The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1)

by Beth Brower

  “The wounded?” Eleanor asked Danth, ignoring what Crispin was saying, not because she wished too but because she couldn’t stop in all this confusion to think about anything besides the plan forming in her own mind. “We must help in any way possible,” she said. “Do any buildings stand?”

  “The granary,” a woman standing nearby said as she pointed to a building beyond the charred remains of the fen hall. “We saved the large barn, too.” She wiped her hands on her already soiled apron. “After the raiders left, we were able to put the fire out.”

  Eleanor grabbed Crispin’s arm. “Gather the war council to the granary,” she said and then sent half the soldiers to search for survivors and carry the wounded to the barn. The others soldiers were sent to set up a perimeter.

  Gaulter Alden, Aedon, and Crispin, as well as Danth and a few men of the fen, followed Eleanor past the smoldering fen hall into the granary.

  It was a small storage shed, used only at harvest time, but they crowded in. Gaulter Alden sat down on a crate and covered his eyes. Danth had entered, upon Eleanor’s request, but he kept looking anxiously towards the door. The rest of the men crowded in, leaning against walls or standing quietly near the center.

  Eleanor couldn’t think. Pacing back and forth, she put all her efforts towards quieting her mind, towards dealing with the sick weight inside her chest. When she finally spoke, her hands were shaking.

  “The soldiers are searching the fen,” she said. “For the remaining dead and wounded. Those still alive are being taken to the only barn still standing. We must be calm as we—” As if on a cue, Wil pushed himself through the door into the crowded room. His clothes were wet with blood, his face ashen, and he looked anything but calm.

  “As I said,” she continued, despite her own tremendous panic, “we must remain calm.” She looked directly at Wil. “For, the people of Common Field fen desperately need our strength.”

  Wil cursed under his breath.

  “We need to find anything we can to care for the wounded.” Eleanor’s voice grew solid. “Are there any medicines or salves that can be found? Danth, you would know the experienced healers. Let us find which are still alive. The second rider should be in Ainsley soon,” she added. “And supplies will come tomorrow or, perhaps, the day after. Briant, could you see what can be found of blankets, buckets, pots for water? What of food? A perimeter around the fen has been set. Those not standing watch or seeing to the wounded should begin to dig the graves.”

  “You’re going to need someone to—” Wil interrupted.

  “Wait,” Eleanor said and held up a hand. “Everyone go about your work. If there is anything Danth needs, see to it immediately. He is now fen lord of Common Field.” The men emptied out of the granary—Danth as shaken as he could be. Wil did not leave with the rest. He stood in the center, angry, his jaw working back and forth.

  “Will you listen to me now, Eleanor!”

  “You, Wil, are to go into the woods and cool your head.” She emphasized these last three words.

  He almost gave her a belligerent expression but checked himself before speaking. “There is something I must tell you—” he began.

  “Your anger,” Eleanor interrupted, “when we first arrived: you stalking off through the crowd—” Eleanor stopped speaking. She was drowning in the images that now crowded before her eyes. Common Field was destroyed—how many people were dead? They didn’t know. And, Danth had mentioned something about children?

  “These people,” Eleanor heard herself continue, though her voice sounded one hundred miles away. “They need calm and order; a firebrand reaction is of no use.”

  He opened his mouth to speak but shut it again, pressing his lips tight as he exhaled before speaking. “We don’t know how many men came into your country last night,” he explained. “We don’t know if they retreated back through to the pass or if they lie in wait near another fen.”

  Eleanor lifted her hands to her face. “You’re right, just let me think—”

  “The time for thinking is done!” Wil practically shouted. “You have to respond now. This is the reality of war, of you choosing war.”

  “Give me one moment!” Eleanor yelled back, pulling her face up.

  “A real leader,” Wil said, “uses the momentum of moments like this—”

  “You are out of line!” Eleanor said. “You swore your services to me. Now be still, and let me think.” She turned away from him, taking three steps and lifting her fingers to her eyes before looking back at him.

