The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (15 page)

“There is an Imirillian adage that the emperor is quite fond of,” Ammar answered. “If the lions in the den fight amongst themselves, nary a jackal will enter.”

Eleanor bit her lip. “Perhaps not at first, but sooner or later, he’ll come in for the spoils.”

Kiarash continued to press his advantage, swinging his blades with ferocity at Basaal, who was forced to raise his left arm high to block the attacks. As scimitar hit scimitar with great force, Basaal screamed, half in pain, half in impatience. Eleanor watched as Basaal threw himself at Kiarash, using his right arm to bring blow after blow down on his brother.

Kiarash jumped back, and Basaal circled around. Kiarash again ran towards him in full attack, but Basaal took several steps back until he turned and ran towards the low steps, leading up to the spectators, and threw himself backwards, flipping and crashing into the unprepared Kiarash.

Basaal kept his balance and kicked one of the scimitars out of Kiarash’s hand. It spun across the white floor with a ringing sound. Then Kiarash rolled away before Basaal could bring his blade to his brother’s throat. Kiarash said something that Eleanor couldn’t hear, and they again began a more steady swordplay.

Regardless of the determination evident in Basaal’s face, Eleanor could see that the pain of his arm and the fatigue from the assassin’s attack had left him too wasted to give his full effort. He dropped back, a falter in his step.

Eleanor ran her fingers through her hair from nervousness. She sat up straighter and watched as Basaal struggled to keep his arms fighting each new blow. They had circled the floor, and Kiarash was soon close enough to his second scimitar to reach down and wrap his fingers around the hilt.

Basaal lifted his right arm and began another assault, but Kiarash continued to take advantage of his brother’s obvious struggle, attacking his left side ruthlessly. Basaal seemed as if he could only fight off Kiarash for a few moments longer until, as he spun away, Kiarash slashed his scimitar at Basaal’s arm, cutting deeply through Basaal’s existing injury.

Basaal’s mouth opened in obvious pain as he stumbled back, dropping the blade from his left hand, trying to resist pressing his right forearm against the open cut. But Kiarash moved in quickly, kicking Basaal in the chest, sending the younger prince flying backward to the floor. His bright red blood sprayed the white marble about him.

Before Basaal could raise himself up, Kiarash stood over him, kicking Basaal’s right wrist until his second scimitar was also lost to him. Basaal scrambled for the weapon, leaving a line of red on the floor from a new cut across Basaal’s hand from Kiarash’s boot. But, before Basaal could reach the weapon, Kiarash had kicked it away again.

Ammar muttered something under his breath but kept his eyes focused on the fight.

“Is it over?” Eleanor asked.

Ammar shook his head and lifted a finger.

Basaal pulled himself back, away from Kiarash’s reach, and was holding his arm, the blood seeping through his fingers as he stepped away from his brother. Kiarash was breathing hard, and Eleanor could see the glint of sweat on his face and neck.

“Give it up, Basaal,” Kiarash said as he stepped towards his brother. But the younger prince forced a smile and continued to move in a circle until his back was facing the emperor. He left red drops of blood on the white floor as he moved, but Eleanor could see he had a stubborn look in his eyes.

“What is he up too?” Ammar questioned with a twisted smile.

“Don’t think you have me, Kiarash,” Basaal spat at his brother.

Kiarash yelled, lunging at Basaal, but the younger prince jumped back, running up the stairs, and in one quick spin was behind the throne, his dagger pressed to Shaamil’s neck.

“One step closer, Kiarash,” Basaal warned, “and the emperor is dead.” Basaal panted as he recovered his breath and looked around the room. “The same goes for the imperial guards and the Vestan—no man moves or Shaamil is dead.” Basaal was yelling now. The audience stood as if frozen, and the many guards, dressed in deep purple, were poised but confused.

The look on Shaamil’s face would have frozen all of Zarbadast.

“Curse it,” Ammar whispered. “What are you doing, Brother?”

Kiarash began to move towards the throne, but he stopped as Basaal’s voice again rose in warning.

