The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (9 page)

“I say I will see you are better before either event occurs. That is my part in all of this.” Ammar stood. “Is there something you need before your food arrives?”

Eleanor lifted her legs back onto the bed, tucking her feet beneath her. “I don’t suppose you would send a message to Aemogen for me.”

“No.” Ammar shook his head. “I will not.”

“Then, no, thank you.”

“I will send a message to Prince Basaal,” Ammar offered, as if it were expected. “You asked for him often in your fever, and he was only able to come once.”

Eleanor felt the blood in her ears. She moved her head to look at the physician. “Thank you, but I do not wish that.”

“Very well,” Ammar said, and he withdrew from the room.

***

Basaal drew his bowstring tight, the arrow carefully directed towards the target set up in one of his personal gardens. He felt the cutting pressure of the string against his fingertips before releasing the shaft. It landed with a thud in the center of the target.

It had been a day well spent. Basaal was satisfied to be regaining a sense of normalcy. He was happy to be home.

“I can see you have been hitting your mark, as always,” a voice said from behind.

Basaal turned towards his brother with a grin. “Shouldn’t you be pushing potions into some poor soul?”

Ammar gave a small smile, then said, “I had assumed we could go to Emir’s celebratory meal together.”

“You will have to allow me to bathe first,” Basaal answered. “We don’t have to be there for an hour yet, do we?”

“No. We have time.” Ammar walked with Basaal from his gardens into the cool expanse of the seventh son’s private chambers.

“And how does Queen Eleanor fare this afternoon?” Basaal asked as they walked down the arched breezeways between his rooms.

“Quite well,” Ammar said, pleased. “It has only been seven days, but she has more desire to be up, sleeps less, and has requested several scrolls of Imirillian literature to keep her occupied during her convalescence.”

Basaal’s laugh was born of relief. “She’ll have read through the archives of Zarbadast before Father and I can resolve our stalemate. That should make her happy.”

Ammar did not respond.

Servants had prepared a bath in a large brass tub. Ammar settled onto a comfortable settee while Basaal stripped off his clothing and slipped into the warm water. But he didn’t speak until the servants had withdrawn, leaving the brothers alone in the window-laced bathhouse.

“Has father screamed about sending her back down into the dungeons yet?” Basaal asked as he leaned against the sloping wall of the tub.

“No,” Ammar replied. “I have my own ways of dealing with the man. The Aemogen queen will stay where she is—for now.” Ammar watched Basaal a moment before continuing. “Have you spoken with him alone since you returned home?”

“With Father?” Basaal asked. “Aside from our rather public debate over matrimony versus regicide a few days ago? No. He’s refused to see me.” Basaal looked out an open window over the expanse of Zarbadast and sank lower into his bathwater. “Which, to be honest, is a relief. Although, I do not expect it to last long.”

“Which? The relief or the silent treatment?” Ammar asked.

“Both,” Basaal laughed. He splashed water on his face, then wiped it from his eyes. “There’s something I need from you, Ammar.”

Ammar waited for Basaal to speak.

“I need you to keep the Aemogen queen in the physician’s quarters for as long as you possibly can.”

“Why is that?” Ammar asked as if uninterested.

“The Vestan cannot enter there,” Basaal said.

“Are you trying to use my vows of purification to your political advantage?”

“Yes.” Basaal lifted himself out of the water, and Ammar tossed him a robe. “The assassins can’t enter your apartments,” he said again. “Therefore, Eleanor is in the only safe place in all of Zarbadast.”

Basaal put on a fresh change of clothing, then he and Ammar began to make their way towards the celebration, just as evening began to fall. The palace of Emir, heir to the empire, stood on the far side of the royal compound. It was where the brothers were to welcome Basaal home.

They were all waiting when Basaal and Ammar arrived: Emir and Ashim, second son, were reclining, conversing on politics in low voices; Kiarash and Arsaalan were laughing, playing Imirillia’s version of chess.

“Brothers,” Emir said, and he rose and welcomed them both. “Late, Basaal, as always. Have you been preening before your mirror again?”

