The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (16 page)

“No,” Eleanor said. She moved her hand down to his, aware that his blood had seeped into the lines of her fingers.

“I am going to sew the wound,” Ammar said, returning. “Eleanor, if you would, please see if the blood flow has eased, then hold the skin together while I work.” Eleanor moved farther back on the couch, giving him more space.

Basaal’s jaw tightened as Eleanor did her best to hold the wound in place. It was a messy affair—between old and new injury—but Ammar was efficient. It didn’t seem long before Basaal’s arm was sewn up and wrapped.

“The rest of your injuries can wait,” Ammar said. “We must discuss Eleanor’s situation.” Ammar stood, placing his supplies on the long table. “If you will excuse me a moment,” Ammar said, and he disappeared into the exterior hallway.

Basaal leaned back, running his right hand through his hair. Eleanor expected him to speak to her, to say
something
, but he remained silent. When Eleanor finally decided to ask Basaal what he thought Shaamil might do, Ammar returned with another black shirt and Basaal’s militant jacket. He threw the shirt towards his brother and laid the jacket over the back of the couch.

“Let Eleanor help you,” Ammar stated, “or you will rip out all my work.”

Basaal stood up, and Eleanor helped him struggle into the shirt, gingerly pulling it over his arm. Eleanor knew that her consideration could not take away the pain of his movements, but Ammar gave Basaal some sort of drink that began to help with the pain.

Eleanor reached for his jacket, moving her eyes across its stiff shoulders, high collar, gold buttons.

“I am already sweating,” the prince started to protest. “From the fight, and from the heat of the day.”

“Wear it,” Ammar commanded. “It will keep pressure on your arm and give you a show of strength for when you return to the throne room. Your face is pale enough as it is.”

Again, Ammar left the room. With caution, Eleanor brought the left sleeve of the jacket over Basaal’s injured arm, then she guided his right arm into its sleeve and pulled the shoulders of the tight jacket up into place. He winced.

With an apologetic expression, Eleanor began buttoning at the bottom of his jacket, bringing its sides together and pushing the first gold button through its stiff hole. Once it was in place, she moved up to the next button. As she secured the third button, Eleanor could feel his breath against her face. She realized that she had not been this close to Basaal since the night that he had kissed her in the Zeaad desert.

Eleanor could feel his eyes on her face, so she lifted her eyes to meet his. She saw an expression there that reminded her of another night, those many months ago before the battle run, when the war council had returned to her private chambers after the women of Ainsley had sung. He had looked at her then as he looked at her now except that now his eyes were traced with fear. Eleanor secured the final button, at the base of his neck, feeling his hand brush against her waist before he let it drop back to his side.

Eleanor thought he had calmed down by now, but another look at his face proved her wrong; his anger was there, white-hot, ready to spark. Eleanor stepped back when Ammar reentered the room.

“So, what are we going to do?” Basaal asked his brother sharply.

“I don’t see any way around this confrontation,” Ammar stated plainly. “It is not as if you can help Eleanor escape.”

“But—” Basaal began.

“We have nothing in place,” Ammar interrupted, his words stern and practical. “And you would certainly be indicted.”

“So she goes for the challenge?” Basaal asked.

“Yes,” Ammar replied.

“Of all the seven stars—” Basaal said, turning away from them.

“If—” Eleanor began, but Basaal cut her off.

“So she goes before Father penitent, humble, ready to submit?”

Eleanor looked up at him sharply in annoyance, not only for the interruption, but for the implication.

“Do we accentuate her finer features and make her look more like a woman?” Ammar questioned. “Or play off her youth and have her appear as a child? What would garner any sympathy?” Ammar asked.

Basaal shook his head in obvious aggravation. “Neither,” he said. “If we send her in there, she dies. So, we must get her away from the palace.”

“It is impossible,” Ammar reinforced.

“I am capable of speaking for myself!” Eleanor exclaimed, her voice carrying enough edge for the brothers to look towards her. “If we could sit down and think—” she suggested.

