The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (7 page)

“And do you have a profession?” he asked.

“I work with a carpenter.”

Basaal grimaced. “You know the penalty for stealing in the Imirillian Empire, surely.”

A whimper was the only response Basaal received. Silence surrounded him as all in the courtyard stood, watching. He thought of a thousand merciful answers that he could give, but then a flash of purple moved against the far wall. Basaal did not look at the Vestan’s face, but he knew his actions would be reported to the emperor.

“Which is your lead hand?” Basaal asked quietly, and the man moved his right hand. “There is nothing I can do for you,” he said more loudly. “You know the law.” The prince turned towards Taiz. “Take his left hand, and see him away. Give him the fruit,” he added. “He’ll have paid for it.”

Basaal walked away as the carpenter began to scream.

***

Eleanor could hear screaming beyond the window of her room. It seemed to be a desperate cry of pain, turning short and repetitive until it grew distant, as if someone had pushed the pain past a door.

The sound was interrupted by the stomp of footsteps on the tiled floor of the common room. Eleanor knew it was Basaal, for she could hear him cursing. Something crashed against a wall, the pieces sounding like discordant bells as they fell to the tiles. Then there was no sound. Eleanor’s door was ajar, so she slipped over in her bare feet and peered out.

Basaal knelt prostrate on the ground, his head cradled in the crook of his arm on the floor, his other arm brought up, covering his neck, as if he would hide. He was speaking the same words over and over, but Eleanor couldn’t understand them. It was a pitiable lamentation.

Eleanor pressed her cheek against the door, watching Basaal’s prayer, feeling it mirroring her own emotions—raw, rubbed too many times. What had happened? Did it have anything to do with the screaming in the courtyard?

Sinking to the floor, Eleanor leaned her head back against the wall, listening to Basaal’s unintelligible words as if they could somehow soothe her, and she wished she could be gone from this place. After a time, he was silent. Looking back through the sliver between the door and wall, Eleanor could see that Basaal was now kneeling up, his eyes towards the window, his hand absentmindedly running along his bare forearm, where his Safeeraah should be.

“If you still wish, I will help you seal your Safeeraah.” Eleanor heard these words cross her lips before she had even decided to speak them.

Basaal turned his head towards her. His face was unreadable and his eyes, as heavy as stones, wandered slowly about what little he could see of her face before he answered. “It is a very personal thing. Probably, I shouldn’t have asked you. Are you—are you certain?”

Eleanor nodded, feeling her cheek rub against the cold face of the stonewall. “Only tell me what I must do.”

“I will need some time to prepare.” Basaal stood and took himself through the door opposite Eleanor’s.

When he emerged after what, Eleanor guessed, was almost an hour later, she pulled herself up and opened wide the door to her chamber. He entered, the same small bag in his hand, handing it to Eleanor without looking at her with his red-rimmed eyes.

“What do you need me to do?” she asked.

“You kneel—” he began. “No, I—I should kneel before you.” Basaal said these words deliberately but kept them close to himself somehow, like he didn’t want Eleanor to look at them too long.

She stepped back and sat on a small bench at the foot of the bed, and he knelt before her on the bright tiles, close enough she could have lifted her hand to his face. He removed his stiff jacket and set it aside, rolling up the sleeves of the black shirt he wore, revealing his bare forearms and the mark of his house in his skin the color of old blood.

Curious to examine the intricacies of the mark now that she understood what it represented, Eleanor reached her fingers out towards it, brushing the pattern with her fingertips. Basaal turned his head away, and Eleanor, not understanding what his reaction might mean, pulled back embarrassed.

Tugging at the corner of his mouth, he then looked at Eleanor with an edge of a miserable humility. He nodded toward the bag, and she opened it, removing each piece and setting them beside her. Then she waited, moving her fingertips nervously against the fabric of the cushion, unsettled that she didn’t mind him being so close to her again.

Basaal lifted a thick, black leather band with silver clasps. “You take each Safeeraah, one at a time, in both hands. Touch it to your brow, then to your lips, and, at last, place it over your heart. It is then secured in place.” He ran through the motions so that Eleanor could see the process.