Kiarash looked up and grinned. It was an old joke. Basaal, in all black, wore clothing less expensive and less opulent than all his brothers, but it was in the style of the South—a particular fashion statement, to be sure—and, therefore, he stood out, earning him the title of “The Peacock.”

“Leave him alone,” Emir said. “It takes a lot of work for him to look the way he does.”

“On the contrary,” Basaal said, accepting a drink from a silent servingman and settling down besides Arsaalan to watch the game. “I take the extra time to lessen my own natural beauty so that you all will not feel so inferior.” Kiarash muttered something about arrogance and made his next move.

“What I can’t believe,” Arsaalan said an hour later, after they had eaten,“is why you wish to
marry
this small-world queen.”

“Leave it to Basaal,” Kiarash said, “to bring in a half-starved, half-alive foreign woman to be his honored bride.” Kiarash grinned and then laughed out loud at the thought. “You can’t be serious.”

Emir held up a hand in Basaal’s defense. “If she wasn’t halfway to her grave, then Basaal could never have proper control in the marriage,” he joked. “It is better this way.”

They all laughed again. Ammar watched Basaal silently as Emir said something about “a soft heart”.

Feeling a good-natured flush rise in his cheeks, Basaal shook his head and raised a hand. “I will not discuss this issue, serious or otherwise. Father and I still need to have some—what I fear will be—lengthy discussions on the topic. They won’t be pleasant.”

“Well,” Kiarash said, settling back onto his cushions, his voice sharper now than it had been. “As far as we all see, you’ve made several poor decisions and put the entire empire up for ridicule. I rather hope they’re not pleasant discussions.”

Basaal looked from his cup to the faces of his brothers around him. Emir was watching both Basaal and Kiarash, Ashim stared at nothing, Arsaalan cleared his throat and looked away. Only Ammar seemed calm, quiet, and at ease with the entire room.

“It comes as no surprise that some of you do not approve of my course,” Basaal said. “Please, speak out. No need to hide your authentic feelings behind smart comments.”

“You want authentic feelings?” Kiarash asked as he stood and walked towards Basaal. Of all the brothers, Kiarash and Basaal had always carried the most friction. They loved each other, yes, but if there was a rise or a barb to be had by either, it was had. Emaad had always been the smoothing influence between the two brothers, and Emaad was dead.

“You have been soft,” Kiarash continued, “a coward and an idiot, by all accounts. The Vestan have not been complimentary.”

“Kiarash, sit down and give Basaal a chance to explain himself,” Arsaalan urged.

But Basaal bristled. “Explain myself?” he said. He stood and shook his head as he walked towards the large table and set his glass down. He laughed aloud, feeling tired, and turned back to face his brothers. “What explanation does everyone want?”

“You have become a threat to the existence of our empire,” Kiarash retaliated.

Basaal’s jaw tightened. “I have done as I have seen fit. My own honor will dictate my actions.”

Kiarash’s anger was now an open exhibition. “Your honor should be that of the empire. Can you honestly say there is a higher standard for you to live? You owe your father and your country.”

“What is it to you, Kiarash?” Basaal fumed. “Do you fear that the empire will not remain intact for your own pleasures?”

Kiarash swung at Basaal, who ducked out of his way and laughed. “You’re going to have to be faster than that.”

“Kiarash,” Ammar said, his voice calm, “let us not fight.”

Ashim gave Kiarash a warning look then spoke. “The question we all have, Basaal, is what are you building?” he asked. “It appears that you are separating yourself from the desires of the empire, dividing yourself from us. Does this not concern you?”

“Dividing myself from you?” Basaal was incredulous. “I’m doing nothing of the kind. Let Imirillia march forward, by all means. I am only questioning its methods. Do none of you remember Aramesh?” he demanded. It was the first time that Basaal had spoken openly with his brothers about the massacre. They did not seem comfortable with his question, for they did not answer.

“Yes,” Basaal continued. “I seek the prosperity of our people. But are Father’s twisted methods necessary to our expansion?”