Basaal spun to face her. “You don’t know the emperor as we do,” he argued. “He’s expressed his clear intent to see you dead. He has twisted centuries of rules to bring you before him. Can you fight? Can you defend yourself?” Basaal demanded, pausing and looking at Eleanor as if she were a different species altogether. “No,” he said. “You are a scholar, and your quill will not save you.”

“Then my mind must,” Eleanor snapped back.

“You are walking into something I cannot save you from.”

Eleanor stiffened. “When have you really saved me from what would hurt me most? Are you not part of the threat against my people? I can’t trust myself to your motives now or to your character, no matter how honorable.” Eleanor softened her tone. “I will decide my own fate, be it life or death.”

“Those are fair words,” Basaal stated, his eyes stripped of all confidence despite the businesslike expression he forced onto his face. “How much time do we have?”

“Three quarters of an hour,” Ammar answered, looking towards Eleanor. “What, then, is your plan?”

Eleanor began pacing the room, thinking, the soft white fabric of her dress moving about her feet.

“The emperor seems to value independence that he can still control,” Eleanor said, pressing her fingers together. Basaal began to pace at the opposite end of the room, watching the floor as she spoke. “The question seems to be,” she added, “how to use this against him, as Basaal did just now.”

Ammar waited.

Eleanor looked towards Basaal, a new thought occurring to her. “Does he remain faithful to your Imirillian religion?”

“I’ve no real answer for you,” Basaal said. “Ceremoniously, yes, but his level of inner devotion isn’t clear.”

“He did study the Seven Scrolls in his youth,” Ammar offered.

“Well,” Eleanor said. She paused near the table and rubbed her fingertips against the wood grain to think. “What in the Seven Scrolls can we use against him?”

“I don’t follow your thought,” Ammar replied.

“It was how she delayed our invasion,” Basaal said from the other side of the room. “Eleanor analyzed a key passage from Imirillian philosophy and realized that she could bring down the mountain to defeat us.”

Ammar laughed.

Eleanor looked towards Basaal. “And what about Thistle Black’s face,” she suggested, “when I rode into Black Mountain fen?”

“Yes,” Basaal said. “That direction could work.” Basaal walked to the table and leaned against it, looking across at Eleanor. “Although, you’re dealing with two men made of entirely different metals.”

“What?” Ammar asked.

“My entrance needs to be a show of power,” Eleanor answered Ammar while still looking at Basaal. “It will be what he expects least,” she explained. “In his mind, I am the young queen, sick with fever, weak. So I need to surprise him. Power is intrigued by power,” she added, “in your Imirillian way of thinking.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Basaal questioned.

An image flickered crossed Eleanor’s mind before bursting into full picture. “I am going to ride Hegleh into the throne room,” she said, “dressed in all white, bangled in whatever gold and silver you can find, just as I rode out before your army.”

“Do you mean to imitate the messenger angel?” Ammar questioned. “Seraagh?”

“Yes,” Eleanor answered, her own pulse rising.

“Everyone in the throne room will know what it means,” Ammar said, “including the emperor.”

“It could provoke Father terribly,” Basaal said.

“He’s already provoked,” Eleanor replied. “You took care of that.”

“Even if your entrance is brilliant,” Basaal countered. “What then?”

Eleanor gave Basaal a look of stiff determination. “Some counter-bargain interesting enough for him to take,” she said. “I have to trust that I can think fast enough to come out with my life.”

Basaal drummed his fingers against the table, but he didn’t speak, his face still looking pale, whether from blood loss or worry, Eleanor didn’t know.

“Our time is short,” Ammar said. He snapped his fingers and walked towards the doors. “Basaal, send word to the stables to prepare Hegleh.” Then he opened the door and gave quiet instructions to Tameez, who went running. Ammar turned back towards Eleanor. “Let’s turn you into the messenger angel.”

