The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (22 page)

“Loyalty to self?” Basaal asked, his mouth twisting in emotion. “Is there such a thing in Zarbadast?”

Emir shrugged and walked towards the door. Before he left, Emir turned towards Basaal. “That is what I would like to know,” he said. “Now, sleep. You will find no assassins here. And you must go and seek out Laaeitha tomorrow. Speak of what a horrible husband I am ‘til your soul is content.” He paused. “I do not go unto Laaeitha,” he explained, “out of respect for my brother, Ammar. Not that any of that is your business, Basaal. Seek her out tomorrow. She is lonely here. Perhaps your Eleanor could be her friend. Who is to say?” Emir added, offering a lopsided shrug. “These women will ruin us all.”

Then Emir left. Basaal extinguished the lamps with his fingers and lay back down in his bed, thinking of Laaeitha, Emir, and the empire. It was not until the early morning that he fell asleep.

***

The streamlets leading water through the gardens seemed endless, a brilliant display of design and beauty. Eleanor’s curiosity had led her to climb inelegantly up behind the fountains, admiring the irrigation systems of Zarbadast. Basaal was late tonight, so Eleanor put her mind to use, finding it more palatable than waiting and feeling worried. The last seven days had felt long enough for all the worry Eleanor could carry, so she had focused on whatever mental diversions came along.

Aedon would be fascinated by the Imirillian use of water, she thought.

Just as she was climbing down, Eleanor heard footsteps on the crushed marble walk. She slipped off the wall and leaned against it, feeling the cool of the marble against her back as she straightened her gown—a graceful, layered gown of red, paired with bangles and sandals of gold.

A shadow came around the corner. Basaal
.
When his eyes found her, he nodded. But his face seemed tight; his eyes, strained. He wore clothing of deep blood red. It was strange, for she had never seen him in anything but black. Basaal did not speak as he walked towards her, brushing aside the fronds of a palm tree from his face as he passed it. As he drew near, Eleanor pushed herself away from the wall towards him.

“You’re late,” she said.

He returned this greeting by embracing her, placing his chin over her shoulder and pulling her to him. Eleanor could feel her pulse against his chest.

“How did you pass your week?” he breathed out.

“Intact,” Eleanor said, leaning away from Basaal enough to see his face, wrapping her fingers around his shoulders. “What happened? You look awful.”

He tried to give her a genuine smile. “Come closer to the fountains,” he said as he took Eleanor’s arm and led her back to the marble wall. Instead of lifting himself up onto the wall, Basaal slid down it, sitting on the ground. Eleanor dropped beside him, pulled her knees up under her chin, and waited.

“My father requested a private audience with me,” Basaal explained as he pulled at the frond of a nearby fern, snapping it in half and spinning the stem between his fingers, a shadow of pain crossing his face. “It was not a pleasant meeting.”

Eleanor did not press him for more information, and Basaal did not offer any, but he was clearly shaken. On an impulse, Eleanor lifted her hand to his face.

“You look tired,” she said. These were simple words, but Basaal closed his eyes and nodded. And, as if he did not trust himself to look at her, he slouched, resting his head against her shoulder with a sigh. Eleanor kissed his forehead and moved her hand to the back of his neck, resting her chin against the top of his head.

This was a different world, Zarbadast.

After a while, Basaal lifted his head and kissed Eleanor’s cheek, keeping his lips close, breathing in the scent of her skin.

“By the stars, you smell good,” he muttered before he lifted his arm around her and leaned his head back against the wall.

Eleanor settled comfortably against him, leaning back with her hand resting on his arm, and she looked up into the sky. It was dark enough now to see the stars, as bright and clear as they ever were in Ainsley.

“There is no moon,” she remarked in the quiet.

“Seraagh must be on some errand for the Illuminating God,” Basaal said.

“Does she ever come to Zarbadast, do you think?”

Shifting his shoulder beneath her, Basaal looked down at Eleanor. “I should think so,” he replied, “with how our luck is holding.”