“Were they new Safeeraah,” he explained, “you would speak the associative oath, and I would repeat it. Because I have already committed to their covenants, I repeat the oaths aloud to you as a recommitment to them. You become the witness that I have done so, and,” he said gravely, “you must repeat them to no man or woman.”

Nodding, Eleanor took the black and silver band from Basaal, and the prince held out his left arm, pointing just below the mark of his house. She raised the band to her forehead, then to her lips, and then to her heart before securing it in place as he had instructed. The clasps were difficult and strong, which was no wonder to Eleanor if they were intended to last a lifetime. She used all the strength in her fingers to close them tight against his skin.

Once the band was secure, the prince held his arm before his face, closed his eyes, and spoke his oath: “
Honor in battle, strength in heart; what lies ahead is the only reality, may it be triumphant
.”

His eyes opened. “Gifted to me by my older brothers when I commissioned my own army.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

Eleanor blinked. He had been so young. Although, she had yet been younger, when taking the throne, it felt different to her somehow. Turning back to the Safeeraah on the bench, Eleanor selected a bright red woven band, and Basaal pointed below the black Safeeraah now placed on his wrist.

Again following the motions of the ritual, Eleanor tied the red band securely in place, and he repeated his next oath: “
Life unto death, as one soul, fealty forever.”

Eleanor had never wondered if there was someone in Zarbadast, waiting for his return. The expression on her face must have betrayed her surprise, because a quiet smile broke through his face as Basaal answered, “Annan. Friend, not lover.”

Eleanor moved her eyes away from his. A silver band with fine Imirillian inscriptions was next, and he held up his right wrist so Eleanor could clip it into place.

Basaal then breathed in deep. “
Those who are gone before gaze upon those who come after; I hold my place in reverence, steadfast as the immovable one,
” he vowed.

A beautiful, delicate-looking piece then caught Eleanor’s attention. She picked up a thin gold chain, set with square cut diamonds on a diagonal. It glistened between her fingers, and she thought it, perhaps, the finest bracelet she had ever seen.

Basaal closed his eyes, not watching Eleanor until she had secured it on his right wrist below the silver band.

“
I promise you this
,” Basaal said slowly, “
that the same stars grace every land
.” Eleanor watched him speak these words, their significance evident.

“My mother,” was all he said.

Eleanor looked again at the bracelet, thinking of the words Basaal had spoken, wondering what Edith would have thought of her son. Eleanor wanted to ask what the oath meant, but, instead, she picked up the final Safeeraah: a brass band, stamped, painted with rich colors. The prince pointed to a place high on his right forearm. Eleanor performed the ritual and secured it in place.

The prince closed his eyes and brought his arm before his face. “
What has been given man save the Illuminating God declared it so? Obedience to his word, therefore, and honor
.”

Eleanor had no more Safeeraah, but Basaal kept his right arm before his face and touched the knotted black piece of leather he had worn while in Aemogen. “
Though I wander, I am the deep well; I seek transcendence by honor, as the seven stars.”

When he finished, Basaal kept his head bent in reverence, breathing slowly in and out. Feeling the need to close the ceremony, to seal it somehow, Eleanor reached her hand to his cheek and lifted his face towards hers.

She moved to speak but couldn’t think of the words to say.

He covered her hand with his own, his fingertips pressing into her palm. “Thank you, Eleanor. I—” he began, but he paused and studied the bands on his left arm. “Thank you.”

When Basaal looked up at Eleanor’s face, he was fighting back a sad smile, as if seeking refuge, as if asking for strength. Eleanor moved her thumb slightly across his cheek.

“We are friends, are we not?” Basaal asked, weight behind these familiar words.

“Are we?” she said, in turn.

“Are we?” he asked, and his inquiry seemed earnest.

Eleanor’s lips turned upward ever so slightly, and she nodded her head. “Yes. Despite it all.”

