The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (23 page)

“I—” Eleanor began but halted, feeling taken aback by Laaeitha’s honest inquiry.

Then Hannia approached, bowed, and addressed Eleanor. “Queen Eleanor, Ammar is here to visit you. Would you be able to receive him?”

“Oh, I—” Eleanor said, looking towards Laaeitha, who was already rising in haste. “Yes,” she said. “If you would bring him to my own rooms.”

“I will leave you to your visitor, Eleanor of Aemogen,” Laaeitha said, looking at Eleanor almost wistfully before walking away.

Chapter Twelve

Basaal moved his sandaled feet uncomfortably as he waited for Eleanor near the fountains. This would be their third and final meeting before their wedding ceremony. This time, he wore robes of white, braided sandals, and an ornate red sash—jeweled with rubies and golden thread—around his waist. He also had a white turban that, rather than being wrapped appropriately around his head, was crumpled between his fingers. Basaal never had been particularly fond of Imirillia’s ceremonial clothing, and he’d refused to wear the turban tonight.

The last seven days had proved more tiresome than even he could have imagined. He could neither go into the city nor spend time in weapons training, these activities being forbidden. Neither had Ammar consented to carrying messages between Basaal and Eleanor.

“I am the royal physician,” Ammar had said when asked again. “And I have no wish to lose my head to your maidservant if she were to find out; she clucks like a hen each time I go to see Eleanor as it is.”

“Can you at least assure me that Eleanor is alright?” Basaal had responded, touching the marks about his wrist.

Ammar’s eyes had followed Basaal’s movements. “She is safe, Basaal,” he had said. “If anything were to happen, I would tell you of it immediately.”

So, Basaal’s time had been spent reading, studying maps, and pacing. Once, Basaal had broken the law of purification and had disappeared into the stable to converse with Dantib, a reprieve too short for the prince’s liking. Basaal sighed.

“The scowl on your face doesn’t match the costume,” he heard Eleanor say from the edge of the pathway coming from the women’s quarters. He looked up at Eleanor. Her eyes surveyed Basaal’s clothing with an amused interest. She was also dressed in white save a red sash wrapped about her wrist and a necklace of rubies. “And no,” she added, “I don’t think it suits. One could hardly be as moody and petulant as you like to be, wearing that.”

Basaal fairly glared at her before giving in to a laugh. “Look your last,” he said. “For you’ll not see me wearing it again.”

Eleanor walked over and pulled herself up beside him on the wall, her eyes traveling to his wrists. “Any familial injuries, born of torture, that I should be aware of this evening?” she asked.

“Not this week,” Basaal said as he shot her a dark grin. “Sorry to disappoint,” he added, “but the entire family has been almost harmonious. Kiarash and I haven’t even thrown a punch. We’re almost becoming as well behaved as your family.”

Eleanor raised her eyebrows and looked away as if they were at dinner in Ainsley Castle, and he had just said something she did not want to admit had amused her.

“Here you are, back again, and I am not quite sure what to do with you,” Eleanor said.

Basaal was confused. “What is that supposed to imply?”

“Only that for the last few months, I’ve come to know you as Prince Basaal, seventh son, the Ruby Prince of the Imirillian Empire,” Eleanor said. “Yet, seeing that scowl on your face when I came into the garden—ah see, there it is again—reminds me of Wil, who slinked into Aemogen all veiled and opinionated.”

“I’m not the only one who seems to be retreating into half-hidden roles, Your Majesty.” Basaal leaned back, resting his hands on the top of the wall. “You are as imperial as ever this evening, like the first week I met you. Tell me,” he teased, “have they given you Aemogen water to drink during your confinement?”

Eleanor raised her eyebrows again and turned her head, but a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

Basaal laughed and nudged her foot with his. “To be perfectly fair to myself,” he added, “I was very authentic with you in Aemogen.”

“Were you indeed?” Eleanor asked, sounding doubtful.

“As much as I could be.” Basaal’s reply was earnest.

Eleanor turned to face him. “At the risk of stating the obvious,” she said, “now that I understand the context of your life, it makes sense who you were in Aemogen and who you are now in Zarbadast.”