She moved her hand towards his, but Basaal gave a quick intake of breath, pulling his wrist away. This was not what she had expected. It was then that Eleanor noticed the blood.

***

To Basaal, it seemed as if a rod had been shot into Eleanor’s back. She sat up straight and took his wrist in her hands. Feeling warm, wet to the touch, her fingers came away with his blood smeared across them. Basaal grimaced but did not stop her as she pushed his right sleeve up to reveal his makeshift bandage, now saturated with blood.

“Is the other the same?” she asked.

Basaal didn’t need to answer her, for she reached across for his left wrist and pushed up that sleeve too. The bandaging here was more skillfully done, blood only seeping through as Eleanor pressed her fingers gently against it.

“Are your wrists cut all the way around?” she asked, her voice sounding hard when she spoke.

“Several times,” Basaal said as he flinched. “For emphasis, I believe.”

His Safeeraah were pushed back. They were uncomfortable, biting into his skin, but at least they were not aggravating his wounds.

“And your father did this?”

“Yes,” Basaal said as he shrugged, his voice catching. “It’s a reminder of what happens to thieves when they take something that isn’t theirs,” he explained. “It was a warning, an
encouragement
, as my father said, that everything with Aemogen must be executed as it should, or rather, as he wants it done.”

Eleanor knelt up and began unwrapping his left wrist. He could see very little, but it was clear to Basaal that there would be considerable scarring. “Of all the—” Eleanor began, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “How you were born to that man, I’ll never understand,” she said.

Basaal pulled his wrist away defensively.

“Wait,” Eleanor commanded. “You’ve bled completely through the bandage.”

Then she lifted the hem of her dress and tore off a strip of fine fabric. The hem did not cooperate as she had hoped, but it did rip off in a straight enough line for her to wrap it around Basaal’s right wrist several times before tying it securely in place.

“Has Ammar seen this?” she asked.

“No.”

“He should. Go to him tonight.” Eleanor took a deep breath. “Where else did he hurt you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Basaal replied.

“I am so angry,” she said as she ripped another strip of cloth from the hem of her red dress. “Here, I may as well replace the other bandage.”

When she was done, Basaal thanked her and pressed his fingers against her palm. “It’s only a silly cut about my wrist, Eleanor,” he tried to assure her.

But she pulled away and glared at him. “No, it isn’t,” she said. “And, even if it were, I’m angry with all of it: the invasion, the desert, the exhausting balancing game with your insidious father, the assassination attempt, the pain—”

He reached out to her, but she brushed his hand away again.

“And here I sat,” she continued, “only a moment ago, lost to it all, lost to myself, thinking only of you, and—ah!” Basaal could see that both of her hands were in fists, balled hard, as she turned away, focusing before her as if fighting to control her fury.

“It’s late,” Basaal said after some time had passed. “You had better return before Hannia wonders what has happened to you.”

“Yes.” Eleanor stood, brushing off her now hemless gown.

“Until next week?” he asked almost hesitant, his question hovering at her back. When Eleanor turned to face him, Basaal was gingerly lifting himself to his feet.

Eleanor stepped up close to Basaal and grabbed his collar. “Be careful,” she whispered fiercely. She kissed him, then kept her face against his, her hands keeping his head close to hers. “Please be careful,” she repeated at length, before leaving him alone in the darkness.

***

Basaal ran his fingers over the angry red along his left wrist then leaned back, kicking his boots over the edge of the sofa, and tossed the Fourth Scroll aside. His purification required a study of all the basic tenets in the Second Scroll and the Fourth Scroll. He thought it was ironic that, while none of this study was required of the bride, Eleanor had already read through the Sixth Scroll, from what Ammar had said. Basaal jerked his neck to the side, glancing across the room to where Ammar was quietly working on his notes, his back to him.