“Not one more step!”

Shaamil’s cool expression grew taut as Basaal pressed the blade of his knife harder against the emperor’s skin.

“And yet,” Eleanor whispered aloud to herself.

“And yet?” Ammar asked.

“Look into the emperor’s eyes,” she said. “He is pleased with Basaal—angry but pleased.”

Ammar swore as Kiarash began to approach.

“Come no farther,” Basaal cried out with a ragged breath and pressed the knife hard enough to draw a small line of blood. Shaamil’s face twitched, and Kiarash seemed unsure. He looked from Basaal to the emperor, but Shaamil gave no indication of what his fifth son should do. Then Basaal leaned his head closer to his father and whispered something in the emperor’s ear. It must have been a devilish string of words, for a look came into Shaamil’s face strange enough to stop Kiarash in his advance.

Everyone in the room was stuck in surprised silence. The Vestan hovered, ready, waiting for a signal from the emperor, their hands gripping the hard metal of their weapons. Finally, after a second trickle of blood ran down his neck, Shaamil held up his hand.

“Enough!” Shaamil yelled and waved off Kiarash, motioning for Basaal to remove the knife from his neck. “Basaal, seventh son, has won the challenge. You will retain your post to lead the Aemogen invasion.”

Basaal’s drew back his knife, and the crowd let out a loud cheer. Kiarash turned away, his face flushed, and Basaal stepped back from the throne, the clarity of relief on his face. The emperor stood and stared at Basaal, who slipped his knife back into the sheath on his wrist before acknowledging the crowd. Then, without speaking to his father, Basaal walked down the steps towards Kiarash, who met him in congratulations.

The Vestan moved closer to the throne, surrounding the emperor like a curtain of sand. Again the room filled with shouts, and Basaal waved and smiled. A servant soon approached the throne with a basin of water and a towel. Shaamil glanced around, appearing irritated, before reaching for the towel himself and placing it against his neck. Tameez stepped forward, but the emperor waved him off.

“He is looking for me,” Ammar said, breaking the silence in the hidden room.

Eleanor watched these dramatics play out with mixed feelings. Her relief that Basaal had managed a victory did little to ease the sharp bitterness of knowing that the Aemogen invasion would inevitably continue.

A servant had brought the emperor and the brothers each a drink, which they took readily. Tameez tried to attend to Basaal’s injuries, but, like his father, the prince waved the physician away, lifting his glass to the crowd before downing the contents in one gulp.

The steady stream of voices rose upward, making it impossible for Eleanor to hear anything the princes may have been saying to one another. And the emperor, having sat down, was rolling a glass between his fingers as he watched Basaal. The pleasure on Shaamil’s face was tinged with the altogether impossible emotional pairing of rage.

This would not end well.

A call was made with the silver trumpet, and everyone returned to their positions, leaving Basaal standing alone before the throne. When all had quieted down, the emperor leaned forward in his chair.

“And now,” he said. “We come to the issue of the Aemogen queen.” Shaamil spoke as if Basaal were the only other person in the room. “You want her to live; I want her to hang.”

“So, what is my challenge?” Basaal asked.

Shaamil made the sound of a half laugh, and his eyes lit briefly. “You have been successful in your first request,” he said. “And I think you deserve a rest.”

Ammar tensed noticeably at Eleanor’s side.

“What does he mean?” she asked, but Ammar did not respond.

Shaamil leaned back in his chair and raised his hand to his neck. The movement looked casual, but the meaning was clear: he would retaliate for Basaal’s spectacle.

“If the queen is to live,” Shaamil said, “she must come and fight for herself.”

Ammar cursed, and the entire room below burst into conversation, their words hovering over the white stone floor.

“But, Your Grace,” Basaal said, addressing his father as if trying to sound submissive. “A woman has never come before the emperor as a challenger in this way.”

“And, a woman never shall,” the emperor said, waving his hand. “But, a queen? A monarch? I shall grant her special privileges. If her life is to be saved, she must save it. We will all take our refreshment now,” Shaamil said, looking at Basaal’s blood, splattered on the white marble. “And, have the floor cleaned,” he added and then turned back to Basaal. “You have one hour before the Aemogen queen will appear before me to learn whom she must fight.”

