The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (3 page)

“These are the Safeeraah I wear,” Basaal said as he stood next to Eleanor, moving his finger across the bands. “The faithful of my religion mark things of significance with bands around their forearms. They represent covenants, promises, or at times are tied to an occasion. They can be accepted from family or friends or lovers. To accept one comes with a commitment and an oath.”

The prince’s voice sounded comfortable, as if he and Eleanor were playing chess or walking out over the eastern cliffs in Aemogen. His tone maintained an illusion of intimacy, which irritated Eleanor, who felt wary of the familiarity, even as some underlying current desired to fall back into that trust.

“For how long?” Eleanor asked, touching her fingertips to a beautiful piece of silver. Then she picked it up, turning it over in her hands. “How long are you to wear each one?”

“It depends. Some are for a particular time, but most are meant for life. Usually, a lifelong Safeeraah is made of a material that will withstand the wear.” He fingered the small, knotted band of black leather on his wrist.

“Are you ever to remove them?” she asked.

“No.”

“If they are so important to you,” Eleanor said, her words feeling bitter in her mouth, “why did you take them off for your deception?”

“I did what I had to do, Eleanor,” Basaal said, answering her directly, his jaw taut. He released a slow breath and ran a hand over his face. “Will you please help me restore them?” he asked.

Or not
. Eleanor could almost see these words on the end of his tongue, but he held them back. She dropped the silver band as if it were a snake. “Why should I help you?” she demanded. “Ask one of your men.”

The prince appeared uncomfortable and, although she could not fully believe it, embarrassed. It was not something Eleanor had ever seen. It took all of his self-control to answer her question civilly.

“Because part of the Safeeraah covenant is that if you ever remove them, they can only be sealed upon you again if a woman performs the ritual.”

Eleanor laughed, the absurdity chasing fear from her thoughts for a brief, clear moment. “You speak of your father not recognizing a female monarch as an equal, saying that women are not as respected as men under his reign, yet only a woman can reseal your sacred Safeeraah.”

“Irony is the province of every culture, Your Majesty,” Basaal said, his voice turning sharp. “Not just of one’s own.”

“Well, perhaps you should find a local Marion girl to suit your purposes,” Eleanor replied, ignoring his observation. “I am sure any pretty dairymaid can tie a knot.”

Basaal looked as if he would like to answer, but he instead gathered up each Safeeraah with care and returned them to the bag. Eleanor felt a small victory, for having stung the prince, who appeared so invincible and cold. Yet, something—the native voice of her mind, perhaps—chided Eleanor for having responded flippantly.

“They are very sacred,” Basaal said, his soft answer incongruous with his weaponry and soldier’s garb. Eleanor bit her lip and looked away. His wounded vulnerability stuck in Eleanor’s mind. He took the bag of Safeeraah back to his large trunk and locked it away before, wordlessly, leaving Eleanor alone in the tent.

Eleanor flushed, ashamed she felt bad at all.  Angry she regretted her rudeness. Her feelings were almost as sharp as the guilt she felt for having disregarded his honest entreaty. Clearly, he still saw a modicum of friendship where she only saw betrayal. Irritated, she set both of her elbows on the scattered notes before her and pressed her face into her hands. Then the image of the spring festival, where he, as Wil, had treated the Aemogen seed ritual with such sincere respect, swept through her mind, causing a burning discomfort in her breast.

Eleanor cursed any corner of her heart that said she should have done the same for him. Her rejection had been a just response. This prince was her enemy, despite the words from the night before, which were still echoing in her mind.
Yes. My army. Sent down against my will to conquer you.
Frustrated, Eleanor buried her face in the crook of her elbow.

