The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (5 page)

Eleanor tried to appear unaffected by keeping her voice even and steady. “Had Emperor Shaamil been amicable to the idea, surely that option would have been explored earlier.”

King Staven shrugged. “Do you trust my nephew’s motives to be for your best interest?”

“Should I trust your motives to be for my best interest?” Eleanor countered. “If I were to accept your offer, how would you ensure that we wouldn’t be invaded by the Imirillians?”

“I would obtain the word of Shaamil and a declaration to prove it,” he answered. “Also, Marion has had a long-standing alliance with Imirillia, one that your late father shunned. Shaamil would get what he wants with less of a mess. And we would rule our countries without threat from any other power on the Continent as a result of our connection to Zarbadast.”

“And, if I refuse the marriage and the annexation?” she asked.

“Word will be spread far and wide,” he said, “about how the Aemogen queen forfeited her country into the hands of an unknown power, when she could have joined with Marion, for the selfish reason of wanting to marry the young prince.”

Before Eleanor could answer, the door opened, and Basaal entered. “Staven,” he said, his displeasure at seeing his uncle evident with the icy way he had spoken his name.

“Young Prince,” Staven said, adjusting himself in his chair. “I have provided company for your fair companion whilst you were pursuing your own pleasures elsewhere.”

Basaal laughed. “I’m sure you have.”

The king stood. “You must be tired from your long holiday in Aemogen,” he said. “It takes energy and strength to not accomplish anything of significance for so long. I trust that you will be staying at Marion Palace for a time to recover?”

Basaal’s mouth formed a thin line. “We are indeed tired from our travels,” he said. “Will you please send dinner for my men, Queen Eleanor, and myself? I am afraid we are too fatigued to join your evening entertainments.”

This request was one made to a messenger boy, not a king. But Staven chose to ignore Basaal’s insolence and turned to Eleanor. “Please consider my invitation,” he said. “I’ll await your answer in the morning.” The king ignored Basaal and exited the room.

The prince sat down across from Eleanor. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “I missed the proposal of marriage? Did he get down on a knee and whisper poetry in your ear?” Clearly, Basaal considered his uncle a joke.

“Is he right to say there is a possibility of sparing Aemogen further trouble with Imirillia if we annexed with Marion?” she asked.

Startled, Basaal stared, and his smile froze in place. “You don’t mean that you would ever consider marrying a man like Staven?”

“Is it a possibility?” Eleanor pressed, her blood racing.

“The emperor would agree to nothing of the kind,” Basaal replied, still looking at Eleanor, seeming stunned. “You would never consider a man like that, would you? An immoral, power thirsty—”

“You were right to say that we were fatigued,” Eleanor said, standing in haste. “I am quite tired. Please excuse me.” Eleanor left Basaal sitting alone, and withdrew to her chamber, throwing the windows open, looking out into the darkening evening. In truth, Eleanor did not think Emperor Shaamil would consent to such an alternative, but part of her did wonder
if
he would. And, if her marriage to the old king could be a saving act for her people—

Eleanor sat on the bed, picturing herself at her council table with Gaulter Alden, Aedon, Crispin, and Edythe. She imagined explaining her situation. In her mind, they listened intently but said nothing.

Then Eleanor remembered the nights of the battle run, when she had counseled with Wil, with Prince Basaal. His words had been faithful and honest despite his deception. Eleanor pushed him from her mind and considered if there was any hope to be found in an alliance with King Staven.

***

Basaal stayed up late into the night. The lights had all been put out, and Annan and the rest of Basaal’s immediate guard had settled in the antechamber. Eleanor’s door had remained closed all evening, but he did not believe she was asleep.

