Read The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) Online
Authors: Beth Brower
“Why not?” It was Ammar who asked the question.
“Because,” Basaal said as he turned to look at him. “Its existence is unknown to any but me, and it would be impossible to scale the wall by oneself, let alone be successful escaping on the other side. Ideally, one would use it during a rainstorm.”
“A rainstorm?” the assassin inquired. This was the first time in his life that Basaal had ever heard a Vestan ask a question in sincerity rather than for intimidation.
“There is a small opening thirty feet down that leads into the aqueducts,” Basaal replied. “You could make the jump if there was enough water to catch you. Without the rain,” he added, “you would need to have a very long rope and no one at your back.” He eyed the Vestan before continuing. “Since I’ve not discussed the existence of this with anybody, especially not with Eleanor, your time would be better spent searching the other gardens,” he suggested. “For you know better than anybody the endless secrets of Zarbadast.”
With that, he turned away, leaving the Vestan and Ammar to stare up at the high wall.
***
“Thank you,” Dantib said as he smiled at their benefactor before easing his stiff body down onto the road. Eleanor followed suit and came around to take his arm. It was dusk, and they were now far from the city. It lay in the distance, spread out across the waves of sand.
“We are grateful for these hours of rest,” Dantib told the woman.
“May you follow your stars,” the woman said, and she smiled, trying to catch a view of Eleanor’s face, seeming curious about the mute girl who had kept to herself all day. Then, with a sharp two-note whistle, she set the donkey in motion and continued down the nearly abandoned road.
Dantib did not hurry off the road, rather he scanned the sandy layers of the horizon as he slung off his water-filled pouch, and then they each took a drink. The wind had picked up, and, despite her headscarf, Eleanor could still feel it whip and whistle around her ears. Dantib fished a few pieces of dried fruit from his heavy satchel, and Eleanor accepted one gratefully, turning back towards the distant city, watching as the lights began to appear in the haze of the desert evening.
“She is a beautiful city,” Dantib said as Zarbadast began to illuminate herself.
“Yes,” Eleanor acknowledged. “Do you think he will be alright?”
Dantib frowned and waited a long moment before answering. “I have asked myself that question many times.” He shifted his packs, and Eleanor checked to see if her own bag was secure. Dantib turned and waved a gnarled hand across the graying landscape. “Now we are on the edge of the eastern rocklands. It is a forgotten terrain, full of cracks and crooks left behind by the ancient rivers long dried up.”
And as Dantib spoke, Eleanor thought how he too was made up of ancient things, all cracks and crooks and wisdom. She could see why Basaal had been drawn to him.
“And we will travel through the night?” she asked, tired, but ready to walk.
“Yes,” Dantib nodded. “We will not stop these four days yet if we have any hope of disappearing into the east.”
Nodding, Eleanor followed Dantib into the serpentine ravine.
***
The Vestan were none too gentle as they threw Basaal on the ground before Shaamil’s throne. Basaal’s arm, still tender from the challenge weeks before, rattled with pain. He breathed in fast, sounding like a scared snake, his face hovering inches above the floor. A bead of sweat dropped from his face, and Basaal thought it strange, for he felt as cold as the rivers of Aemogen.
It had been twelve hours since Eleanor’s escape, and Basaal had been confined to his palace, unable to move from his private apartments, watched constantly by the Vestan. His father had not called for him and had not wished to see him—until now.
The emperor soon ordered the Vestan to get out. Even when they were left alone, Basaal did not move to look at his father. He breathed against the white marble, waiting for Shaamil to speak.
“You miserable wretch.” The words were clipped in the emperor’s mouth. “Get up.”
Basaal pulled himself to his feet, deliberately throwing his shoulders back as he looked into the eyes of his father.
“What have you to say to me?” Shaamil asked.
“As I have told your imperial guard and as I have told the Vestan, I have nothing to say that you do not already know.”
“Nothing?” the emperor said, his voice sounding as the wind scratching across the rock hills north of the city.
“I have nothing more to say,” Basaal repeated.
“The Vestan have no word of your wife, even after hours of searching.” Shaamil’s mouth twisted up. “It’s as if she were swept away like a single grain of sand in a windstorm. Gone. Scattered among ten million other pieces without a trace. I warn you now, if I find you had a hand in any of this, I will kill you outright.”
Basaal stiffened, the corners of his mouth turning down as he spoke. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”
“Let us then suppose,” Shaamil said, and his voice rang with accusation, “that you had
nothing
to do with the queen’s disappearance. Let us suppose that you stand wronged. What is your price?”
“My price?” Basaal glowered. By the stars, he was so tired.
“The price of your retribution,” Shaamil explained. “What price do you exact for such a valuable loss? Is it one life?”
“One life?” Basaal asked, confused.
“Is it one life?” Shaamil repeated. “Or is it two? The desperate impression you gave was that this woman—this girl, really—meant a great deal to you. And now she has been taken away. So her value must be beyond the cost of just one life. Is it three times as much? Is it four times?” Shaamil demanded. “What would satisfy the debt? The death of a dozen people? Of a caravan? Should a city be ransacked to pay the debt of her loss? A country, even? Answer me!”
