The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (20 page)

Ammar nodded but did not reply.

***

Kiarash guided Basaal firmly towards the cushions farthest from where the emperor sat and, consequently, farthest from where Arsaalan would stand to received his newly betrothed. Basaal shrugged his brother’s hand from his shoulder as he sat, his mood as black as night. He had not spoken a word all day, for it was, Basaal found, the easiest way to ensure that he did not say something stupid.

Now, sitting in one of the many formal gathering rooms, with its open arches looking out over the city and hundreds of red and orange candles burning around the perimeters of their gathering, Basaal found himself staring straight ahead, his fists clenched, his face a midnight warning to all those present.

He had decided that he would not look at Eleanor when she entered the room. He would not watch the betrothal ceremony. He would not raise his glass in celebration with those gathered. And, when the time came for the wedding, if Basaal had not managed to get Eleanor away from Zarbadast, he would not be present for the ceremony.

His brothers were now gathering with their wives and children and many distant relatives and members of Zarbadast’s nobility. It would be a small ceremony, with less than two hundred in attendance, or so Kiarash was saying, regardless of Basaal’s stonewall response.

Arsaalan was now there, Basaal noticed, but he only looked at him once. The third son looked deeply unhappy and would not accept drinks or converse with those around him. His wives also glowered.

Basaal noticed that those in attendance were strangely quiet. When Shaamil entered, Basaal stood with the rest only because Kiarash gripped his uninjured arm and lifted him to his feet. At his soonest opportunity, Basaal sat down again without looking at his father, unwilling to give Shaamil the satisfaction of a victorious expression.

Music was playing, and the whispers around Basaal seemed to gain confidence and grew louder. Servants with trays of sweet fruits and breads and drinks circulated the room. But Basaal took none of this, for he just sat, his eyes towards the floor, waiting for it to be over.

Soon the emperor stood, welcoming the assembly, and speaking at length of the great advantage Aemogen would be to the Imirillian Empire. His seemingly magnanimous speech even included praising his youngest son, who he announced would leave to finish the Aemogen conquest in just over a month’s time. Basaal did not acknowledge the applause this news evoked. Then came his words about Arsaalan’s plan to take the Aemogen queen to wife, and the room responded with a stifled cheer, a polite applause, but nothing more.

“Some really believe that she is Seraagh and fear God’s judgment,” Kiarash whispered.

“Then, without further delay, let us bring the bride to meet her husband,” Shaamil finished.

The back of Basaal’s eyes burned, and his chest constricted as the sound of the doors opening rang through his ears. He had prepared to hear the customary cheer, the exclamation, but, instead, a collective shock rippled through the room.

“By the seven stars,” Kiarash muttered. “What is she doing?”

Basaal’s eyes shot up, and his mouth clamped together. For Eleanor was not wearing the colors of Arsaalan’s house but the black and red of his own.

***

Eleanor knew that she was supposed to walk until she stood before the emperor. But, overcome by trepidation, she found herself rooted in the center of the room. She wore a deep red gown with a black sash tied about her waist, gold bangles adorning her wrists and a filet of gold about her flame-colored hair.

Shaamil stood, his face looking as sharp as lightning. “You dare defy me again, Queen of Aemogen,” he demanded.

It was her own instinct that informed Eleanor what to do next. Despite the dryness of her mouth and the feeling of birds swirling inside her body, she rushed forward and threw herself on her knees before Shaamil, her eyes to the ground.

“I do not desire to defy you, Your Grace,” Eleanor said, sounding as penitent as she dared. “But, I beg of you: do not make me marry another man.”

She guessed that Shaamil’s eyes looked at her with a measure of distain. “At last,” he said, “I have found something to make the mighty Queen of Aemogen bow.”

“I beg you,” Eleanor cried again, lifting her eyes to see his face.

“It is spoken, and it is done,” Shaamil said as he lifted his chin. “You shall marry Arsaalan, third son.”

“I cannot—” she said. “I cannot be married to another while Basaal, seventh son, lives. The Illuminating God has declared it so.” These words streamed from Eleanor’s mouth as she looked up into Shaamil’s eyes.

The emperor’s metallic gaze bore into Eleanor. “And why is that?” he demanded. “Why has the Illuminating God declared it so?”

Eleanor took a deep breath. “Because it was I who resealed the Safeeraah of Basaal, seventh son.” The emperor’s eyes narrowed as Eleanor swept on. “The Fourth Scroll states:
And when he comes to reseal his covenants, if she be not a woman of his own house, and he kneels before her, he has sworn himself as protectorate while he yet shall live, granting that no other man may have her to wife
.”