“I’m not the only one who is different in Zarbadast,” Basaal said, turning the conversation away from himself.

Eleanor’s face creased. “Are you implying that I am?”

“I hardly know if you would recognize yourself: enjoying long days of ease, decked out in the jewels of Imirillia, and wearing fine gowns. You make no judgments, attend no council meetings, and have no business of state to speak of. Your time is spent just reading, eating the finest foods on the Continent, and negotiating the dangerous whims of a powerful emperor.”

“Sounds idyllic,” Eleanor said with a wry smile.

“Some might find it so,” Basaal said. “But not you.”

“No.”

“In that case,” he said, “we should discuss business.”

“So you have worked on my escape?” Eleanor said, the eagerness seeming to come from her bones.

Basaal shrugged. “Perhaps I’ve been too busy reading.”

“I don’t believe you,” Eleanor challenged. “It was hard enough, coercing you into translating.”

“Believe what you will,” Basaal said as he tossed his turban into the air and caught it. “But, despite my
serious
scholarship, I did manage to move our plan forward.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes and waited.

“There are three common routes for traveling south from Zarbadast,” he said. “One is through the Aronee and the Zeaad deserts, which we have already traveled. The second is directly south, passing through the Shera Shee desert and into Portola or Aramesh. The third, the most common route, is to head far west, to Capabolt, then take the more fertile roads down to Alliet and then into Marion,” he explained. “The third choice is by far the easiest journey.”

“Surely the Vestan will be expecting me to take the western road, then,” Eleanor said. “Or, perhaps, to try and return through the Aronee.”

“That is what I think,” Basaal confirmed.

“So we will go through the Shera Shee,” Eleanor said as she smoothed the white fabric of the dress she wore, her voice sounding decided. Basaal shook his head.

“What?” Eleanor asked.

He looked around at the garden as he spoke. “The Shera Shee desert is the most lawless corner of the Imirillian Empire. More than half of the Continent’s slaves are imports from the slavers that haunt those deserts. It is dry, barren, full of jackal thieves and starving souls. I would send you anywhere but through the Shera Shee.”

“But the Vestan will be canvassing the other routes,” Eleanor said.

“Yes,” Basaal replied. “Which is why I propose that you go by sea.”

“By sea? You said there were only three ways.”

“I said that there were three
common
routes,” Basaal corrected Eleanor as he lifted her hand in his. Turning it over, he drew a map on her palm. “Here is Zarbadast, there is Capabolt to the west, and Marion to the far south,” he explained. “But directly east from Zarbadast is the country of Krayklan, part of the Imirillian Empire these fifteen years.” Basaal moved his finger across her palm from the center out towards the edge near her pinky.

“Although small, their ports serve to good purpose and have been a great asset to Zarbadast,” he continued. “The pathways through Krayklan are many and varied, for there are endless canyons that a person might slip through on their way to the shore. There are thieves and cutthroats, to be sure, but not as many as in the Shera Shee. And I have a contact, a shipmaster who serves my interests for a good turn I did him and his family. The advantage is that he does not sail from the main port in the north but from a small, insignificant place, which only a few fishermen keep, farther south. His vessel can take the eastern sea all the way down to Aemogen, to Calafort.”

Eleanor clucked like Hannia, which made Basaal smile. “You know full well entering the bay at Calafort is impossible without a sea map.”

“I do know that,” Basaal said. “Which is why, as soon as I decided on this route five days ago, I sent Annan back to my army in Marion as my chief commander with a special letter for my beloved cousin, Telford. You remember we met in Marion City?”

“Did you send a message for Aemogen?” Eleanor asked, her eyes wide, and she threw her arms around him.

“Yes.” He laughed, catching Eleanor’s wrists and pulling back to see her face. “Using some of the phrases from the battle run, I wrote a message for Aedon. He should understand the impromptu code and have the sailors of Calafort on the lookout for a craft, hovering out from the quay.”

“It will take Annan six or seven weeks to reach Marion,” Eleanor said as she calculated the journey in her head. “And, possibly, another week to smuggle the letter into Aemogen?”

