claim of Aemogen’s lights, his fingers forming fists, Wil discovered that his admiration was followed by anger—anger at what she did not see, anger that she still believed the world to be the place Wil had long abandoned.

  “The fool,” Wil muttered, twisting away. He took himself to the travelers’ house and threw himself over the bed. An hour later, when Blaike came into the room, Wil pretended to be asleep.

  It was deep into the night before he actually was.

  ***

  Music always made Eleanor less afraid. And, the previous night’s entertainment had been good, loosening her caution, challenging her despair, leaving her determined. Her council, when they assembled early the next morning, appeared to have felt the same. Around the table sat Gaulter Alden, Crispin, Aedon, Sean, Briant, and Doughlas.

  “Is Wil not going to join us?” Crispin asked as he leaned in towards Eleanor.

  As if on cue, the doors flew open, and Wil stalked in. He did not seem pleased to be there, his face looking tired and dark.

  “Thank you for joining us, Wil Traveler,” Eleanor said, leveling her own voice against his apparent temper.

  “I pledged my fidelity, didn’t I?” Wil took the only empty seat, which was next to Aedon. This didn’t improve his mood. His energy seemed sharp, and Eleanor met his confrontational expression with one of her own, irritated with his petulance.

  “Gentleman,” she began. “This morning I sent fen riders to all of Aemogen. Within three days, the entire country will know what we face. I myself will speak to Ainsley this afternoon. Each fen lord is instructed to take extra care. Every field must be prepared and planted, if possible, within a month. The battle run begins in three weeks time, starting with Common Field fen, working down the eastern coast, to the Calafort port, then up through the western hills.”

  Wil stiffened and shifted, looking past Eleanor. “Did you hear that?”

  Hearing nothing, Eleanor continued. “The traditional map of the battle run shows the timing—”

  Wil stood, his chair scraping against the stone. Aedon scowled.

  “Yes, Wil. What do you have to say?” Eleanor breathed out, impatiently.

  “There’s someone else in this library.”

  Eleanor listened. Nothing.

  “There it is again,” Wil insisted, walking behind Eleanor, disappearing into several rows of shelves holding a maze of manuscripts, books, and scrolls.

  “Someone had too much punch last night,” Aedon said coolly. Eleanor gave Aedon a warning look, just as there was a yelp and the sound of a slight scuffle. Eleanor heard Wil curse then tramp out from behind the shelves, dragging a young palace messenger by the hair.

  “Ow! Let go! Let go!”

  “I’ll let go,” Wil said, “as soon as you’ve learned not to listen in on what isn’t yours to hear.” Wil gave the boy’s hair an extra tug, sending off another wave of cries. Marching him over to the library door, Wil threw the boy into the hall, slammed the door, and returned to the table, slumping into his chair.

  Eleanor watched this display with some amazement.

  “Of all the foolish things—” Wil sputtered, “you hold a war council and don’t even clear the room?”

  “It—” Eleanor caught herself mid-word. Clearly, his seriousness was warranted. And, although this was Ainsley and the intruder was a small boy—with not the ear of a cook, let alone anyone of influence—Wil was right. Yet. Eleanor felt the smile rise on her face just before she broke into a tired laugh. She wasn’t the only one amused. Gaulter Alden actually chuckled, and Crispin grinned. Doughlas made a smart comment of sorts, and they all laughed again as Wil glowered.

  “Perhaps,” Eleanor said, trying to tempt him out of his peevishness, “you should have spent your time dancing rather than sulking on the stairs the entire night. You might have woken in a lighter mood.”

  In response to her comment, Wil did not lighten his mood the entire council meeting. And, as soon as it was over—the logistics discussed, the timing laid out, the training coordinated for the men of Ainsley over the weeks ahead—he took himself away from the library with no additional word.

  Eleanor leaned towards Crispin. “That was an exhibition. You’d think it were his country being invaded.”

  “Yes,” Crispin said, giving Eleanor a smile. “Remind me to steer clear of him in a black mood.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Have you nothing better to do, then?” Edythe asked “You don’t have to sit with me.”

  “It’s a distraction I need,” Eleanor admitted, watching her sister transcribe a worn document into beautiful calligraphy.

&nb
sp; Edythe had listened with patience as Eleanor outlined the Imirillian threat. Having been there the night Mason had arrived, Edythe knew significant meetings were taking place, but she refrained from asking, knowing she would be told soon enough. The suspicion in Eleanor’s mind was that Edythe did not want the weight of knowing.

  “Are you frightened?” Edythe asked.

  “What?” Eleanor broke away from her thoughts and found Edythe staring with her large blue eyes, her quill hovering above the page before her.

  “I asked if you are frightened?”

  “Yes,” Eleanor said, stripping away all pretenses. “I am frightened. I fear I’ll have decisions that I can’t know how to make.”

  Edythe must have sensed how alone Eleanor was feeling, how tight her heart beat as she breathed, how she was not sleeping. Setting her quill down, Edythe reached across the table, resting her hand on Eleanor’s arm.

  “What would you have me do for you?” Edythe asked.

  “I would have you prepare yourself in matters of state,” Eleanor replied, bluntly. “You are currently heir to the throne, and I can’t ensure the outcome. I would also have you search the archives for any texts in Imirillian I’ve not already studied.”

  “I’ll set the archivist on that now.”

  “And, I would have you marry Blaike before the summer is out.” Eleanor lifted her eyes to Edythe’s. “I won’t have you wait. You’ll wed as soon as I’ve returned from the battle run. Uncertainty is coming. I will see you married before our fate is decided.”

  ***

  Eleanor was rereading a dispatch from the border—they had finished burying the dead, and the new guard was patrolling the pass—when an archivist delivered three scrolls. Setting the dispatch aside with a frown, Eleanor investigated the dust-covered documents.