She heard a noise, a brief exchange of words that came from her right, and Eleanor could see that Basaal had come to stand just ten feet from her. His body was stiff; his face, taut as any bowstring. He was afraid. It was only in that moment that Eleanor realized that she might be risking his life as well, not just her own. Her blood froze, and she looked away.

“It is an old passage,” Shaamil answered after a time.

Eleanor cleared her head. “Yet, as part of the Fourth Scroll,” she spoke clearly, although her voice quavered, “it is irrevocable religious law.”

“You do not practice the religion of Imirillia,” Shaamil answered, making a gesture with his arm. “How, then, lay you claim on its law?”

“Basaal, seventh son, Arsaalan, third son, and even you, the emperor of all Imirillia, do abide by this law,” Eleanor argued. “Arsaalan cannot take me to wife as I am already attached to the house of Basaal and claim, by right, his protection. His honor is bound by it, as is your honor as Emperor of Imirillia.”

The whispers of those watching increased until the rumble from them filled the chamber. Meanwhile, Shaamil sat, leaning to one side of his throne, and wordlessly studied Eleanor. He was not a true devotee, Eleanor knew well. He could dismiss this objection with one wave of his hand, and, for a moment, he moved as if he would. But then, his eyes twitched as if seeing a shadow, as if remembering something from beyond where Eleanor now knelt before him. As he looked from her to Basaal and back again, Eleanor’s heart pounded, and she kept herself still, waiting.

When he finally stood, silence again fell.

“I will honor the resealing of the Illuminating God,” Shaamil said. “Basaal, seventh son, will take Eleanor of Aemogen as his wife once the days of purification are complete. Consider this their official betrothal.”

With that, the crowd erupted into noise, and Eleanor, shaking, braced her hands against the cool white marble, feeling like she would retch on the floor for the nervousness of it all.

Shaamil left the room immediately, accompanied by the Vestan and his imperial guard. Only after the emperor had left did Eleanor dare to turn her face towards Basaal. He had fallen to his knees, his face drained of all blood.

He stared at Eleanor with an expression of utter relief. What passed between them next was ever so slight, almost imperceptible. But Basaal nodded, recognizing that their relationship had just changed forever, before Eleanor could be whisked away by Hannia from the noise of the throne room.

Chapter Ten

“I do believe you are nervous.” Ammar said, eyeing Basaal with accusatory amusement.

Basaal was supposed to meet Eleanor for the first time since their unexpected betrothal. The first seven days had passed, and the purification rites had begun for both of them. But there had been no communication, no way to know what she was thinking, and no way to know what the aftermath had meant. Basaal pulled at the high collar of his stiff black tunic.

“So what if I am?” he said as he looked down the arched stairway that led into the Seehfa, the most sacred garden of the seven palaces. He would meet Eleanor there three times—once every seven days—before their wedding ceremony.

Ammar eyed Basaal and then turned away.

“You said that Hannia attended to Eleanor well?” Basaal confirmed for the third time.

“Yes,” Ammar sighed. “She moved Eleanor to a suite in the women’s quarters and is proving to be a considerate chaperone. The Aemogen queen has read but little all week, for Hannia insists that she be rested and well fed,” he explained. “It has been a war of wills, and, as you can imagine, Eleanor is almost going mad.”

Basaal could imagine.

“I have been to see her once or twice,” Ammar said, looking casually at his fingernails.

“Mmm,” was all that Basaal said as he clasped his hands behind his back. Then, as a second thought, he turned to Ammar, suddenly curious. “What
is
it like in the women’s quarters?” he asked.

Ammar smiled as he gazed over the garden. “Physician’s covenants—I will tell you nothing.”

Basaal shrugged. “Surely it is time for me to go down now, isn’t it?”

“The evening trumpet will sound any moment,” Ammar said, his tone was almost bored. “Then you may go.”

“How is she?” Basaal asked as he wiped his hands on his tunic and breathed out slowly.

“Restless,” was all Ammar answered.

“Did I already ask you that?” Basaal said. The sweet smell of blossoms rose from the evening garden, accompanied by the sound of running water. Basaal looked down the white path of crushed marble that led into the dense foliage. “And I am to find her in the center, near the fountains?”

“I have never performed the ritual, you fool.”

“You’re such a compassionate soul,” Basaal said sarcastically as he tugged on his sleeves again and glanced at his brother. “I am so pleased to have chosen you as an escort for my month of purification.”

“Yes, well,” Ammar said as he placed his hands behind his back and looked at Basaal. “She will be waiting for you by the fountains, pacing—if I have come to know anything of her these past several weeks. I have already begun to miss her ill-timed questions wrapped in curiosity,” he added superfluously, which surprised Basaal.