***

Eleanor waited for several days, kept in the tent with little reprieve. Twice a day, when accompanied by Annan, Eleanor was free to walk and seek some privacy beyond the camp. Once, Eleanor had passed a large group of soldiers, who had gathered to watch the prince sparring with another soldier. If Eleanor had been taken aback by his aggression during the battle run, what she now saw rendered her speechless. Basaal fought as a dragon, throwing his entire body into each movement mercilessly. After sending his assailant to the ground, the prince dropped beside the man, his forearm pinning the man’s throat against the dirt, and he pulled a small knife from a sheath on his arm and pressed it to the man’s neck.

Applause broke out, and the prince stood, offering his opponent a hand up, with a grin on his face. He was breathing heavy and looked exhilarated by the fight. A rush of panic shot through Eleanor, and as his gaze drifted her way, she hurried off towards the pavilion, Annan following close behind.

Basaal spoke little of his plans to her, and she did not want to ask him anything, save one question.

“My horse, Prince,” she said. “What has become of Thrift?”

He looked up from his work with a blank expression until he remembered. “Thrift? I left him in the pass so he would be found by one of your soldiers.”

“Thank you,” she replied before she could think better of it.

Basaal stared at her a long moment before returning to his work. “You’re welcome,” he replied.

“I didn’t mean—” she began to say, but Eleanor left off, and he ignored her.

She felt caught between two images that she’d gained of Prince Basaal. On the one hand, he had surprised Eleanor with the intimacy of his request regarding his Safeeraah, and the thought he had taken for Thrift was reminiscent of the relationship they had built in Aemogen. But, on the other hand, as he came and went with his officers, she watched a confident, intelligent, and, at times, supercilious prince, discussing strategy and mapping out the next stages of his conquest, her country. It was hard for Eleanor to sift through these contradictions to his true character. He did not speak again of helping her escape.

At night, when she could hear Basaal’s breathing coming from the other end of the luxuriant pavilion, Eleanor’s mind traveled back to Ainsley. She walked through the moonlit corridors, almost believing that if she could manage to call up the faces of those she loved clearly enough in her mind, they would know—they must know—that she was alive and that her thoughts were with them and that, whatever the cost, she would journey home. Had they returned to Ainsley by now? Was anyone still waiting, watching from Colun Tir? Did Edythe know?

***

Basaal was working figures on the paper before him in the candlelight. It was not yet late, and he had energy to burn. As the ink smeared below his hand, he cursed. Setting his quill in the inkwell, he leaned back and looked in Eleanor’s direction. She sat on the couch that he had given her for sleeping. It had become her own personal fortress, which she rarely left and which she protected with fierce glares if anyone came too near.

She was now reading through Basaal’s copy of the Third Scroll, which she had purloined during one of his many absences. She held the scroll, unapologetically, above her head, catching the light from Basaal’s candles. They had only exchanged words once the entire day, when he had offered Eleanor additional light. She had declined and had continued reading.

A trumpet sounded through the camp, followed by the sounds of horses racing through the ranks of the bored men gathered around their campfires. Basaal looked up towards the door of his pavilion. As if answering his unspoken question, Annan entered, his black eyes serious. “The Vestan,” he said.

A shiver swept up Basaal’s neck. “What of them?” Basaal asked.

“Four more have ridden into camp just now,” Annan said. “They are speaking with Drakta.”

“What?” Basaal jumped to his feet. “Are you telling me we now have six assassins here?”

They could hear footsteps approaching the tent, and Basaal looked back towards Eleanor, who was watching them with curiosity. He motioned for her to hide the scroll and pretend to be asleep. His expression must have appeared urgent enough, for Eleanor responded immediately, tucking the scroll beneath the cushions of the sofa and crouching down, pulling a blanket above her shoulders.

Basaal sat back down at his table, working to regain a confident expression. Then a call came from outside the tent, and Annan pulled the flap back, allowing the six assassins to enter. All were dressed in robes of purple so deep they were almost black. Basaal lifted his eyebrows and, without speaking, stood. They bowed before him.

One of the Vestan stepped forward and pulled a silver amulet from his robes, of a large serpent, whose tail was split into seven smaller heads, wrapped around itself.

“My father sent you,” Basaal said as he nodded towards this token. “May I ask why?”

