The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (19 page)

“Shh, dear, there you are,” a matronly woman clucked and brushed the hair away from Eleanor’s face. “I am relieved to see you awake,” she said. “Ammar will be, also.”

“I am,” Eleanor heard someone say, and Ammar came into Eleanor’s room. “The guards must have thought you were a nuisance, for they delivered you unconscious,” he explained. “But Tameez saw to your care.” Ammar nodded towards the woman. “This is Hannia,” he said. “I asked her to come. She once served as Basaal’s nursemaid and now runs his house.”

“I keep the boy in line,” she said as she smiled.

At this mention of Basaal, the scene from the throne room flooded Eleanor’s mind.

“How is he?” she asked, a half moon of tears rimming her eyes.

“I’ve given him something,” Ammar said patiently. “He is sleeping.”

“No, no, little Seraagh,” Hannia said, wiping a tear from Eleanor’s cheek. “Do not be sad.” She gathered Eleanor up into her arms in a way no one had since Eleanor was a young child, and it felt so heartbreakingly wonderful that Eleanor let her, turning her face into the woman’s ample frame.

“Shh, shh, little Seraagh,” Hannia continued. “You have saved your life in such a brave way. All will be well. Shh, shh.”

Eleanor felt Hannia wave Ammar from the room and then continue to hold her, rocking back and forth, until long after the sun went down.

***

When Eleanor woke again, the outline of her windows framed the ink black sky, still hours away from dawn. Eleanor knew that she was also hours away from more sleep. The tight skin around her eyes reminded her of what had plagued the borders of every dream, that Basaal had lost his gamble and that the emperor had effectually cut Basaal off from Eleanor.

Sitting up, she pulled her knees under her chin, replaying the challenge through her mind—every word, every gesture—until the point when they had taken Basaal away. She wondered where he was now. This question took Eleanor’s mind back to the rainy days in Ainsley Castle after the attack on Common Field, when wondering about his fate had been a painful experience for her.

If only she’d kept herself pulled away, unwilling to understand, unwilling to sympathize with his difficulties. If only she’d prevented her emotions from leaning towards him. But she hadn’t, and the memory of his kiss still burned beneath her skin. Eleanor rested her forehead on her knees. She felt farther away from herself than she ever had before. And it was hard to conjure any image of Aemogen with the breeze from this desert place whispering along the lines of her arms.

Then a noise, some sound in the dark, came from the outside rooms, and Eleanor watched as a light moved, like a small echo, down the corridor towards her. As it drew closer, rising and falling in step with whoever approached, the silhouette of a figure appeared outside her curtains and paused, moving the curtains aside with its free hand to look in. It was Ammar.

“What are you doing awake at this hour?” he asked. The insouciant glow from his lamp was a contrast to the strained angles of his face.

“Thinking,” Eleanor replied. “And you?”

Ammar entered, settling into the comfortable chair that he always claimed when visiting Eleanor’s room. “I was looking in on Basaal.”

Burrowing her chin in against her knees, Eleanor waited for him to continue.

“His arm is in a bad way, but I dare not wake him. I will attend to the damage come morning.”

“And you can’t bring him here?” she asked.

“No,” Ammar said as he ran a finger along the edge of his eye. “You are a woman who will enter into an official betrothal to another man,” he explained. “So I cannot bring him here.”

Eleanor stared at him but did not speak.

“Do you dream of your home?” Ammar asked unexpectedly. “When you sleep?”

Eleanor shivered. “I see the faces of those that I love. I dream of Ainsley, but it isn’t Ainsley—how could I describe it to you?—I know that it’s Ainsley, although it looks different,” she explained. “But the cliffs—the cliffs are the same. And the ruins—I dream of the ruins that once formed the fortress of Anoir.”

Ammar played with the tassel on the pillow he leaned against. “I am sorry for you—that so much has been taken from you—a surprise, even to myself, for I never invest feeling in matters of politics anymore.”