***

When Basaal returned to the throne room, he wore an annoyed expression. It was the only self-defense that he had for the fear and anger inside of him. His father was speaking with a group of generals, standing with them behind the throne, smiling as if he were showing the audience not only that he knew full well Basaal would pull that stunt but also that he had approved it.

A servant handed Basaal a drink, which he accepted despite having already had too many. As he began snaking his way through the crowd, people parted as he passed. Even those he considered friends knew better than to speak with him. He was sure his anger was palpable.

“That was bold,” Arsaalan said as he appeared, pulling Basaal towards an empty corner, where they could not be overheard by the many spectators and admirers. “I was half expecting you to not make it out alive after that stunt you pulled with Father.”

Basaal looked at his brother before taking a long drink. “I’m not sure it was simply a stunt.”

“Careful,” Arsaalan warned. “Father is doing his best to convince everybody else it was. Don’t let your own anger lure you into a trap.”

It is almost too late for that, Basaal wanted to respond, but he remained silent.

“Who do you suppose will fight the Aemogen queen?” the usually quiet Arsaalan asked. “Perhaps Kiarash? You don’t think he would actually kill her, do you?” he continued. “For her sake, it would be quick, and for your sake, Aemogen would then sit easy in your hands, uncontested. But it seems quite barbaric, even for Father.”

Basaal could barely speak the words, but a quiet warning hissed from his throat.

Arsaalan fell quiet, and then a trumpet sounded. Basaal saw that the emperor had returned to the throne and that the spectators were moving back to their places. A look of understanding crossed Arsaalan’s face, and he glanced away, noticeably uncomfortable.

“Forgive me, Basaal,” he whispered. “I did not realize you had feelings for her, or I would never have said such a thing—”

“Hold me together,” Basaal said, interrupting his brother with this quiet plea as he watched their father. “I cannot keep myself as I did in Aramesh, I can feel it.”

An image kept coming before his eyes of Eleanor falling dead on the white marble, her blood swelling into a puddle. He couldn’t shut it out. He was reliving the nightmare of Emaad’s death. Arsaalan gave Basaal a nod, took his cup from him, and handed it to a servant. They moved towards the front of the crowd, where Shaamil caught sight of them.

“Here is our victor now,” the emperor said. Shaamil’s dark eyes challenged Basaal. “Is your queen ready for her challenge?”

As if on cue, a sound came from the vast corridor outside the throne room; the echo of a light clip, bouncing off the walls, getting louder and louder until it was as if a continual drum of clear thunder came clattering towards them. Basaal watched as the tall brass doors opened and in rode Seraagh, the messenger angel of the Illuminating God.

A ripple sounded through the crowd as Eleanor, atop the stately Hegleh, rode directly into the empty circle before the emperor’s throne, her eyes piercing, her lips stilled in graceful pause, Eleanor circled the room, staring down the audience as she passed.

Basaal was almost as stunned by her transformation as the spectators were at her sudden appearance. She was draped in a beautiful gown of white, a tie of silver fabric about her waist, with silver and gold bracelets about her arms, bangles around her ankles, and a long golden chain around her neck, hosting a pendant with the emblem of the sun. Her hair hung loose as if it were aflame, adorned with ribbons of gold, catching the light. Basaal realized that sitting on the tall horse had brought Eleanor to an even height with the emperor’s throne.

“So, this is the Queen of Aemogen?” Shaamil asked. He raised his eyebrows, but he did not smile.

“And this is the Emperor of Imirillia,” Eleanor replied in flawless Imirillian.

“I have called you here to face a challenge for your life,” the emperor said. “Yet, I see that you have no weapon.”

Eleanor’s response came quickly. “And I have come to answer the challenge,” she said. “But, neither do you have a weapon, Your Grace.” She sat straight on Hegleh, turning the horse’s head towards the left as she gazed directly at Shaamil.

Basaal watched the interaction with his arms folded, his right hand around his injury, the corners of his mouth turned down, waiting for his father to speak. Shaamil had never fought in a challenge, but something in the way he worked his jaw and watched Eleanor, caused Basaal to wonder if the emperor was considering it.