Chapter Five

Their journey to the North continued, more arduous than before, stopping late in the evenings and beginning again each morning before the sun rose in the sky. Three days out from Alliet, they came to the edge of the Aronee desert and its waves of purple and black sand. For Eleanor, it was a sight of wonder, very much like the southern sea before a wild storm. She wanted to tell this to Basaal, but he was back at the head of the company, distant, occupied.

The wind in the Aronee was steady, lifting the purple grains off their dunes and flinging them about in unexpected patterns. Eleanor could feel the sand form a light layer covering her skin below the white robes and headscarves the Alliet maidservant had procured for her. No imaginary landscape could have been more fantastic and surreal than this dry, raging sea.

“You appear as the moon,” Annan told her at dusk one week into the journey. “We fade into the darkness with our black, but your white robes shine against the coming night.”

“I am Seraagh, the messenger angel, remember? Cast into the sky during the life of the world for leaving my post,” Eleanor replied, shifting uncomfortably in her saddle.

To her surprise, Annan laughed. “Perhaps.”

Then Hegleh tossed her head, sending a spray of purple sand at her face, stinging Eleanor’s eyes. Eleanor and Hegleh were both taxed. Water was doled out in careful measures, but not stringently so, and the food was simple: dried fruits and meats and bread.

At night, the tents were set up, and, if the wind was calm, the men would sit around the fire for hours. Eleanor could hear their steady voices shifting conversation back and forth between them. Guards walked the perimeter the night long, their scimitars drawn. Basaal too was kept up late outside the tent. There was still no conversation between them, but Eleanor was aware that he needed to know she was there, and, somehow, she needed him as well.

One evening, as the sands blew across the dunes with more force than usual, Basaal called the company to stop early and to assemble camp. The desert would hold at least one more hour of light, but Eleanor was grateful for this early reprieve. She had not been in the tent long, wiping the dust from her face, when Basaal entered. He, as all his soldiers, had taken to wearing a wrap around his head and neck, so that only his eyes could be seen. Unwinding this black cloth, he brushed the sand away from his eyes.

“It’s a good night to rest early,” he said, settling down close beside Eleanor. “I’ve told Annan to see to our dinner.”

“You will not stay out with the men tonight?” Eleanor asked.

“No,” Basaal said as he shook his head. “If you will have my company, I’m tired and would pass the evening here.”

Despite its small size, Basaal’s tent always had comfortable cushions and a large rug laid out. Annan brought food and withdrew again in silence, then Basaal closed his eyes, and whispered a phrase twice before motioning to Eleanor that she should begin eating.

“Will you tell me of Imirillian prayer?” Eleanor asked, looking towards him, her shoulder touching his. “On some occasions, you repeat particular phrases, and yet, other times, you speak freely what I guess are your own words.”

Basaal finished chewing the bread in his mouth and swallowed before giving her an answer. “There are several forms of prayer,” he explained. “Some of which require strict repetition, like the prayer over a meal. But the principal basis of most prayer is what the devotee desires to say.”

He pressed his finger into the sand covered rug, as if considering. “All Imirillian prayer, in some form or another, is based on what we call the Seven Perfections of the Illuminating God,” Basaal said, his words articulate, yet soft. His dedication was evident in his bearing. “The Seven Perfections are the attributes that cover all the world and mankind, allowing the Illuminating God his place. We often refer to them as the seven stars, out of respect.”

“What are the seven attributes?” Eleanor asked.

Basaal leaned in closer to Eleanor, pressing back against her shoulder and bending his head close to hers. “Omniscience, Abundance, Endlessness, Uprightness, Might, Holiness, and Joy.”

Eleanor’s heart beat with the rhythm of his voice in her ear. She did not look up at his face, instead following the patterns of the rug beneath with her fingertips. But he stayed close, and when he brought his lips to hers, Eleanor closed her eyes for the sweetness of it.

***

The desert wind abated, but Basaal lay awake, counting the passage of the night with his own pulse. He lay on his back, his chest tight, wishing he could look towards Eleanor without wanting to go to her. When he had kissed her, she had accepted him. Basaal could still feel the softness of her neck beneath his hand.