“This is an empire, Basaal, not a child’s nursery,” Emir said, speaking for the first time in the argument. “If you cannot handle the reality of what it means—”

“It does not mean razing an entire country,” Basaal spat back. “The emperor never should have done that.”

“The Desolation of Aramesh was exactly what Father should have done,” Emir said with cold articulation. “Word has spread beyond the Continent, and now, Imirillia is feared by all. We will establish the greatest reign ever known,” he stated. “Aramesh was a blessing.”

Basaal looked at Emir, stunned. “You would disregard your own honor for such tactics?”

“I must build the empire, Basaal,” Emir said firmly. “My honor speaks to that.”

“Build the empire, yes!” Basaal said. “But, does it have to be done with such force and destruction? Let us engage in trade,” he suggested. “Let us have more lawful expansion through alliances and through treaties!”

“Aemogen will not trade,” Ashim joined in. “But, the resources of that country will be a great asset to Imirillia. Will you really be so selfish as to deny our own people?”

“No,” Basaal exclaimed. “I would not deny the empire, but—”

“Or,” Kiarash interrupted. “Do you set yourself up as King of Aemogen that you might remedy the position of being the seventh son?”

Basaal gaped. His half laugh sounded strangled, and he held his hands out towards his brothers in amusement. “Have I ever sought to increase my power and influence?” he inquired. “Truly, did you ever see me posture for more power than I already had? Or do so when it was not for the benefit of those for whose livelihood I maintain?”

“No,” Ashim answered fairly. “But, you have gained it just the same. You are the most beloved of the people, for you are their Ruby Prince.”

This was a popular nickname for him, the Ruby Prince. Basaal had heard it being called out to him in the streets ever since he was fifteen years old. He’d taken a fond interest in the denizens of Zarbadast from a young age, and, in turn, they’d taken a greater interest in him.

Kiarash was agitated with Ashim’s argument. “He is the people’s toy prince,” Kiarash said. “He carries no weight.”

Basaal saw a thought cross Emir’s face, but Emir said nothing.

“We are being ridiculous!” Basaal said, upset. He looked about the room for an ally. Arsaalan had remained quiet, watching the discussion, and Ammar had said nothing. “Brothers,” Basaal pleaded, “do you not recall my fidelity to the honor of this country? What of my fidelity to you? I stand as one of you. But, you must allow that my conscience sees a different way of dealing with our neighbors, more like the way Father was fifteen years ago.” He looked from Emir to Ashim and then to Kiarash. “But he has changed since those days,” Basaal argued. “He has sought more and more war. He has blood on his hands, and The Seven Scrolls say—”

“Forget the scrolls,” Emir interrupted. “Forget the Safeeraah. This is life we speak of, not religion.”

“Religion
is
my life!” Basaal turned on Emir fiercely. “I will not forget the promises I have made lest the Illuminating God strike me down now.” Basaal held his brother’s gaze, his chest rising and falling with the emotions coursing through his body.

Emir and Ashim exchanged a glance. But Kiarash shook his head, and Arsaalan remained quiet.

“Come,” Ammar said. “Let us not argue amongst ourselves now.” He took Basaal’s arm to guide him from the chamber.

“Run back to your nursery, little one,” Kiarash said, following at Basaal’s heels. “Leave the work to the men. You’ve done enough damage already.”

Basaal turned and swung at his brother, connecting solidly with Kiarash’s nose. Ashim jumped to his feet, but Kiarash waved him off and shot a black glare at Basaal as he wiped blood on his sleeve. Then Kiarash charged, throwing Basaal to the ground. Basaal cried out in anger as Kiarash threw punch after punch in his face.

Finally, Basaal was able to connect with his left fist to Kiarash’s jaw, throwing his brother off of him. Kiarash stumbled to his feet, only to be knocked back again by Basaal’s left fist and then by a quick jab from his right. Basaal was about to assault Kiarash with another string of punches, when Ammar stepped in and pulled Basaal back.