At a simple motion from Shaamil, music began to play, servants poured into the throne room with trays of food and drink, and men in white robes bent over the floors to clean up the blood. Eleanor sat still, blinking, watching as Basaal’s oldest brother approached him, trying to speak with him. But Basaal waved him off, leaving the throne room immediately.

“Come,” Ammar said, placing his hand on Eleanor’s shoulder. “Basaal will be joining us. We must see to his arm.”

Eleanor heard these words, but she did not move. So this is how it would end. She was to be killed in a mock fight on the white marble of Zarbadast.

Numbness seeped through her veins, clouding her thoughts, and Eleanor was only aware of the pressure of Ammar’s hands on her arms as he guided her out, down a corridor, past some curtains, and into the physician’s familiar sitting room.

When Basaal burst through the doors, the sound woke Eleanor from her fear.

“Father wants Eleanor’s head!” Basaal yelled as he went straight towards Ammar. Eleanor took a step back, preferring to observe the two brothers from the shadow of the hallway.

“We saw,” Ammar replied.

Tameez followed Basaal into the physician’s quarters and closed the doors behind Basaal, remaining in the corridor.

“That was quite the stunt you pulled,” Ammar said. He poured Basaal a drink and handed it to him. “Let me attend to your arm quickly.”

A curt nod was all the response that Basaal gave as he downed the contents of the cup Ammar had given him. Then, throwing the cup across the room, he sat on a cushioned sofa in obvious pain. As the physician went to a table and prepared supplies, Basaal tried to roll up his sleeve past the wound. It appeared painful. As Eleanor watched, her reason began to run itself routinely through her mind, clearing past the shock and searching for the facts of what was before her.

“Curse it!” Basaal said, struggling to lift his shirt off. He threw a pillow across the room instead. Eleanor bit her lip at his outburst and, with a forced calm, passed through the curtain into the sitting room.

“Well, there’s no sense in getting so upset” she said simply. “You did win after all.”

Basaal’s eyes shot towards Eleanor, but before he could argue back, Ammar spoke without taking his eyes from his preparations.

“Eleanor, seeing as how Tameez has stepped out, would you please assist me?”

“Certainly.”

“Eleanor, my father—” Basaal began.

“First, we will attend to you,” Eleanor interrupted. “Then, we’ll discuss the emperor.”

Basaal flushed and pressed his lips together as Eleanor sat beside him and looked at his wound. Once she had seen his arm, Eleanor knew that lifting his shirt over his head would only aggravate it.

“May I?” Eleanor asked. She slid the dagger from the sheath at his wrist and began to cut his shirt away. As Eleanor worked, she was careful with his wrists, for they were cut and swollen from the abuse by Kiarash’s boots. Basaal watched her, shifting his shoulder forward in an effort to help.

As Ammar walked over, his eyes noted the forming bruise on Basaal’s chest, and he frowned before leaning down to assess Basaal’s left arm. “It would appear that Kiarash was bent on winning,” he said. “This cut is much deeper than I would have thought. It’s made a mess of your arm,” he added. “The injury from last night looks infected as well.”

He poured a clear alcohol over the wound. Then Eleanor followed as Ammar gave her instructions, pressing against the blood flow with a clean rag while he applied several different liquids that made Basaal flinch. Basaal’s chest rose and fell, and he looked ahead, his jaw working, but he didn’t speak. Neither would he look at her.

Eleanor became curious when she saw a mark on his chest over his heart, a five-pointed star with a small, five-petal bloom at its center. Had the situation been different, she would have asked him about it. But, instead, when Ammar went across the room for more supplies, she placed her free hand on his forearm.

“Are you alright?” she whispered.

“I shouldn’t have pulled such a stunt,” Basaal said, giving his head a quick shake while looking straight ahead. “My father will see you dead now, and your blood will be on my hands for my failure to win in any other way.”