“And it will take you four or five weeks to get from Zarbadast to the coast, if all goes well, then another week on the water,” Basaal explained. “You can’t leave Zarbadast for another fourteen days, so the letter should precede you, regardless of how quickly you’re able to sail down the coast. You should arrive in early spring, if—”

“What a relief,” Eleanor interrupted, letting out a breath, “to be sailing home without having to go down through that desert again.”

Basaal did not feel as optimistic as Eleanor looked. “If all goes well,” was all he could say in response.

“And this ship’s captain?” Eleanor asked, obviously thinking through the journey. “Will you notify him?”

“No,” Basaal said as he shook his head. “I have a token that I will send with you to commission him for this errand,” Basaal explained. “The captain’s name is Lorne, and he lives in a small town known to the locals as Seaylt. My friend will explain the route to you once you’re free from the city.”

“And how is it that I will escape from Zarbadast?” she asked.

“That,” Basaal said as he sat up straight, stretching his back, “is something that I cannot tell you until just before you are to leave. Best be cautious.”

***

Eleanor opened her mouth to press Basaal for details but changed her mind, moving her lips into an even line.

“Then, I’ll not pester you with more questions this evening,” she said.

“That is a change,” Basaal said, lifting his hand to her face, brushing aside a strand of her hair.

Eleanor closed her eyes, battling between his touch, and the conflicting feelings she’d already been fighting. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, guiding his hand away.

“Basaal, I wanted—wanted to apologize,” she stammared. “I fear that I may have—” Why was it so hard to speak openly with him about some things? Eleanor released his hand and looked out over the garden. “This week,” she began again, “there has been much time to think, and I’ve come to realize why this can’t continue.”

Basaal placed his hand on the corner of the wall where they sat and looked at Eleanor. “What can’t continue?” he asked.

Eleanor felt along the smooth marble with her fingers, searching for a way to speak her mind. “You and I,” she finally managed to say. “This affection we’ve led each other to believe—”

“Oh,” Basaal interrupted, his voice sounding flat. “I apologize,” he said, “for causing you—for thinking—”

Never before had Eleanor felt so exposed. She slipped off the wall and took a few steps away from him before turning back around, staring at the patterns on his sash rather than looking at his face. “I care for you,” she admitted, “very much.”

“Yet?”

“Yet, we will not be together long, don’t you see?” Eleanor said as she braved a glance at his face. “I can’t want to be with you, to be close to you, if I am going to return home to Aemogen.” Eleanor took a long breath. “I will be honest, as far as I can be. I do not think this short time together will be worth the pain that our separation will bring. So I am choosing to begin separating now, when it is still my choice,” she explained. “Soon, in only a few months’ time, you and I could be standing against each other in battle. How is that supposed to be bearable if I know you are still in my heart?”

Basaal lifted a hand to his neck and looked up towards the stars scattered far above Zarbadast. Then he gave a slanted laugh and slid off the wall, leaning back against it with his hands resting on the edge.

“Why do you laugh?” Eleanor asked, crossing her arms, feeling uncomfortable in this moment of unaccustomed vulnerability. She could just barely see his expression in the darkness, one part amusement and one part something that she could not translate.

“I thought you believed in love—”

As he said these words, a shadow moved in the garden near Eleanor. Not unlike the quiver of a palm caught in the breeze, but Basaal stiffened.

“Someone is here in the garden,” he said in the Aemogen language, stepping forward and then pulling Eleanor closer to the fountains, half concealed behind his body. Basaal’s hand moved towards a dagger hidden at his wrist. Despite the ban on weapons during his purification, he would not go without a means to defend himself.

“Is it the assassin?” she whispered.

“A spy from my father, I would guess,” he whispered.

Eleanor could see nothing in the deep black and green of the garden. She was always surprised with the reality of Zarbadast, for being with Basaal made her forget its insidious nature.

“I think he’s gone,” he said. But Basaal’s hand did not leave Eleanor’s arm. “To be sure, let me walk you to the stairs of the women’s quarters.”