The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (12 page)

It was harder to read, much more difficult than the first three, being heavy with religious law rather than poetic theology. Eleanor was about to set the scroll down, for the tediousness of it all, when she came to several marks discussing the Safeeraah. She read about the mandate for all followers of the Illuminating God to take upon themselves covenants, bound by honor, represented by the Safeeraah. Then she read through the declarations concerning their make: how they were to be accepted and created and how, if their sealing had been broken, they were to be resealed upon the penitent individual, after a prayer of purification.

Eleanor read with interest about the ceremony where the bands are resealed to the faithful’s wrists, and she thought of the morning where she had helped Basaal in this ritual. He had seen to every detail, ensuring that the words and actions had been done in proper order.

Then she came to a mark that caused her stomach to flutter. Could she have been mistaken about what she had read? Eleanor bent her head over the mark and was rereading it slowly, when the doors opened, and Ammar walked in, accompanied by two of the other princes and Basaal. Startled, Eleanor rolled the Fourth Scroll closed.

“Your Majesty,” Ammar said, acknowledging her before waving his hand towards his brothers. “Allow me to introduce Ashim, second son, and Arsaalan, fourth son. Brothers, this is Eleanor, Queen of Aemogen and my patient.”

They nodded their heads and appraised Eleanor distantly. Basaal, who stood behind them, motioned a greeting to Eleanor but didn’t speak. Eleanor flushed and looked away from his eyes, hoping he hadn’t noticed which scroll lay before her.

Both Ashim and Arsaalan were tall, handsome men. From what Eleanor had seen, they were a finely appointed family. The brothers settled themselves down onto the cushions nearby, exchanging light comments. Arsaalan shot Eleanor looks of curiosity before whispering a comment to Basaal, whose only response was a shrug as he looked towards the floor.

Unsure if her presence was wanted, Eleanor stood, the Fourth Scroll firmly in hand, and slipped beyond the curtains to the residential hallway and her chambers.

Not long after she had withdrawn, Eleanor could hear heated discussion and occasional laughter. Eleanor had meant to open the Fourth Scroll, to reaffirm what she had read there, but her thoughts lingered down the corridor, where the brothers sat speaking.

Basaal had looked well, better than Eleanor had ever seen him. His hair had been cut short, as he had tried to keep it in Aemogen, and his face seemed free from the strain he’d carried on the battle run. His garments were still black, but they were excellently tailored and made from the finest of materials. Not only had his appearance of wealth and influence changed but his temperament also seemed different. Perhaps, Eleanor mused, the result of being in one’s home
is
the simultaneous increase of ease, coupled with youth and place.

Eleanor wished she could talk with him and spend time speaking openly to know his thoughts. But, after what she had just learned about the resealing ceremony of the Safeeraah—knowing the significance of Basaal’s actions that morning—she was relieved they were kept apart, for she wouldn’t know what to say to him.

Ammar found her, a few hours later, still looking out the window and thinking.

“Come, Eleanor. My brothers and I go to a family feast, held in the throne room of Emperor Shaamil. It is something you might enjoy observing.”

“Certainly I’m not invited.”

“Follow me,” Ammar said, actually smiling, and he pushed the ethereal curtains aside, inviting Eleanor to follow. They walked down the hallway, past the empty chambers and Ammar’s personal rooms, to a small closet full of medical supplies.

Ammar pushed back the heavy folds of a curtain inside the closet, and Eleanor saw that it revealed a wall, set farther back. A small space around the lip of the closet was evident once they were inside. Ammar slipped through, and Eleanor followed him into the darkness.

They twisted right then left, and she could see the shadows of a beautiful lattice, falling against the wall and the floor. The final corner revealed what had caused the shadow, an ornate lattice of white stone. Ammar put his finger to his lips and motioned for Eleanor to come forward.