“Why, then, do you now?”

“Let me just say,” Ammar said as he stood and lifted the lamp into his hand, “that the emperor has made it
personal
.” He paused. “I wish my foolish brother was not so bound to the covenants of his Safeeraah,” Ammar said, surprising Eleanor, for it was with great force. “I wish he did not feel that honor was his only path, that honoring his father and his country were as vital as honoring his god. It would make things easier for him. He could make different choices. He could have salvaged his life—and yours.”

Eleanor pulled her eyebrows together. “It is his strict adherence to the Safeeraah that makes him the man that he is.”

“But it cannot save you,” Ammar said. Eleanor opened her mouth to speak, but Ammar continued. “Will he regret his strict adherence, I wonder? Will honor be enough?”

As the physician left the room, his words echoed in Eleanor’s mind.
But it cannot save you.
Eleanor caught her own breath and stood up, pacing in the darkness.

Of course. It was so clear. Why had she not remembered? His Safeeraah
could
save her—possibly. It was a chance, at least, a wild, desperate sliver of possibility. And, though the emperor’s retribution could be terrible, what more could he do than claim her life?

Eleanor folded her arms and walked to the window, her eyes wide open in the darkness.

***

On the edge of consciousness, Basaal opened his eyes with the feeling he was falling from a dark dream. It was quiet save for the sound of a chattering bird outside the window, and the sky was pink and gray—the sun yet to break over Zarbadast. It took a long moment for Basaal to realize where he was, and then, the events of the preceding day came crashing into his mind, like a wave on the south sea cliffs.

“Oh!” Basaal said. He pulled his face together at the memory and turned, remembering his injuries too late. Severe pain reverberated throughout his entire body. Every bruise and scrape, every strained muscle from the day before screamed, let alone the pulsing agony of his useless arm. But now, having woken the pain, no position would quiet its noise.

It hurt almost as bad as the pain around his heart.

Basaal pulled himself up towards the window, groaning as he eased to the edge of the bed. The state of his head fared no better than the rest of his body, for it pounded and sharp pains slid, crossing behind his eyes. Lifting his right hand to his face, Basaal realized that he was still in his dirty clothing. He even still wore his jacket, the blood-soaked sleeve now dried and stiff.

“Would you like something for the pain?” a voice behind him said.

“Go away,” Basaal said.

“We have to talk, Basaal,” Arsaalan answered.

“I have nothing to say to you.” Basaal set himself on his feet, forcing his bones to hold himself together when no other part of his body wanted to do so.

“Shall we talk about my impending nuptials, then,” Arsaalan said. “Or would you rather we discuss, in detail, the wedding night?”

“You bastard!” Basaal yelled as he spun around to face Arsaalan.

“I thought you would have something to say,” Arsaalan replied. Arsaalan didn’t look as if he had slept at all the entire night. His clothing was rumpled, his eyes, heavy and purpled. In truth, he looked as miserable as Basaal felt.

“I did not ask for this,” Arsaalan said. “And I do not want this.”

Basaal waived him off, pacing, determined to walk off the stiffness in his body.

“You know that Father is trying to aggravate our relationship,” Arsaalan pressed.

“Well, he’s succeeding.”

“It could be worse,” Arsaalan said. “He could have given her to Kiarash.”

Arsaalan’s words tasted like bile in Basaal’s mouth. “Why are you here?” Basaal demanded. “Is it to make me feel better?”

“It’s to ask that we not be divided by this,” Arsaalan said. “I have no desire—”

“When is the betrothal to be announced?” Basaal interrupted, brushing him off.

“Tonight. All the royal house must attend,” Arsaalan explained, “by order of the emperor.”

Basaal scowled. “If you think I am going to sit there while you become engaged to my—to Eleanor, then you’re fooling yourself.”

“It’s a direct command,” Arsaalan said. “You can’t disobey without losing your head.”