  “You’re right that we need to send a scouting party after the invaders,” she said. “But, it will not be you. Is that clear?”

  Wil clenched his jaw, shaking. Tears threatened his eyes, and he fought them back, angrily. When he finally spoke, it was a fierce whisper. “I have to do something.” His voice rose as he pointed his finger towards the door. “Other than carry Blaike’s body down the hill!”

  “What?” Eleanor blinked. She stumbled back against an old crate along the back wall. She reached her hand towards it and sat. “Blaike?”

  It was then Eleanor understood the blood on Wil’s clothing.

  The only sound in the small shed was her forced breathing. She moved to speak but couldn’t.

  “I am so sorry, Eleanor,” Wil said.

  “You are sure he’s dead?” she whispered.

  Wil didn’t answer.

  The news felt like a thick fog, and Eleanor couldn’t think past what it meant. “I must go and—I must see to—” she said.

  “Yes,” Wil agreed.

  She stood, unwilling to meet his eyes. “You’re right,” she said. “We must scout their retreat—immediately.”

  “I can go,” he said. “And it would be safer alone. Let me do this for you.”

  Eleanor brushed the tears from her face, fighting to maintain some semblance of composure. “Very well,” she managed. “What do you need?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You should take someone with you. Duncan, perhaps.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “You never need to worry over me, Eleanor.” He shook his head, lifting his hand to the back of his neck. “If I leave now, I’ll find their camp before dawn,” he explained. “Though, it might be a few days before I return. I’ll look for you first here, and then I will come to Ainsley.”

  “I’ll not be here.” Eleanor spoke the words without thinking, but she knew them to be true. “Find me at Ainsley,” she said as she brushed her fingertips across her cheeks, not looking at him. “Don’t do anything rash,” she added. “We need information, not another death.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice turning almost tender. “Will you?”

  The corners of Eleanor’s mouth pulled down as her eyes closed, and tears came, warm on her face. She turned away. “You should go,” Eleanor said, but she could hardly make out the words. “Take Thrift. You need concealment and scouting in the woods on a white horse is—”

  Wil waited, perhaps to see if Eleanor would say anything more. Then pushed open the door to the granary when she didn’t.

  “The fools,” she heard him mutter as he left, unsure if he had meant the Imirillians or the Aemogens—or both.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wil moved unimpeded through the woods. Tracking was easy, for the Imirillian company hadn’t bothered to cover their tracks. Neither had they bothered to conceal their camp. When he came across it, later that night, he could hear their laughter and arguments through the trees. The anger in his chest was pulsing stronger than his heart, and he knew if he let himself slip, if he gave the anger space, it would result in a fierce exhibition.

  “Control yourself,” he warned himself aloud as he twisted his hand in Thrift’s mane. After uttering an Imirillian battle prayer, he mounted and rode Thrift towards the camp. As he approached, instead of slowing down, he urged the horse forward, breaking through the trees and into the center of the Imirillian war party.

 
There were shouts as men turned, grabbing their weapons. When the men saw his face, they dropped their swords and backed away from his glare.

  “Your Excellency!”

  “The prince!” Shouts went up.

  “Who leads this band?” he demanded as he dismounted Thrift.

  From the other side of camp, Drakta came into view. The prince walked towards his father’s war leader, drawing out his blade.

  “Prince Basaal!” Drakta said, sounding surprised. “This is a rather unexpected—”

  Prince Basaal grabbed Drakta by his collar. “What have you done, Drakta?” he said as he tightened his grip, slamming him against a large tree. “I gave you strict instructions!” He slammed Drakta again. No one moved. The entire camp stood frozen.

  “Prince Basaal,” Drakta tried to explain. “We were following orders.”

  “Whose?” Prince Basaal yelled. “You were following whose orders? If I remember, the last time we spoke, I made it quite clear that I would call every move. And you—” he said as he threw the man against the tree again and then tossed him to the ground, pointing his sword into Drakta’s neck. “And you would do as I said.”