The windows were flung wide open, letting in the cool air, which came down the distant mountains of Aemogen and pooled in the Marion valley. The season was turning, and the air was crisp in Basaal’s lungs. He stood before one of the open windows, arms outstretched, palms against the cold stone, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His mother had spoken often of the beauty of Marion City: the palace, the music, and the court. She had cared for her family. Basaal let out a breath and laughed aloud to himself. His uncles and Aunt Anne had been hesitant to receive him during the only time he had visited his Marion relations a handful of years ago. Their children, who were close to Basaal’s age, had looked at him in wonder and fear. He’d received no warm welcome, tepid at best. Yet, Staven had suggested a marriage with one of his Marion cousins. Basaal cringed at the thought.

Remembering how Eleanor had questioned his ability to make demands of hospitality on King Staven, Basaal glanced back at his suite. This apartment had been his mother’s, left empty, at first, in anticipation of her returning for visits, then later, as an inheritance for Basaal. It was a Marion custom, but he’d had no desire to explain this to Eleanor. The soft colored tapestries of blue and pink complemented the beautifully carved furniture, painted in soft creams. The fabrics were rich, carpets adorned the floors, and paintings hung on the walls. Ainsley Castle seemed two hundred years in the past, compared to the artisanship of the Marions.

Ainsley. Basaal turned away from the open window and sat down on the sill, facing the now dark room. King Staven had made an offer of marriage and annexation to Eleanor, assuming that Emperor Shaamil would sanction this course of action. Basaal believed that his father of ten—maybe even five—years ago would have considered that agreement. But, he had no reason to believe that the emperor would approve this negotiation now.

Once Shaamil heard about the pass, his hunger to swallow Aemogen would drive him forward. So Eleanor’s alliance with Staven was not an option that Zarbadast would grant. Basaal grimaced. Even if the emperor would endorse this plan, King Staven was not a good man. He would strip Aemogen with as greedy of an eye as the emperor’s. The thought of watching Eleanor align herself with such a foul man was horrifying to Basaal.

It was not until the sky was dressed in purple and hinting at a new day that Basaal settled himself on the sofa and slept. His dreams were filled with the faces of those he had known in Aemogen, but then each face would turn into his brother Emaad’s and would stare up at Basaal from his grave. A rush of noise caused Basaal to sit up, grasping at the ornately carved wood along the back of the sofa. He had been woken by the sound of his own screaming.

The morning was light, and sunlight spilled over the carpet. Eleanor sat quietly in a chair, watching him, her eyes solemn and silent, worry marking her face.

Basaal fought to regain his breath. Irritated at himself for sleeping so soundly, Basaal leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. His forehead was cold and wet with sweat, and his fingers were trembling. He said nothing to Eleanor as he went into the antechamber. There, Annan and Basaal’s guard were waiting at attention.

“Annan, will you see that breakfast is brought up for the queen and the rest of the guard?” he said. “I’m taking myself to the bathhouse. Send a fresh set of clothing down to me.”

Basaal descended several staircases, until he found himself in an orderly garden with a small bathhouse, reserved for select members of the royal family. He entered, pleased to find it unoccupied, and undressed himself before slipping into the cool water.

He let himself sink into the liquid, moving his hands across his face, before he finally rose to the surface, his lungs burning in the autumn morning. Basal shook the water from his hair, trying to think of anything but his dreams.

He had not yet prayed.

Soon, one of his own men came with a change of clothing and a robe, removing Basaal’s used attire, and withdrawing without speaking. For this, Basaal was grateful. He slid under the water again and swam across the pool several times before pulling up to the wall and stretching his arms along the rim. Basaal’s pulse was racing in the cold air of the morning.

“Come to make yourself clean, have you?”

Basaal looked towards the door. An old man stood there, with a robe over his arm and a slight smile on his face. Basaal did not answer, but rather studied the man’s features. They touched him as familiar, yet he recalled no previous interaction, only that he’d seen him in the Marion throne room the day before.

“You are a member of King Staven’s court,” Basaal finally responded.

“Yes,” the old man said as he walked around the small pool opposite the prince. He laid his robe on a bench and quickly stripped off his clothes. He was old, his hair gray, his skin having given way to soft folds and protruding veins. He smiled at Basaal and dipped his toe into the bath.