As she came closer and peered through the lattice, the largest room she had ever seen in her life came into view. It was stunning. The floors, walls, and arches were all white—beautiful polished marble of purest expression—cut and carved with pillars inlaid with gold. The empty throne, far below, was itself wrought from brass and gold. The center of the room, a space of forty by fifty feet, dropped down two steps so that whoever came in audience before the emperor would be several steps not only below the throne but also below the spectators.

“The entry doors are below where we stand,” Ammar said quietly. “As you can see, latticework adorns the walls and ceilings. You will not be detected here if you wish to observe the feast or any other matters of state that occur here,” he explained. “It may prove interesting to you.”

Eleanor was interested. “Thank you.”

“It was Basaal’s idea. He said you would enjoy the spectacle and prefer to view the audiences where your own fate might be decided.”

“Does the emperor know of this place?” she asked.

Ammar shook his head. “I do not think he does. The palace physician before me was here many years as an apprentice, even before my father took the throne as a child. I served under that physician and made all the adjustments and arrangements to the chamber myself after he had died. I suspect that he had kept it a secret, as do I and Basaal.”

“Strange, not to know your own palace,” Eleanor said.

“You have not yet seen the breadth and width of the seven palaces of Zarbadast, Eleanor,” Ammar said. “There are more secrets behind these white walls than you could imagine. Some days, I think I see other shadows, flickering behind the lattice in other parts of the throne room. Who else may be listening and observing? I know not. But I leave you now to enjoy your espionage. Do not move quickly or make any sound,” he added. “We all want to keep our heads in this game.”

Then he withdrew, and Eleanor settled herself on the stone floor, waiting and watching for someone to enter the throne room.

It wasn’t long before dozens of servants began to enter. They brought cushions, pillows, and tall brass candelabras, topped with large, shallow bowls, where they lit candles and incense. Eleanor watched, amused by and interested in their hurried preparations. Aemogen’s finest banquets had been far humbler than this small but extravagant family dinner. She found that she didn’t mind the simplicity of Aemogen in comparison despite the luxury and ease of Zarbadast.

A child laughed and ran into the room, followed by an older boy of nine or ten. A woman—perhaps their mother—followed, calling out sharply to the children. The woman was very beautiful, draped in clothing of pink and gold. She settled down onto one of the cushions, graceful, poised.

Then another woman entered with children, and they greeted each other. Finally, the two oldest princes, Emir and Ashim, could be seen. They conversed, paying little heed to the children, who ran about their feet, and settled comfortably onto the cushions as they spoke and gestured.

Ammar appeared in company with Arsaalan. More women and children gathered in groups, while quiet servers offered them drinks. Eleanor had not yet seen Basaal. But, counting the women and children, Eleanor began to wonder how many wives the older princes had.

A handful of children, who had been playing near the throne, cried out and ran towards the doors that Eleanor could not see. Then Basaal came into view. He laughed as they assailed him, wrapping themselves around his legs or pulling at his arms. Enjoying their attention, he fought them off then swooped down, picking up one of the smaller children, who was just beginning to walk.

It was a strange moment for Eleanor, seeing him as an uncle. One of the women came and took the baby from Basaal, shooing the other children away and offering her brother-in-law a greeting. He exchanged a few words with her while taking a drink from a servant.

The entire family had now gathered with the exception of Emperor Shaamil, and Eleanor counted six princes, eleven women, and twenty-three children. Two boys, just coming into their adolescence, cornered Basaal, asking him a question with great excitement. Basaal laughed at their enthusiasm, nodded, and began relating a story.

At one point, he looked up towards the lattice, where Eleanor hid, for a brief moment. He was still speaking with his nephews, when a silence came over the room, and the family stood.

Shaamil.

Eleanor felt her chest tighten as she awaited a glimpse of the infamous emperor. Ammar had told her Shaamil had watched her arrival in Zarbadast, but she didn’t remember. Finally, he came into view, passing his grandchildren and settling himself on the throne. Snapping his fingers, a serving attendant handed him a drink, a nervous expression on her young face.