  “Your father the emperor—” Drakta began.

  “My father?” Prince Basaal raged. “My father understood that I would lead this conquest on my own terms and that you, Drakta, were not to play nursemaid.” He kicked the man then spat on the ground near him in insult. “You and your men will pack up and leave Aemogen.”

  Drakta climbed back onto his feet. “We have been marching the last four days. We had to go high up the mountain to get around their soldiers in the pass. The men deserve a rest, Your Grace.” He said this with malice and fear.

  “Do they?” Basaal asked, dropping the point of his sword, as he looked around the group. Few were his own soldiers, to his utter relief. Most belonged in the small company of his father’s men that Drakta had brought with him.

  “Do you all feel that you have been working too hard?” he asked them.

  None dared answer.

  “I’ve seen what you have done to that village,” Basaal said, walking slowly in a circle, eyeing the still company. “Dishonor. Dishonor on all of you!” He spat at the ground again. “I gave strict instructions that you were to remain outside the pass until near the time of attack, which is still thirty days away!”

  A large man in the group, a man the prince did not recognize, whispered something to his neighbor and smirked. Prince Basaal glowered, walked towards the man, and threw a fist at the soldier’s nose. It gave way under this assault, and the large man stumbled backward to the ground, blood running between his fingers.

  “Would any other man like to share an opinion contrary to my command?” Basaal asked.

  Silence. Drakta’s expression was dark, but subservient.

  “Good. Now move out,” Basaal said. “I will be down the pass in thirty days time, and I expect you all to stay in Marion, doing absolutely nothing!” He turned to Drakta. “Have I made myself quite clear?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Drakta said, kneeling before the prince.

  “Good. Get up.” Once Drakta was on his feet, Basaal took him roughly by the arm and pulled the man close, so he could whisper. “And Drakta, if you ever disobey my orders again, I will hang you immediately. I don’t care if you are my father’s war leader,” he added. “You will swing for it. Do you understand me?” The prince did not wait for an answer. Instead, he turned back towards the silent soldiers.

  “I have been working towards a surrender,” Basaal said to them. “So that you men could return home to your families, instead of dying on a foreign field. Do you realize how disobeying my orders has put not only my life in peril but also your own and the welfare of your families?” He was shaking as he spoke, but the passion of his voice carried the message.

  “Pack up,” he said as he turned again to Drakta and motioned for the other captains to come forward. Basaal took a deep breath. “Is all well with Annan?” he asked. “Has the army arrived in Marion?”

  Drakta’s eyes burned with hatred, but he answered the prince’s question. “Yes, the Marion king grows impatient, but the camp will be set up just as you have instructed, in thirty days time.”

  “And the number of men who will be in camp?” Basaal asked.

  “All seven thousand of your troops plus an additional company of your father’s officers.”

  The prince nodded, unwilling to show any more emotion. “You’ll leave within the hour, Drakta. I’ll not be pleased to hear otherwise,” Basaal warned. He turned from Drakta and walked back across the camp. There, one of his own soldiers held Thrift’s bridle. Prince Basaal knew the man.

  “Thank you for holding my horse, soldier,” he said.

  “An honor, my prince.”

  Pausing, Basaal considered the man before him. “They call you Kavi, don’t they?”

  Kavi nodded, pleased that his prince knew his name.

  “Are you loyal unto life or loyal unto death?” Basaal asked.

  “Unto death,” Kavi said, pulling his sleeve back, revealing Basaal’s crest on his left forearm.

  “Please tell Annan I am well and still yet hope for a surrender,” the prince said, his voice quiet. “He must in no circumstances bring any men into this country without me.”

  “I will do as you have asked.” Kavi made a quick signal with his hand, showing his promise.

  The prince spoke even lower. “Did Drakta bring any Vestan with him?”