They were two weeks outside Zarbadast, a thought both pleasing and terrifying. For bringing Eleanor home, showing her his beloved city, sharing the life he had there, was something Basaal had not realized he wanted. He was desperate for her to know his heart, and his heart was Zarbadast. But his father would be there, the Vestan would be whispering in Shaamil’s ears, and Basaal was returning with no victory to show for his time away. If the emperor suspected any great connection, any strong sentiment, between Basaal and the Aemogen queen, he would use Eleanor as leverage to punish Basaal for it.

The prince closed his eyes, wishing he could take back that burst of emotion, the pull her presence now held for him, the moment he had touched his lips to hers.

***

“Today, we finish with the Aronee,” Annan told Eleanor. “By nightfall, we will come to the Kotaah Hills before the final stage of our journey through the Zeaad desert. And then, Zarbadast.”

Eleanor nodded against the wind. She was again in the center of the column, unable to see Basaal through the sand. The wind swept with more aggression as they continued north, and Eleanor was finding it difficult to keep her eyes open. Hegleh, for the first time on the journey, felt nervous beneath Eleanor’s hands.

Basaal had told Eleanor that the Zeaad was an eight-day journey that he had made countless times. He had also told her that they would have to be careful once they arrived in Zarbadast and that he was worried about the Vestan who traveled with them. But he did not speak of the shift in their movements towards each other, which caused the lightning that jolted Eleanor’s heart each time he came close to her. Neither did he speak of the day when she would run from Zarbadast and he would remain there, a prince of the Imirillian Empire.

Eleanor was pulled from her thoughts as Hegleh shifted beneath her. Then she heard shouts, sounds of panic. When Eleanor turned into the wind, she saw what appeared to be a billowing cloud, tumbling towards them over the desert, the dark purple sands pulled into the storm as it thundered forward.

Shouts went up, and the pace of the company increased. The wind also mounted, making it increasingly difficult to see what was ahead. A rider broke away from the head of the column. It was Basaal. He rode down to where Annan and Eleanor were, turning his horse and riding alongside Annan. He yelled over the wind to his officer and then motioned for Annan to bring Eleanor outside the column. Basaal grabbed Hegleh’s reins with his hand, and they began to gallop towards the front of the column.

He pulled the black scarf from around his face. “We need to make a run for it,” he yelled over the wind. “To the Kotaah Hills, before the sand storm swallows us. We must ride hard. Can you follow me?”

Eleanor nodded.

Basaal handed back Hegleh’s reins and, in a swift motion, secured his scarf around his face again. He spurred Refigh on to a tremendous pace, difficult through the shifting sand. Eleanor followed, feeling as nervous as the horse beneath her. Occasionally, she glanced back, to see the company of soldiers riding hard. A few of the pack animals, having been cut free, struggled to follow the group to safety.

The wind picked up, throwing sheets of sand around Hegleh’s hoofs, around Eleanor’s exposed hands as they held the reins. Eleanor looked down, only to see a blurry sheet of dim purple, stinging and sharp. Then someone was coming up on her right, a man draped in purple, one of the Vestan. She turned and did not look his way.

The sand in the wind increased, and Eleanor squinted as much as she dared. Wind tore against her ears, and, despite the garments she wore, her skin stung from the sharp grains. The sound of frightened horses was the only thing Eleanor could hear as they raced before the deep gray of the storm beginning to engulf the company.

Then Eleanor saw the Vestan motion towards something, shouting at Basaal. She lifted her eyes, seeing a large range of hills that rose above the purple desert. They held no vegetation, but they were tall and aloof. The dunes began to sweep aggressively with the wind, and Basaal urged Refigh forward, faster and faster. But Hegleh was struggling, using too much energy on her fear. Eleanor slapped the horse hard and led her closer to Refigh. The hills rose higher and higher, and, without realizing where the transition had happened, they found themselves riding up solid rock.