Shaamil was a handsome man, striking, tall, his bearing beautiful, with the underlying potential to demand anything. As if it were from the sight of him, Eleanor remembered the hardness of the stone beneath her. She shifted her position and looked about the family. A child was crying, one of the wives sat alone, ostracized by the others. Ammar listened wordlessly while his brothers discussed some topic of heated interest. Basaal was still talking with his nephews, but his smile had faded, his back straightened, his ease gone. The stern and brilliant magnetism of the Emperor altered everything. But then a toddler, after a failed attempt to run, picked himself back up and climbed up the stairs towards the Emperor. Bending down, Shaamil picked the boy into his arms, and began speaking to him with affection.

Emperor Shaamil had a charisma impossible to explain. Eleanor had met few people with that characteristic and no one as overwhelming as this man seemed to be even from a distance. The power of his presence, his multifaceted persona, his ability to be both cruel and affectionate—these caused Eleanor to have a frightening realization.

Blinking and sitting back, she shuddered with sudden panic. Eleanor had not expected to see it at all—the reason that Edith could have loved someone who had done all that this man had done. And, Eleanor had not expected to understand it so quickly. Eleanor looked at the emperor, now conversing with Emir, the young child nestled against his chest. Then she looked at Basaal, laughing at something one of his nephews had said.

With obvious tremulousness, Eleanor pulled herself away from the lattice.

***

“What did you think of the festivities?” Ammar asked Eleanor the next morning. “Did the acrobats entertain you?”

She was down in the cool of the garden, when he had appeared next to her.

“I didn’t stay long,” Eleanor confessed. “I saw the meal served, then I returned to my chamber.”

Surprise flashed across Ammar’s face as he sat beside her. But Eleanor brushed off his expression of inquiry, trying to convey the impression that she was very focused on sketching the garden.

“You appear troubled by something,” Ammar probed.

Eleanor breathed out, irritated by the dread she had been carrying since last night. She drummed her fingers along the bit of charcoal in her hand.

“Who of all the sons is most like the emperor?” Eleanor leveled the question at Ammar.

“Ah,” Ammar said and covered his mouth with a hand, thinking. “The answer may depend on whom you ask.”

Eleanor felt her distaste rising in her chest, and she drew her mouth into a hard line, fearing he would confirm what had been in her mind all night.

Then Ammar lifted his chin away from his hand. “I wonder if the question you would like to ask is ‘Will Basaal ever become like his father?’”

This was exactly what had plagued her, but she waited for his answer.

“My answer is that I do not know for certain,” Ammar said. “I would go as far as to say that Basaal is more like the young emperor than any of us, but I do not think he will become like the man that Shaamil is now.”

Eleanor set her sketch down and pulled her knees up, resting her heels against the marble wall she sat on, the long, white lengths of her robe falling about her legs, covering her feet.

“I always thought the tale of Princess Edith and Emperor Shaamil was beautiful as a child,” Eleanor admitted. “When I became older, I couldn’t reconcile her love for a man that I now considered a warmonger.”

Clenching her fists, Eleanor looked straight ahead. “And then, I saw him last night,” she said. “And I was both repulsed and surprised by the attraction of his presence. I realized Basaal has the same compelling nature: his mesmeric pull, making you not want to look away, his being capable of the compassionate and the terrible.

“Yet, you want him to win,” she continued. “You want him to succeed in all his endeavors,” she said, looking squarely at Ammar. “And that would mean my own defeat, if he were to become like Shaamil.”

Ammar did not look away. He faced Eleanor’s confession evenly, his eyes somber.

Eleanor motioned with her hand as if she could brush these words away, and she looked at the white walls of the palace, rising above them. Despite the draw Basaal held for her, Eleanor’s blood beat with the dust of Aemogen, and her bones were as the scaffolding of Ainsley. She was called to this role, and her allegiance was true and paramount. She was, above all else, the Queen of Aemogen.