  Kavi nodded. “Two of them ride with us,” Kavi said. “I heard rumors that there may also be more assassins on the road.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and Prince Basaal mounted Thrift, meeting the eyes of those who were still watching. Disgusted with their butchery, he rode away from the clearing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There were no words to describe the way Edythe collapsed into herself when she heard the news of Blaike’s death. At first, she did not believe Eleanor.

  “It could not be, could it Eleanor?” Edythe said again and again. But, the ghost of the life that would not be, the only life she had ever considered, settled behind Edythe’s numb eyes.

  “The grief will leave no part of her untouched,” Eleanor tearfully told Aedon, who had come with her to Ainsley. “When she wakes from her numbness, she won’t be able to bear it. I can’t bear it myself.”

  It had been raining for three days, and the gardens were content to drown in the late-summer showers. But it was cold in the palace. Ridiculously cold, Eleanor thought as she stood at the window, watching the wet afternoon. She was in her private audience chamber, trying to focus on the numbers before her in the report that Aedon had prepared, but she found little success in these efforts.

  It was well over a week past now, and Eleanor knew that it was time for her to decide what the massacre at Common Field meant, politically. The Imirillian raid had come as a warning, so it seemed, a show of their strength. And now, every aspect of their threat was met with utter distrust. Eleanor could not know if their army would wait to invade until their promised date or if, when Eleanor surrendered, Emperor Shaamil would honor his terms. And her scheme, the brazen idea that she’d had in Rye Field fen, confiding it only to the members of her war council and a few miners from High Forest fen, depended on having time—as much time as the High Forest miners could get. She had not told Wil her plans.

  Wil.

  Eleanor was also plagued with guilt over his disappearance. He should have returned by now, but they had heard nothing.

  “Wil should have been here days ago,” Eleanor had told Aedon.

  “You don’t suppose he had a run in with the Imirillians before they left Aemogen?” he’d asked.

  Eleanor hadn’t answered, rubbing her finger against the wood grains of her desk, her breathing shallow for the hurt around her heart. A fen rider had arrived from the pass three days before, saying that the Imirillians—a small raiding party thirty or forty strong—had left the country bu
t had first encountered the Aemogen guards in the pass. Of all the men killed in the skirmish, fifteen were Eleanor’s soldiers, and five were Imirillian.

  The rain came harder now, beating against the glass, sending loud echoes through the tall room. Eleanor set her hand against the cold of the window, the sleeve of her mourning gown sliding down to her elbow. She wore black for Edythe, for Blaike, and for all the dead: one hundred and thirty-four souls. Eleanor left the window, passing the table where her papers and figures lay, and sat down on the soft rugs before the fire, trying to believe the words her father had often spoken, that things would work out.

  ***

  “Eleanor, wake up.”

  Eleanor felt a hand on her shoulder. It was dark, except for the light of the low fire. Wil was crouched next to her, resting on the balls of his feet. “You’ve slept away the afternoon,” he said. “And I thought you might prefer to wake up sooner than later.”

  “What hour is it?” she asked.

  “It’s past sundown, but only just.”

  “How long have you been here?” Eleanor asked as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then, as her memory caught up with her, she cried, “You’re here!” Eleanor flung her arms around Wil and took a deep breath. “I was so worried you had—” she began. “But, when did you return to Ainsley?”

  His fingers were pressed against the back of her neck, tangled in her loose hair. “A few hours ago,” he said softly.

  Eleanor pulled away and studied his face. He looked terrible.

  “Crispin said you would want to see me,” Wil said, as if to explain his presence. His hand was still on the back of her neck. “But, you were asleep when I came in. It was so quiet that, I admit, I stayed for the solitude.”

  “What took you so long to return?” Eleanor asked.

  He paused a moment. “To be honest, I could have been here sooner, but I couldn’t face it—not any of it.”

  “Sit with me,” Eleanor said as she shifted, moving to the side. Wil settled himself beside her, leaning into the heat of the fire and holding his hands towards the flames.