Basaal stood petrified, terrified of what his father might do in his own name.
“What is she worth to you, Basaal?” Shaamil pressed. “How many thousands must die to atone for her loss? Answer me!”
“I—I can’t. I don’t deal in such terms,” Basaal said. “To reckon the value of any loss with the death of the innocent is madness.”
“But you must learn!” Shaamil yelled. “As a prince of Imirillia, every action you take reverberates endlessly into the lives around you. You cannot make a decision without having some act to balance it. You try—you have always tried—to tip the scales, not expecting repercussions or consequences. But that is not how this world works. That is not how this empire works, the Imirillian Empire, which you have sworn yourself to in the highest rituals of honor. So, yes, the disappearance of the Aemogen queen carries a price, and it very well may be of every man, woman, and child in her country.”
“Father!”
“What? Is it too much for you? The thought of every wretch in Aemogen dead. Would you rather I find someone closer to blame? The palace guards, perhaps? Do we take the head of every guard on duty at the hour of her disappearance? Or, do we take the heads of their wives and children?”
“You deal in unbalanced scales, Your Grace,” Basaal snapped.
“Do I?” Shaamil challenged.
“Yes!” Basaal cried. “As you did in Aramesh, you transfer the sins of one onto the heads of many, and that is not justice.”
Shaamil lifted an eyebrow and pressed his fingers together as if thinking. “You do not condone my scales?”
“No!”
“One for one, is it?” Shaamil asked.
Basaal bent his head, pursing his lips, waiting for his father to call for his life in payment.
“One for one,” Shaamil repeated. “But if that is the scale with which you wish to play, then this loss of great value demands another of equal value to you. Who should it be? One of your brothers?” Shaamil suggested. “Annan? The woman who serves your house? What is her name, Hannia? What about your sister, Laaeitha? She is of little value to Emir. Would her life compensate in payment, I wonder? What about one of the children?”
The coil of his father’s words seemed to squeeze his chest, and Basaal let his rage show clearly on his face. This was not the man who had shown even love earlier that same day. This was the beast that had swallowed his father whole, consuming him with its vile power. Now, in the shadows of the deep night, this man did not even look like his father.
“You see, Basaal,” the emperor continued, “you cannot insulate yourself from consequences any more than you can insulate everything you love…from me.”
Basaal shook off the hiss of his father’s words. “I will do my duty,” Basaal said, “but do not—I beg you—do not bring any other into your quarrel with me, Father.”
“Every life you love is entirely in your own hands, Basaal. If you step straight, they will be well. Now, go,” Shaamil said as he waved his hand. “You have five days to prepare your company for the journey south, and then we leave.”
“We?” Basaal asked.
“Oh, yes,” Shaamil articulated with force. “I am accompanying you south with six thousand of my own men in the case you need
help
in subjugating Aemogen.”
There have been so many of you who have given your time, encouragement, and insight. Thank you again for all the hours offered, especially to my beta readers. Each one of you has made a difference.
Thank you: Rose, for all the years of saying we would; Andrea, for being one of the first to wade through the mire; Z, for arguing with me at 1:00 A.M. over a cheap diner breakfast, and for throwing the manuscript across the room in tears; Rob & Jenesse, for running casting calls over Thai Curry; Uncle Brad, for being wise; Aaron, for finding Peter Pan; Angie, for telling me to go for it while we ate end-of-august ice cream.
Thank you to the team who helped get this book off the ground: Phil Jackson, for bringing the ink soul to my pencil maps. Here we are, all these years later, doing what we love. Allysha Unguren, for traversing the desert many, many times, and going to the aid of whomever needed you, whether in Aemogen or Imirillia, or some place in between. It is, after all, what you do. Julie Ogborn, for being such a brilliant finish editor, and having passionate conversations with me about the em dash. Kevin Cantrell, for being an absolute genius and taking the time. The covers are beautiful. Stephanie Winzeler, for the undertaking of bringing my dreams into the physical dimension. I hope you know what it means.
An especial thanks to ALL my siblings, both the natives, and the brave souls who married into the tribe. With you lie many of my fiercest affections. Thank you, every one of you. You have been a tremendous support, and been willing to encourage me onward. I love you, and have always been proud to be in this clan.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, for being people of great faith. Mom, you taught me that individuals were complicated, worth seeing, and worth loving. Dad, your passion for words and family has been a polar star in my life. I love you both.
And Kip, I know what it is like to be across the ten thousand miles of the world from you, and I am so glad you are at my side. Thank you for all the evenings you came home and said, “Why don’t you write?” I could not have a truer, more supportive, husband.
Like many of my siblings, I would sneak out of bed, slip into the hallway, and pull my favorite books from the book closet. I read my way through the bottom shelf, then the next shelf up, and the shelf above that, until I could climb to the very top shelf—stacked two layers deep and two layers high—and read the titles of the classics. My desire to create stories grew as I was learning to read them.
Subsequently, I spent my time scribbling in notebooks rather than listening to math lectures at school.
I graduated with a degree in literary studies, and have spent several years working on the novels that keep pounding on the doors of my mind, as none of my characters are very patient to wait their turn. I currently live in Orem, Utah, with my wonderful chemist husband, and books in every room of the house.