“It’s a touch cold for an outside bath, but here you come, and so must I.” The man eased himself into the water with a hesitant expression, looking pained yet satisfied once he had settled all the way into the pool. “Now, rumor has it that Staven is trying to woo our Eleanor,” he said.

Our
Eleanor? Basaal eyed the man but did not respond.

“We can speak quite freely,” the gentleman said, a glint in his eye. “I’ve a faithful servant keeping watch, who will signal if anyone comes close.”

It struck Basaal that the old man was enjoying his bit of intrigue, and he laughed. “I’m afraid, sir,” Basaal said, “I do not speak ‘quite freely’ with people I know, let alone with a total stranger.”

The older man opened his mouth, not to speak but to run the tip of his tongue across his lower lip, as if thinking. “I’m afraid you must,” he said after a moment had passed. “I believe that you met my younger brother while in Aemogen, Thayne of Allarstam. He has settled Old Ainsley Fen, charming place, from what I hear. Ghosts and whatnot,” he added. “Never been for a visit.”

The old courtier shrugged dismissively. “What Thayne could have told you,” he continued, “if he had known who you were, was that we are cousins to your mother’s family.” The old man wrinkled his nose. “I can’t see how Thayne missed it. You have so much of Edith in your face I almost can’t believe you are real. You were given a name after him, a second name: Wiliam. Thayne carried it first, and Edith named you for him.”

Basaal did not show the emotions he felt at this revelation. He kept his face steady. “Say what you have come to say, and I will decide if I may trust you or not.”

“Bosh,” the old man replied. “You’re as guarded as they say. I’m not arguing that there isn’t good reason, seeing as how you are Shaamil’s son and all.” The hair on the back of Basaal’s neck pricked. “Edith was a sweet soul, my stars, she was. She wrote several letters about you, by and by. I brought one with me,” he added. “Nothing like good reading in the bath to start your day, right? It’s in the pocket of my coat. I might be willing to give it to you if you can speak openly with an old man.”

“I don’t understand what you want to hear,” Basaal said.

“Has Staven offered for Eleanor?” the old man said directly. The drop in his voice indicated he was through with making acquaintance.

“Yes,” Basaal said.

“Do you know the terms or the understanding of it?”

“Yes,” Basaal responded. “He thinks he can negotiate with Emperor Shaamil, that if he and Eleanor marry, annexing the two countries, they will open trade and pay a tax to Imirillia, retaining sovereignty of Aemogen—and Marion.”

“But, you do not think Shaamil will go for the idea,” the old man said. “I can see it in your face.”

“Staven is a fool,” Basaal said, then he splashed water over his face. “Shaamil would have, perhaps, considered the proposal years ago, before—” Basaal left off his thought and shrugged. “Once he hears that they brought down the mountain, it will become personal,” he explained. “He will want to make his own statement by clearing the pass, at any cost, and subjugating the population.”

The courtier considered what Basaal had said before responding. “Now Aedon is trusting you,” he said, “to get Eleanor home.”

“How do you know that?” Basaal asked.

“We’ve our own eyes and ears between Marion and Aemogen,” the old man said, pointing to his own. “And, we both know there is a way through the mountain. I’ve had letters these last few days from Thayne,” he explained. “You promised that you would see Eleanor safely home if she were in your care. You swore it on the deaths of Common Field.”

Basaal bristled at having his private pledge spoken to his face by this stranger. “I did,” he finally admitted.

“Then, let me help you.”

Basaal ran his fingers through his wet hair. “I can’t,” he said. The prince lifted himself out of the water and walked towards the bench, where his things waited. He covered himself with the robe then sat, brushing the water away from his face and leaning against the wall.

“You still don’t trust me.” The old man moved his arms through the water, as if remembering he was cold.

“No, I don’t.” Basaal shrugged. “Trust is a process, not a moment.”

“I say it’s a decision.”

“Whatever it is,” Basaal said, impatient, “I don’t trust you. But, that is not why I can’t send Eleanor with you.”