Ammar was never superfluous.

Then the sky was split with the sound of the evening’s trumpet call.

“There it is,” Basaal said to himself as he pulled again at the bottom hem of his jacket. “There it is.”

Ammar looked at Basaal again as if to ask why he was so undone. But Basaal ignored this unspoken question and went down into the garden.

The air was cool as a result of the streams of water that flowed through the dense foliage. Scattered among the plants, large brass bowls rested, filled with succulents draping over their edges, floating, as it were, above the marble walls and benches, thick with masses of blooms.

It took longer than Basaal had expected to arrive at the central garden. But, as he came around a stand of tall palms, he saw her. She stood near the fountains—a series of brass bowls forming a cascade of water behind her—waiting for him. And she was, of course, pacing.

Basaal paused. A gown of light blue was elegantly draped about Eleanor’s figure, with a long, golden cuff encircling each wrist. Her copper hair hung loose and long. And, in the dim light, her pale face, having recovered from the arduous desert journey, was as white as the marble stairs that trailed through the courtyard. He saw that she was watching for him, her fingers pulling impatiently at the jewelry she wore, and then, perhaps feeling his gaze, Eleanor looked in his direction.

Basaal raised his hand in greeting and walked towards her. He saw relief, and he saw concern in the expression on her face as she came forward and threw her arms around him. Her hair smelled like the flowers of Imirillia, Basaal noticed as he held her close to him, lifting her up onto her toes.

“Are you alright?” Eleanor asked before he could speak. Moving his hands to Eleanor’s shoulders, Basaal stepped back to see her face.

“Yes,” he answered. “The challenge, and after it, was—”

A very difficult thing. Not only the twist of her marriage to Arsaalan but also the thought of Eleanor dying at his hand. That threat had given Basaal terrifying nightmares. The image crossed his mind again now, and he pulled his hands away from her shoulders, feeling like he was burning her for having thought of that horrifying picture.

“I would never have recovered,” Basaal admitted aloud.

She seemed to understand and reached out hesitantly to touch his arm, avoiding looking at his eyes. “And your injury?” she asked. “Is it recovering?”

“It’s far from healed,” Basaal said, kicking at the crushed marble of the pathway with the toe of his boot. “Ammar has treated the infection, but it will bother me awhile yet.” He knew that the expression on his face betrayed the difficulty of the last week. “I have been worried for you,” he explained. “The challenge was—my father—”

“Yes,” Eleanor nodded. “But I am fine.”

“Good.”

“Have you discovered yet who sent the assassin?” she asked.

Ammar must have told Eleanor, and Basaal was glad that she knew and that she was aware of what they were up against. “No,” Basaal admitted. He had yet to discover anything about the assassin. Between that and waiting for his father’s retribution, Basaal felt little confidence in his current position. “Come,” he said, motioning towards the fountains. “In theory, we should be alone now, but, as you can guess, that is never a proven truth in Zarbadast. We can talk by the fountains without being overheard.”

They sat on the edge of the marble wall, facing each other, Eleanor’s leg pulled up beneath her skirts as she studied his face.

“How are the women’s quarters?” Basaal inquired, trying to make his tone sound lighter than he felt.

“I don’t really know,” she said. “Hannia, your maidservant, has kept me isolated—the requirement for the first week of purification, apparently. How have you borne it?”

Basaal allowed himself an honest smile. “My rules are not as stringent as yours, but I have found the week to be very long.”

“Humph, I might have guessed,” she said as she tossed her chin, trying to lift the mood. But Eleanor’s expression indicated she had another question. “Hannia says I am to see no man but you until the wedding,” she began. “Why, then, is Ammar allowed to visit me in the women’s quarters?”

“How many times has he visited?” Basaal asked from curiosity.

“Every day of the seven.”

“Ha!” Basaal grinned. “The desert rat lied to me. He sounds bored. Ammar rarely wishes to see anyone daily. So he must like you very much.”

“Well, that certainly doesn’t show.” Eleanor laughed, wiping the back of her hand across her tired eyes. “But, I am glad for his company.”

Basaal shifted himself on the wall and looked directly at Eleanor. “To answer your question,” Basaal said, “Ammar is a physician and has sworn himself to covenants that are particular to his profession. For example, he must never kill any man. This prevents him from participating in war or legal judgment. Also, in accordance with his physician’s covenants, he may only take one wife, and he may never come unto the wife of another. Therefore, he is the only man admitted into the women’s quarters to see to their well-being.”