“That sounds a relief,” Basaal snorted as he walked towards the door and away from Arsaalan. “I’m beginning to think,” he added, “that the only person with any sort of peace is Emaad.”

***

“Come,” Hannia insisted, waiting with her hand on her hip. “You must dress
now
for the banquet.”

“I told you I will not wear the colors of Arsaalan,” Eleanor responded without looking up from the Fourth Scroll.

“You are to be dressed in the colors of your betrothed,” Hannia said. “You must wear the orange and gold of Arsaalan’s house.”

“What are Basaal’s colors?” Eleanor asked, focused on her own thoughts.

“You cannot wear the colors of Basaal’s house!” Hannia said as she threw her hands up in the air. “We have been arguing this point for a quarter of an hour.”

“Only tell me what they are,” Eleanor persisted.

“Black and red.”

“Then that is what I will wear,” Eleanor replied.

“No!” Hannia said and shook her head. “It would be the highest disrespect,” she explained. “If you walk into that ceremony, paying respect to another prince, you will—I can’t imagine.” The woman put her fingers against her forehead. “What a sweet, aggravating thing you are. But I am preparing you to gain a husband, not lose your head.”

It was amidst these words that Ammar returned to the physician’s suite.

“Who is losing a head?” he asked. He did not look at either of them as he waited for an answer, placing his physician’s bag where he kept his powders and supplies.

“She thinks she will attend the banquet wearing the colors of Basaal’s house,” Hannia explained.

Ammar stopped what he was doing and turned as Hannia muttered nervously at the floor.

“Are you trying to provoke Shaamil into killing you?” Ammar asked Eleanor.

“I believe that I have a claim,” she said, “that will challenge the emperor’s decree.”

“A claim?”

“Here,” Eleanor said, pointing to the scroll before her.

Ammar stepped to her side and read the marks that Eleanor had indicated. She watched his face as he read, his eyes narrowing. When he finished, he read through the marks again.

“And you did this?” he asked.

“I did,” Eleanor answered.

Ammar seemed incredulous. He looked at the scroll then back at Eleanor twice before pulling his mouth to the side. “I do not wish to deny your opportunity for marriage with Basaal,” he said. “But, I’ll not aid you in sending yourself to your death.”

“And you do not wish me to make such a statement while in your care,” Eleanor added. “For you value your own neck too much.”

“But of course,” Ammar replied sardonically, trying to downplay the seriousness of what Eleanor was suggesting she should do. “It is the most expensive thing that I own.”

“Is it?” Eleanor countered. “I thought that in Imirillia, honor came at the highest price?”

“What has made you so bold,” Ammar deflected, flicking a finger in Eleanor’s direction as though she were a fly. “Have you been spitting fire all morning long?” he added with an unintended smile.

“Ammar,” Eleanor said. “Would you truly counsel me not to try?”

He did not answer, rather he returned to his things and began to measure out powders. Both Hannia and Eleanor waited for any indication of Ammar’s true thoughts, but he seemed as impassive as ever.

So Eleanor tried a different tack. “Have you been to see him?” she asked.

“I have. I’ve spent the better part of two hours trying to rectify the damage he did to his arm.”

“Is he going to be alright?”

Ammar set down the powder he was mixing and considered Eleanor. “If I help you, it would only be for his sake,” he said.

“Call down the seven stars,” Hannia said, shaking her head. “She’ll bring condemnation on us all. First, from the Illuminating God, and then, from the emperor, which is worse by far.”

Eleanor ignored the maid, unwilling to break eye contact with Ammar.

“Hannia,” Ammar said. “Go and procure clothing for Eleanor. We must dress her in the black and red of Basaal’s house.”

“If the Illuminating God is merciful,” Hannia said, “why has he put this before me?” She shook her head and, with a disapproving but sympathetic look at Eleanor, left the physician’s suite.

“You very well might hang for this,” Ammar said after a lengthy silence.

“Yes,” Eleanor said. “But how could I live, knowing that I’d had a chance and had not taken it?”