The Vestan shouted something at Basaal, and the prince nodded in agreement. They led the horses onto a trail winding upward, above the sand, above the wind, to a high plateau among the stones. When they reached the top, the wind blew without lifting the sand into their faces. Basaal jumped from Refigh, settling the horse with a word, before racing to the edge, looking down at the column of men still struggling to reach the safety of the Kotaah Hills. Another soldier made it up the trail, joining Basaal. Then they began to count each man who reached the top.

Eleanor was breathing hard, but she rubbed her hand against the shaking withers of her white horse. The desert below was a blind sea, rushing incessantly around the plateau. She looked over towards Basaal, who was shouting a wind-ridden conversation with the few men gathered round him.

As Eleanor’s head was turned, Hegleh’s body jerked up and away from the ground, throwing Eleanor off her back. Trying to catch herself, Eleanor hit the rocks below and rolled away, pain flashing across her hand. She was on her knees just in time to see a large, black serpent coming at her with such speed that she barely had time to get to her feet before it flung itself through the air at her face.

Eleanor screamed. A flash of purple then a blade—and the serpent’s head came clean off, left spinning on the ground at Eleanor’s feet. She let out a slow, quavering breath as she moved her eyes from the open mouth of the snake to the face of the Vestan assassin standing beside her. How he had gotten there so quickly Eleanor did not know.

She met the man’s eyes only briefly before rushing to the frightened Hegleh and grabbing the reins, speaking softly to calm the horse down. Eleanor placed her hand against the horse’s neck and jerked it away in stinging pain. The gash on her hand was bleeding, and she’d left a red handprint on Hegleh’s white coat. Eleanor tried to shake the sand from her clothing before gathering her robes up in a ball and grasping the fabric with her hand to stop the bleeding. It stung.

By now, most of the men had arrived above the storm. Eleanor used her good hand to keep Hegleh close as she watched Basaal through the crowd. Someone asked him a question, and the prince held up three fingers. The number of men still missing in the storm, Eleanor guessed as she continued to hold the fabric against her wound.

Another man arrived, filthy, spitting sand from his mouth, then another came, looking much the same. The attention of all was focused on the pathway, waiting for the last man to appear.

After looking around the windswept stone, and ascertaining that there were no more serpents lying in wait, Eleanor led Hegleh away from the crowd. It had been weeks and weeks since she’d had any solitude. So much had happened. Too much had happened. She pulled the horse along and found a large rock, where she could settle herself.

Eleanor scrambled up the rock and pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her head against them. The serpent-killing Vestan watched her at a distance. Eleanor sighed. He needn’t worry that she would try to escape. Where would she go?

A loud cheer went up, and Eleanor lifted her head in time to see the final soldier, leading two pack horses behind his own horse, slowly pulling the traumatized animals above the dry sea. Basaal threw his arms around the man, grinning, and the entire company began shaking their heads, laughing, and brushing the purple sand from their clothing.

Camp was set up while Eleanor huddled on her rock away from the wind. Basaal was overseeing the remaining inventory, to determine whether they had enough supplies for the eight days required to cross the Zeaad desert. Eleanor saw the tents going up, but she did not move towards them. The desert required a different strength than what Eleanor had, and she felt worn in a way she had never experienced before. All the stamina of her muscles had given way, and each movement now felt like a fight. Eleanor gave herself permission to lean into the emptiness of her body, closing her eyes around it until the noise of the men had faded and she was asleep.

***

Realizing that they would run out of water before evening of the next day, Basaal licked his dry lips and counted the days in his head. It had been three days since they’d left the Kotaah Hills and pressed into the blinding yellow sands of the Zeaad desert. In five days, they would arrive in Zarbadast.

“We could ride up towards the western road and barter with a caravan,” Ashan, Basaal’s third in command, suggested. “The trade route is a day and a half north.” He drew lines in the evening sand. “If twenty of us rode up here,” he said as he ran his finger northeast, “we could obtain water and cut back down, meeting you at the western ruins in three days’ time.”