“How you can manage to sit, studying day in and out, is beyond me,” Basaal said, shifting farther back into the comfort of Ammar’s sofa. But the physician ignored Basaal’s comment. The nagging conversation Basaal had had with Laaeitha kept pressing against his tongue, as it had for days now, so, finally, he spoke. “I have been able to spend time with Laaeitha these past days.”

Ammar still did not respond.

“We spoke of you,” Basaal pressed. “She still loves you, you know, from all she was willing to say.”

The physician lifted his head for only a moment before rolling his shoulders back, bending his head, and continuing with his writing. Basaal did not speak again, instead he covered the forming scars on his wrists with his Safeeraah.

***

Eleanor listened as they echoed, the voices in the common rooms of the women’s quarters, musical flickers of sound that paired well with the reflections of light on the ceilings from the shallow pools scattered throughout the rooms. Hannia had insisted Eleanor spend some time there, encouraging her to become acquainted with her future sisters-in-law. So Eleanor reluctantly came, bringing her scrolls with her, settling on cushions directly below a large, open window, close to a pool filled with pink water flowers.

She was unaccustomed to being near so many women. Even at Ainsley, Edythe had been her only constant female companion. The wives of Basaal’s brothers watched her but seemed far more interested in discussing what they saw—amongst themselves—than in actually speaking with Eleanor.

“Excuse me,” she heard someone say. Eleanor looked up to see a beautiful woman dressed in pink and silver with black eyes and long, soft hair, standing above her.

“Would you mind if I kept you company?” the woman asked.

“Please,” she answered politely, although Eleanor did not wish to have company. Binding her scroll and setting it aside, Eleanor smiled while her visitor rested herself gracefully on the cushion next to her.

“My name is Laaeitha,” the woman said, “third wife of Emir, first son.”

“Eleanor of Aemogen,” she replied. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Laaeitha seemed to study Eleanor’s face, but it was not for a critique or from curiosity. She was looking for something more.

“I will admit to you that I have asked Basaal about you,” she said as she tilted her graceful head to the side. “About you and your people,” she explained.

Rather than feeling comforted, Eleanor was instantly distrustful of this Laaeitha despite her soft smile and open disposition.

“Oh?” Eleanor said, and she lifted her chin as if she were sitting on her throne in Ainsley.

Laaeitha must have sensed Eleanor’s caution, for she rushed to assure Eleanor. “Basaal and I are very close, you see. He is a dear brother, and it would mean a great deal to me to know the woman that he would call his first wife.”

Eleanor’s expression did not change.

“He told me of your home, of Ainsley, and of the cliffs and the sea,” Laaeitha continued. “He mentioned your friends, one named—ah—I believe—” Laaeitha moved her tongue to try and speak the name right. “Crispen?”

“Crispin, yes.”

“Basaal has told me of him and others of your company, his friends there,” Laaeitha said. “I will admit to being jealous that he has seen such exotic places, which I never will. You must love your country very much.”

“It is very beautiful.” Eleanor was polite to Laaeitha but not overly warm. “As is Zarbadast,” Eleanor added. “It is unlike anything I have ever seen before.”

“I suppose Zarbadast has its beauty,” Laaeitha nodded, her eyes wandering out the window. “I hope you will find happiness here,” she said. “Basaal is a good man. He will be a good husband to you. And, as his first wife,” she added, “there will be certain privileges that will not go unnoticed.”

Eleanor pursed her lips, but she did not respond. The duplicity of this charade was difficult for Eleanor as it was, and she did not need to complicate things with thoughts beyond her own plan to return to Aemogen.

Laaeitha lowered her eyes to the ground and gave a sad smile. “I will be honest with you, Eleanor of Aemogen, I had hoped Basaal would find a woman who loved him in return,” she said. “After the challenge, there was much talk,” she explained, looking back up at Eleanor. “For, well, what we saw was a lovers’ bond, a strong concern for one another.” Laaeitha’s open eyes were accusatory in the softest way possible. “But now, you make me less certain. Is it too forward of me to ask if this is only a political marriage for you?”