“Ammar is not married, is he? I thought he had not yet taken a wife?”

This question caused Basaal unexpected pain. “No. Once, he wished to be, but that was long ago before—well, that is not my story to tell.” Basaal left off, glancing around at what could be seen of the garden. Several birds paced and flitted through the branches, and the sound of water continued to slow the drumming of Basaal’s heart. “As you have now seen for yourself,” he said, “the first week of purification gives one plenty of time to think.” He looked back at her face. “A week should satisfy even your penchant for that act.”

“If only purification could come through thought—” Eleanor said and then left off. “Is it safe now to speak of our plans?”

“For your journey south?”

“Yes,” she said, and her expression was as determined as he had ever seen it. For some reason, this made Basaal feel listless.

He looked about them, and then he bent his head towards hers. Eleanor moved herself closer as well, her knee now touching his leg, her shoulder just pressing against his. Basaal wished to tell her more about the wedding tradition—the symbolism this moment held and what lay ahead, according to the customs of his people—but he reluctantly pushed past sharing those traditions to answer her question.

“I have spoken with my friend, who is to lead you out of Zarbadast, and am working to secure an escape that will be untraceable by the Vestan—or anyone else,” he explained. “I dare not share the details with you until right before it’s time for you to leave. What you do not know cannot be coerced out of you.”

“Do you worry that the emperor might suspect?” she asked.

“It’s impossible to know all of his thoughts. But you have a rare distinction with my father,” Basaal admitted. “Few, if any, can catch him in his mind games. Your success has made him detest you while finding you vastly interesting at the same time, so I’ve no doubt that his attention will be on you. He and I have spoken only once this week, but he mentioned you.”

Eleanor’s concern was coupled with curiosity. “And?” she asked.

“He said, ‘One snake reveals another.’ I don’t know if that was a high compliment or a suspicious insult. To be frank, coming from my father, neither is to be trusted.”

“I pity him,” Eleanor said as she shifted one of the golden cuffs that ran along her forearm. “As powerful as he may be, I would not want to live with myself, having done what he has done.”

An image from Aramesh crowded into his mind before Basaal could stop it, and he wondered if Eleanor knew of what had happened there.

“He was not always as he is now, Eleanor,” Basaal said, and he ran his fingers along the calluses of his hand. “While he has always moved the interests of the empire forward, it had once been with a more judicial approach, which has been lost these last years to a form of madness that I can’t fathom.” Basaal shook his head. “Whether his mind has slipped or he has pushed it deliberately, I can’t say, but the distance between us has never been greater.”

“I do not envy you this life,” Eleanor said unexpectedly.

These words were hard on Basaal’s ears, justified as she might be in saying them. He jerked his head up to meet her eyes directly. “I would not trade the people of Imirillia or the city of Zarbadast, for any peace of mind that the Illuminating God had to offer.”

Eleanor seemed taken aback, but a flame lit behind her eyes. “And I couldn’t ever desire this place while Aemogen still lived and breathed,” she countered. “Neither could I ever subject my people to the devilish designs of a man such as your father.”

“Then we understand one another,” Basaal replied stiffly, straightening his back and looking into the darkness around them, angry at the truth in their words. This was not how he had envisioned this meeting with Eleanor would be.

“Basaal, please don’t—” Eleanor began to say, reaching for his hand. But he stood, pulling away from her, reinforcing each worn-out emotion he carried with the strength of his own pride.

Eleanor’s face seemed to reflect the same struggle, but she, unlike Basaal, was willing to move past her pride, for she had slipped from the wall and walked toward him, her arms folded across her chest.

“It should be an easy thing,” she said, “for us to remember that we can understand each other, shouldn’t it?” The way that Eleanor looked at him then—so open and honest—made him wish that he had the courage to do the same. “Who better to understand the difficulties we face than each other. Let’s not sever that.”

“Eleanor, I—” Basaal began, but he felt a reluctance to let go of his stubbornness—it was a skill not well practiced in his family. But he desperately wanted to try.

“I did not mean that we needed to agree on our political opinions, which have been set against each other from the start,” Eleanor continued, her arms still crossed. “I only think that we should not give up on our alliance so easily. If you are to keep your neck, and I am to escape Zarbadast, then we need that friendship.”

“Are those your only reasons for making the effort?” he asked.

“No,” Eleanor said, looking to the side as she spoke. “I think we both know the emperor’s challenge revealed more than that. They are, however,” she said, her eyes flicking back to his, “the only reasons that we
should
be considering when making our decisions. Did you not tell me once in Aemogen that a monarch’s lover was to be his country?”