“He has concerns as to how you are handling the conquest,” the assassin answered. “He sent us to assist you.”

Basaal understood the warning, yet he looked calmly at the assassin. “I am glad for your assistance, but do not see it as necessary.” Basaal sat back down, leaving the Vestan standing. Annan waited in the shadows by the door of the pavilion, watching the interactions, his eyes uncertain, his hand on the hilt of his scimitar.

The senior Vestan gave Basaal an indulgent smile. “Prince, you left Zarbadast over eight months ago, and your army followed soon after. Yet, you remain in Marion, and we’ve just learned that the entrance into Aemogen is rendered impassible. This will not please the emperor.”

Basaal smiled at the Vestan and leaned back in his chair.

“I know my father’s temperament,” he said. “Rest assured, I will see the job done in my own way. Your—” Basaal paused, his eyes flickering over the man’s robes, “
expertise
is not needed, so you are free to return to Zarbadast.”

“Ah, that brings us to another point of interest,” The Vestan said, lifting his finger. “Drakta mentioned that you have the Aemogen queen captive.” As the Vestan’s eyes moved to Eleanor, laying on the sofa, Basaal’s fingers moved towards the hilt of his sword. When Basaal did not speak, the assassin continued. “Your father’s new policies do not allow for hostages. You should have already killed her for insubordination.”

“Her people are extremely loyal to her reign,” Basaal said, choosing his words carefully, aware that both Eleanor and the assassins were listening. “I intend to make the Aemogen queen my wife, claiming power in Aemogen through marriage, and all the resources will go to the empire. I trust my father will concede, once we have returned to Zarbadast for the winter.”

“You have squandered your advantage, young prince,” the assassin replied. “You have been foolish in your diplomacy.”

“I have decided to spare the lives of my soldiers, if at all possible.” He looked the Vestan up and down. “We are different men, you and I.” Basaal stood and motioned towards Annan. “Allow my general to personally see you to some accommodations. I’m sure your long journey was taxing.”

The Vestan looked towards Eleanor again. “I would be happy to join your entourage in returning home,” he said. “Your protection is paramount, and the queen must not be allowed to escape before the emperor can decide her fate.” His words were laced with anything but happiness, and his meaning was clear. The Vestan still held the medallion in his hand, and he tossed it to Basaal. “A reminder of whom you serve.”

Basaal laughed. “I am the son of Emperor Shaamil,” he said, taking a step towards the assassin. “And you are a Vestan; it is you who needs a reminder of whom you serve. You are dismissed.”

The assassin bowed, but his eyes held no look of submission as he, followed by the other five assassins, left the tent with Annan. As soon as the curtain had closed, Basaal threw the medallion onto the table. It rang as it circled around itself before shivering to a stop. Basaal bit his lip and leaned against the table, fighting the sensation of having a noose around his neck.

“You seem to have put yourself in a dangerous position,” Eleanor said, sitting up, regarding him with a curious stare. She made no reference to her own precarious state. Basaal bunched his lips together, as if he had swallowed something bitter, and nodded.

It was then that Annan returned.

“Are they settling, then?” Basaal asked.

Shaking his head, Annan drew his mouth into a line. “They are speaking with Drakta again.”

Basaal almost smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. “Double the perimeter around my tent, Annan, with only men sworn to me by death,” Basaal said. “Then have the line step away ten paces, and you walk the inside perimeter yourself. I need to speak with the queen without being overheard.”

The prince waited and listened for several minutes, knowing Annan would fulfill his assignment without drawing any attention to himself. Eleanor sat quietly, her knee tucked up under her chin, a blanket over her shoulders. Crossing his arms before his chest, Basaal paced beside the table, glancing up to study the face of the waiting queen, feeling his pulse quicken at her patient expression, then looking down again at his own feet. Finally, he heard a soft whistle. Basaal picked up a small stool with one hand and walked to the back of the pavilion, setting it down before Eleanor.